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I wont make any excuses for missing last week – I suppose it was bound to happen this early on, though. Anyway, this week is going to be something different. This Short Story Tuesday will be put into parts, most likely only two. It’s also fantasy. I normally only do urban fantasy, sci fi or horror, but these stories are supposed to be all about stepping out of my comfort zone. Baby steps, though. Hope you enjoy! Or, if not… tear me apart in the comments section. Either way, thanks for reading!

 

Choosing, Part 1

The tips of her fingers burned where they scraped against the stone, tracing a continuous line along the entire barrier. She stopped when she reached the symbol that marked the end, or the beginning, however one chose to think of it. Feeling not quite as optimistic, she saw it as the end. The end of the Endless Mountain. A laugh escaped her, but the sound was hoarse and metallic. Pressing her back against the flat stone, she slid down until she met the grass and felt her shorts saturate with dew. Her fingers were raw and covered in a sheen of red. She looked back the way she had come and saw streaks of her blood marking her path along the mountain. Another laugh, empty of humor or joy. It caught in her throat and became a sob, her eyes stinging with the threat of tears. From thirty paces away, inside the shroud of forest, came the crack of footsteps on twigs. She swallowed, held her breath, and then launched herself at the nearest tree. Scrambling up its branches, she stopped when they were so thin that they swayed uneasily under her weight.

“Raz?” It was Mora’s voice, wavering with a mix of hope and grief. Mora approached the marking, and pressed her hand to the dark smudge of blood. Rather than flake away as old blood did, it stained her skin, and she rubbed her thumb against her fingertips as she turned to search the tree line with wide eyes. Raz froze, not breathing, but her sister knew her too well to just pass on. Mora tilted her head up and shaded her eyes.

“Raz, I was so worried!” She peered straight up the trunk. “Come down from there.”

Raz shut her eyes and pressed her cheek against the cool bark. Better to starve to death up in a tree than to be executed while the whole village watched. She heard the scuffle of skin against wood, but stayed where she was. Mora never had been a very good climber. After a few moments, all was silent but a heavy sigh of defeat. Raz peeked down to see Mora still six limbs below her, clinging awkwardly to the trunk.

“They’ll pick me, you know.” Her sister said. “You climb better than the whole village put together.”

Raz scoffed. “No one cares about that. You run like a wolf, you’ll be a great hunter.”

“They have enough hunters.” Mora mumbled.

“Quit it. You know the tradition, you were the first born. Our parents would never give you up.”

Mora went quiet. It was a fact as irrefutable as the mountain was endless; parents always kept the first born. Raz wasn’t sure if it was a birthright or if it was because they had more time with the first child, but knowing the reason wouldn’t help her. First it had been her sister, and then her brother, and then her. She wished she had never been born, had never been given the fifteen years she had been given. Her parents already had a boy and a girl, they had known that they would be sending their next child to death.

“Mother told me not to go after you, you know.” Mora’s voice came so quietly that Raz had to strain to hear it. “She said that someone always does this before a Choosing.”

The stone had been more smooth where her fingers ran along it, as if hundreds of fingers had traced the same path. She squeezed her eyes shut again.

“What did you think you would find? An opening?”

Raz sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Does it really go all the way around?” Her voice was small, afraid.

Raz lowered herself down until she was one branch above her sister. “It’s called Endless Mountain for a reason.”

“I just thought…” Mora made a small sound and Raz realized she was crying.

“Everyone thinks it. Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?” Her sister turned her large, wet eyes up to her. It touched Raz’s heart that Mora didn’t want her to die.

“The river passes through the mountain, and so we should be able to. If I could be small, or fluid like water, I could escape.” She stretched her body along the length of the branch and hung her arms down to play with Mora’s hair.

“So there is an opening?”

How could she explain it? Raz snapped off a long twig and broke it into pieces, pulling off strips to weave together until she had a criss-cross pattern of sticks. She cupped her hands around it and held it down for display. “My hands are the mountain, the branches are polished, smooth stone, but impossible to break with a rock. The water passes through the gaps in between.”

Mora gaped at her, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Raz tore the woven sticks apart and dropped them to the ground.

Raz woke before the bright rose above the Mountain, creeping past the sleeping bodies of her family. She looped a woven rope around her shoulder and slid down the trunk of the tree. Her bare feet making no sound on the damp leaves of the forest floor. No one would miss her, it was her last day before the Choosing and she was allowed to do as she wished. It was recommended to see a Guide to help settle the spirit and help to accept fate, but Raz had a different fate in mind.

The bright was blaring above the mountain when she arrived at the place where the river ran under. The water roared as it surged through the gaps in the stone, and watching the force of it as it threw itself against rocks and sent waves sparkling into the air made fear well up in her stomach. She didn’t belong in the water, she belonged in the trees. But if she stayed in the trees she would be resigned to death. After a few deep breaths, she dove in.

The water hit her like a charging buck, twisting her body and slamming her into rock after rock. Raz tried to grab onto each one, but the surfaces were smooth and the water pushed until she was forced to let go. Her body struck a grouping of large stones and caught there. She lifted her head and coughed until she found air again, and then pulled herself out, laying on her back on the shore. It was a terrible idea; of course she wasn’t the first one to try to dig under the mountain. The pits remained to prove that it was impossible, as deep as the height of a tree, and the stone kept going. She didn’t know if anyone had tried to dig where the river ran through but she hadn’t heard any stories about it. They were understandably afraid of the river, as she was. Her body felt like she had fallen from the tallest tree, but once she was able to move again, she gripped the rope and made her way back to the gap in the mountain.

This time she walked in, turning to the side so that the water could rush past her with less resistance. Even so, it took all of her strength not to be swept away. Step by step she fought the current until she was close enough to touch the cold stone that spat out the river. She wrapped one end of the rope around her wrist and gripped it, then looped the other end through one of the gaps and back out again, tying it multiple times and giving it a good tug to make sure it would stay. The rope getting wet seemed to be a blessing, because it was tougher than ever before and held her weight easily when she let go and allowed the river to try to sweep her away. Water rushed at her face, pressed at her lips, and she sputtered, bring her feet to the ground again to catch her breath. She had to get under the current somehow. Diving under, Raz searched blindly for a rock. She found one, and tried to pry her fingers underneath to lift it, but she couldn’t get enough traction against the stones. Instead, she rolled it up onto the rope so that it was trapped underneath. She pushed it forward, using the taut end of the rope for leverage, until she was close enough to the gaps to reach the knot she had made. She pried at the knots until they came undone, and held the rope between her teeth as she dived under the water.

The water didn’t bother her as much beneath the surface, but she still had to hold on to the large rock to keep from being whipped away from the mountain again. She anchored herself on the rock as she retied the rope on a lower hole, as close to the river floor as she could reach. Then she breached for air before diving down and setting to work.

Later she sat in the tallest tree she could find, shivering as she waited for the bright to lick all of the moisture from her skin. Her eyes traveled warily to the twins, who floated gloomy and pale off in the distance. She could have left tonight, but a few things kept her from going. She needed to know if her parents really would choose her, needed to hear it from their mouths. And even then, would they would take her sister as a replacement if she ran? That was unheard of, but as was someone escaping the mountain. The small, body sized hole under the rocks in the riverbed brought a weak smile to her lips. They cracked with dryness and she tasted copper. She wouldn’t run yet, but now she had a choice.

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I wasn’t sure I was going to get this done in time. To be honest, I just wrote it yesterday because I had a good portion of the day off work. Anyway, happy short story Tuesday, hope someone enjoys this one. C&C welcome as always, Thanks for reading! Note* There is some slightly graphic animal and child abuse, nothing too bad, but just thought I’d give a warning.

Escaping Memory

Izzy laid her head down on the desk. A pain had grown in her skull, like large rusted nails trying to force their way through her eye sockets. A nasty image of her eyeballs popping like grapes flashed through her imagination, prompting a wave of nausea. She wasn’t the only one ignoring Mr. Patton, the English teacher. He was on a tangent, one that had started with Macbeth, and somehow ended up at a story about him taking his niece to a Justin Beiber concert. Two girls in the row beside her were snickering. Izzy glanced up through her hair, and the girls looked away from her toward each other before simultaneously bursting into laughter once more.
Mr. Patton paused, whiteboard pen still held up in a gesture of emphasis. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” He asked the two giggling girls.
Shara Matton, the prettier of the two with her cascade of artfully curled red hair, raised her hand. Mr. Patton raised his eyebrows at her.
“Izzy was snoring, she distracted us. Sorry Mr. Patton.” Her voice was like a song, and Izzy didn’t need to see her face to know that her wide eyes were the image of innocence.
The raised eyebrows turned to point accusingly at Izzy. “Were you sleeping in my class, Ms. Lewis?”
Izzy shook her head, but the movement made the room spin. She caught it on her hand and stifled a groan.
“Go see the nurse. You can play hookey there, not during my lesson.”

Izzy gathered her things and left, the weighted stare of her peers following her through the door. What was she going to say to the nurse? What if they called her dad? She paused when the hallway intersected. Turning left would take her toward the office. Without really thinking about it, she spun and went in the other direction, past the gym, the cafeteria, and then out the exit. The smell of damp grass assaulted her as she stepped out into the midday sun, and ran down the walkway with her books clutched to her chest.

The clerk in the convenience store had a bored look on his face. Not many people in at this time of day, most of his customers would be teenagers on their lunch break. Izzy slid a travel-size bottle of Tylenol onto the counter beside a pack of cinnamon gum. The clerk looked at the pills, and then up at her, studying her face.
“Five forty-five please.” He said, and waited for her to dig through her wallet. “Skipping school, huh?”
She shook her head, and handed him a five and two quarters. The tips of her fingers brushed his palm as he took the change, and fresh pain stabbed into her temples.

She was behind the counter, looking at a teenage boy with darting, red rimmed eyes and tousled hair. She watched him walk out, her hand on the phone, but then she removed it again. Only it wasn’t her hand. It was large, with thick black hairs near the knuckles. She felt like she should have picked up the phone, because the boy had done something bad after. Something she maybe could have prevented.

“Hey.” The clerk slid a coin across the counter. “You feeling okay, kid?”
Izzy’s throat was dry, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Her head felt like it did after one of her dad’s discipline lessons. She nodded and grabbed the packages, stuffing them into her pockets and half-jogging to the door. She glanced over her shoulder as she pushed it open, and saw the clerk’s hand pick up the phone and put it to his ear. There were tiny forests of black hair on his fingers. Izzy ran down the sidewalk, her steps lined up with the heavy thumping in her head.
She came to a quiet alley away from the main street and leaned against a concrete wall, pressing her palms against her eyes. They felt like they would burn right up and leave two blackened pits behind. She swallowed two pills, hating herself for forgetting a bottle of water. A few pieces of gum later, she risked two more Tylenol. It was the worst headache she could remember having.

Going back to the school wasn’t an option, and she didn’t have any friends to stay with. What could be worse, her dad, or the police? Her dad had beaten her for less. She didn’t know exactly what the police did to kids like her, but she had heard rumors. Locked up, studied, medicated, rehabilitated. The last word reminded her of the way her dad said discipline, it held more weight than it’s definition.
Some kids didn’t ever come back. Rumor was that they committed suicide, that the medication didn’t work for them. Izzy thought maybe that they were executed, piled into dumpsters like the ones outside of the pound her father worked at. She had seen it when she was little, was wandering around waiting for him, and had watched through a fence as he slung the stiff bodies of cats out of a metal box with a shovel.
The image stuck in her mind. Since then, every time she looked at him there it was, like the light burned into your retina after you looked at something bright too long. He had caught her watching, and afterward had wrenched her into their car by her upper arm. The pain in her shoulder never fully healed, and still clicked when she moved it too much.

Her sneakers scraped and slid against the pavement. It was a horrid feeling, having to go home but wanting nothing more than to run in the other direction. There would me a message on their answering machine to inform him of her truancy. Maybe there would even be a black and white squad car parked outside the house, lights flashing in order to signal gawking-time for the neighbors.
Her imagination need not run so far, however, because a few moments later a police car coasted just ahead of her and stopped, the door popping open. Izzy paused, considered darting off down another street. That was silly, though. She had failed gym, there was no way she could outrun a cop. Aware of each slow step she took, she approached the officer who stepped out of the car, and stood with his hands on his waist, watching her.
“Elizabeth Lewis?” He asked when she had come close enough.
“Izzy.” She mumbled, but nodded anyway.
“You’re going to have to come with me, please.” He pulled open the back door of the car. It was so polite, not like the image in her head, of being thrown up against the car and handcuffed, then roughly thrown onto the seat. It was hard to imagine that he had bad intentions. But if he had good intentions, he would have left her alone.
She took a step backward. The officer held up a hand. “Please, Ms. Lewis. We just want to ask you a few questions, then we’ll take you back to your parents.”
“It’s just my dad.” She blurted. For some reason, tears were forming at the sides of her eyes. She took another step backward, almost a stumble.
“Back to your dad, then.” The officer advanced a step, and she matched it with another one away.
“He… he hits me.” She told him.
The officer paused, then relaxed held out his hands. “Come with me. We can help you with that. We can help you with the bad things you’re feeling. Don’t you want to not feel sad anymore, Elizabeth?”
Izzy shook her head in horror. It was just like she thought, they were going to medicate her and lock her up. She turned to run, but only got a few steps before arms wrapped around her midsection and picked her up, carrying her back toward the squad car. She kicked, hit him in the stomach, lost a sneaker that was loose on her foot. It vanished under the vehicle. Then he really was pressing her against the car, slipping a plastic band around her struggling wrists. When his skin touched hers, her head rocked with a tumbling sensation.

“What’s the story for this one?” A fat man with a thick mustache asked.
She glanced toward a computer screen, where there was the boy with the red eyes and tousled hair she had seen when she had touched the store clerk.
“He killed his own sister.” She felt the deep rumble as she spoke, even though it wasn’t her own voice that came out. “We got her too, though. I heard they got some kind of telekinetic thing.”
“No kiddin’? As strong as the Jerome kid?”
“Nah, just minimal. But you know how it is, gotta catch ‘em all.”
The large officer laughed.

Izzy forced the scene away from her, destroyed it. The cop paused, his hands still clutched around her wrists. His warm breath rustled her hair, smelling of stale cigarettes. The memory of him grabbing her flashed through her head, and she erased that as well. The cop straightened, hesitating. Him seeing her, her name and appearance on the laptop mounted in his car, the radio speaking a code. Each one arose and was demolished as easily as the last, like newspaper over a flame. The officer took a step back, looked around, ran a hand over his hair. The other hand limply held the plastic band. He looked down at it with furrowed eyebrows, and up at her.
“What are you doing?” He asked her.
“Nevermind.” She mumbled, and ran down the sidewalk.

That night, her father came home at his usual time. Izzy heard the fridge door open and slam shut, then the tab of a beer can being cracked open. She walked up behind him where he sat at the couch, and rested her hand on his arm. He brought up his other hand and grabbed her wrist, vice-like grip tightening until the pain was unbearable. But Izzy was already going through his head, throwing out things here and there, erasing herself. When it was done, she took the bag she had packed and stepped through the front door.
“Hey!” Her dad called, storming over with clenched fists. “Who are you? What were you doing in my house?”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “I’m no one. I wasn’t even here.”

Four years later, a police cruiser turned down a dark alley, the crackle of gravel the only warning. A young boy sprinted, backpack straps clutched between his hands, breath coming in short visible puffs of steam against the cold night. He had panicked when he saw his mother in the hospital bed, hadn’t meant to do anything wrong. Her car had been crushed by a truck, and she was in critical condition. The only reason they had let him in was because she was going to die, and a kind nurse decided to let him say goodbye. But he had laid his hands on her and fixed her somehow, and then everyone was yelling at him, and they should have been happy but they weren’t, they were acting like he had done something bad. He had barely made it away then, and now there was nowhere to go. The police car caught up to him, and he felt hopeless tears stream down his face. The cop stepped out and tried to smile at him, to coax him into calming down, into coming with him.
“You’re safe, Drew. Just come with me.”
“Or don’t.” A woman’s voice startled them both, and they turned to see her leaning against the front of the cruiser. She walked over to them.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to —“ The officer stopped speaking. The woman had reached over the open door and touched his head.
“286 this is 341, copy?” This came from inside the car. The woman circled the door and allowed the officer to get into the front seat, keeping her hand on his skin.
“286. Go ahead.” The officer said into the radio.
The woman leaned down to his ear. “You’re going to keep driving through, and meet up with your buddy on the main street. The kid wasn’t here. Nobody was here.” She whispered.
“We got the alley blocked off on this end, Griff. Anything?”
“Negative. Coming through to check the 300 block.” The officer replied in a distant voice.
“10-4.”
The officer got into the car and drove off slowly, as if he was still looking for something. The woman steered the boy off in the other direction.
“Who are you?” He asked.
“A friend.” She smiled and took his hand.

I said I would post something about my writing process, but the truth is I haven’t been very prolific for the past week. I’ve only been getting between 400-800 words a day, and my usual goal is 1,500-2,000. It’s a little frustrating, a little embarrassing, and definitely something I need to work on. It’s not writer’s block. I know where my story is going, it’s just that my brain is stumbling over the words to get there, they aren’t flowing like they should.

It’s something I think every writer goes through. I need to be productive, though. I’ve started far too many things without finishing them, and that’s another major problem for me. So the solution to both problems is this, if I can’t write, then I’ll write. On a different story.

I can feel the winces, the frowns, the disagreement people might feel toward that statement. What I mean, though, is not starting something new. There’s no way I can do that until I finish these three projects. But I have a great deal of rewriting and editing to do on my other stories. Since they differ in genre and viewpoint, it’s a nice change to go and dabble in another project for a day or so. Besides, rewrites are much easier for me. Nothing nicer than seeing the word count going up.

I’ve been trying for days to force myself to stare at the blank screen, to get used to it, to force out words, but it just isn’t happening. But I can’t just not write. This is a skill that needs to be practiced daily, just like any other. There’s not much to be gleaned from this post, I’m afraid. Just a personal note on my own trials and tribulations at the keyboard.

Hope you all are doing well and are much more prolific than I am!

I’m one of those people who reads everything, from books to the backs of shampoo bottles. And that isn’t a joke. It may be a symptom of my OCD, I don’t know. But if there are words I must have them. Because of how much I read, I always want to write. I want to blog here about my writing process and I will very soon. I think it will be a series from idea inception to novel completion. Have I completed a novel, yet? No… not really. The closest I’ve gotten is a 60-70k YA urban fantasy, but once it was finished I realized it needs a complete rewrite. A point of view shift, some major plot tweaks.

 I also have 50k on an adult post-apocalyptic tucked away. The story is so dear to my heart that I stopped half way through and decided to get better at writing before I continued.

The novel I’m currently working on is at 13k words. Not very much, but it’s also some of the most complex plotting and character development I’ve done thus far. I’m also half-finished a short story for my next Tuesday post. It’s already passed a thousand words, so it might be a bit longer than the last one. Maybe I’ll be nice and post it in two parts.

I also have a lot of painting I need to get done. I’m working on a city scene for a charity auction which needs to be done early April, and then I have 3 portraits to finish. So maybe that’s why I suck at finishing. I take on too much, I make promises. My Gemini brain jumps from one thing to the next. I’m working on this, really. I will learn to complete things.

Sorry that there’s nothing really useful in this post. I will have something more along those lines up soon.

I always feel a little self-indulgent writing things about myself. That’s why I have never tried to keep a blog, I want to create new people, new lives and experiences, not talk about my own. But at the same time, there is a lot a blog can offer me if it works out. So here’s a (hopefully) short introduction about myself and what I want to do here.

I go by the name Rayna Cendre, I’m 22 and living in Canada. Maybe it’s the Canadian part that made me such a recluse, sitting indoors and tapping away at my laptop, or drawing to waste the hours that normal people would be outdoors. Where I grew up it rained almost every day. Stephanie Meyer painted that as a romantic notion… well, it’s not. It’s just wet. So yes, I write, like many others do. I also do pretty much any other kind of art, but mostly I write and paint.

I’d love to say I’ve finished a novel, but I haven’t. I’m close, though. My first and second novels are undergoing rewrites. They tell you that your first novel will probably be crap, but they don’t tell you that you wont be able to let go of the idea. And I can’t, because I love my first one. It will take a lot of work, and I probably wont be able to finish it until I’m a much better writer, but that’s okay with me.

My second project was birthed during NaNoWriMo, and was the first time I attempted writing Young Adult. And because of that my third, and current work, ended up being YA as well. I’ve done one short story that I hope to shop around, and I’ll probably write some more. Maybe I’ll even post some of my writing here – I haven’t quite decided yet. I’ll probably be writing about the process of my writing as I go through it, so there will be elevator pitches or summaries eventually.

See, I tried to tell you about myself and just got all excited about writing. Sheesh. Anyway, I work as a house painter, I live with my fiance and cat, I devour books, and I pretty much only know one other person who reads (my sister).

So that’s all. You can probably expect progress reports on my novels, thoughts and ideas on the writing process, writing and publishing resources, possibly book reviews, and lots of bad grammar. Thanks for reading!