First Page Review: Spellbloom

Hey everyone, and hello to first page review! Always exciting to get a little bit of feedback on the first few words of a story. This is taken from the first story I ever thought out and wrote down, titled Spellbloom, a contemporary fantasy tale. It is the one story closest to my heart, but it is yet to be finished on paper. I'm so hestitant when it comes to writing this story. In the hopes of getting more experienced at storytelling, I never want to touch it to not spoil it with mediocre writing, if that makes any sense. :) I started writing it two years ago, and I'm not even halfway finished, but I edited bits and pieces of it. The picture you see is a home-brewed graphic experiment that may or may not be the real cover for the book one day. 

Looking forward to reading your comments and suggestions and I can't wait to visit your blogs and to read your stories. :)

1.

Pador stared at the portrait in silence. The face in the picture frame stared back at him. He knew that the years had given him a few hard lines around the mouth, and the painter hadn’t wasted any time sugar-coating the truth.

The people of Indova called Pador rigorous, a man purported to rule with a strict vision of things that needed to be done. He had never seen himself that way. The things to be done most rarely are what everyone agrees with, his father used to say. Unlike Pador, he had been the leader of a family of 4, not millions. Pador sighed.

At least in the picture he looked the part of the leader, Pador thought, carrying the bearings of Indova on his chest, the blue cloak hovering over the black cliffs of the Seam, the traditional symbol for the first Mage Rebellion nearly 300 years ago. His ancestors had fought in that battle, and many of them had lost their lives.

He had always worn his blue cloak with pride, ever since the day he got elected. He had made a name for himself in the Academy, and he was a reasonable choice for the Council. The fact that he didn't want the job was of little importance and just went to show how the laws of Indova bestowed all power upon the election committee. The committee had seen aptitude and farsightedness in equal measure in him, and none of the other candidates. Sometimes Pador still thought they'd made a terrible mistake choosing him, but his advisor had told him that his doubts proved him to be the right choice all the more. 

Pador knew his duties, and well enough to realize that anyone would have a hard time ruling a country, at least if he tried to do it well. Sometimes however he caught himself thinking that there might be someone out there who would enjoy it more than he did. He sighed again, a heavy and deep sigh – resonating back at him from the walls of the hallway. He turned around to go back to his office. He longed for this day to be over, but it wasn’t even close to noon. He had several ministers to meet still, representatives to greet with a smile on his face and their pleas to suffer through. He would be able to visit Janey thereafter – if it wasn’t too late in the day. He had been looking forward to seeing her all week, yet he hated visitation days because they would only sound in another 6 long days of waiting. He missed the times when he saw her each day, the times when they were freshmen in the Academy and their assignments would bring them to different places all across Fallwyne. He was a better man with her by his side, always, and a happier one, but unfortunately, there were other things to consider, more important things such as her health. Janey was his wife and he loved her dearly, but he couldn’t risk exposing herself to him more than once a week. He was poison to her, and she needed all the time she could get to recover from his visits. It was the only way they could be together at all.

Pador opened the large wooden door to his office and saw Aeron sitting in one of the high visitor’s chairs. He got up to greet him as he saw him enter, “Ah, there you are”. His black cloak swirled as he rose. Pador always thought that there was no one who wore the Guardian’s cloak as well as Aeron, although there certainly were Guardians who took their responsibilities more seriously than he did. They had been friends for over a decade, and now wasn’t the time to question his work ethic. 
“Do you have a minute or two?” Pador knew, that, with Aeron, it would never only take a minute or two, but he nodded.   
“What’s going on?” he closed the door behind him. Aeron sat down again, this time on the corner of Pador’s large writing desk, in between red document folders and a pile of mail.

“Wintershedge has sent word of their arrival.”

“And?”

Apparently the girl has already fallen ill with the bloom.”

“What!? Oh no!” Pador was dismayed at these news. He started pacing up and down the room.

“How bad is it?”

Aeron hesitated. “She’s…functional, but very weak. The journey was exhausting for her.”

“Is she bedridden?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

“Good gods.. how did this happen so quickly?”

Pador massaged the few stubbles on his chin. “That’s bad…  I shouldn’t have sent them away together..”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, we don’t know the details. There is still a possibility that she’s just sick with some other illness.

“Please,” Pador said, “you know as well as I that there is no one better suited to judge the onsets of second bloom than their people.”

Aeron didn’t respond. 
“We should offer to help them, bring them back to the city after…. they are done..” He sat down. The regent's chair was heavy and cumbersome.
"I had no right..."
He felt Aeron’s hand on his shoulder moments later.

“You did it for Janey.”

Six Sentence Sunday: Storms In Quiet Places

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Hey lovely Sixers, here we are again, sharing our wonderful Sunday tradition. This week it's part #11 of The Days Adrift - and ->this is what happened last time. We are back in the boat with Brita, Tams and that other girl telling her story. :) Feel free to share your thoughts with me, I do appreciate all of your comments.


There is...something. I can see it now, a shape emerges, approaching the keel from deep within the white wafts. It is lengthy and even and..."Outpost!!! Outpost!! Outpost!!!" Brita jumps up and down on the bow, the bottles roll on the floor in disarray. It is a small landing stage...I can't believe it. 
Tams collapses onto the bench right in front of me, she quivers like a branchlet shaken by storm.

Six Sentence Sunday: Hell-bent On Giving Up

Hey there lovely Sunday Sixers, here we are again! Whew, the weeks fly by quickly, and as I'm mentally preparing for Nanowrimo I feel like I have to do some preliminary work for my Sunday Six excerpts. So this week, it's another double-six snippet from The Days Adrift, part #10. Feel free to comment, critique and share your thoughts! :)
->This is what happened last week.


"Don't throw it all out," I say, a tad insulted, "we may still need some of those things." Like an excavator, Tams grabs the lot of empty bottles and all of our shoes - the good shoes. 
A single sneaker falls off of her arms. "Stop it!" but she seems to be in some sort of frenzy. "We need shoes, you twerp." 
She pauses and stares at me, that scary glare in her eyes, the one telling me that she's hell-bent on giving up.
"Guys!" 
As she leans over the rail, I yank her arm from behind, hard. She stumbles, loses her balance and falls back with a thump. 
"Guys!!!" Brita yells, her voice is cutting capers. She gestures dramatically. Tams lies on top of my legs, amidst scattered shoes and bottles. Brita's incessant screech has become a hoarsely squeal; it pierces right through my ears.
What in the world is she pointing at?

Six Sentence Sunday: Grave Goods

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Huzzah Sunday Sixers! Today it's back to the usual length and format of the Six Sentence Sunday snippets. And this week also, I'll crack open Chapter 4 of The Days Adrift, my story about three girl-fugitives at sea, running from the turmoil of war and the crime they committed. This is what happened ->last time. Let's move on forward to part #9. Feel free to share your thoughts, any thoughts! :)


4.

"You're doing a great job, girl," Tams says, leaning over the keel to rinse one of the empty water bottles. 
"Do you think we will make it?" It does sound incredibly small and stupid, now that I say it out loud. Tams looks at me bleakly, in calm defeat. No, of course not.  
She grabs the bloodstained hammer from under the plastic cover, dumps it in the water and watches as it sinks into the abyss; already cleaning up for the ship burial, aren't we?

Six Sentence Sunday: Cold Fog, Rising

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Hey there Sunday, Sunday Sixers! How are you all doing today? I admit, I have been absent more often than not these last few weeks. Today, I'll share a longer excerpt to make up for it. :) This is a whole scene, and the end of chapter 3 of The Days Adrift, my YA novel WIP. ->Last time the main character almost lost herself to the water, but Brita, one of the other two girls on board pulled her back into the boat at the very last second. This time, the protagonist struggles to find her place in this dire situation, being lost out at sea.
Your comments & criticisms are very helpful and precious to me, and I want to encourage you again to share each and any thought you have. Thank you.


There is no sign of an outpost, no sign of anything in the dense morning fog. Tams unscrews the last bottle of water and hands it over to me. 

"Here." 

I get feeling she knows as well as I that we are completely lost. She doesn't have as much sailing expertise on her back, but she still knows me.

The nagging look she gives me doesn't fail to remind me that there is something to be done about the situation, something on my part. I mean, what does she expect?

Oh my, poor little Brita sits at the bow and stares across the water like a watchdog, turning her head left and right, so as not to miss any signal above ocean level. 
There is none. There hasn't been one for over a week. 
After days without food we are narrowed to a weak signal ourselves.

Are we just waiting to die out here?

I remember, I was only five years old, when my father took me out boating for the very first time. I loved every minute of it. We went deep-sea fishing the following summer, and he let me help throw out the net. Back then I could barely reach the fiddle with my nose.

At the age of ten, I knew how to steer a motorized boat, with twelve I could easily find my way home without the help of the stars; he told me to keep an even keel to where the cold fog rises.

At fourteen he pronounced me seaworthy and presented me with my own captain’s hat. He would mess up my hair, and then put it on my head...

Dad... 

In a desperate maneuver I turn the cockleshell northeast, towards the soon to be rising sun; an even keel to where the cold fog rises.
It's a long shot, but it's the only chance we have.

"Let's head towards Old Venice." 

I barely recognize my own voice. 
Brita turns around in surprise and she claps her hands, cheering me on. "Old Venice, here we come!"  

Exude confidence when captaining -always.

How could I ever forget? 

My whole body shivers as I reach for the handle to resume my post. I can never tell whether it is from the cold or from hunger.

I look over at Tams and she smiles at me, through slight wafts of mist.

Six-Sentence-Sunday: Haze of my Betrayal

 

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Hi there, Sunday Sixers, it's good to see you again! After a week of letting my arms and legs dangle from a beach chair, my think strike is officially over! This week I'm back to share another episode of my YA story The Days Adrift. This is part 7, and, as always, your writerly input is very welcome and highly appreciated. :)
 
Last time, overwhelmed by desperation and fear, the protagonist almost lost herself to the water. But someone pulled her back into the boat...



"Are you crazy?!" Brita yells right through the haze of my betrayal. 
She pushes me back and slaps me in the face, 
again and again, a little harder each time.
I want to tell her to stop it, reassure her that I am back now, 
but weary as I am, my mouth won't open to say the words.  

"We don't do that, you hear me?" she sounds like a frail little girl, lecturing another not to swim out too far.
She's afraid.
Her hand clings to my wrist like a limpet; 
she's afraid for my life.

Six-Sentence-Sunday: Nowhere Near

 

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Hello and welcome to this week's Six Sunday early bird special. I say early because it's still Saturday and special, because I snuck in seven sentences. And bird because, well, I like birds. Anyhoo, you'll get to read yet another excerpt from The Days Adrift, Part 6. It's getting quite desperate out there on that little boat. Catch up with what happened ->earlier.
Have fun, enjoy and feel free to comment; I appreciate each and every comment, suggestion and friendly little nod! Join in the fun and check out the talented Sixers here. Let's share the love!



3.

Seven days and nights of endless water. The sea rushes, occasionally it brawls and at night it laments. 

Or is it me, lamenting?   

The constant noise claims all my thoughts and turns them 

into only one.  

I can't take this any longer. 

I lean out, way above the railing, and there is nothing out there, nothing, except a shadowy contour, reverberating from the water surface. 

It slowly heads towards me... 

We nearly touch when I feel two strong hands clasping my shoulders, yanking me back into the boat.

Six-Sentence-Sunday 8/19

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Hey y'all it's Sunday, and that means time to share another excerpt from The Days Adrift. -->This is what happened last time. Three girls, still out at sea, on the run from the turmoil of war and the crime they committed..and it's getting quite dark. Feel free to comment, criticize, like, not like, whatever you want! By the way, I need your help with a little apostrophe crisis. Her name is Tams. Is it Tams' face, Tams's face or Tams face - or should I just rename her? Not stupid, just German and easily confused! :) 
 
Before you go, don't forget to take a look at the talented Sunday crowd right -->here.



As the season changes from spring to early summer, the sun breaks through skin like a thin coat of ice. There is hardly any shade on deck, and with each passing day, Tams' tattered face reminds me more of a giant cracked egg. 
I can't even look at her without feeling uncomfortable. 
Brita doesn't talk to me anymore. Delicate little Brita, furiously cowering in the corner, like a glaring red lobster. 
I should throw her overboard, or better yet, dump her in a pot of boiling hot water...