Saturday Snippets: Oz and Fairy Tales
October is almost over, so it's time for more snippets. These come from There's No Place Like Home? (my NaNo novel from 2015, newly finished) and from "Paper and (T)horns" (my modern Beauty and the Beast retelling).
The kalidahs who had been sent to the front gate had expected an angry mob. Not quite torches and pitchforks angry. More like billy clubs and Molotov cocktails. At the very least, they had been anticipating an unruly assortment of people led by a towering, charismatic man, perhaps wearing a mask, who would shout meaningless mantras over a megaphone.
Instead, the leader appeared to be a small girl with a fire in her eyes most of the kalidahs had long since forgotten.
Hope. Righteous anger. Determination.
Love.
While the crowd behind her—and the kalidahs in front of her—grew ever more restless as they waited for something to happen, the girl simply stared into the heart of the Westford mansion with that fiery-eyed gaze of hers.
“Remember your training,” said the head kalidah, trying to inspire the others to fortitude. He knew that their hearts were starting to bend beneath that fiery stare, even as his own did.
“Sir, we were just handed sticks and told to mind the gates.”
“And we will do it splendidly,” said the head kalidah, though he knew deep down that already they had been too long waiting. It would not take much to let the crowd in. Whatever signal the girl waited for, he hoped it came soon.
He was tired of standing still.
***
And you’re sure this is going to work? Teddy thought, his lungs still working too hard to try talking and running at the same time.
There’s a 75.823 percent chance of failure, replied Crow, but with the number of variables in play, that number could easily slide up or down by as much as 38 percent.
Isamu and Tik-Tok circled each other, their eyes locked. Isamu’s face, taut with concentration, revealed more than he wanted it to; Tik-Tok’s revealed nothing. Even his glances seemed devoid of emotion, neither hopeful nor anxious. They simply were.
At last, Tik-Tok dove at Isamu’s right, a blade extended in his hand like a deadly finger. Isamu twisted away from the knife, his left hand coming up to catch Tik-Tok’s other arm, which Tik-Tok had swung in after the feint, intending to slide its knife between Isamu’s ribs. Isamu broke Tik-Tok’s grip on the second blade, plucking it from the air and bringing it up to parry the first. Tik-Tok caught Isamu’s knife hand, and Isamu caught Tik-Tok’s. The Empty and the Kalidah faced each other, knife points inches away from death.
“It seems the question of who walks away has come down to whose will breaks first,” said Tik-Tok, plying a little more pressure on his knife hand without relenting in his grip on Isamu’s.
“And how can you have a will when you care about nothing?” Isamu asked, breathing the words out with as little effort as possible.
“The how of a trick’s just the shop talk,” said the boy. “It’s as boring as having your dad explain how a math problem works or your sister go on and on about what her newest poem means.” He said this last word with a melodramatic flair of his arms. “But that’s not what makes it interesting. That’s not what makes it good.”
The student on stage nodded their approval of the table’s normalcy and descended the steps to the audience, their classmates and teachers applauding louder than necessary.
“What makes it good, then?” I asked, grateful the roar of applause died a little before it could reach my box.“The why,” the boy said in a tone that marked me as the slowest adult he’d ever explained anything to in his life. “If a poem’s good, it’s because the poet wrote for a reason. If a math problem is interesting, it’s because it has a function. If a magic trick is good, it’s because the magician has a thundering why running through his chest when he performs it—something bigger than him or the trick or the stage. Something to give the trick the power to astound his audience.”
“Why are you really coming to all my father’s performances?”
I took a minute to consider. I had to be honest with myself as well as Molly. Had my reasons for coming changed in the last week? I couldn’t deny I had more than one reason now. “If you’d asked me last time we talked, I’d have said the trick.”
“And now?” Though her tone was arch, her expression was remarkably sincere, her eyes hopeful, her mouth sweet.
“The trick,” I answered. “And you.”
The sincerity of a moment before vanished behind a mask of scoffing. “Is that supposed to be flattery?”
“It’s supposed to be honesty.”
From There's No Place Like Home?
The kalidahs who had been sent to the front gate had expected an angry mob. Not quite torches and pitchforks angry. More like billy clubs and Molotov cocktails. At the very least, they had been anticipating an unruly assortment of people led by a towering, charismatic man, perhaps wearing a mask, who would shout meaningless mantras over a megaphone.
Instead, the leader appeared to be a small girl with a fire in her eyes most of the kalidahs had long since forgotten.
Hope. Righteous anger. Determination.
Love.
While the crowd behind her—and the kalidahs in front of her—grew ever more restless as they waited for something to happen, the girl simply stared into the heart of the Westford mansion with that fiery-eyed gaze of hers.
“Remember your training,” said the head kalidah, trying to inspire the others to fortitude. He knew that their hearts were starting to bend beneath that fiery stare, even as his own did.
“Sir, we were just handed sticks and told to mind the gates.”
“And we will do it splendidly,” said the head kalidah, though he knew deep down that already they had been too long waiting. It would not take much to let the crowd in. Whatever signal the girl waited for, he hoped it came soon.
He was tired of standing still.
***
And you’re sure this is going to work? Teddy thought, his lungs still working too hard to try talking and running at the same time.
There’s a 75.823 percent chance of failure, replied Crow, but with the number of variables in play, that number could easily slide up or down by as much as 38 percent.
***
Isamu and Tik-Tok circled each other, their eyes locked. Isamu’s face, taut with concentration, revealed more than he wanted it to; Tik-Tok’s revealed nothing. Even his glances seemed devoid of emotion, neither hopeful nor anxious. They simply were.
At last, Tik-Tok dove at Isamu’s right, a blade extended in his hand like a deadly finger. Isamu twisted away from the knife, his left hand coming up to catch Tik-Tok’s other arm, which Tik-Tok had swung in after the feint, intending to slide its knife between Isamu’s ribs. Isamu broke Tik-Tok’s grip on the second blade, plucking it from the air and bringing it up to parry the first. Tik-Tok caught Isamu’s knife hand, and Isamu caught Tik-Tok’s. The Empty and the Kalidah faced each other, knife points inches away from death.
“It seems the question of who walks away has come down to whose will breaks first,” said Tik-Tok, plying a little more pressure on his knife hand without relenting in his grip on Isamu’s.
“And how can you have a will when you care about nothing?” Isamu asked, breathing the words out with as little effort as possible.
From "Paper and (T)horns"
The student on stage nodded their approval of the table’s normalcy and descended the steps to the audience, their classmates and teachers applauding louder than necessary.
“What makes it good, then?” I asked, grateful the roar of applause died a little before it could reach my box.“The why,” the boy said in a tone that marked me as the slowest adult he’d ever explained anything to in his life. “If a poem’s good, it’s because the poet wrote for a reason. If a math problem is interesting, it’s because it has a function. If a magic trick is good, it’s because the magician has a thundering why running through his chest when he performs it—something bigger than him or the trick or the stage. Something to give the trick the power to astound his audience.”
***
I took a minute to consider. I had to be honest with myself as well as Molly. Had my reasons for coming changed in the last week? I couldn’t deny I had more than one reason now. “If you’d asked me last time we talked, I’d have said the trick.”
“And now?” Though her tone was arch, her expression was remarkably sincere, her eyes hopeful, her mouth sweet.
“The trick,” I answered. “And you.”
The sincerity of a moment before vanished behind a mask of scoffing. “Is that supposed to be flattery?”
“It’s supposed to be honesty.”
Thanks for reading! Next month I will probably be deep in edits for Albion Apparent, but if I can get some more work done on "Paper and (T)horns" I will bring you some snippets!
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