Never Throw Anything Away #OurAuthorGang

Never Throw Anything Away  

Joe Bonadonna

Not long ago a friend remarked that I’m very prolific, citing that since 2011 I’ve published 6 novels and 7 short stories, with two more stories and another novel on the way. I don’t know. Is that being prolific? I don’t consider myself to be prolific. I know people who publish 2 or 3 novels a year. I can’t even begin to tell you how long it took me to write Mad Shadows: The Weird Tales of Dorgo the Dowser. But I can say that it took me 3 years to write the sequel, Mad Shadows II: Dorgo the Dowser and The Order of the Serpent, and three or so years to write my forthcoming novel, The MechMen of Canis-9. Hell, it took me 6 months one time just to write a 25-K word novella. Prolific? Not really. But I’ll tell you a secret.

Never throw anything away.

I started writing in 1973, and I wrote a short story each month for over a year. Every one of them got rejected for various reasons. In retrospect, they were pretty awful. But I hung onto them anyway and filed them away. I knew there was a seed or a spark in each of them that could evolve into something else, something different and better, as time went on.

The only story I wrote and tossed into the trash, other than things I’d written in grade school and high school, was the original version of Mad Shadows. This was not the story that starred Dorgo the Dowser. No, this was an entirely different tale, with different characters and a totally different plot. Around 1977 or I submitted it to a number of professional magazines, such as Analog, Fantastic, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Everyone rejected it: old-hat; just another sword and sorcery tale; all plot based around cardboard characters. Mind you, for all the criticisms there were also helpful tips, suggestions, and plenty of encouragement to keep trying. Now, I didn’t throw the manuscript away out of anger and disappointment  . . . I tossed it into the trash because I rewrote it over and over again, changing the plot, changing the “McGuffin,” and finally settled on Dorgo as the main character.

For over ten years I also labored over a 1000-page fantasy epic: Courier font, 12 characters per inch. That’s about 300 words per page, I think. Finally, I knew it was too unwieldly for my meager talent, too unmanageable; the damn thing had become my own Frankenstein’s monster. I then moved on to trying my hand at writing screenplays, which was a great learning experience I recommend every writer try. But I never threw away that 1000-page monstrosity. Nope. I mined that sucker as if I was mining for gold. Two long chapters eventually evolved into the novellas, In the Vale of the Black Diamond and Blood on the Moon, both of which appear in Mad Shadows 1. One other story I’d written during that year-long writing binge also ended up in MS 1: The Man Who Loved Puppets. Another later appeared in Mad Shadows II: The Girl Who Loved Ghouls. Another story became The Blood of the Lion, which was published in Griots II: Sisters of the Spear, and one more turned into The Dragon’s Horde, for Janet Morris’ Heroika I: Dragon Eaters. Pieces and parts from various unfinished projects ended up as chapters in Dave Smith’s and my sword and sorcery pirate novel, Waters of Darkness.

As for the screenplays I wrote? I penned five during a 5-year period?

My space opera, Star Trooper Doon became the novel Three Against The Stars. Then I turned my silly satire, Sinbad’s Summer Vacation into the more serious and dramatic novella, Sinbad and The Golden Fleece, which was also published in Sinbad: The New Voyages #4. Another screenplay became the Dorgo the Dowser novella, The Order of the Serpent, which is part three of Mad Shadows II. A fourth screenplay turned into the three-year project, The MechMen of Canis-9, and another unpublished novel, The Last Warlock, not only was mined for MechMen, but for a number of other stories, as well.

As for the fifth screenplay . . . well, that’s a somewhat interesting story.

In 1997, years before the zombie craze exploded like a nuke, I wrote a screenplay called Twilight of the Dead. Naïve me . . . I intended it to be a sequel to the late George Romero’s third “living dead” film, Day of the Dead. I even managed to get in touch with Romero’s agent, who kindly replied that Romero already had a number of films on the drawing board. The agent told me that, as Romero holds no copyright over the use of zombies, and as long as I didn’t use any of his characters or referenced any of his films, I should shop the script around because he and Romero believed a “zombie boom” was about to break big. So I shopped it around, as I did with all my scripts, but nothing happened. Later, I read that Romero was thinking of calling his fourth flesh-eating epic Twilight of the Dead. So I changed my title to Children of the Grave, taking it from an old Black Sabbath song. (Since then there have been one film and at least one novel with that same title.) Someday, hopefully, if I can come up with a good hook, something not yet done, I’ll turn my zombie script into a novel, too.

So what has all this to do with anything?

Nothing. Everything, as Saladin (Ghassan Massoud) says to Balian de Ibelin (Orlando Bloom) in Ridley Scott’s masterpiece, The Kingdom of Heaven.

My point is — my novels, short stories and many of my novellas might never have been written, had I not mined my “writing past” for the sake of my writing future. And that 1000-page, heroic fantasy magnum opus? It will be mined again and again for material until there’s nothing left of it. In fact, about 25-K words of it, perhaps more have already been used for Mad Shadows III: Dorgo and The Heroes of Echo Gate. Only a few Dorgo the Dowser tales, Erika M Szabo’s and my 2-volume Creepy Hollow Adventures, and the stories I write for Janet Morris’ Heroes in Hell series have been written from scratch.

What I’m saying is — your words are precious. They come from your heart and soul, from the very core of your being. They’re born of your blood, sweat and tears. Save everything you write. Store it away for the future. While today’s words may not glitter right now, tomorrow they just might turn out to be gold. So don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.

Oh, how I wish I had saved that very first version of the Mad Shadows. That’s why now I never throw anything away.

My Amazon page: https://www.amazon.com/Joe-Bonadonna/e/B009I1KYIK

#heroicfantasy  #swordandsorcery  #spaceopera  #swordandplanet  #horror  #supernatural  #newpulpadventure  #children’sbooks 

Hope for a Better Christmas

 When nothing else is left but hope

The gentle glow of the morning sun filtered through the moth-eaten curtains, dancing across Anna’s face and causing her to sneeze. She reached out lazily, pulling the covers up to her chin savoring the warmth that enveloped her. For a blissful moment, she allowed herself to let go of all worries and simply bask in the comfort of her bed. But as the outside world began to creep in, reality nudged at her perfect moment, threatening to shatter it with its demands.

***

Before the war, they lived in a comfortable two-story house in bustling Budapest. Michael, with his strong build, worked as a railroad engineer while Anna, petite yet fierce, was employed as a skilled seamstress. Together they raised two bright and lively children - Sammy, a curious six-year-old with sandy blonde hair, and Barbara, a sweet four-year-old with big blue eyes. But then, their idyllic life shattered. Michael was called to serve, and Anna spent her days hiding in the musty basement with their children, never knowing if each passing moment could be their last. The once vibrant city was now a shadow of its former self, fear and uncertainty filling every corner.

The grueling months of trying to stay alive took a toll on everyone. Looters quickly emptied the stores, offering food for jewelry and other valuables. The once friendly and helpful neighbors didn’t care for others anymore; they fought for every bite.

As the sun slowly rose on the desolate streets, Anna ventured out in search of anything edible to feed her starving children. The air was thick with the stench of decay and despair, and she felt a constant pang of fear gnawing at her insides.

Suddenly, she noticed her old neighbor across the street, sitting on the steps of his house, shoulders shaking as he sobbed uncontrollably. "They threw me out," he whimpered between gasping breaths. "My son said there's not enough food for us all, and I should just be on the street waiting to be hit by a bomb or jump under one of the tanks patrolling the streets. I have nowhere to go, maybe I should just…"

Hearing his words, Anna's heart ached with empathy. This man had always been kind to them, often surprising her children with small toys that brought joy to their difficult lives.

"There, there..." she consoled him gently, offering a comforting hug. "We don't have much ourselves, but you can stay with us."

While Anna went out in search of sustenance, John kept the children entertained with his animated storytelling. But when she returned with only a small sack of potatoes - exchanged for her last remaining possession, a simple ring - their future became even more uncertain.

"I don't have anything left," Anna cried tearfully. "What are we going to do now?"

John's voice was heavy with concern as he asked, "Have you heard anything from Michael?"

The woman shook her head, her eyes downcast. "Not since he left," she replied, her voice trembling. "I'm not even sure he's still alive."

Determination flickered across John's face as he made a decision. "I'll go over to my house tonight," he announced with conviction. "I was weak when I let him throw me out because I thought he was right. I lived a long life, and it was time for me to step out of the way. But you took me in and showed more kindness than my own flesh and blood. I'm going to beg him. If there is some of the gold I gave him, still left, he can't be so stone hearted to refuse to help your children."

But John's son had a heart of stone. His words reverberated in John’s mind like a sharp slap in the face. “Why are you still alive?” he shouted from behind the closed door, his voice laced with bitterness and resentment.

John could feel his heart clenched at the sound, knowing that their once close family had been torn apart.

“How could you be so cruel to your own father?” John's voice broke as he cried out in disbelief. His eyes were red and swollen from tears, his chest heaving with emotion. “I raised you and did everything I could for you. All I’m asking now is some of the gold I saved for hard times like this,” he begged, his voice cracking with desperation.

“That gold is mine! You’re old, you lived long enough. I have to feed my wife and kids.” His son’s voice was cold, unfeeling. “Why can’t you just do the right thing?”

John's heart ached as he shuffled across the deserted street, his sobs echoing through the empty buildings. He had never imagined that his own son would turn him away in his time of need. “My own son! My flesh and blood,” he whispered, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.

Anna let the old man in through the back door and tried to console him. “We’ll get by, somehow,” she whispered, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

That night, they huddled close to each other in the dark basement, the air thick with fear and tension. They could hear explosions and gunfire outside, the sounds getting closer with each passing minute.

“That was very close,” Anna cried out in terror, hugging her children tightly to her chest.

“Momma, I’m scared!” Little Barbara screamed in fright as the building above them shook violently.

But despite their fear, they held onto each other tightly amidst the chaos of war raging outside.

“Shh…don’t be scared, munchkin, I’m here. We’ll be alright,” Anna cooed choking back her tears.

The bombing stopped around midnight, and the children fell into a restless sleep. Sammy trashed and whimpered in his sleep and Barbara clung to her mother.

John crept to the small, cloudy basement window at the first sign of dawn and looked out. “Anna!” he cried out. “My house…”

“What is it, John?” Anna asked, frightened.

“It’s gone! My house…the bomb that hit close last night,” the old man wept.

The streets were quiet when John went looking for his son and his family. He couldn’t find any sign of life, only rubble strewn around and a deep crater where the bomb hit the house. He searched for a long time, falling over broken bricks, and calling their names to no avail.

“They’re all dead,” he sobbed when giving up returned to Anna and her children. “The house he wanted so badly killed him.”

Just when all hope seemed lost, Anna's heart skipped a beat at the sound of a weak voice coming from the street and saw a crouched figure desperately trying to look inside. “Anna!” They heard a man’s voice. “Dear God, let them be alive.”

“Michael?” Anna jumped up and ran to the window. “Michael, is that you?”

“Yes, thank you, Lord! The children?”

“We’re all fine,” Anna sobbed, her heart bursting with joy. “I’ll open the back door,” she shouted and ran up the stairs.

As she hugged her husband tightly, Anna's breath caught in her throat when she noticed Michael's missing left arm. His uniform's sleeve hung empty, a painful reminder of the horrors of war. But in that moment of reunion and gratitude for their survival, it didn't matter - they were alive and together, and that was all that truly mattered.

“We were under attack and the medic couldn’t get there on time. He couldn’t save my arm…he had to cut it off and they discharged me,” he whispered.

“It doesn’t matter!” Anna cried out, smiling at him through tears. “You’re alive and you’re here. Come, the children will be so happy to see you.”

After they filled their stomachs with the food Michael had in his bag, they discussed the possibilities.

“The war is not going to end soon,” Michael said. “We have to leave the city.”

At those words, John's shoulders slumped, and sobs wracked his body. But deep down, he knew Michael was right - his family needed a place where they could truly be safe. A place where they wouldn't have to constantly fear for their lives.

John bowed his head and broke out in tears. “You’re right, Michael. Your family needs a safe place.”

“You’re coming with us,” Anna's voice wavered, but her determination was clear. “We’re now your family.”

With their meager belongings carefully packed into a hand-pulled wagon, they set out on their journey away from the city. The nights offered a brief respite, as they traveled quietly on foot with their children nestled atop the wagon, exhausted and believing this was all just a bad dream. But as dawn broke each day, reality set in once again.

The path ahead was treacherous - rocky terrain and winding roads leading them through thick forests and abandoned towns. They sought shelter wherever they could find it - under fallen tree branches or in dilapidated buildings, always on guard for any danger that may lurk nearby.

As they journeyed, they faced desperation at every turn - food was scarce and stores were closed, leaving them to scavenge what little sustenance they could find in the countryside. Each day brought new challenges and dangers, but they persevered with hopeful hearts set on finding a safe place for their family. The weight of uncertainty hung heavily in the air, but they held onto each other tightly, knowing that as long as they had each other, they could face whatever came their way.

Tucked away in the remote northeast corner of the country, they finally arrived at the small, mountainous village where Michael had spent his childhood. As they made their way through the quaint streets, curious faces peered out from behind curtains and doorways, watching their arrival with suspicion. When they came to a stop at the weathered gates of Michael's family home, six burly men charged towards them wielding pitchforks and axes.

"What business do you have here?" The man who appeared to be their leader barked, his stance defensive. "We don't need no strangers here. Move on!"

But Michael recognized his old classmate from school. "We're not strangers, Paul!" He called out. "It's me, Michael Varga. We were buddies back in elementary school. This is my parent's house."

There was a brief exchange of hushed whispers among the group of men before their leader spoke again. "We don't want you here, city boy! Especially now that you’re a cripple," He spat out the words with contempt. "You abandoned your hometown so stay out! We have enough mouths to feed as it is."

“What are we going to do?” Anna whispered, holding onto Michael’s arm. “We can’t fight them. They’re going to hurt us.”

“They’re hostile,” he whispered back. “My parents had a haunting lodge up in the mountain. We’ll find it.”

The small family was watched closely as they started moving, their steps heavy and hesitant. Michael took the lead, pulling the wagon with determination, while Anna and John pushed from behind with all their strength. Sammy and Barbara huddled together, whimpering softly as they clung to each other in fear, refusing to look at the group of men tracking their every move.

As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, casting an orange glow over the rugged landscape, they finally reached their destination - a decaying building with peeling paint and broken windows. The once vibrant garden that had been Michael's mother's pride and joy was now a tangle of overgrown weeds, a stark reminder of the passing of his beloved parents fifteen years ago. The air was thick with a sense of sadness and loss as they gazed upon the empty shell of what was once a thriving homestead.

They entered the small house in gratitude for the roof over their heads. The walls were weathered and cracked, with patches of peeling paint revealing the faded wood underneath. Outside, wild plants twisted and tangled around each other, a stark contrast to the once neatly cultivated garden.

Despite the wild overgrowth of vegetation surrounding the house, they still managed to find fruits, corn, and some vegetables that reseed themselves year after year.

“People in the village have probably forgotten about this place,” Anna pondered, her voice laced with unease. “Otherwise, they would’ve taken everything.”

Michael’s face grew serious as he replied, “Yes, more than likely...” He gently stroked his wife’s back. “And let’s keep it that way. This house is far enough from the village. They don’t need to know we’re here until we can learn more about the people who still live there. There are bad people everywhere, and I can’t protect you all with only one arm.” Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought of the danger they were in, but he quickly wiped them away and put on a brave face.

Anna wrapped her arms tightly around her husband, children, and the old man she learned to respect and love, tears streaming down her face. “We’ll get by,” she sobbed, holding onto her family.

Despite the harsh winter ahead, they persevered and were able to carefully pack away enough food to sustain them through the long months. Michael found the root cellar stocked with jars of pickled vegetables, bags of dried beans and lentils, and even some canned meats that Michael’s mother had wisely stowed away for emergencies. They also found hidden treasures in the basement. Bags of salt, sugar, and various spices would add flavor to their otherwise plain meals.

The children took part in the hard work and gathered wild berries in the woods with John. One day, they stumbled upon two scrawny hens and excitedly carried them home as if they were prized possessions.

“Mommy, mommy!” Sammy burst into the kitchen, his face beaming with pride. “Look what we found!”

“Oh, perhaps they ran away from the village,” Anna wondered.

“Or maybe they’re the grand chickens of my mom’s hen that escaped from the butcher knife when I was a kid.” Michael laughed.

Barbara eagerly chimed in, “Can we cook chicken soup?”

But Anna’s frown quickly put a halt to the little girl’s plans. “I think we better keep those hens,” she said thoughtfully. “They will lay eggs, and maybe I can use some corn flour to bake a cake for Christmas.” The mere thought of having something special to celebrate lifted everyone’s spirits and made all their hard work worth it.

***

Anna gazed at her husband lovingly. His chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he lightly snored beside her. She smiled softly, thinking of all the struggles they had faced together - the rundown house with its leaking roof, the constant struggle to put enough food on the table for their growing children. But none of it could overpower the love she felt for her family. She knew they would get through this, as they always had before. With a sigh, she pushed aside the warm blanket, rose from the bed, and shivered when her bare feet touched the cold floor.

Reaching for her clothes, she quickly dressed, preparing herself for whatever challenges lay ahead. In the quiet of the kitchen, she took a moment to savor the peacefulness that surrounded her before beginning another day of hard work with unwavering determination.

As tears welled up in her eyes, she couldn’t help but think of her young children and husband, out in the forest every day collecting fallen branches in the snow to keep their home warm.

The fire was soon crackling in the wood stove, and Anna wasted no time in getting started on their usual breakfast: creamy grits. The smell of cooking corn filled the air as she stirred the pot with practiced hands. Despite the hardships they faced, she found solace in these small moments and felt grateful for the simple joys in life.

Suddenly, her heart started beating faster when she heard footsteps and stumping feet by the door. “It’s me.” She sighed in relief when she heard John’s voice.

“I didn’t hear you going out,” Anna said watching the old man as he dragged a small pine tree through the door.

“If my calculation is correct, today is Christmas Eve,” John smiled, his eyes misting over.

“Oh, John,” Anna hugged the old man.

John cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “The war destroyed my family, but I still don’t know why, fate let me survive. Let’s make the best of the time I have left. The children need a Christmas tree to restore some normalcy in their lives.”

As the sun rose over the frosty forest, Sammy and Barbara eagerly put on their hats and gloves to venture out into the winter wonderland surrounding their home. They strode through the fresh snow, their breaths creating puffs of white in the crisp air, collecting pinecones along the way.

The children's excitement was contagious as they returned home, bringing their treasures with them to decorate the tree. With each pinecone, small apples, and cutout snowflakes from old paper placed carefully on the branches, they sang Christmas Carols with joy and enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Anna busied herself in the kitchen, the scent of warm spices and freshly baked rabbit, pumpkin, and potatoes filling the cozy house.

Finally, after dinner, the family gathered around to enjoy the long-awaited cake together. Each bite was savored, the sweetness of the treat matched only by the love shared between them.

When Christmas morning arrived, the children's eyes widened with delight at the sight of presents waiting for them under the tree. John had spent hours carving intricate animal figurines from softwood, while Michael had crafted snowshoes for them. And Anna, always resourceful, had discovered a bundle of wool yarn hidden away by her mother-in-law long ago, using it to knit cozy scarves and hats for her beloved children.

Although fate had thrown many life-altering challenges at them, they never lost hope for peace and a better future. 

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative, and educational, and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

A Search Down Inspiration Lane by L. L. Thomsen

Where has my muse gone? And how do I get her back?

http://llthomsen.com/

I know I am not the first (nor the last) author in history to stare at that blank screen/paper, feeling hollow and somewhat bewildered that the next line just won’t come to me.  Nonetheless, right in that moment, it feels as though I am the first, the only, the most useless, that’s for sure. 

How did this happen? I mean, it should write itself, right? I was on a roll! I even know what I am supposed to write – goodness, my outline is clear and everyday I’ve been working towards hitting a few thousand extra words, vigorously tugging them under my belt so that I’ll be in a position to write ‘The End’ on the final page of my WIP sooner rather than later…  

Well, the idea that I will one day harvest the benefit of all this effort and plotting seems like a pipe dream right about then. And as I fail to type a single word, I can feel that coveted goalpost of personal achievement shift beyond my reach. 

I am impatient and frustrated; it’s irrational – I know - and then comes the mini black hole and it sucks me right in.  Again.  

See, it’s not the first time my goal post has moved – I mean, such is life, but now it seems further away than ever; impossible to achieve even, and then comes the first-class, full-flight of self-doubt.  I am probably never going to finish this. I am silly for even thinking I could do this, but not to worry - it probably isn’t very good anyway.  My story sucks. I suck.  In fact, if I cannot find inspiration to write this next chapter, why even be a writer? Others wheel them out, but clearly that kind of productivity is beyond me!

(Are you nodding now? I think you might be, because you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Well, bear with me…)

It’s when that feeling of hopelessness tags you that it really hits you just how lonely a writer’s life can be. It doesn’t matter that you cannot live without it or that you chose it; wanted it. The fact remains that it’s pretty darn similar to sitting cross-legged in a cave on a desert island with only your imaginary friends (AKA the characters from you story) for company. They chat to you… but only sometimes – and of course never when you need them to, lol.

So what do you do? Throw in the towel for good? Watch some telly? Read a book? Go shopping? Browse Social media for commiserations and solutions? Walk the dog? Peel potatoes? Chat to your friends about anything but writing? Chat to your friends about nothing but writing? Go to the gym? Eat cake (yum)? Escape to your kitchen - or if you’re lucky: the local coffee house – where you can promptly proceed to consume copious amounts of hot drinks that you swear will help you see the light?

Well, I am going to tell you that I do all of the above – and more.

Yup. I really do.  Cross my heart…

And I even ‘throw in the towel’ occasionally, as well – at least, for a little while. See I know we are all different and everyone works in different ways.  And so, what works for me, may not work for Peter and John, and what works for them may just seem plain stupid to Sarah and Jean, but that is not really the point here.  The point is that when you hit the slump – oh the darn dreaded slump! – it might be for various reasons and these are usually tied to other things that go on in your world. Loneliness, worries, depression, too much work, not enough work, kids, animals, bills, etc… and the point is that these can all get to you sometimes, but this does not mean you don’t have it in you to finish your WIP and produce a book, nor that you are not good enough, or that your story is pants!

What you need is a break. Or if you have just had a break and cannot seem to get back into it, you need a shift in focus.  And that means you need something that will help you rekindle your joy for the WIP and something that will stop you from growing rusty, too. 

Now at this point, if you enter the 1000 yard stare contest with your WIP, neither the screen, nor the blank paper will inspire you. It’s simple. It will continue to suck you dry if you let it - and so you need to escape its clutches and re-direct your attention.  And so, here we go back to the points above…

Whether burned out, just back from a break, or simply uninspired, the thing that always works for me is to walk away from the WIP itself.  For the lunch hour – or for weeks – it really doesn’t matter, but very importantly, this is not the time to wallow in a hole (though you might want to) – and weirdly it is also not the time to stop writing either – at least not altogether. 

But what? How?

I’m sure you’ll have heard many of your fellow writers say, ‘Never stop writing’ - and for good reason! Because you may not be able to work on your WIP but there are other ways to stay sharp and put your skills to good use so that when you get your mojo back, you will still feel ‘in touch’ and centered around the routine of writing.  After all, one step forwards and two to the side is often to be preferred over two steps forward and halt. 

So you cannot work on the WIP?

Well if so, just write regardless. Write something that keeps you in the game; something that keeps you focused – work on a different story you been thinking of exploring, or write a short story, fanfiction, maybe write a blog about your WIP, or about your experiences, or hopes, or dreams, or fears. Write something serious, write something banal, write a letter to the President - you name it – you can write about a book you recently read; review it… do what feels unforced and easy, but keep writing because this will help you develop your skills and that is super handy for when that muse glides back into your life with a goofy smile of apology. 

But of course this will not fill your day the way working on your WIP does.  It might even also be that your heart is not in it, because this is after all not what you want to write about, so I suggest that you mix it up a little bit.  Browse Pinterest or Deviant Art for inspiration, chat to your author mates on social media, share snippets of you WIP, ask for feedback on ideas; on characters, go back and read your notes, get reacquainted with what got you burning to tell your story in the first place, stay in contact with like-minded people who share your path and know the troubles you might face (be they friends, family or FB mates).  Allow yourself this time ‘off’: read a new book, watch some telly – anything - and you might find that you once more begin to spot glimpses of your muse.

Now when she/he/it does return to your side or shoulder or wherever she sits, you will soon know, and that’s when you pick up the reigns, go back to your WIP or you grab a notebook to instantly write down all those new ideas that suddenly pop into your head!

As for the time scale on this ‘come back’ – ah well who can say? I have stepped away from my WIP for months before; I have procrastinated, drunk too much coffee, watched too much telly, but eventually something sparks an idea that pulls me back in. It is meant to be. Be patient. The muse will not let you off the hook indefinitely: sooner or later the WIP will call you back, and you will answer because you feel compelled, and it’s right.

Ah, but gah! The muse almost got back but now she’s on holiday again – or somewhere: delayed on an overnight flight, or sightseeing in Manhattan, or something like that. So then what? Dang it!

Okay, you were almost ready. You caught the whiff of former glory but now the muse keeps flirting and disappearing, and you still cannot work on the WIP.  So now what?

Well, if I get truly and badly ‘stuck’, I simply: rinse, sleep, eat, and repeat.  Never stop looking for inspiration, but not to the point of exhaustion. It’s not easy – not always – but then again, few things are. You are in this for long haul, right? So just think of it as a work hazard and learn to roll with the waves. You will feel less hassled and calmer – and guess what? When you don’t force it too much, it seems to glide all the better and you will be all the stronger as a writer and person. Indeed, often you will find that the hated break has given you new perspective.  In fact, it may perhaps even have helped you figure out a cooler, more exciting plot for your story, or a subplot, or you might have ended up thinking up a new exciting character, and (Yay!) that is never a bad thing.

So there.
Now stop panicking and take a breather. You got this. Do not punish yourself.
You are not the first writer in the world to feel like this. You will not be the last either. But you will get your muse back. And you will write your book and finish it. 
There indeed! 
(By L. L. Thomsen)
http://llthomsen.com/

Thy Sister's Blood

 Haunted Creek

Friends on a haunted creek uncover ancient relations. Magic and mystery drive this journey of self-discovery with the enduring power of family.

Stella Reeves wiped sleep from her eyes and sat up in bed. She frowned at the glowing numbers on her bedside alarm clock: 4:33. Working the mid-shift at the plant, she wasn’t accustomed to early morning wakeups. Was the neighbor’s cat in heat again? Or was it the sounds of her century old home settling that roused her from her deep dream? A sweet dream it was too…one she was sure to tell her girlfriends about on their trip.

The trip! She did a double-take at the clock and threw off her covers. Her feet hit the cold wooden floors as the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Stella, we’re outside waiting for you. We’ve been ringing the doorbell for five minutes. Did you oversleep again?”

“I’m sorry, Josie. My stupid alarm didn’t go off again. Give me five minutes. I’m already packed…just need to dress and I’ll be down.”

“Hurry up, girl,” she snapped. “The river waits for no woman.”

The line clicked dead in her hand and Stella dressed hurriedly. She slipped into her new baby blue swimsuit first. Worn jean shorts and a T-shirt advertising her side hustle followed. It read “Stella’s Gems and Crystals” with her website emblazoned beneath a purple amethyst. A pair of red, white, and blue water shoes completed her outfit.

She ran a brush through her long hair (a shade often disparaged as dishwater blonde), grabbed her packed river bag, and hustled downstairs.

Thin, raven-haired Josie hopped out of the dark blue SUV’s front passenger door and stared down her nose at Stella. She stepped to the back of the vehicle and threw open the back hatch.

“It’s about time, Stella. Throw your stuff in back.”

Stella tossed in her gear, bit her lip, and climbed into the back seat. Don’t let on she’s getting to you, Stella, she thought.

Rowan, a red-haired woman in her mid-twenties turned in the driver’s seat and flashed her bright smile. Stella figured it was that smile that held all the guys in thrall, not her glorious auburn hair as she’d once thought. As lovely as Rowan was, her smile was her best feature, appropriate for someone making their living as a dentist. Everyone gravitated to Rowan, despite her keeping everyone, even Stella, at arm’s length.

“Hey, Rowan. Thanks for driving. I’ve been looking forward to this week since this time last year.”

“Yeah, we could tell by how you were waiting for us as planned.” Josie said.

“Chill, Josie,” Rowan said. “We’ll be down county in time to see the sunrise over the water. We won’t be dipping our paddles before daylight anyway—when the kayak rental place opens.”

“Tell us about the place we’re going, Rowan.”

“I think you’ll like it, Stella. It’s a little different than the places we’ve gone to in past years.”

“Different how?”

“Well for one thing, it’s the coastal plain, not the mountains. The river is slower, and there’s fewer river ‘challenges’ as Josie calls them. It will be a nice relaxing float. Plus, we should be able to catch a few fish, crabs and maybe an oyster or two to supplement that tasteless dehydrated stuff.” 

“Yuck, no slimy oysters for me thank you very much.” Josie said. “I wipe enough slime out of my kindergartners’ noses.”

“The joys of being a teacher, huh Josie?”

“Yeah, not so much…”

“Rowan, didn’t you say that is where your family’s from originally?” Stella asked.  

“Sure is, but not that I recall. Not really. We moved away before I started school, but we went back sometimes—when we still had family there.”

“Did your dad take you after your mom…” Stella started.

“Yes, he wanted us to know both sides of our family. There aren’t many Blackstones left in the area nowadays, but people remember the family name even if it’s not for the best of reasons.”

“Why is that? Were you a pre-school hoodlum?”

“No, not me, Josie, it was way before my time. There was a colonial ancestor who got herself into a spot of trouble down county.”

“What? Wait. I haven’t heard of this one. Give it up, Rowan.”

“Nope. Sorry, Josie, but that’ll be tonight’s campfire story…unless you guys are chicken? I know you’re not, Stella. Those tales never affect you. Without empirical evidence, you don’t believe in anything.”

“Wow, is this pick on Stella day? Hey, I’m just realistic, Rowan, but I do get a kick out of a good scary story.”

“That usually ends with you in a fit of giggles.”

“Well, I like them,” Josie said. “Spooky stories around the campfire are a tradition, and if memory serves, it’s you who hides in your sleeping bag during the scary ones, Rowan. Remember the guy with the hook for a hand…”

“One time…just one time and I’m branded for life.”

***

A brilliant orange and purple sunset greeted their arrival at the campground. The moon was a night or two away from reaching its full phase and its mirror image reflected on the flat surface of the river.

“The tide is still. It’s as placid as a lake.”

“Like I said, Stella, this trip won’t be like our usual float. We’ll be putting the kayaks in at the source of a tributary that feeds the Potomac. The locals call it a creek. They’d call it a river where we’re from but it’s not long enough I guess.”

Josie turned her back on the scene and stepped away. “Well, we don’t have time to admire the scenery…not if we want to get camp set up before dark. Guess we were too late leaving to enjoy it.”

Stella glanced at Rowan and rolled her eyes. “God, what a witch,” she breathed.

Rowan smiled but whispered in Stella’s ear, “I know, but go easy on her. She just broke up with Jim. Another lesson to not trust people with your heart.”

Experience allowed a speedy assemblage of tents. Stella started a small campfire and put water on to boil for hot cocoa. The three women unfolded beach chairs and sat around the fire.

Josie stretched and settled into her chair. “Ok, Rowan, it’s story time. Let the tall tales begin.”

“Are you sure it won’t keep you up tonight?”

“We’ll take our chances,” Stella laughed.

“Very well. Buckle up, ladies, here goes:  As you may know, the Maryland colony was established by folks seeking religious tolerance in the 1630s. Ironically, the colonists were not immune from the witch hysteria that rocked Salem Town. In the late 1600s a woman arrived on these shores who was…different. Her name was Maeve Blackstone. She was…”

“Blackstone? Was she related, Rowan?”

“I’m afraid so, Josie. She was my great-great…I don’t remember how many greats— grandmother. She was, by all accounts, a beautiful woman in the prime of her life. No one knows where she came from. She travelled here alone—very unusual for a single woman in that day and age. She didn’t get along well with folks. Men were always chasing after her, though she didn’t give them the time of day…which spurred them on even more. The local ladies didn’t much appreciate the attention she attracted. They claimed she was an ‘unnatural’ woman, and too prideful and haughty for her ‘station.’ Maeve traded with the natives and helped those most in need. But mostly she kept to herself, balked at societal norms and avoided colonial functions—including attending church services.”

“It sounds like she was an independent woman, not a popular trait in those days.”

“Exactly and not now either, Stella. Tensions increased when it became obvious that Maeve was with child. The father was never identified, but every matron in the colony, even while suspecting Maeve’s never-do-well hangers on, feared it would be discovered to be their own husband, brother, or son.”

“So, they ran her out of town?”

“Let her finish, Stella, but do get on with it, Rowan. I’m ready to hit the sack.”

Rowan smiled and continued. “Maeve was used to the townsfolk shunning her, but now they took it to a new level. People whispered curses under their breath when she passed. Children were scolded if they didn’t cross the street to avoid her. She became the focal point of church sermons as the preacher railed against godless, immoral, and unnatural acts.

“The colonists’ livelihood in those days depended on tobacco farming and fishing. When a drought seized the land, work-worn fingers all pointed at Maeve. Then several children caught what they called the seasoning—likely malaria which was rampant in the area at the time. Hatred towards Maeve grew stronger, and folks began to suggest witchcraft was involved. The icing on the cake was the red tide in the Potomac…”

“Red tide?” 

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/m27NQd

A treasure trove of imagination and creativity, showcasing the authors' diverse voices and talents.

Thy Sister's Blood

Friends on a haunted creek uncover ancient relations 

Stella Reeves wiped sleep from her eyes and sat up in bed. She frowned at the glowing numbers on her bedside alarm clock: 4:33. Working the mid-shift at the plant, she wasn’t accustomed to early morning wakeups. Was the neighbor’s cat in heat again? Or was it the sounds of her century old home settling that roused her from her deep dream? A sweet dream it was too…one she was sure to tell her girlfriends about on their trip.

The trip! She did a double-take at the clock and threw off her covers. Her feet hit the cold wooden floors as the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Stella, we’re outside waiting for you. We’ve been ringing the doorbell for five minutes. Did you oversleep again?”

“I’m sorry, Josie. My stupid alarm didn’t go off again. Give me five minutes. I’m already packed…just need to dress and I’ll be down.”

“Hurry up, girl,” she snapped. “The river waits for no woman.”

The line clicked dead in her hand and Stella dressed hurriedly. She slipped into her new baby blue swimsuit first. Worn jean shorts and a T-shirt advertising her side hustle followed. It read “Stella’s Gems and Crystals” with her website emblazoned beneath a purple amethyst. A pair of red, white, and blue water shoes completed her outfit.

She ran a brush through her long hair (a shade often disparaged as dishwater blonde), grabbed her packed river bag, and hustled downstairs.

Thin, raven-haired Josie hopped out of the dark blue SUV’s front passenger door and stared down her nose at Stella. She stepped to the back of the vehicle and threw open the back hatch.

“It’s about time, Stella. Throw your stuff in back.”

Stella tossed in her gear, bit her lip, and climbed into the back seat. Don’t let on she’s getting to you, Stella, she thought.

Rowan, a red-haired woman in her mid-twenties turned in the driver’s seat and flashed her bright smile. Stella figured it was that smile that held all the guys in thrall, not her glorious auburn hair as she’d once thought. As lovely as Rowan was, her smile was her best feature, appropriate for someone making their living as a dentist. Everyone gravitated to Rowan, despite her keeping everyone, even Stella, at arm’s length.

“Hey, Rowan. Thanks for driving. I’ve been looking forward to this week since this time last year.”

“Yeah, we could tell by how you were waiting for us as planned.” Josie said.

“Chill, Josie,” Rowan said. “We’ll be down county in time to see the sunrise over the water. We won’t be dipping our paddles before daylight anyway—when the kayak rental place opens.”

“Tell us about the place we’re going, Rowan.”

“I think you’ll like it, Stella. It’s a little different than the places we’ve gone to in past years.”

“Different how?”

“Well for one thing, it’s the coastal plain, not the mountains. The river is slower, and there’s fewer river ‘challenges’ as Josie calls them. It will be a nice relaxing float. Plus, we should be able to catch a few fish, crabs and maybe an oyster or two to supplement that tasteless dehydrated stuff.” 

“Yuck, no slimy oysters for me thank you very much.” Josie said. “I wipe enough slime out of my kindergartners’ noses.”

“The joys of being a teacher, huh Josie?”

“Yeah, not so much…”

“Rowan, didn’t you say that is where your family’s from originally?” Stella asked.  

“Sure is, but not that I recall. Not really. We moved away before I started school, but we went back sometimes—when we still had family there.”

“Did your dad take you after your mom…” Stella started.

“Yes, he wanted us to know both sides of our family. There aren’t many Blackstones left in the area nowadays, but people remember the family name even if it’s not for the best of reasons.”

“Why is that? Were you a pre-school hoodlum?”

“No, not me, Josie, it was way before my time. There was a colonial ancestor who got herself into a spot of trouble down county.”

“What? Wait. I haven’t heard of this one. Give it up, Rowan.”

“Nope. Sorry, Josie, but that’ll be tonight’s campfire story…unless you guys are chicken? I know you’re not, Stella. Those tales never affect you. Without empirical evidence, you don’t believe in anything.”

“Wow, is this pick on Stella day? Hey, I’m just realistic, Rowan, but I do get a kick out of a good scary story.”

“That usually ends with you in a fit of giggles.”

“Well, I like them,” Josie said. “Spooky stories around the campfire are a tradition, and if memory serves, it’s you who hides in your sleeping bag during the scary ones, Rowan. Remember the guy with the hook for a hand…”

“One time…just one time and I’m branded for life.”

Read the full story in the book: 

https://books2read.com/u/m27NQd

What if you think the known world isn’t strange enough? Embark on a journey that pushes the boundaries, challenges your perception, and questions reason, logic, and established beliefs.

The Pumpkin's Curse

 They're desperate to stay alive

I have always felt an odd trepidation towards pumpkins since my early years. Their twisted faces made me feel as if they were watching. This fear stuck with me into my teens. Mom, a teacher, is always busy grading papers late into the night. Despite her busy schedule, I still felt safe until we had to move, leaving behind my friends and family.

Mom bought a house in a small town called Dark Creek, where she got a job at a school just a few blocks away. Our new address is 1300 Dead End Street. The house is ancient, with broken windows and glass scattered everywhere. The backyard borders the forest. And, of course, there’s a basement. No doubt, it holds stories of its own.

Mom and I are waiting for the movers to bring our furniture, and a few men from town offered to fix the windows. I found it strange how they whispered among themselves as if keeping some big secret. But I ignored them, focusing instead on helping Mom clean and unpack.

We ordered pizza and shared it with the workers. By the time they were getting ready to leave, it was already dark. They promised to return the next day.

That night, lying in bed, I hear noises from the basement. The sound is eerie, sending chills down my spine. I don’t want to go down there. But, like the people in horror movies, I feel compelled to go where I shouldn’t.

Instead of running away, I head toward the basement door. My heart pounds, and the flashlight I’m holding flickers on and off, just like a scene from a typical horror story.

I open the door, and it creaks like old houses do. The basement light doesn’t work. With each step, a strange ticking sound grows louder. Suddenly, I bump into someone, and we both scream.

“What are you doing down here, Scarlett?” Mom says, her voice shaky.

“Mom! You scared me half to death!” I snap, catching my breath. “I thought I heard something down here.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, rubbing her arms. “I found some boxes left by the previous owners. Look at this.” She pulls out a pumpkin with a terrifying grin. “Doesn’t this look like the Joker from Batman? I bet they loved Halloween.”

“Ugh, I hate Halloween. And I really hate pumpkins,” I tell her, shuddering.

We head back upstairs, and the next day, I see the same pumpkin on the porch. The workers laugh about it, comparing it to the Joker’s signature smile. But to me, it looks sinister. I throw it in the trash and try to shake off the creepy feeling as I continue unpacking.

Later, I decide to take a ride to the store for some snacks and magazines. As I’m locking up my bike, a guy about my age stares at me.

“Hey there,” he says. “Never seen you around here. You new in town?”

“Yeah, we just moved to 1300 Dead End Street,” I reply.

The guy’s expression changes. “That old house? Your family must be brave to stay there.”

I frown. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“My name’s Donald Winters,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to scare you, but that place has a reputation. I could tell you more if you want. Maybe we could meet tomorrow at the river.”

“Nice to meet you, Donald. I’m Scarlett,” I respond. “I’m definitely interested in hearing more.”

As I ride home, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something Donald knows about our house that I don’t. When I pull up to the porch, I freeze. The pumpkin I had thrown away earlier… is back.

“What the heck?” I mutter, rushing inside. “Mom! Are you home?”

I peek out the window, but Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway. She’s probably still at work. Maybe one of the workers thought it would be funny to put the pumpkin back as a prank. But I’m not laughing. Feeling uneasy, I bag it up and throw it in the trash again.

Later, when Mom gets home, we start cooking dinner together.

“I’m glad you decided to put that pumpkin back on the porch,” she says casually.

“What? I threw the pumpkin away, Mom!” I exclaim.

I run to the porch, only to see the pumpkin sitting right where it had been. This is getting weird. Someone must be messing with my mind. Frustrated, I grab a market bag, toss the pumpkin inside, and dump it in the neighbor’s trash bin.

We eat dinner, and after reading for a while, I check on Mom. She has already fallen asleep, so I gently cover her with a blanket.

At least the men finished fixing the house without pulling any more pranks. But I can’t shake the nagging thought that the pumpkin will reappear again. It's becoming a mystery I can't ignore.

The next morning, we hear voices outside. The police are at Teddy Shaw’s house. Had something happened? Mom and I go to see what’s going on. Detective Jerry Marsh asks if we heard anything unusual last night. We tell him no.

“Teddy’s body is missing,” the detective says gravely. “All that was left behind was his head... and an axe.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Christmas in Camelot ~ Part 2 #Christmas #Arthurian #Legends #OurAuthorGang

By Mary Anne Yarde

Gustave Doré's illustration of Camelot from Idylls of the King 1867 ~ Wikipedia

In Part 1 of Christmas at Camelot I took a look at the food that you may well have found on an early medieval table, but today I want to look at what they did for entertainment in those long winter nights.

In the 14th Century, a poet — whose name has been lost over time, but is now referred to as The Pearl Poet — wrote an epic Arthurian poem. This is how The Pearl Poet described Christmas at Camelot.

“…then they brought the first course, with the blast of trumpets and the waving of banners, with the sound of drums and pipes, so that many a heart was uplifted at the melody. Costly and most delicious foods were carried in. Many were the dainties, delicacies and fresh meats, so great was the plenty they might scarce find room on the board and table-cloth to set all the silver dishes. Each helped himself as he liked best, and for each of two guests were twelve dishes served, with a great plenty of beer and bright wine…”

According to The Pearl Poet, Arthur knew how to throw a party! One would expect a feast at the Midwinter/ New Year celebrations, but perhaps not on such a grand scale.

There would have been music and entertainment at such a feast. I should imagine there were jugglers and those with what we would call Circus Skills!

Tom 1068 ~ No attribution required ~ Pixabay

 Bards would tell wonderful stories to entertain the guests — perhaps they told stories of Arthur and his Knights — and as the evening wore on, old men would become philosophical, as they contemplated mortality.

But there is one story about a Christmas feast that every Arthurian enthusiasts will of heard of, and that is...

Gawain and the Green Knight.

by The Pearl Poet

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (from original manuscript, artist unknown) ~ Wikipedia

 

If you not familiar with the story, then read on for a very abridged version with a little of my own poetic licence thrown into the mix!

New Year's Day, Camelot

The Knights of Camelot were celebrating the New Year in Arthur's Great Hall. Food was a plenty, and the mead was freely flowing. Friends and family gathered around the fire pit to listen as a bard wove the most fantastical tale.

Sir Gawain was content to sit and listen to the bard. There was nothing that needed his attention. This was a time to relax and rejoice. The New Year promised to be a good one. The Kingdom was at peace, for the most part, and everything was as it should be.

But this tranquillity was soon quashed when someone pounded against the great oak door of the Hall. The door rattled on its hinges. The bard fell silent, as did everyone else. All eyes turned towards the door and everyone held their breath.

The door opened and there, on a horse the colour of spring grass, was a giant of a man. The giant's skin, like that of his horse, was an unnatural shade of green. Without a by-or-leave, the giant rode his horse into the Hall and dismounted. In his hand was a monster of an axe. This Green Knight narrowed his eyes and looked around him with a contemptuous sneer.

"Is this Arthur's court?" the giant asked, his voice was so loud that some of the women shrieked. "Are these his Knights?"

"It is," Arthur said, rising to his feet. "They are. What can we do for you?"

The Green Knight smiled, showing a perfect set of green teeth. "Your knights are the bravest in the land, or so I am told, and the most chivalrous. Well, we will see about that. I wonder if there is any knight amongst you that would be brave enough to accept a challenge from me."

All the Knights looked to Arthur… But one.

"I will accept your challenge," Sir Gawain said, rising from his seat.

"Gawain, no,” Arthur ordered under his breath.

"Brave boy," the Green Knight snarled. "Or a foolish one. Take my axe, Sir Knight, and chop off my head."

"Why? Do you not like life?" Gawain asked, taking the axe from the Green Knight. The axe was so heavy that Gawain had a job to lift it.

"I do not fear for my life, but perhaps you should fear for yours."

A block was brought forth, and the Green Knight knelt.

 "Aim true," he stated.

Shaking his head, Gawain lifted the axe and then with a sickening thud, he took the head from the Green Knight’s shoulders.

The silence that followed was deafening. But then something strange happened. The Green Knight’s headless body stood, and his hands reached for his severed head.

"Meet me at the Chapel Green this time next year, so that I can return the favour," the decapitated head said, and then he left.

Gawain watched as the door closed behind the Green Knight. He turned to face his King with a look of horror. What had he done? There was no way he could survive such a strike.

The year that passed was uneventful, but each day Gawain knew he was a step closer to his death. As the leaves turned from green to brown and the first snow began to fall. Gawain tacked up his horse and, with a heavy heart, he set out for the Chapel Green.

God's Speed by Edmund Blair Leighton 1900 ~ Wikipeida

After many weeks of traveling he happened upon a castle, and there he was greeted by Bertilak de Hautdesert and his beautiful wife. Berilak asked Gawain why he was here and Gawain told him only that he had promised to meet someone at the Chapel Green on New Year's Day. Bertilak assured him that the Chapel was just two miles away. Bertilak then, very kindly, invited him to stay with them. Gawain thanked Bertilak and took him up on his generous offer.

The next day Bertilak went hunting. But before he departed he told Gawain that he was more than welcome to stay as long as whatever he might gain during the day, he gave back.

Gawain frowned at such a riddle, but later in the day, all became clear.  Bertilak's beautiful wife began to tease him. Gawain had never met anyone like her. She was intoxicating. So very beautiful. Gawain found himself clenching his fists to stop himself from reaching for her. One kiss, he finally allowed, when he could not take it anymore. Just one kiss. I will take nothing more, for Bertilak is my host.

Lady Bertilak at Gawain's bed ~ from original manuscript, artist unknown ~ Wikipedia

 When Bertilak came back cold and muddy from his hunt, he asked Gawain if he had gained anything this day and if so, he must remember to give it back. So Gawain kissed his host. Sir Bertilak looked confused by the kiss, but he did not comment upon it.

The next day, Bertilak went hunting again. And once again Bertilak's wife began to tease. This time, Gawain allowed two kisses and just like the night before, when Bertilak returns he gave back what he had gained.

On the third day, like the previous days, Bertilak went hunting. This time Bertilak's wife gave Gawain a girdle of green and gold silk. She told him that if he wears it, he would stay safe from harm. They then shared three kisses. That evening he gives Bertilak the three kisses, but keeps the girdle for himself.

The Lady of Shalott by John William Waterhouse,1880 ~ note the girdle around her waist ~ Wikipedia

 The following day Gawain, with a pounding heart and the girdle wrapped around his waist, set out to meet the Green Knight. He found the giant sharpening his blade outside of the Chapel.

"So you have come?" The Green Knight stated with a look of surprise.

"I accepted the challenge," Gawain stated with a bravery he was not feeling.

"The kneel and place your neck upon the blog, young Knight of Camelot."

Gawain closed his eyes briefly and prayed to God for courage. He knelt and bared his neck. The Green Knight raised his axe. And despite himself, Gawain flinched in fear.

"I should have known," The Green Knight jeered. "You are a coward, and you bring shame to your King."

"Swing again," Gawain growled, "And I will not flinch."

The Green Knight raised his axe and feigned a strike.

"Be done with it," Gawain ordered. "Do not tease."

"I was merely testing your resolve," the Green Knight stated.

The Green Knights raised his axe again, and Gawain closed his eyes. The blade cut through the air, but instead of taking his head it only scratched his skin, although it drew blood.

"That was for the lie you told me, for you are wearing my wife's girdle. Rise, Sir Knight," the Giant stated. "The challenge is over."

With unsteady legs, Gawain rose to his feet and turned to look at the Giant, but the Giant was not there. In his place was his kind host, Bertilak.

"What is this?" Gawain asked, thoroughly confused.

"A test, young knight, from Arthur's sister. She thought you would fail. I am pleased to say you passed, for you are indeed chivalrous, brave, and for the most part... Honest."

Sir Gawain and Sir Bertilak parted on good terms. When Gawain finally made it home from Camelot, he was greeted with a hero's welcome. And from that day on the Knights of Camelot wore a green sash around their waist in recognition of Gawain's quest and a reminded to always be honest.

Copyright © 2017 Mary Anne Yarde

The Vigil by John Pettie, 1888 ~ Gawain represented the perfect knight, as a fighter, a lover, and a religious devotee ~ Wikipedia

It beats a game of Cluedo and Guess Who? I suppose. Although, I think I will celebrate Christmas and see in the New Year with a couple of board games and a verse of Auld Lang Syne.

War is coming to Saxon Briton…

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