Three siblings divided by social class--honored war hero, pampered gentry, and outcast slave--navigate the immediate aftermath of a magic war that drastically warped each of their lives. However, all of Lumis must obey a decree to erase any memory of the war within one year.
The hard chisels in his face and shoulders, silvering stubble, and the tic-tac-toe grid of scars up his neck reminded James of an old wolf. He held out a hand, broad and calloused, and winked a blue eye when James took it.
“Let me tell the story of your life,” Eric panted. He didn’t have time to stop and breathe, and the white proximity of the four blades closed his throat. His Adam’s apple convulsed drily--he'd better talk fast.
Argent’s fingers froze on the cuff hiding his kingfisher tattoo.
The further they delved into the base, the more important-looking the rooms got. The smell of wine got stronger, the cut of the suits got nicer, and the rough-looking kids started thinning out. The handguns started getting more conspicuous, too, and shinier.
Direhounds: a cross between Hellhounds and dire wolves. Writing is fun.
Writing is the longest, most elaborate improvisation you will ever have to pretend is not an improvisation. Writers, incidentally, get up to a lot of nonsense they don't really teach you in Lit class. For instance:
Everyone's heads exploded at Momma's wedding. Grandma's done-up bun rocketed loose with her eyebrows flapping behind, right into Auntie Em's paisley lap. Uncle Denis's round, red face gorged and...
In honor of Saint Patrick's Day, my proud Irish heritage, and my deep, inordinate love for Dungeons and Dragons, here's the usual set of seven prompt fragments to kick off your next writing exercise. (Camp Nano is just around the corner, remember-don't let it sneak up on you!)
The writing process is certainly a process, but one the writer is only halfway in control of. There are certain things people just don't tell you about being a writer, mostly because you'll think you're being fancifully duped. For instance...