The fountain sat at the bottom of the valley, not too far from the temple of Avelot—barely a stone’s throw from their temple of Eponine. Shay dragged his feet after Lonan, but bounced the bucket between his knees with the ease only a young boy and diligent rock-climber could manage.
Plenty of writers and readers probably already know what the magical realism genre is. But plenty of you also probably do not. Since I borrow from it stylistically and almost all of the time, I'll take the time to explain.
Umi Siskin of Lumis leads the mischievous Prince Tatsuya of Planet Cygnet across the Plutonian Sea to the land of alchemists and rebirth.
Digging through the fresh rubble that is my July draft, I find I have a lot of soul-searching to do. Most writers who edit their own work seem to. In the wake of the Nano writing bender, I offer you the frank confessions of a haggard writer-in-editing.
The discovery of Saikasu had been an accident. A seasonal priestess on her way to Bhin, sailing on the mapped way she’d used for a decade—Lotus, Queen’s Tattoo, Threecorn—found her route interrupted by a body in the stars she’d never seen before.
Shardae Jacaranda’s cords were purple. Royal treason. Her chain locked her upright to the stained wall of the house who owned her. Dangerous. She spit at everyone who met her, when she had enough spit, and heat stuck her hair to her face in short black chunks. Not going to sell.
Legendarily, it was called “Mary’s Refrain” because its students were the sort of behavioral nightmares that might make even the immaculate virgin hang up her immaculate halo for a night to brood over hard drinks and a full ashtray.
I put on a clown mask. I pick up a knife; I rev the chainsaw. I develop an ominous, repetitive background track out of nowhere. I stake out the house with the lingerie-lounging babysitters, I lurk around the cabin with the campers magnetically repelled away from their safety in numbers, and stare in the windows of...