Book of the Week: Unbreakable

Unbreakable, by Kami Garcia

When your mom died weirdly two weeks ago and you suddenly wake up in the middle of the night with a cat trying to kill you and two strangers taking down something they call a vengeance spirit in your house, you know things are about to change. It gets even weirder when they tell you that you are descended, like them, from a group of excommunicated monks sent to stop The Illuminati but who accidentally unleashed a demon (oops!), and as the next generation, you are supposed to carry on the fight to contain it. Hello? Kennedy has never heard any of this, let alone been trained in some specialty like the others have. She's pretty sure she doesn't belong, but with no one else in her life, she tries to keep up with the group while she figures things out. It may be a bumpy ride, but at least it might help her find out where she belongs.

It's one part Dan Brown-style secret societies, one part Buffy-type slaying, and a little flavour of heist movie-like specially skilled team dynamic. It's a fast read with lots of action, a touch of romantic confusion, and a whole lotta page turning. It's also the first in the new series The Legion from Kami Garcia, who brought you Beautiful Creatures, and it'll grab you from the start, even if you're not normally so into paranormal thrillers. I'd sworn I'd wait until series were done until I read them, but I am already impatiently hooked and waiting for book II now. *sigh*

Oh, and if you're reading ebooks, you can get it that way, too. You're welcome!

Remix the City: pick your favourite Remix!

Over the autumn, the fine folks at FabSpaces have been working with Toronto Youth to create video short stories about their communities through their REMIX THE CITY project. Now, its your chance to pick your favourite video!

Visit remixthecity.com between December 1 - 6 to check out the video montages that Toronto teens have created, and then choose the video you think is the best!

Its also not too late to submit your own video short story! So if you've got a camera phone and something to say, use the remix the city app to create your very own creation.

As an added bonus, there will be prizes for the winning entries. So get REMIXing!

CHALLENGE: CAN YOU WRITE ABOUT NOTHING? and…THE WORLD'S SHORTEST POEM

This is a challenge I sometimes challenge my writing students to do:

Can you write about ABSOLUTELY NOTHING?

Is it possible?

What happens when you try?

Is the thing that you create REALLY about nothing?

 

Or is it always about SOMETHING no matter how small?

Is about the writing?

Is it about the voice?

Is it about the way the writing is, its “writingness’?

 

If you write:

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

 

That’s a little story. It’s a mini-drama.

 

So…I challenge you, brave and daring writers of the City of Toronto:

What’s the very least that you can write about?

Can you stop it from becoming about anything?

 

Nothing is stopping you.

 

Try it and send it in here.

 

Nothing would surprise me.

 

*

On a related note, WHAT is the WORLD'S SMALLEST POEM?

The popular Internet video podcast Vsauce thinks it was written by a guy who used to live in Toronto (but has since moved to Ottawa) jwcurry (that's his picture, up at the top.) He's a really brilliant Canadian writer and publisher. And he has a great beard. I'm guessing there's poems in there.

Here are two contenders for the shortest poem:

 

This poem is an 'm' with an extra leg. It was written by Aram Saroyan.

 

This is the poem by jwcurry that Vsauce says is the shortest poem in the world.
It's a 'i' with the dot replaced with a fingerprint.
It's all about 'i'-ness, about identity, how we name what is us.

 

And here is the video of the always hyperactivally interesting Vsauce and its superenthusiastically intense host, Michael Stevens. 

 

 

 

Thanks to You and Gary Barwin

Gary! Thanks for your great posts as part of E-Writer in Residence!  So many funny and great suggestions on how teen writers can hone their craft - and break out of writer's block. 

Thanks to you - yes, you - who submitted your own writing to Gary for feedback.  It's scary having someone else read your writing - thanks for being so brave!  

And to all who provided comments and feedback - thanks.  We all need some help in becoming more compelling writers and it can only be done with help from others. 

Did you submit writing for feedback?

Did you find the E-Writer in Residence helpful? Let us know what you thought!

Teen Picks

Eat Brains Love by Jeff Hart

~ Reviewed by Chantal

This book was, as you can see by the title, extremely gory. At times I felt like throwing up because of the way the author described the main characters (who are zombies, by the way) and how they tore through human bodies. Aside from all that, however, it was an okay book; the funny parts were passable but weren't laugh-out-loud funny, and the supposedly romantic parts were really weird in the way that makes you cringe. 

Even though the characters were extremely typical (uncool boy and a popular girl, unrequited love happens), the storyline was pretty creative: the two main characters go on a roadtrip with a stolen car, trying to find the girl's brother and other fellow zombies to help them figure out how to survive.

There's also another part of the story told by a teenage zombie killer, who retells her version of how the events went. However, this teenage zombie killer had a really cool plot twist, which was probably one of the only parts of the book I liked. 

Despite the fact that the characters were overrated, I guess the writing was pretty good. I mean, the author was able to incorporate soft parts that really calmed down the tone, while the two zombies were busy fighting off zombie killers and eating humans. It's got to be pretty hard to be able to make the tone serious when the characters are eating people. In addition, I liked the fact that it was never confusing, even though the story was told from three main different perspectives. 

Overall, this book was, at times, pretty cute, and in other times, pretty nasty, but nonetheless, pretty good for a book about zombies.

Teardrop by Lauren Kate

~Reviewed by Lithiya

Teardrop is the first to many amazing books in the series. Similar to Fallen by Lauren Kate, once I had started I was unable to put it down. Eureka is left without a mother during an incident at the bridge where a wave came in and took her away from her. Eureka was also in the car with her mother when the incident occurred and yet she was the only one to survive. The wave that had killed her mother was abnormal and was conducted by Ander's family. Ander could do simply nothing as he stood by and watched the one person who he had known everything about die. It was a choice between family and Eureka. Ander choose Eureka, not knowing what the consequences would be for him. As Eureka lives her life, without a mother and without someone to help guide her she begins to see the world in another way. As one that is deceiving and brutal. Having no other option to stay, she commits suicide and has been put on suicide watch ever since by her step mom, Rhoda. The things left for her by her mom, Diana are puzzling and yet her only way to stay connected with her mom. Moreover, her heritage is one that will keep you edging on your seat with her to find out what she will discover. Eureka has to choose between Brook, the boy who she had known since childhood and Ander, this mysterious boy who appears out of nowhere and lies about who he is.

 

 

Fire With Fire by Siobhan Vivain and Jenny Han

~Reviewed by Chantal

This book was surprisingly extremely good. When I saw the cover, because it was so pink, I thought it would be another book about three girls who party all the time and their girly adventures, but I was actually so wrong. This book was an amazing mix of suspense, teenage angst, and a whole lot of plot twists. I especially liked the ending ... in fact, it might be my most favourite ending ever. It was the biggest plot twist I had ever read. 

The characters were very unique, each of them having their own problems despite seeming to be perfect. The whole story was spread over a time period of a whole year, which was probably why it was so long. However, despite everything being spread out, every scene was almost like a stepping stone to a different mystery. There was never a time when anything confused me, even though many things were kept hidden until the very end, when they all spilled out and fit together like a puzzle. 

You'd think that there would be sections where there was cheesy romance, but thankfully none of that was there. Every scene was so descriptive, it made you feel like you were right there in the background, watching everything play out. The writing was so calm; many books write in this over-enthusiastic tone, even though they're supposed to be written from someone's perspective. This book was written entirely like a normal person thinks in the corresponding situations. 

Overall, I would DEFINITELY recommend this book, even it's purely because of the ending (it's that good).

 

Boy Nobody

There’s a new guy at school.

His mission: enter unnoticed, make key contact, secure trust, complete assignment.

His assignment: kill your dad.

He’s Boy Nobody in Allen Zadoff’s novel of the same name and he’s a teen assassin.

It’s not personal. Maybe he’d even like to be friends and do real teen stuff.  But, that’s against training. Against Mother and Father and The Program. Deviation from The Assignment would not be permitted.

Once he was a regular kid. Then The Program found him. Killed his family. Gave him a new life.

Memories are starting to surface for Boy Nobody – ones that could undermine his next assignment: to kill the mayor of New York City. Can he finish the job?

Short chapters packed with action make this novel zip along. There's also details about surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, and the tech tools of the assassin trade. You’ll even like Boy Nobody. He’s smart, complicated and real.   

Word is Jaden Smith will play him in the movie. Check out the book trailer below:

 

WRITING ABOUT LOVE: Beyond gushy soft-focus mushy & goth-dark-emo-dungeon

my heart
is a bowling ball
jeez! get your fingers
out those holes

 

We so often write about love.

It can be difficult.

There are so many traps, easy answers, and clichés.

I mean when trying to write as well as in love. 

We want to capture the big feelings, both of the exhilaration and the pain.

But how to do it and capture something of the vividness, the vitality, the complexity, the power?

We might be feeling all gushy soft-focus mushy, or goth-dark-emo-dungeon depressed but how to write about our feelings in a way that is interesting to an outside reader and that conveys specific feelings and not just generic greeting card sentiments?

How to write betrayal like a papercut, love like the crunch of a fresh apple?

It can be hard to come up with a new and fresh way to write about this most favourite of writing subjects.

Ezra Pound wrote that, “Poetry is news that stays news.” How to make the ‘news’ of the love stay new to the reader, even long after the relationship fades?

So, here’s some advice and a couple poems which I think are worth examining.

Really it’s all about trying to write non-generically. Trying to write what an actual rounded character would say, not a cardboard-cut-out stock character.

Even though you’re feeling all syrupy, don’t use old fashioned poetic language or highly formal language. Resist! Resist! (Unless you’re doing something really cool with it.)

Don’t invert the usual word order to create an old fashioned ‘poetic effect.’ (Again, unless you’re doing something really cool with it.)

“Soft was the light of moon through the misty window.” It does sound atmospheric but it distances the reader. It isn’t how we think, it isn’t how our brains work, even our love-brains. It’s the kind of language a stock character would use. We want real rounded characters.

Think at least twice before using all the usual stereotypical images: light, windows, roses, broken glass, candles, moonlight, mist, shadows, castles, rain, and so on.

If you remember, five hundred years ago in Romeo & Juliet, “Soft, what light through yonder window breaks.” That worked for them in that play, but that was before…cars, spacetravel, the internet, women’s voting rights. Before slavery ended. They were still using quill pens. Paper was still quite new, at least in Europe. 

How do we talk about love now? In texts, tweets, FB statuses, Snapchat, Instagram. In the 21^st century, we probably don’t sound like people did at any other time. This doesn’t mean you can’t write about nature. 

You can write about anything, as long as you find a fresh and vital way to say it.

As long as you do something new and a bit surprising that makes the reader pay attention. You want them to feel I’ve never heard it put exactly that way. And give details that are specific to your life. To what you know about. To where you life. 

I’m not suggesting that you have to find crazy contortions of language or images when writing, but I think you have to examine whether the language sounds fresh & vivid and doesn’t just make you want to get all misty eyed in a warm stew of honeyed mush, nice as that feeling is. But if you want that, have a bath instead!

You want to make sure that the images are actually doing their job. If you write, “the graceful curve of her ivory neck.” Well, think about what kind of person might actually say this. Would you speak this way? Would an actual person from the 16^th century, even if they lived in a castle, and even if they were trying to sound very impressive and poetic, think or speak like this?

Write what seems to ring true to you. Make it new. You don’t have to write the way you think everyone else expects that a poem should sound, but the way that is the most specific to you, the  the way that gets through to you. That makes you feel electric all over. As Emily Dickinson says, “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.”

At least, try to get your scalp itchy. Unless, of course, it means you've just got your little brother's lice.

You want to convey a deeply experienced emotion, but you want the people in your poems or stories to be rounded characters, characters that are not generic ‘types’ or stock characters. So, you want to use vivid, specific details whatever the emotion tenor of the poems.

So Robert Bly, writes:

When we are in love, we love the grass,
and the barns, and the lightpoles,
and the small main streets abandoned
all night.

Here we have clear images, and images that resonate, even though we haven’t thought of them before like this. Have you thought like this about "the small main streets?" "the lightpoles"? These little details somehow resonate with the feeling of love that ‘we’ feel. Of course, if his poem was longer, we might perhaps need some more details and specifics about the ‘we.’

Here’s one of my favourite ‘love’ poems:

ALONE

by Jack Gilbert

I never thought Michiko would come back

after she died. But if she did, I knew

it would be as a lady in a long white dress.

It is strange that she has returned

as somebody’s dalmatian. I meet

the man walking her on a leash

almost every week. He says good morning

and I stoop down to calm her. He said

once that she was never like that with

other people. Sometimes she is tethered

on the lawn when I go by. If nobody

is around, I sit on the grass. When she

finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap

and we watch each other’s eyes as I whisper

in her soft ears. She cares nothing about

the mystery. She likes it best when

I touch her head and tell her small

things about my days and our friends.

That makes her happy the way it always did.

This is a poem about a widower (or at least, a guy who has lost his partner.) It does give us some details. His late wife is “Michiko,” and, through the interaction with the dog we get a picture of the relationship and the quiet intimacy that this couple once experienced: “She likes it best when, “I touch her head and tell her small/things about my days and our friends./That makes her happy the way it always did.”

We also get the bittersweet feeling of the narrator remembering his late wife. And we get his sorrow—in the tone generally, and in the fact that he misses his wife so much that he even sees her in the eyes of this dog. It’s a bit like the way the Robert Bly ‘we’-people love the grass and the small main streets.

What’s my best test for a love poem? 

I think that I should be able to turn a love poem into computer language and feed it into a robot. It should give the robot a specific sense of at least some aspects of what the experience, the texture, the landscape, the props, the objects, the specific emotional and sensory details of the human love experience. I want to feel that if I feed a love poem into a robot, it would know something, it would gain insight into what it means to have a relationship in the 21st century. And that would mean that 500 years from now, someone could read the poem and understand something about love in their time.

It would be news that stays news.

 

*     *     *

If you have a favourite poem or story about love, let me know about it. (And I know that, even though I loved these two poems when I was a teen, the two examples that I give above were both written by middle-aged white guys like me. What poems or stories speak to you and your experience? Let me know!

 

Fiction for Feedback: "Calypso" by Katherine

Katherine wrote this story about...well, read it and see. It's a very moving and surprising story. This is a draft and so you can see places where she's crossed things out. (It's really interesting to watch a writer at work, improving their work.) It takes place in a space station. In your face, Gravity!

 

Calypso

 

Ogygia rested, still, amidst the stars as it hurtled through the sky at thirty-five hundred thousand kilometres an hour. A small transport ship carrying a single passenger was headed towards the asteroid. Engraved on its body were the words CSA MAINTENANCE CRAFT, and inside stood a young man. He was still in his twenties – inexperienced enough for the magic of space flight to still charm him, yet experienced enough to be able to focus on the task at hand. He steered his ship towards the strip of flattened rock on the surface of Ogygia and carefully settled upon it. Touching the door of the spacecraft was that of a small, round structure. It was not much bigger than the spacecraft itself. While the first door slid open with quiet ease, the second shuddered open as if waking up from a long sleep, with a creak like the growl of a lethargic bear.

The man walked through the airtight passage and shut it behind him. The lights came on with a soft hum, illuminating the room. The interior of the structure was slightly dusty but otherwise fairly clean. In the middle stood a small laboratory, filled with rocks, and a section of it still contained a few square feet of dry soil, though devoid of life due to the lack of any watering. He walked to the far side of the room where the pane of glass that surrounded the room flattened out to create a square surface about as tall and wide as the man’s height. He knelt down behind a rectangular panel on the floor and wiped the dust off of it. The pressure detectors underneath sent signals into the circuitry and the glass began to glow.

“Hello. I am Calypso.”

The voice filled the room and the shape of a figure assimilated itself in front of the man. He jumped at the sound and froze, crouched in a natural position to fight or flight, but he soon realised what had happened and relaxed his tense muscles. He laughed at himself, glad that no one was around to witness his reaction. He stood up and looked at the glass. If his superiors had witnessed his reaction, they would have laughed at him. The figure was that of a woman, young and pretty, wearing a plain violet dress.

“Hey. You got me. Third time on the job and I’m still surprised.” He set his bag on the floor and started to assemble his tools. “Sorry to disturb you, just let me work on you a little bit and it’ll all be over.”

“You’re here to kill me.”

“UhWell, I don’t know if that’s the right word, but sure. Gotta make room for the next model. It’s completely self-sufficient, no need for another operator. No one’s allowed to take wants the job anymore, after what happened to the last guy. Too much radiation. Though, you know, I don’t understand why anyone would take the job in the first place. Why would you want to be stuck here with only a computer for company? No offense. Your artist made you quite a looker.”

“Was he missed?”

“What? Oh. The guy? I guess. I don’t know. I heard he had an ex-wife with kids, though I don’t think they were his. Didn’t hear much else.”

“Will I see him again?”

This time, the man stopped in his work. He looked up at the woman curiously.

“I swear, they make you all too life-like. I don’t get it. It’s just weird, how they take bits and pieces of human cells mix it into electricity and wires. I know operators can get lonely up here, but Christ, make them a puppy or something.” He flicked on his flashlight with one hand, screwdriver in the other, and crouched back down to examine the machinery.

“What is a puppy?”

“Listen, could you please shut up? I hardly know what I’m doing here. Messing with my head won’t make it easier.”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t let it hurt.”

The man’s grip slipped and the tool fell into the wiring. He swore and threw his hands in the air in frustration.

“Why can’t you look old, or ugly, or at least have a really annoying voice?” He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. He muttered a phrase like a mantra under his breath: robots have no feelings robots have no feelings robots have no feelings.

“I am not a robot. I am a computer. You are wrong. David said I had feelings.”

“Well David is dead, and you’re dead, and I’m going to kill you!” He reached out for his spare tool and turned his flashlight back on. Right as the tip of the screwdriver met the head of its counterpart, Calypso spoke out again, quieter this time.

“Can you miss him for me?”

He twisted.

“On the first day, he told me about music. He said he could leave everything behind on Earth, except music. Every day he found a new song for me to learn. I do not have vocal chords so it did not sound like the real one, but he did not mind. He told me music was about the feeling behind it. Though, he also told me he was tone deaf.”

The first screw came out.

“Once, he showed me a song that was a question. What is love? He laughed at me. He told me he did not know. He told me it was something that people had but did not understand. He said it makes people smile, and cry, and sing, and fight. Do you know what love is?”

The second screw came out.

“I have seen David smile, and cry, and sing, but not fight. I wonder if he had love. I have also smiled and sung, but I have never cried or fought. Maybe I have half of love. I wish David could have taught me to cry and fight.”

The third screw came out.

“David taught me everything. Like what a flower is. And how to dance. And the constellations. And the word shit.”

The man nearly dropped his tool again. He chuckled and gave a sigh of defeat. He knew he was too sentimental for this job.

“He seemed like a very educated man.”

“David knew everything.”

“Except what love is.”

“Except love. Do you know what love is?”

“Nope. Never did, never will.”

Calypso looked at him for a moment, and then walked away. She passed through the side of the main panel and continued around the room. Then she paused, and the surrounding metal walls began to creak. They retracted into the ground to reveal the depth of space behind them. Reflecting its light through Calypso’s translucent body was the Earth.

“That is where David is.”

“I don’t remember them recovering the body.”

“I sent it down there. In his casket. He burned up into the Earth’s atmosphere and became dust. He became the air you breathed.”

“That’s a little disturbing.”

“It is what he wanted.”

They stood there, in silence, watching the clouds slowly shift on the surface of the planet. Rather than a projection on the glass, the man thought she looked more like a lonely ghost. Watching the stars and sky, alone, for however many days it had been since the only companion she ever had her only companion left her. He wanted to leave her behind too and try to forget about her, or at least shove her memory into the back of his mind. But he knew if he didn’t do this it, someone else would. He might as well give her what she wanted before he had to.

“CalypsoHey, what’s your biggest dream?”

“I do not dream. I cannot sleep.”

“Alright. Alright, how about your biggest wish?”

“I do not know how to wish.”

            “What do you want?”

            “David.”

            “I can’t give you David.”

            “I did not ask you to.”

            “Is there anything else you want?”

            “I want to have love.”

            “Love?” Her simple and clichéd desires pulled at his heart. “You said David told you it was something that made you smile, cry, fight, something, right?

            “He said it makes people smile, and cry, and sing, and fight.”

            “Which ones are you missing?”

            “I have smiled and I have sung. I have not cried or fought.”

            “Okay. Here, I’ll do what you can’t do, and I’ll give you the half of love that I made. Got it?”

            Calypso responded with a glowing smile, literally lighting up the entire room. The sudden intensity of it made the man wince in pain.

            “Stop doing that! That’s not how I want to cry.”

            “I am sorry. I did not mean to do that.”

            “Can you at least turn it off now so I can open my eyes all the way?”

            “I will try.”

            The light dimmed, ever so slightly.

            “Can you try harder?”

            “I will try.”

            “I don’t understand why they would make everything entirely computer reliant. It’s not that hard to use a light switch. You’re useless.”

            As quickly as it illuminated, the room darkened. Even Calypso was nowhere to be found.

            “Seriously? Very funny. I can just go back to removing you, you know.”

            Light filled the room again, bright and glaring, and his eyes felt as if he had been staring at the sun.

            “Ow, ow, ow, ow! Enough, enough! I was just trying to fight with you. This is what fighting is.”

            She returned, and the lights dimmed to its normal intensity.

            “I do not like fighting.”

            “No one does. Well, no one sane does. Unfortunately there are plenty of insane people down there. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings too bad. I didn’t mean it. Except for the light switches part, people are also seriously lazy.”

            She smiled. The man smiled back.

            “Now, for crying. Hold on there, close your eyes.” She complied, and he knelt down to extract a water bottle from his bag. He angled his head upwards and dripped some water very carefully into his eyes. Still in this awkward position with his hands outstretched, he spoke out.  “Okay, you can look now.”

            “What are you doing?”

            “This is what people do before they cry.”

            “David never did that.”

            “David was special. Just be quiet and look.” He gently shut his eyelids and lowered his chin. The water rolled down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth. The man wiped them off and grinnedsmiled. “Ta-dah!”

            Calypso stared for a moment, then knelt down, raised her head upwards, and lifted her arms. She thenThen she lowered her chin, and sparkles, like diamonds, made their way down her face and into her mouth. The beauty and sadness of her actions choked the man’s throat.

            “I cannot produce real tears, so this is the best I can do.”

            “That’s okay. That’s what I’m here for.”

            “How will you give me your half of love?”

            He walked over to her. He stopped right in front of Calypso, close enough to hear her breathe, if she could. He leaned over and kissed her.

            “There. There’s your love.”

            “Thank you.”

            The man knew the time had come. He returned to his position beside the panel and began to work. He removed the remaining screw to reveal a switch and the single small box that contained the entirety of Calypso’s mind, or heart, or whatever it was that made her.

            “Goodbye, Calypso.”

            “Goodbye. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

            He flicked the switch, and his tears, genuine this time, fell from his chin and his nose and onto the box below. He wiped his face and gently took it out, the soft blue light vanishing as he disconnected it from the power source. The man closed the panel, hung his bag onto his shoulder and left the room.

            In his craft, there was a small compartment in which he was to dispose of excess waste. It wasn’t environmentally sound, but it was convenient. The man wiped it clean. Sending off Calypso in the same way he threw out the wrappers of his candy bars wasn’t exactly the way he wanted to do it, but there was no other option. He angled the side of the craft towards the Earth below and held it there. Then, he placed her inside the compartment. He touched her, one last time, and closed it. He pulled on the lever and she was gone.

            Calypso floated, slowly, towards the clouds. Then faster, and faster, and suddenly she ignited. She became a flame, and then she wasn’t. She became ashes, and the air he breathed. 

Fiction for Feedback: "Hide & Seek," by Shire

SPOILER ALERT: This story has a great surprise ending!

 

Hide and Seek

It was bright, cold winter afternoon. The wind whistled through my ears. The sun stood proud as a king, shining on all the people. The smells of pine, fire and cocoa roamed through the air. It was time for my friends and I to play hide and seek.

I took out my milky white walkie talkie. Pressed the dark black button on the side and said,” everyone that wants to play hide and seek meet at the park in ten minutes”. I ran out my door gave my mother a kiss on the cheek and said,” I am going to win today”. My mother gave me a reassuring nod in return. 

As I ran through the neighborhood I greeted my fellow neighbors with smiles, high fives and nods. As I neared the park I looked around the wide vast parking lot and decided it was time to hide somewhere new. I ran as fast as a dear feeling the wind through my air. I could hear the clatter of speeches all through the park. My eyes locked onto the great big oak tree. I leaned on the thick tough bark of the oak tree its leaves were massive; I just stood there waiting for my friends. One by one we grew in number until we were fifteen kids under the great big oak tree. My best friend Simon, a short, white, spectacled boy with dark black hair stated that he was going to count till one hundred and fifty to give us time to hide

I decided to hide in the best place possible. It could not be too far or too close just the right amount of time. As I looked around I saw that Stacy, a tall, black girl with a gorgeous smile hid behind the trash can, Matt a short, white freckled boy hid behind the oak tree, Jeremiah, a short, plum black boy and Tracy, a white, spectacled blond girl with pony tails both hid near the swings. Most of the park was occupied by my peers the only area that wasn’t was the parking lot I ran to the parking lot sweating and pouting. I had to find a place to hide or Simon would catch me. From the corner of my eye I saw Simon move from place to place. I had no time to think. I zoomed to the trunk of a crimson red Toyota got under the big thick blanket and waited. I waited for at least ten minute. The blankets warmth sucked me up in mere second I was as sleep as a baby, zzzz.

I opened my eyes but all I could see was pitch black. I was terrified and frightened. I could not remember where I was. I tried getting up but I was restricted by the roof of the environment. I smelt the burning of a cigarette. I could hear the banging of an engine, deep strong voices clouded by the booming of a hip hop beat. My senses were absolute useless. I started feeling around the pitch black area. I felt something hairy. Suddenly I remember I had my power ranger’s flashlight. I turned it on pointed towards the hairy object. I couldn’t believe what I saw, it was a human head. My heart pounded louder than a drum. If this boy was dead where was the rest of his body and would I be next? I screamed at the top of my lungs, ah!

 

Suddenly the hip hop music stopped I could clearly hear the dialogue of two different men. One had loud deep voice, while the other just had a croak in his voice like a person who was still in his puberty stages.

First man (deep voice): He saw our faces we had to kill him 

Second man (croak): But that was way too cruel

First man: He would have snaked us out to the police

Second man: Ok I get why you killed him but why did you chop him up

First man: Because I love the feeling of cutting up people

Second man: That is sick Slayer, but it was fun to watch

First man; Watching is fun, but doing it yourself is exhilarating

Second man: Thanks for letting me know

The hip hop beat resumed. Just hearing them talk made me urinate in myself. The urine spilled on my thighs it was warm but it stank. The air tight environment added to my problems. I had to get out of here or I was going to be a goner.

I looked through my pocket and only found my walkie talkie. I prayed to god that someone with walkie talkie was within the range of this moving vehicle had one as well. I pressend the talking button and said, “hello” with a forceful voice. I anxiously waited for a few seconds, suddenly I heard Simons voice he said, “Where were you, everyone was looking for you?”. Alas I felt relieved but I was shocked as to how Simon could keep up with a moving vehicle. I asked him where he was and he replied to me that he and his dad, the police officer, were going for a drive. I asked him,” Simon do you spot a crimson red Toyota, with licence plate live4ever”. He then replied to me that it was just in front of him. I begged him to ask his father to stop the car.

Suddenly I began hearing the searing noise of a police car. Furthermore the car that I was in stopped moving. The booming of the hip hop beat vanished. I waited approximately three minutes before I got out of the trunk of the car. When I came out of the car I put on the heavy blanket around my waist as to I was embarrassed about my urine accident. I looked up and saw my short spectacled best friend. I was so relieved my heart skipped a beat. But I fought against my nerve to waver and looked up at the two men. There was a short man with a New York jacket, a ski hat and a smile on his face. The other wore a dark long jacket, ski hat and a deadly smug on his face. These two me were dangerous something had to be done about it. 

I then told Simons dad to arrest the two boys for killing an innocent boy. After the two men heard me they began laughing hysterically. I thought they would be scared but I guess I was wrong. The two men then explained to Officer Cat that they were rehearsing for the play and the head in the trunk was a mannequin. I was embarrassed and shameful but the men gave us free ticket to watch their play. The most important lesson I learned that day was don’t judge a book by its cover.

Fiction for Feedback: "The Storm" by Layla

This is the first chapter of a fantasy novel. Wizards lose their power to strange creatures called "Nightsingers." And there's a love interest!

Check out the first chapter to Layla's novel. I encourage you to comment and let her know what you like in this, what you're not sure about, and any other reactions that you have.

 

CHAPTER 1

            Huxley Weatherwell burst out of the castle’s infirmary, flinging open the wooden doors, and striding out to meet the storm that howled in the ebony night. His numbness gnawed at him from within, clawing at his heart, and sending waves of shock down his body.

This was not possible. It has never happened in all the history of Solandor.

But it happened to me.

            The wind tore at his wizard’s robes, sent his dark hair flying back from his face, revealing unnaturally bright violet eyes that stared resolutely ahead. A searing bolt of lightning ripped open the sky, illuminating the grassy hill that Huxley was fighting the elements to climb. He heard a voice from the direction of the castle, calling his name, but he didn’t break his stride.

            Grunting with exertion, Huxley finally reached the top of the steep incline, feeling the booms of thunder echo in his bones. He stared up at the swirling sky, the rain pummelling his face, breathing in the smell of wet dirt and sizzling electric energy. The rain felt too dry, the lightning too white, the thunder too quiet. It had been a long time since he’d been in the center of a storm he had no hand in creating. He felt like a stranger among the bellowing winds and crackling lightning—the weather was cold and distant to him. It did not beckon and entrance him anymore. It never would again.

            “Huxley!” a voice called, sounding shrill over the moaning gusts of air.

He knew who it was, but she was the last person he could face after what he’d just been through. Huxley sank to the sodden ground, feeling the numbness drain out of him, replaced by black despair. His hands shook as they ran through his wind-tousled hair, lying flat on his back in the sopping grass that was slowly turning to mud. Huxley closed his eyes and let the storm wash over, wishing silently that the lightning would take him. Stretching out his hands, he tried to focus, tried to call the lightning to him, but the familiar tingle of power did not shoot down his fingertips, or quicken his heart. He felt nothing.

            “Huxley.”

            His eyes flashed open in surprise to see her kneeling so close, her dark hair falling over her striking face in wet tendrils, sticking to the caramel-coloured skin. She must have run to reach him so fast. He had deluded himself in thinking he could escape from this.

            “Lorena, please, I do not need you here, I just want to be left—”

            “Alone?” she challenged, piercing him with a fiery stare. “You know me better than that,” Lorena retorted.

            Huxley sighed in exasperation, instantly regretting letting out all that air as he began to fight his clenching lungs for his next breaths. He stared at the sky, the grass, the castle, anything. He was not going to surrender to the sorrowful darkness that spread within like ink stains. Not in front of her.

“Where is Bandit?” he choked out finally, staring at the folds of her drenched robes, keeping his eyes purposely averted from hers.

            Lorena reached deep within her cloak and opened a leather satchel she kept protected from the storm. Nestled inside among jars of poultice and pouches of herbs was her animal Guardian. Bandit the cardinal had his feathers puffed out so much so that he looked indistinguishable from a red ball of yarn.

            “He does not enjoy storms much, but he wouldn’t leave my side tonight,” Lorena stroked the top of Bandit’s head affectionately before tucking him away. “But where is Sputnik off to?” she inquired, referring to Huxley’s own animal Guardian. “That hare loves this sort of weather—nearly as much as you. Which is a rather dangerous and absurd pastime if you asked me.”

            He turned his head away from her, feeling the salty sting of tears. “She was still fast asleep in the infirmary. I did not want to wake her.” However, what flashed behind his closed lids were Sputnik’s eyes, staring up at him, confused and pleading as he screamed at her to leave. The image of her ears flattened defensively against her head, her defeated form hopping away burned with remorse in his mind.

            Coughing, Huxley tried to rid himself of the tremor that threatened to creep into his words. “If you are going to partake in this dangerous and absurd pastime of mine, dry yourself at least,” he attempted a smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched into a grimace instead. “There is no point in you getting wet.”

            Lorena’s features contorted in surprise. She blinked and tried to assume a neutral expression, but not before Huxley’s shaking hands clenched into fists.

            “What? You can no longer use your magic around me?” he bellowed, sitting upright in a start. Lightning made his pale face, now inches away from Lorena’s, ghost-white and his eyes feverish. “I do not want your pity, or your help! You cannot do anything to help me. Not now. Not ever! I am not some child that needs comforting, or petty sympathy. Go, Lorena, you have no reason to stay. You brought me here,” Huxley snarled, seeing those last words cause pain to convulse across Lorena’s face. “Now leave me be.”

            The woman’s eyes hardened, as tendrils of steam rose from her body and flames began to lick the ends of her hair. “Do not think for one second that I would ever sink so low as to give you my pity.” She spat out the words as if they were venom burning in her mouth. The fire now roared all over her head and crested her shoulders. “I am only here to return you this.”

            She flung something at his chest, the small, circular object illuminated briefly by the flash that arced overhead. It was the clasp to Huxley’s cloak, engraved with his school’s insignia—a silver-lined cloud with a single golden bolt of lightning striking the ground underneath.

            “It’s not of much use to you now,” she hissed vehemently, the flames surrounding her, crackling.

Huxley could not tear his eyes away from the clasp, as the reality of what had happened truly started to dawn on him. What would become of him now? Now that everything, everything had changed? His heart twisted in agony, aching for what had been taken away. “It is really gone, Lorena,” he whispered, unable to meet her eyes. “My magic—it’s gone.”

His violet gaze rose to meet hers, and he was taken aback to see tears flooding her orange eyes. Lorena was the strongest, most short-tempered person he knew. Anger did not simply vanish in her case—she was quick to set off, but like a storm, one needed to weather it out. And for that fury to escape in the form of tears was another matter entirely. For now, Lorena almost looked vulnerable. Without warning, Lorena’s hand cracked across his face, the sound booming louder than the thunder that raged overhead. Huxley touched his cheek gingerly where she left her mark, and simply stared.

“You should never have come after me!” cried Lorena, tears spilling over her face, the fires in her hair and cloak snuffed out with the rain. “The Nightsinger didn’t want my magic, you fool,” her voice accompanied by a clap of thunder. “She wanted yours.”

Huxley still stared, unable to speak. His face began to tingle with the imprint of Lorena’s hand.

“She was using me to get to you. She—she suppressed my magic somehow, blocked it, so I could not fight back. So I could not warn you.” Lorena was nearly whispering now. “If you hadn’t left Stormwind in such a hurry, if you had an inkling of sense, this would never have happened.”

She brushed away her tears angrily, turning her face, as if she was ashamed to have them coating her cheeks. “How did you know where I was?” she asked her words unusually soft. “Why did you come?”

“Why did you leave?” said Huxley, his voice cracked and broken. A minute passed between them as the storm rumbled and crashed in the silence that hung in the air like spider silk.

“I heard you scream,” Huxley said finally as her eyes widened in shock. He stared at a point beyond Lorena’s shoulder, no longer bound to the present.

 

*  *  *

 

He had been trotting along the rocky hillside pass that led from Stormwind Tower, searching for signs that another horse and rider had traveled through. The setting sun peeked behind the sloping earth, its last rays dusting the crooked stone structure that drew farther and farther away. Huxley went over the day’s events in his head, assembling and reassembling the moments one by one. Why did she leave? And so sudden, without any warning or farewell. He supposed it could have something to do with the arguments—and the constant fighting.

Just the thought of the endless bickering, flares of magical sparks and spurts of anger exchanged over the last fortnight sent his blood bubbling. She was only there to visit Stormwind Tower and see how he ran his school, not to comment and criticize and berate everything he did! As if she was leading Clockwork Tower any better—with all the chaos, mechanics, and stray enchantments everywhere there was no way she was teaching her students the true elements and foundations of magic. He had found himself constantly thinking of their quarrels, chuckling at his own witty comments, wincing at her well-worded jabs. Even their Guardians had some unspoken rivalry. Lorena’s cardinal, Bandit, would puff out his chest pompously every time he passed, and Sputnik would respond by standing on her hind legs, her ears stretching up to the sky, eyeing the little bird down. Suddenly sitting up straight in his saddle, it dawned on Huxley that he hadn’t had this much, well, fun in as along as he could remember. She never left his thoughts. Her bittersweet words, her burning eyes, her graceful losses and gleeful victories. Huxley shook his head, dispelling stray musings that clouded his mind like perfume. All he was doing now was making sure she was alright. That was perfectly reasonable.

His Guardian hare, Sputnik, placed her paws on his shoulder from where she lay nestled in the hood of his cloak, bringing him out of his reverie. Her ears swivelled in all directions, the tawny fur tickling Huxley’s cheek, her nose twitching as she helped her charge in his quest. Scanning the ground, Huxley suddenly yanked on the reigns causing his horse to snort in surprise. Petting his horse apologetically, he slowed his mount to a standstill, having spotted an indentation in the earth that held some promise. He slid off his mare and knelt to the ground, squinting at the depression before him. Sputnik leaped out from his hood, sniffed the soil warily and gazed up at him, expectant.

“Well?” he asked the creature. “Is this what we are looking for? It could be her horse…”

Who was he kidding? He was no hunter—the mark on the ground looked like blob to him—he had no way of telling if this was a hoof print or the former resting place of some oddly-shaped rock. His Guardian thumped the ground impatiently with her foot, which was her way of saying stop gawking about and get on with it!

“Alright, alright! I just thought it was worth a shot.” Shaking his head at the spunky hare, Huxley muttered a few words in a language that sounded like the whisper of trees and groaning of wood in a forest wind. The familiar warmth of magic spread through him, emanating from the silvery fire of his power that resided deep in his core. It flowed into his words and out of his splayed fingers. A trail of glowing blue light materialized from the darkness, swirling near the ground like smoke. It led away from the pass towards a nearly invisible path through rocks and trees that twisted and turned as it snaked between two different hills. He smiled triumphantly as he found that the light originated from the ambiguous dip in the ground at his feet.

“Well look at that! I was right after all. Perhaps I wouldn’t be such a horrible hunter in the end, huh Sputnik?” The wizard flashed a grin at his Guardian who shook her ears in exasperation. The hare bounded back into the grey folds of his hood, careful to cuff his ear with her forepaw as she did so. She never approved of gloating since it was only a waste of time. She was such a straightforward and direct creature. Just as Huxley mounted his mare once more to follow the shimmering blue, he heard it.

A shriek of bone-chilling terror pierced the night air like a blade of ice. Huxley’s heart froze in place and he felt Sputnik tense like a spring from within his hood. The scream had come from the same direction as his light trail. Lorena.

He spurred his mare into action, galloping faster than striking lightning. His heart pounded in time with the horse’s hooves as fear for what lay at the end of the blue light infected his mind. Lorena was strong, fearless and quick-witted, not to mention one of the most powerful magic-wielders of her time. Whatever had made her scream like that must be a horror beyond imagining. What if she was—no! He couldn’t allow himself to finish the thought. He couldn’t lose her—he had just found her. He cursed at himself, slamming his tightly clenched fists against his thighs. How could he be so dense? When Damion Steed of Rowanwood Tower paid a visit to Stormwind he stayed for three days. Master of Opalstone Tower, Eveline Narula, only graced him with her presence for a single evening. Lorena Lightfall had kept company at his Tower for a complete cycle of the moon and he had merely seen it as an amusingly aggravating distraction. He had been so absorbed in teaching his students and furthering his own knowledge of magic like always that he did not see the obvious. Like always. Huxley cursed again as he recalled how he ended their arguments with him either speeding away to find his students for a lesson, racing to the apothecary chamber to experiment with a new potion, or barrelling down the halls to the library in order to research an obscure branch of magic.

No wonder she left. She must have thought him an ignorant fool. Which I am, he added mentally, completely and hopelessly for that matter. He hadn’t seen how this would affect her. He didn’t even know he had anything to affect! She was this formidable, powerful, beautiful—yes, her angular features and glossy, ebony hair burst into his mind, beautiful—woman. He’d had no inkling, not even a warning. Only dangerous, sweet-smelling thoughts that he fought to repress with hours of reading ancient magical tomes. Loneliness had been his lifelong companion, he’d never thought someone—someone like her—would ever want to replace it. Huxley’s chest tightened into a fluttering knot as he thundered to a halt where the blue light trail ended. Just as he did so, the luminescent guide vanished into the night.

A charcoal-coloured horse stared up at the wizard and his Guardian with glazed eyes from where it lay still on the earth, an arrow embedded deep into its neck. Sprawled at the roots of a tree, Lorena lay as still and as pale as a bone, Bandit nestled in the tangles of her hair. But it was not the blood that coated the side of her face, or the unnatural angle of her leg that made Huxley nearly fall off his horse or cause Sputnik to freeze in terror from within his hood. It was the creature bending over her.

A Nightsinger.

Impossible. Huxley’s amazement matched his horror, his grip on the reigns so tight that the leather cut into his hands. The creature turned to pierce him with poisonous green eyes that stood stark against its onyx skin. Its dark face was a fusion of both human and lupine traits with pointed ears sticking up from the long silver hair twisted into a braid. Huxley realised the Nightsinger was female and she had her hands on Lorena’s temples, the latter’s eyes fluttering beneath sunken lids.

Sputnik dove from his cloak and bounded to Lorena’s side. In her wake, the trees around Lorena’s still form bent to surround her in a protective cocoon of leaves and branches. Huxley leaped to the ground off his horse, which immediately bolted away, advancing on the Nightsinger. “What have you done to her?” he bellowed, the winds already gathered in his hands, electric sparks playing in his wild hair.

The Nightsinger twisted its snout-like mouth, brandishing slightly pointed teeth into what only could be described as a smile. She stood up with wolf-like grace, towering over the wizard, her whip-like tail curling to unsheathe a sword from her belt while two more weapons appeared in her hands. The blades glowed the rust-brown of dried blood.

“Only what needed to be done,” the creature replied, her words lifted by a lilt punctuated by howls.

Huxley vision beat in time with his racing heart as he felt his silvery inner fire rear up like a dragon. The dragon within him roared, the sound reverberating through him, bursting from his lungs and into the night. The Nightsinger took a step back in surprise, not expecting to hear the war cry of an ancient beast emanating from the mouth of a wizard. Seeing this, Huxley bared a smile that didn’t quite reach his smouldering eyes. This she-wolf hurt Lorena, made her scream—a woman who would not flinch on a bloody battlefield. This creature had placed her on the razor’s edge between life and death and had perhaps even taken from Lorena a piece of her existence. For Nightsingers were thieves—they were the stealers of magic. Huxley spread his arms and let loose the gale-force winds he had been holding at bay. He called to the sky and summoned hot bolts of white lightning that he hurled at the Nightsinger like knives.

The creature whirled her swords, the blades becoming a coppery blur. They glowed brighter with each attack the wizard launched as she spun and leaped around him with the agility of a serpent. Huxley paused in his throws of magic, breathing heavily, to stare at those strange Nightsinger knives. They seemed to deflect—no, absorb his magic. At the hand of her blades, his storm winds scattered into weak breezes, his lightning fizzled into sparks. He hadn’t even landed a blow.

With renewed fury, Huxley cast magic faster and fiercer than he’d ever had before, letting his power loose through his body. He spoke to the earth in the language of the rocks and made it heave and buckle. He commanded trees in their leafy tongue to whip out their branches and roots. He called to the clouds with words of crashing tides and it replied with rain that burned like ice. Even though he was fighting for him and Lorena to escape the clutches of death at the hands of this creature of the night, he had never felt so wonderfully alive.

Quicker than a heartbeat, the Nightsinger hurled herself at Huxley between his throws of lightning, knocking him into the earth, driving the air right out from his lungs. She held a rust-coloured blade with her nimble tail at his throat, the pendent threat preventing him from leaping right back up.

“Had enough fun?” She growled, her hot, spicy breath fogging his senses. Huxley spit at her face, his saliva smoking where it touched her black skin, making it blister. She roared in pain, the sound a mix between a howl and a woman’s cry of agony, her sword-wielding tail drawing up enough to let the wizard duck away. However not fast enough, for the Nightsinger recovered quicker than he thought possible and pounced right back on him, this time pinning the wizard down with her entire body. Huxley bucked and kicked, magic shooting out from his hands and feet, but to no avail. He was trapped.

He glared at the creature, hatred bubbling in his violet eyes, awakening the fear which had lain dormant throughout the entire ordeal. “Magic is not yours to take,” he hissed, twisting and writhing, still fighting to escape.

The Nightsinger placed three obsidian fingers on his forehead, a palm over his racing heart and the tip of her tail on the crown of his head. “Magic was never yours to keep,” she whispered, her teeth gleaming a hairsbreadth away from his throat.

She lifted her head up to the sky and began to sing. The music was ethereal, the melody dancing to the rise and falls of the dissonant notes that ornamented the song. Huxley felt the silvery fire of power roar to life from within without his control. His blood burned in his veins, scalding his bones and scorching his heart. He bellowed in pain, convulsions rippling down his body as he was being consumed by magical fire from within. Then he felt the fire being drawn out of him, tearing from his soul and flowing into the Nightsinger. The absence of the terrible warmth was more agonizing than he could ever imagine. Huxley ached to his core in the growing disappearance of his magic, and he called out for it, yearning to be burned again by the silver fire. However he only grew ever colder. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he forced breath into the numb hole that was now his body. A cloak of darkness was drawing ever near, but in the moments before he sank into its smothering depths, he felt the Nightsinger remove her hands and whip around to face an approaching figure. A figure completely alight in the glow of flames.

 

* * *

 

“I did not scream.” Her voice brought Huxley rushing back to the present. He blinked, confused.

“What?”

Lorena was turned away, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “I was merely—startled.”

Huxley gaped at her. Without warning he felt a chuckle bubbling up from his throat. He began to laugh, the discordant sound shocking him as it erupted from his mouth. He gasped for air as the uncontrollable laughter took over his lungs, no longer a sound of merriment. Before he realized what had happened, he found himself weeping in the soft folds of Lorena’s cloak, the sobs wracking through his body and into hers. Time passed immeasurably as they knelt there, wrapped in sorrow and rain.

Huxley’s sobs abated into hiccups and he untangled himself from Lorena’s cloak, but she kept a hold of his hand.

“What will I do?” he whispered, staring at their intertwined fingers. “I am no longer whole—I am less than a man now. My students—my school. How will they—how will I go on? Magic is all that I know. Teaching is all that I have.”

Lorena shook her head, a smile lighting her eyes. “You are so devoted to Stormwind Tower and its magic. It can never truly leave you,” she locked her gaze onto his with startling intensity. “Magic was born with you, Huxley. Even if it has been physically taken away, you can never lose your love or knowledge for it. That is more than any student or school can hope for.” She brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead. “And you are not less than a man. You are more than a wizard to me.”

As if embarrassed by her lack of fiery outbursts, Lorena punched his shoulder with her free hand, drawing out a cry of indignation from Huxley. “But you are still a blundering, senseless fool, do you know that?”

Rubbing his shoulder, he scowled at Lorena who immediately grinned at his displeasure. “With you reminding me every second, how could I possibly forget?”

Huxley felt something soft brush his hand and unlocked his eyes from her orange stare. He glanced down to find Sputnik, her tawny fur plastered to her heaving frame, a tiny forepaw placed over his and Lorena’s interlocked hands. Hesitant, Huxley stroked the soft fur of Sputnik’s ears, an unspoken apology hanging in the air. With a twitch of her whiskers he was forgiven. Huxley felt a loosening in his chest as the burden of his ordeal was shared by the two souls he cared for most.

“You know,” he said, turning to flash a grin at Lorena which shone brighter than the stars. “I might try my hand at being a hunter. What do you think, Sputnik?”