I think I've mentioned a few of my WIPs (Work-in-Progress) here before. I was just working on revising NYMPHKISSED, my YA Fantasy. It's full of teenage angst and high school awkwardness, but one of my favorite scenes is when my MC steps up and takes on the star polo player of the school. She tears him to bits and he sulks away. It's a beautiful moment of triumph, even if the thing that gave her the courage to do it turns out to be a lie.
The prompt for this week: Courage.
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My response:
The superfine fabric of my prison jumpsuit was supposed to protect me from all extremes of weather. I shivered anyway. The courtroom, all chrome and mirrors, was the most daunting place I'd ever been. Last time I was here, they sentenced me to six months in the brig.
I turned and saw another waif. She had the same grey jumpsuit, two sizes too big, the same greasy hair, the same darting, flickering gaze. Bile rose in my throat, and we both dropped our heads. Not another girl. Just me, and these stupid mirrors.
The bailiff yanked at my arm, pulling me forward. From his steel podium, the judge looked down at me. He was as colorless as the room he reigned, all grey hairs and wan skin, eyes so light they had to be unnatural. I felt his gaze fall on me, and I shrugged my shoulders, as if I could shake it off.
"Vannaree, no known surname, vagrant of Sharpstead Station," I felt as if a weight lifted from my shoulders as he turned his gaze to the file in front of him. "You were arrested ..." His voice droned like the buzzing of the ventilation system, outlining my crime, stealing food, and my sentence. "You are at the end of your six months' sentence, and are here to be released. However, as a minor, there is the matter of who we release you to."
"Your honor?" A voice squeaked from the back of the courtroom. My mouth went dry. Too dangerous. It was much too dangerous for him to be here! I craned my head around to see.
Derzel stood in the rear of the room, where spectators were allowed to sit. He looked like his wanted poster come to life. Couldn't he at least have tried to hide who he was, if he had to come?! His street cred was worth as much as rat droppings in this room.
"Your honor, my name's Derzel Fletcher, and Vannaree's my sis. I didn't know she'd got taken here till too late to claim her last time. Ima take her home, now."
The judge peered at the folder in front of him. "You are Derzel Fletcher? Did I hear that right?"
I balled my fists and willed my legs to stay still. They wanted to drop the bailiff and vault over the bar to where Derzel was. Was he so dumb as to use his real name? As if these civilized types knew any of us street rats from another.
"Yessa." Derzel's voice faltered. The three steel doors on the lower level slammed shut, pairs of constables blocking the exits.
"Derzel Fletcher, you are under arrest ..."
The magnothere towered over him, its shaggy yellow hide marked by hundreds of old scars and new gouges. Violet blood dripped from the end of the stump that had been its left middle finger. In its right hand it still held the sapling that it had been using as a club, though it was now much shorter than the thirty feet it had been just 10 minutes earlier when it had been ripped from the swampy ground. It wasn’t the weapons of the Puer Aeternus that had cut it short, sharp as they were, but the strength of the brute which had broken the tree, along with all not quick enough to dodge its mighty blows.
ReplyDeleteHe stood facing the beast, his back to the mountain, and beyond that the town in the next valley which he called home, a broken spear in his untried hand, the discarded drum forgotten in the muck. He glanced quickly to left and right, but could not see any of the great army still standing. The Emperor’s soldiers had seemed so confident, so imposing, so unstoppable, only 12 hours before as they had headed into the forest to destroy the beast before it could find and threaten the village. Now their mangled corpses littered the ground for at least a half mile behind him.
Images of his mother and sisters flashed across his mind, their laughter and smiles. He would not let this monster get past him to hurt them. He may be just the drummer boy, pressed into the service of the Emperor’s Guard, the Puer Aeternus, that very morning, but now he was all that was left between this beast and his home!
The thought made his chest swell, but his hands quake. He drew himself to his full height, his heart pounding in his chest, the wood in his hands slick with his own sweat, and looked up into the beast’s eye.
Perhaps the beast was more badly hurt that it appeared. It was staring off into the distance behind him, its great chest heaving. This was his chance, and he struck with all the strength his 17 years could summon, driving the spear point into the thick, meaty neck. The blood was hot as it spurted onto his hands and arms. He tried to pull the spear out to stab again, but his hands slipped on the blood and sweat and he fell backwards. Fear took him as he realized that he was now defenseless and surely the object of the monster’s ire. He began to scramble away on his hands and knees but was stopped by the moan behind him. It wasn’t a snarl or scream, but a forlorn sound – the sound of creature that knew its time had come. He looked over his shoulder as the creature dropped to its knees, the impact shaking the ground. It raised its damaged left hand upwards slightly, gave a shudder, and toppled forward, dead.
He couldn’t believe that he was alive. His hands were shaking as he stumbled to his feet and headed toward home. Looking back periodically to make sure that the creature really was dead, he allowed a tired smile. Men had won! He had won!
…
ReplyDeleteShe watched him leave, a hot tear falling to her brown fur. She wanting nothing more than to rush forward and rip him limb from limb, but she knew that she could not. That would demolish all that her husband, Graef, had accomplished. They had both known, when the noisy little creatures had appeared that morning, that there was no escape. The youngling could not move yet, and they both knew from the stories others had told them that these new, noisy little things would not stop until they found what they hunted. There would be no safety in hiding.
No, there would be no escape, and they had embraced, prepared to accept their fate, when suddenly Graef had pulled back, looked at the youngling, and charged toward the creatures. What was he doing? Even if he managed to kill them all, others would come! That is how all the stories ended. More always came.
Still, even knowing how their story must end, she had watched, with her heart filled with pride and hope as Greaf had torn through the little things. She watched as their numbers dwindled and thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be able to win. Perhaps he would come back to her, even if it was only to wait out their doom together.
Then he had stopped, when only the little youngling was left breathing, and looked at her hiding in the trees, and she had understood. He hadn’t intended to win. He had to loose. He had to die. The little noisy things needed to kill their prey. It was the only way the hunts would stop. It was the only way to save her…to save the youngling.
She saw the sharp stick pushed through his neck in slow motion. Heard him call out her name, one last time, raise his hand in a wave of parting, and fall. She watched the little noisy thing leave, then looked down at the youngling. She would make sure the youngling knew what his father had done for him. She would make sure that he learned the really meaning of courage.