Gypsy has quite the plot line planned out!
![Smile :)](./images/smilies/icon_e_smile.gif)
(and Benisse is pronounced Ben-ay, rather than our Benisse's pronunciation
![Smile :)](./images/smilies/icon_e_smile.gif)
)
*scolds Ajjie's bad guys for her* you're very bad guys! Talk to Ajjie! I hope you'll be able to tame them, Aj', I've got a couple main characters not talking to me, and I understand how frustrating and difficult that can make things.
My plot is... going. Barely. I've been talking to Ariel (she did a four hour marathon with me last night
![Razz :P](./images/smilies/icon_razz.gif)
) and she's been helping me tame my plot. It wasn't wanting to be tamed, nasty thing, but Ariel worked through some parts with me, and piece by piece, scene by scene, my novel is coming together.
Here's a snippet of mine. Disclaimer that it may be a bit intense. I have no idea how intense it gets -- I'm only the author.
But having no idea what direction I needed to go didn’t bother me nearly as much as the journey itself bothered me. The wood I was standing in stretched for a two day’s journey in all directions, and was a place of great danger after dark. I’d been taught this since I was a wee girl, and it wasn’t just a legend – I knew this to be true.
I’d been told many stories about the woods being dangerous, about meat-eating creatures, and about villagers staying out after dark and never being found again. These were the stories that made little ones bury themselves underneath their blankets in night for fear that the creatures of the forest would eat them. Most of the children believed them without seeing proof.
To me, these stories were only fanciful stories told to us to keep us from wandering off during the night, like some of us young ones did in the daytime. But I remember one night, when I was only six or seven that these legends began frightfully real to me. I’m sure something like this happened sometimes even before this time, but this was the earliest memory of this I had.
It was in the summer time during the midsummer feast our village had every year. The first day of the week-long celebration had come to its close, and we had headed back to our homes (except my family, who were staying in our neighbor Baruch’s home). Some of the older boys were told to stay behind to clean up the remains of the savory meat that had been cooked that day, and to make sure no traces of the meat were left out. It was to be burned.
After an hour or so, the villagers were all in their homes and asleep for the night, except for the watchman, who went up to the watchtower to be sure we were safe through the night. I was very tired that night, since it’d been a very long day for us little ones. I had just begun to drift off to sleep on the sofa when a bell began to peal madly, consistently. Father leaped up and grabbed for the sword sitting by the fireplace, knocking over a bucket of fire pokers with a banging crash.
“Daddy, what are the bells for?” I asked my father innocently. He and Baruch rushed out the door of the cottage without a word. “Mummy,” I complained, “Daddy ignored me.” I looked over at Mother to pout some more to her. Just then, a piercing sound, higher and shriller than a scream, joined into the sound of the bells. Mother put her hands over her mouth, and rushed out of the room, leaving me with Baruch’s wife. “What’s wrong with Mummy?”
I was sitting up now, so Baruch’s wife, Abigail, came over and sat down beside me. “She’s frightened, Little One, but she’ll be ok.”
“Why Mum scared?” I asked, beginning to get frightened myself.
Abigail stroked my hair, bit her lip, and forced herself smiled down at me. “Nothing’s wrong, just lie still. I’ll go make sure she’s alright.” She barred the front door, left the room and followed Mother, leaving me by myself.
The bells and shrieks continued to pierce the air. Suddenly, another door burst open and Baruch’s children came rushing in with horrified looks on their faces. The oldest one, who was nine, tried to look brave, but his lips were quivering. “It’s the monsters!” cried the youngest one, who was six, like me.
“Nuh-uh,” I said, “There aren’t any monsters.”
“Are so!” insisted the eight-year old. “We know they’re real! Daddy told us stories about them!” More of the noises pierced the air, and she rushed to hide in the other room with her mother.
“So did my Daddy, and I know they’re just stories. Stop being a baby,” I insisted, repeating what I’d heard some of my friend’s parents telling their older children when they complained.
“Oh yeah?” said the oldest, glaring at me, and half hiding behind the couch.
“Yeah!” I insisted.
How would you know?” He turned his nose up in the air a bit and looked down at me.
“I’ll prove it!” I stalked over to the door, and began to fuss with the big bar across the door.
“What are you doing?” gasped the oldest.
“I’m going to go prove that they aren’t monsters.” I tried lifting it straight off the door, but found it to be too heavy.
“Don’t go outside! They’ll eat you!” cried the little one, bursting into tears.
“They can’t eat me if they aren’t real.” I tried a different angle and tried to push the bar sideways away from the door.
“But even if they aren’t real, something’s out there that’s nasty!” said the oldest.
“Well, Daddy will protect me from whatever is out there.” I managed to get the bar to slide off the one side, and it tumbled to the carpet, making very little sound.
The older boy began to protest, but I opened the door and stepped outside, quickly shutting it behind me. As I ran off towards the noises coming from the other side of the village, I heard him yell frantically, “Mother!”