Rancher Artie: Part Two

“Ya really think I could do my father proud, Ginny?”

Artie were settin’ on the young school teacher’s desk as she tidied up the school room.

“Ya shot ain’t bad,” she said with a smile.

“I dun’t think I’d win, o’ course; if I git even ter the second round I’d be might pleased.”

“I’ll come watch with yer parents,” she promised. “Just git off my desk so I can put these things away.”

He grinned and hustled off.

Ray Crawfish had set up some targets in a field, and had one of his hands draw up lists fer the competition order. Artie checked and double checked fer his name ta be sure he knew what time he had ter be ready. His parents sat on the grass with Ginny and waved. He tried ter smile, but he were nervous; he’d never set hisself up against anutter in compertition like this. He hurried back to his sack to git out his pistol and make sure it were in readiness. There was his handkerchief… extrar bullets… an apple… Panicked, he emptied the sack upside down, but there warn’t no pistol inside.

He was supposed ter shoot in near thirty minutes. It was a fair piece ter town and back, too. “I don’t have no other idear,” he muttered to hisseln. “Best make it quick.”

He flung hisself on the horse and set his spurs. Through the fields and along a dirt road into the dusty town. Once at the boarding house, he stopped only ter wind the halter ‘round the hitchin’ post before he charged into the buildin’. It were real quiet inside, since all the folks thereabouts was at the shootin’ contest. Up the rickety stairs that shook with evera step, and into the little room. In a moment o’ horror, he discovered the pistol were not in his box where it ought ter o’ been. He hesitated, befer tearin’ open his father Vin’s box. There were a nice pistol in there; it warn’t his’n, but he didn’t think his father would’a minded, seein’ the siteration. Back down ther stairs, onto his harse, and flyin’ down tha road ter the contest.

He’d never did as nice as he did that day; his shots were perfect with that pistol, which didn’t shoot ter the left as his other’n did. It fit real nice in his hand, with it’s gold-engraved handle, and he wondered how in the sam hill his father had sich a nice thing.

But he warn’t niver as shocked as when he done won the contest. That was a field-shaker and no mistake.

“The winner is Artie—” Ray Crawfish stopped and stared at the gun in Artie’s hand. “Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Where’d you get that there pistol?” he asked.

Artie reddened. “It ain’t mine. It’s my pa’s.”

“Where’s ya pa?”

Vin stood up. “There be a problem, Mr. Crawfish?”

“Sure not!” Ray said enthusiastically. “Kin ya tell me where ya got that pistol?”

“It was giv’n ter me,” Vin said shortly. He looked at Arthur. “Kin we have a piece a’ talk alone, Mr. Crawfish?”

Ray nodded and drew him off.

“It’s like this,” Vin said quietly. “He ain’t no son o’ ours. He were a young’un, not a year old, when his ma brought him to us. She couldn’t take care of him no more. She said that pistol were his pa’s. I ain’t told the boy any of this. Wherever his pa and ma be, they ain’t done him no good turn and he don’t need to get mixed up with them none.”

“On the contrare,” Ray said with a grin, “his pa jist done him one real good turn.”

I Actually Wrote More than Five Words (and they weren't terrible)

Remember when I posted this? And I was all excited because I broke an almost six-week streak of basically writing nothing at all? I was so sure I was back into writing and I wrote two days in a row, and even though what I wrote was terrible I was pleased.

Guess how much I've written since then?

If you say "nothing" you would be very uncharitable and very wrong.

...but if you said less than 2,000 words you would be all too correct.

So now I'm truly celebrating because I'm breaking a seventeen-week streak of writing basically nothing (yeah...). And what I wrote was actually decent. Hopefully the last post doesn't show that mentioning my success breaks the spell, because I would really, really like to keep going with this. I really love my characters and writing is fun when I'm in the midst of it and have time to do it.

Here's a snippet of what I wrote today:

The castle had been fired. From far off, the keep looked the same, but now they could see the plants surrounding it were gone, the stones were blackened, and the stable was a crumble of black wood. There was not a sound in the courtyard. Arthur hurried forward and kicked open what was left of the carved doors. Inside it was ruin. Where there had been wooden walls there was nothing. The ceiling had almost entirely fallen and in many places they could see straight up, up through the heights of the castle to the grey sky. There was not a single stick of furniture to be seen. The staircase was too damaged for them to investigate the other floors, but Arthur was sure the picture would have been the same.

Arthur looked back at his friends. Owain was white and panicked, Lucan angry. Pelleas looked sick. Gwennie came close to Arthur and slipped her hand into his, as she used to do when they were children and his parents were arguing or worrying over money. Arthur wanted to sink to the floor, or convince himself he was dreaming, but he knew he couldn’t. He tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in his throat.

Snippets!

This is a very brief post to simply announce that I have FINALLY gotten back to writing. The last I wrote was October 24, and only the briefest of paragraphs. Yesterday I wrote a thousand words and today I wrote another thousand. These two thousand words make up the first two thousand (well, 2,183) words of The Arthurian Chronicles: Part Three.
Part three. I've never gotten this far in anything. I just hope I can get to the end and still have the gumption to forge my way through second drafts of this monster.
But! this is a celebratory post, not a forboding one. I bring you the first paragraph of Part Three of the Arthurian Chronicles:

They arrived in Áth Cliath at about teatime, but it seemed much later. Arthur and his eight companions stood with their cloaks pulled up tightly to keep out the fiercely driving rain that poured from the moody sky. Yet the city was still bustling with people, despite the hour and the chill weather. The companions huddled under the eve of a shop, none too eager to step into the rain or the foreign crowd. Even though most of the Irish spoke English, there were those among them who only knew a garbled sort of Welsh. It made Arthur feel very isolated.

77,104 / 90,000 words. 86% done!

I say!

That is a quote from a movie I just watched. Actually, it's a quote from a lot of British things, but specifically I'm referring to Jeeves and Wooster, which my dear twin convinced me to watch. Being British, set in the early 20th century, and recommended by her, I naturally enjoyed it.
This is a combo post,  in which I share a few little letters and a few little snippets.

Dear Frances,

Being your aunt is every bit as fun as I thought it would be. Seeing you two days in a row makes me miss you terribly on Thursdays. Please feel free to chew on my shoulder anytime you want. 

Dear Harry Potter,

What?! Done already? And seven books always seemed like so much. They ended better than I could have foreseen.

Dear Jeeves and Wooster,

I've seen less than two episodes yet already a fan. You both can do the best faces. Jeeves... you crack me up with your oh-so-polite persuasion.

Dear Summer,

You're flying by so fast, especially since my last month is filling up already. What with so much traveling, I haven't had a lot of time to really enjoy you. But then, I'll be glad for less heat (thank you for all the rain, though).

Dear Fast-approaching Junior Year,

I'm really looking forward to the fall. Advanced Biology homework? Not so much. Being in my last two years of high school? Aiieee. Drama? Very much so. I really do take pleasure in schoolwork, though the time off in summer is quite necessary. So please come towards me in an unhurried way, but know I shall enjoy you when you do arrive.

Dear French Language,

While being quite beautiful and enjoyable to learn, sometimes the way you work seems illogical. I just don't see why every word has to be female or male (although in the case of animals it is sensible and useful). Nor does it make any sense to me why the entire sentence has to change to plural form if you want to make one word plural. Why can't you just add an "s" to the end of the noun? A few things about you do make more sense than English, I admit, such as having animal nouns be female or male. I suppose I just have to accept the rest.

Dear Arthur,

I'm very glad to be working with you so much these days. We have finished Part One together already. The word count meter currently says 39283 words of 65000, which means I'm supposedly 60% done. What I think it actually means is that this book is going to be longer than 65,000 words! I'm getting very attached to you and all of your friends (and enemies, incidentally). I'm sorry to say you have much to go through before you get through this war; I really do feel bad about those who won't make it with you. You're in a story, though, so it's for the greater good and all that.

Clockwise from bottom left: Merlin, Rayfus, Gwennie, Arthur, Virgil, Vivian, Kay

I'm wary of posting too many snippets from Arthur because if I should publish, I don't want too many spoilers on the internet. That is why I have hesitated from posting any lately. I shall content myself with just a few short ones.

~

Arthur was entirely surrounded by people, like a crowded market day. But this was nothing like market day. The men did not stop to greet him or push past calling their wares or pause to wave at friends. They did not smile. The faces he saw were grim. The voices he heard were screaming. For this was a battle, not a market.

~

Arthur found his arm was bleeding, though he had no memory of being injured. The clatter of metal and the war-cries of desperate men filled his ears, and Arthur was desperate with them, clinging to the hope that Rayfus knew what he was doing.

~

Arthur laughed. Once he laughed once, he laughed again, laughed hard and unstoppably. Even to his own ears, his laugh sounded foreign, loud and empty, not like his usual quiet chuckle. He laughed that strange ringing laugh until he cried, until tears ran down his face and into his untrimmed stubbly beard as unstoppable as his laughter.

~

It felt like someone was pouring a bucket of thin pond slime on top of Arthur’s head; it dripped slowly all the way down his body. The substance was warm, though not unpleasantly so; it rather tickled. He held still with difficulty.

All of the snippets are sad ones today (except for that last one, which is just plain strange).

See you later – or rather, talk to you later (not when you talk to me, since you won't; in fact, it should be "write to you later"). Au revoir!

Snippets – actually!

My dear readers,
"I yet live!", my previous post, was labeled 'snippets' yet contained no such thing. For that I must beg your forgiveness and trust to your magnanimity that you might forgive me.
With that out of the way, I can continue on the course which was the true purpose of this post: to actually provide those promised snippets.

~

Igraine’s heart froze and she no longer heard the babbling voices of the men. It was certain then. Uther was dead. Dead.

~

"Arthur," said Rayfus, "I think that you should start looking for a suitable wife. You are sixteen, which is high time to be married. Besides, a king needs a good wife."

~

“May I help you?” Gwennie looked up. An older man stood in front of her, leaning on his staff.

“Who are you?” she asked, not answering his question.

“My name is Merlin Uwain of Avalon.”

You can’t be the famed Merlin, suspected by many and talked of by all! News of the man had spread quickly – his mysterious arrival at the castle a few days ago and his suspiciously benign presence since then. And I have him in my garden! What would all the gossips say? She smiled at Merlin. “I would greatly appreciate it if you split a few logs.”

~

“She died, you know.” Arthur had not known. “She died of the Black Death. I was away, at the time. We had quarreled – I was in the wrong – and I had left with it still between us.” His deep voice broke. “I left for a tournament – a blasted tournament, for heaven’s sake!– before the epidemic had even reached our town. When I came back, everyone was dead. Dead. Without warning, or message, she was dead.” Bedivere stopped talking and fell to his knees.

A secondary reason for this post: to satisfy my sister who has been gently harassing suggesting to me that I follow up my mention of my other sister's pregnancy with a mention of my niece. Well, okay. I give in. But, my dear readers, being an aunt has done desperate things to me. I used to like babies. I thought some (very few, but some) babies were cute. That was before I met the baby who is literally the cutest baby I've ever seen.

I'd quote Mary Poppins and say she's practically perfect, but then I'd be lying because there's no "practically" about it.

Yes, this is Frances, my niece. She is such a dear! Six weeks old as of yesterday.

And a thirdendary purpose is to share my initiation to the Les Miserables obsession support group. That is to say, I watched the highly impacting and very well done musical last weekend. Over a year ago (my, how time flies!) my mom came back after watching it, her heart completely full of love won over, but I didn't feel the need to see it since I'd heard about its darker sides and gotten a full synopsis from her. We finally got around to watching it, and… Wow. That's just about all I can say (to quote Mr. Slinger). Since then I've constantly had one (or two, or three) Les Mis songs flitting (or yelling rather passionately) through my head. And although I went so far as to tell Fantine to be quiet last night, I'm no less awed by that spectacular film.*

*Disclaimer: We did forward through Master of the House and part of the scene before I Dreamed a Dream. So I'm no judge of those parts (though you can judge by the fact that I decided not to watch them).

The Plot Bunny Strikes Again!

A.K.A., I have a new idea for a story. Here's a snippet.

It was men’s voices that she heard. Of course, one would be the master, but who could the other one be? Mrs. Cox paused with her tea tray and leaned her head against the door to listen.

“I only came for some rest, sir.” The unfamiliar voice was strange in Mrs. Cox’s ears; she hadn’t heard another voice for ever so long.

“No, you didn’t! That’s a lie.” The master.

The stranger was smart. He didn’t try to deny it.

“I don’t know if I can let you leave. You may be a danger.”

“Please, sir, I have a family I must return to,” the stranger’s voice was ever-so-slightly strained.

“Sure you do. And what are their names? Falsehood and Deception?”

“I have two sons, full-grown strapping boys. And a daughter, nearly a lady now.”

“A daughter?” There was an almost imperceptible change in the master’s voice; only one as familiar with his gruff tones as Mrs. Cox was would have noticed. “How old?”

“Seventeen, and very beautiful. If I’m not there to look after her, she might be stolen away by any sort of man.”

“Well, then, I shall let you go,” the master replied. “On this condition: that your daughter returns as my captive in your place.”

Forgetting her master’s uncanny hearing, Mrs. Cox gasped.

“Why don’t you bring in the tea instead of listening at the keyhole?” Her master called. As always, she obeyed.

This is from The Castle of Caliour, a Beauty and the Beast retelling (if that isn't apparent).
I must fly to finish it, so au revoir.

A [somewhat long] snippet

The one thing about our house that had any worth was our garden. When my mother was alive she was famous for her garden. People would say, ‘Her husband not worth a shilling, but the most beautiful garden in the the country’. Mama loved her garden. It was filled with hundreds of types of flowers. Daffodils, tulips, begonias, peonies, pinks and poppies, lilacs and violets, marigolds, periwinkles, mums, lilies and daisies, all culminating in two huge magnolia trees that leaned over a stone bench like tender mothers with a favorite child. It was a favorite hidden spot of many a couple. Mama always favored lovers. All the flowers of the different seasons were interspersed among each other so no matter what month it was, that part of the garden would be in bloom. There was a large amount of holly, mistletoe, and burning bush, so even in the cold winter months there would be spots of color in the garden.

But the most beautiful of all were the roses. There were yellow roses, white roses, sunset-pink roses, tomato-red roses, golden-orange roses, and pink-garnet-colored roses, every one curvaceous, tender, delicate, with waxy petals soft and perfect as a lambskin. People from around the countryside would come to buy Mama’s roses: bride upon bride wanted white ones for their bouquets, widower upon widower wanted red ones for funerals, and mother upon mother wanted pink ones for christenings. Mama was generous with her roses. If two young people from the village who would soon be joined in matrimony had no money, Mama would give them her roses as a gift. But she always said she had to be generous to her garden, too. “I can’t strip the garden dry no matter how much I would be paid,” she told my father again and again. It was my mother’s flowers that kept us alive after she was dead.

My father always collected the money we’d made during the week on Fridays. Throughout the week we would take some out of our meager earnings for our meals, but we learned not to take out too much, because if we hadn’t earned enough Father would announce that something had to be sold.

“Let’s take a look,” he’d say.

“No, Father! Please not Marigold!” I cried.

“Well, it’s an expensive doll and if you can’t bring enough income we have to supplement it some other way.”

“Father, no!” I probably stamped my foot and started crying, but he took the doll anyway. It was not the first time my father sold our things to quench his thirst, nor the last. And so my sisters and I would stay in the streets until dusk, selling our flowers to any who’d buy. If we didn’t make enough we knew we’d have to eat a meager lunch – a few sweet rolls split between us, small portions for twelve girls. Times like that, as we spent the rest of the day standing hungry in our different streets, I’d wish I could feel my mother’s strong embrace again, and I’d tell myself I’d be satisfied with just a moment spent with her, but I knew it wasn’t true. I would not be happy with her being home for a minute. I wanted her back always. It was days like that I wished that we could sell on the same streets, because I desperately wanted to cry on my sister Magnolia’s shoulder.

-Excerpt from The Girls Who Are Not Princesses Who Dance Every Night Starting From A Certain Night And Who Sell Flowers

P.S. That's not the real title.

Dill stood before the mirror, gazing at her reflection. The elegant white dress had long sleeves, a full sweeping train, and delicate lace. Dill's chestnut hair was twisted back with silver satin ribbons woven in. Her veil was as thin and light as moth's wings, scattered with tiny star-like pearls. . Everything was a beautiful, just as perfect as she had ever imagined.

  Dill groaned and sank to the floor.

   For sixteen years, she had imagined getting married, having children and a house of her own. What woman hadn't spent her childhood thinking such thoughts? But she chided herself anyway. She should have been more realistic.

More about Win

So, as I've said, I was going to work on Hellen's story. Earlier, I did have to work on Hellen's story. But now I have to work on Win's. It's justs the ways things works.
I'm going to do another Beautiful People (January 2012) for her, and at the end I'll share a snippet, too.

1. If your character’s house burned down, and they were left with nothing but the clothes on their back, what would they do? Where would they go?
      She would never beg. Ever. She would take Lorelle and walk through Covington (her town) looking for work. If she couldn't find work, she'd do anything she could, except ask for help. If she was at her wits end, and Lorelle (her toddler sister) was starving (she'd starve herself first), she would finally humble herself and go to Colin.

2. Are they happy with where they are in life, or would they like to move on?
      She is not content. She is lonely and poor, though she would never admit either. In her heart of hearts, she does want to "move on" but she doesn't talk or consciously think about her needs (she pretends not to have them).

3. Are they well-paid?
    No. She's not dirt-poor, but she almost is. But she was born a noblewoman and she acts like a noblewoman.

4. Can they read?
    Yes.

5. What languages do they speak?
      Just one. This is in a parallel universe, so I don't know what that is. But I picture her with an English accent.

6. What is their biggest mistake? 
      Deciding not to tell Finn certain things (like losing a job, or how dangerous her mystery is getting…).

7. What did they play with most as a child?
      Horses. Her father was always on a horse, and she was always near him.

8. What are their thoughts on politics?
      She doesn't have time for politics. She needs to focus on real life. 

9. What is their expected life time?
      She'd probably answer she doesn't have time to think about that either. She needs to work.

10.If they were falsely accused of murder, what would they do? How would they react?
      If she didn't have Lorelle to think about, she would stubbornly refuse to ask for help. She would deny it, of course, but she wouldn't "lower herself" by weeping or hiring a lawyer or giving them a speech about her innocence. But she would be frightened (though she wouldn't allow even herself to know that).
But she does have Lorelle to think about. So she would go to Finn or (swallowing her pride) Colin. She would borrow money from one of them to pay a lawyer, and she would find a relative who would take care of Lorelle, in the case of her conviction.



It begins:

“...You’re really very lucky. The debt isn’t excessive and you’ll even have some small bit of money left over after the sale of the house.”

“What, are you suggesting I sell the house?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Win, you don’t have much choice. I know someone who will buy it.” My cousin is not a cruel man, and very wise in money matters, I’m sure. At 21, he came into the inheritance from his dead father a year ago, and still has most of it left. But he doesn’t understand emotional things like sentimental houses as well as I would like.

“But where would we live? I don’t know anyone who would take both Lorelle and I in. And I won’t be separated! We’re all each other has, now.”

Colin pushed Father’s chair back from the desk and rose. He took hold of my arm, to stop my pacing, and said slowly,

“Well, you could live with me.”

Confused, I peered into his eyes.

“Live with you? Have you spoken to Auntie? I wouldn’t think she would like that.”

“I didn’t mean with my mother. I meant with me.” He paused, letting his words sink in.

“You don’t mean –”

“Yes. As my wife. Will you have me?” As the full import of his words sunk in, I jumped back, almost afraid of him now.

I forced a laugh. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head.

“Colin, I- I can’t...” I tried to pull my arm away, but he stepped closer. “I’m hardly old enough, I–”

“Why not? You’re almost sixteen; six years is a small difference. As a woman alone in the world without a fortune and without a father to protect her, you have little chance of marriage, and you’re also unprotected.” He paused. “And look at it this way: if you sell the house, you’ll have no house and little money. If you keep it, you’ll have a house but you’ll have no money and you’ll be in debt. You have no income.” He stepped closer. “Think of Lorelle.”

“Colin, that’s not fair!” I cried.

“It’s only true. She needs food and care, and you can giver her neither. I would offer you all of that, and you refuse me without thought. Consider it, Win, before you make such a rash decision.”

Promised snippets

The editing done, I am now free to write my last chapter (I should have liked to put a exclamation point on that, but exclamation points are not exactly dreamy and romantic. And since I'm once again listening to the Ever After soundtrack, I simply can't put an unromantic exclamation point in).
Of course, I may have to edit some more after I finish writing, but I don't intend to look critically on Maurelle for at least six months. If not longer. I can't look at my dears so soon after I finish them and expect myself to not be partial, or to not be offended at someone who is.
I'm not sure where I will take myself next. Perhaps to a fairy tale, since I'm in that sort of mood. Or maybe my dear African tiger-riding princess, or my laundress, or an old story which has been finished but needs refurbishing…
Anyway, after that long-winded explanation, here are the promised snippets:

I looked up and met his cold eyes. “But Raoul, please- just don’t- please don’t-” I looked away and my eyes saw Jacque. When I looked back at Raoul, his face held a sickly smile.

“Of course not. I’m a gentleman, aren’t I?”

I went to sleep, not comforted by having the decision made. What have I done?

It was a gray morning that I woke up to. If I didn’t do something, it would be my last day alive. I was jumpy and frightened at breakfast. Every branch that crackled in the fire I expected to be thieves stomping through the woods, coming to kill me. But no one seemed to notice my terror. Bridget cast concerned looks my way every once in a while; I tried to make myself immune to her anxiety, reminding myself that she wasn’t to be trusted.

I wasn't really listening. It didn't matter. Lost or not lost, Jacque was gone. Dead. I forced myself to think it. I felt sick.

I would have my freedom, but at this cost, I did not want it.

Progress!

Finally making some progress on my story! I'm writing the second to last chapter today...

So here's a few snippets for all you completely uninterested people:

“Watch the edge!” someone yelled, as our horse then tripped on the slick ground. Gabrielle screamed as I slipped off. I rolled to avoid the stamping feet of the horse, and rolled right of the edge of the path. My feet hung in empty air as I clung to the edge of the cliff. I wanted to scream, but, like a nightmare, my breath was gone and I couldn’t even breathe.

“Quain, Quain,” she murmured. “Don’t worry, I can fix it. Bridget can help you.” She sounded almost like a woman, so calm and comforting was her voice.

One of my favorite scenes. Oh, so romantic and tragic!

“We never thought –” I shook my head, my words gone. “When I was six my mother sold to a different master.” I continued. “I’ve been sold half a dozen times, until my last mistress trained me to be a lady’s maid and I was sold here.” I realized, then, everything I had said. I had half-forgotten that he was there.

And... I finally found a picture for Gabrielle and Maurelle! Once again, y'all probably don't care, but I they're so perfect that I just have to share.

Gabrielle (Frank Dicksee, of course)

And then for Maurelle I'm divided between two. My sister likes the first one:

Edward Burne-Jones

But I like this one:

Also Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones

What do you think?

Anyway, that's what my week has been. Cool, cloudy/rainy days (can you believe we had the heat on all day yesterday? In June?) – perfect for writing. I like to listen to the Amelie soundtrack, though I've never seen the movie, while I write Maurelle.
Hope you're all having a wonderful week so far. Sorry for blabbering on and on about my story. :)

Maurelle snippets

I finally finished my first chapter – hurrah hurray hurrah!
Here's a few of my favorite snippets:

I stood awkwardly in the hallway as the men talked. It was the finest hallway I had ever seen. The very walls seemed to hold themselves up straight, and the carved figures in the molding seemed to sniff haughtily at me.

My first paragraph!

§

We stepped into a large, dim building. I could hear horses stamping and whinnying to each other like gossipy old women. I glanced away from the horses and back to the steward.

§

I couldn’t talk. My throat seemed to have closed. I nodded, mutely, and left the decrepit shack without another word. I ran almost the whole way, then collapsed beneath a tree before I reached the house. The sky had clouded over, and there was a wintery chill in the air. My sobs were lost in the wind, and I was glad of it. I didn’t want to see anyone or speak to anyone. I didn’t want to be alive.