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Tag: snippets

First Lines (Part 2)

Tracey Dyck 20 Comments

Back in January, I posted a collection of opening lines from various stories (in various stages of completion), but didn’t have room to include them all. So we’re back for round two!*


*Sorry, no graphics today. I barely had time to get the post itself ready, and it was already mostly prepared. XD

Legend tells of a great treasure deep in the heart of the Fortress of Eternal Winter, a treasure so valuable that the one worthy enough to find it should experience ecstasy beyond belief. And not only that, but they should find themselves with a life longer than any other. It was this prize the noble knight sought, and already it had cost him dearly . . .

[The Fortress of Eternal Winter, short story (a parody), complete]

***

The little girl shuffled through the dew-spangled grass, blinking sleep from her eyes. Just ahead, a man sat on a rock at the edge of the overhang.

He swivelled and gave her a soft smile. “Good morning, little one.”

She smiled back, though muzzily from morning drowsiness. “Morning.” She reached his side.

The man picked her up and set her on his lap. The two sat quietly for a time. Nothing was said, for the dawn spoke eloquently enough for them both. A burning red sliver of sun had already appeared along the horizon, and birds were testing their singing voices, and far, far away, the ocean surf sighed.

[This is the Day, flash fiction, complete]

***

“Merry Christmas, Hannah.” Lisa Kehler leaned down so the elderly, bedridden woman could hear her and gently squeezed the fragile hand.

[Tired of Doing Good, short story, complete]

***

Vannon paused, ice-encrusted shovel poised above a snowy drift. The air tingled with a barely perceptible whine, just at the edge of the ear’s range. He cocked his head and concentrated on the sound. His breath-clouds came slower; the dull roar of rushing blood slowed. At a glance, one would think him a statue: furry mantle frozen in thick tufts, short beard spangled with chilled drops of moisture, and rabbit-hide gloves wrapped tightly around his shovel’s wooden shaft.

There–there it was again. A faint drone, like the blur of insect wings. Vannon’s eyes slid to the southward mountains, a shattered spine of rock wracking the azure sky.

[untitled, unfinished]

***

I have one green eye and one brown eye. The green eye sees truth, but the brown eye sees much, much more. With it, I can perceive things no one else can. You make think this is a wonderful gift, but I assure you, it is a curse.

[untitled, writing exercise]

***

“Arctic, I already told you there was to be no snowfall practice in your room!” The voice, although muffled, demanded immediate attention.

Arctic winced and cracked her door open. A rivulet of water trickled past her foot and toward the stairs. “Sorry, mother.”

[untitled, writing exercise]

***

Pheori’s bare feet padded softly down the marble floor of the Emperor’s treasure hall. He rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling and tried to pay attention to Emperor Cho’s happy prattling. But his legs ached to run somewhere and his lungs desired the hot desert oxygen.

[untitled, unfinished]

***

The glare of the August sun threw glints across the lake. Madison Paratore shielded her eyes with a hand. A sigh warmed her lips. “It’s the last hoorah, you guys.”

[untitled, unfinished]

***

“So Kendrick, are you going to fix it or what?”

“It doesn’t need fixing, Trapper.”

“Doesn’t need . . .? Kendrick! Look at it! It’s torn in the corners, covered in debris, and so bright a Flat-Raider could see it miles away.”

[untitled, writing exercise]

***

I slouch on the barstool and loop my fingers through the lacy yarn. It’s red and orange and burgundy, like the trees I see through the kitchen window.

“Are your parents coming back this evening?” Aunt Bailey asks. Her knitting needles click against each other and the half-made scarf drapes over her lap like a fluffy python.

[untitled, writing exercise]

***

Lyric reached the top of the stone steps built into the side of the hill. His tired legs were not nearly as heavy as his heart. Sharp wind slapped his face, tugged his long hair, pressed his cloak against his ribcage. “Talon,” he said, but a gust of air snatched away the name. He tried again, louder this time. “Talon?”

[untitled, writing exercise]

***

All was silent at the train station. A crumpled piece of trash blew past three pairs of feet at a bench–a pair of thick-soled black boots, two mismatched loafers, and red sneakers. One of these sneakers jiggled up and down very fast.

The owner of the red sneakers, Owen, sighed and looked at his watch. 5:13. The train was late.

[untitled, writing exercise]

***

I sit up with a start, blinking in the light shining over my desk. Had I fallen asleep? I rub my eyes and look around my bedroom. Everything looks the same as it always has. The clock shows 1:47 p.m. in glaring red letters.

[Rewritten, flash fiction, complete]

***

“Let’s go over this again.” Dr. Teagan propped his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “I know we’ve discussed your experiences several times, but it would help with my diagnosis if we took another look at things. Is that all right with you?”
Josiah took a deep breath to quell the familiar heat churning in his belly. You’ve practically diagnosed me already. Why rehash it? But aloud he muttered, “Fine.”

[The Prophet’s Key, novel, unfinished]

***

The little flame throbbed, illuminating
Father’s hands as they worked. The glass rod he held with a metal tool drooped
over like a strand of freshly made taffy. He began fashioning one end. His
tweezers flashed in the firelight, slowly persuading the glass to take the form
he desired.

I watched over his
shoulder and held my breath. Magic required silence.


[The Glass Girl, novella, complete]

***



Tree branches scraped the sides of Emi’s car and leaves tinged in early-autumn gold fluttered at her windows. One hand on the wheel and the other fumbling with a roadmap, she squinted at the dirt lane, then back at the squiggly map lines.


“Way to go, Emi.” She blew air through her lips. “Lost.” Abandoning the incomprehensible map, she focused on the tire tracks ahead. On either side, the trees pressed in close and cast a network of evening shadows over her ’95 Dodge Spirit.


[Blood Rose, novella, complete]

***

Not
in centuries had the mountains rung with such gladness.


Aleida tilted her face toward the sun and smiled. The road winding
uphill was choked with people, nobles and countryfolk alike all traveling to
the castle for the celebration. Their lively chatter echoed against the crags.
[The Brightest Thread, novella-turning-into-a-novel, my current WIP, unfinished]

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TAG #4 – The Snippet Tag (Fairytale Themed)

Tracey Dyck 16 Comments

What ho, my friends! We’ve come to round four of this month of tag catch-up. In December, Deborah O’Carroll @ The Road of a Writer included me in the Snippet Tag (created by Madeline J. Rose).

the-snippet-tag

The rules are as follows:

-Include the graphic somewhere in your post (or make your own, just so long as you include a link back to Madeline’s blog).
-Answer all the questions, however you want to. Creative interpretation is key here! You can use the book you’re currently working on to answer the questions, or other books you’ve started or have written.
-Tag 2-5 other bloggers.

I wanted to feature The Brightest Thread, seeing as it’s my primary writing focus right now, but I didn’t want to limit myself to just one story (nor did I want to bore you all with nonstop gushing about Luci and Hadrian and spindle trees and dreams). So to diversify things a bit, I thought I’d bring in my other two fairytale retellings (both novella-sized): Blood Rose, and The Glass Girl. I haven’t discussed either of them a whole lot on the blog, so it’ll be fun to share a couple of glimpses.

Although I must admit, after skimming through them in search of snippets, I cringed to myself at the stories’ weak spots. Yet it was encouraging at the same time to see that I have grown and made progress since then.

Without further ado, let’s get on to the questions. My {comments} are inserted in fancy shmancy brackets.

1. Share your most gripping, fascinating, and hooking first line of a story.

Not in centuries had the mountains rung with such gladness.

–The Brightest Thread

{This remains one of my favorite first lines.}

2. Share a snippet that literally just crushes your heart into a million feelsy little pieces.

She was Iroran—not one of the thousands he’d always yearned to help—and yet she, too, was chained. And he could break those chains.

“I must break them,” he whispered to the shadows.

Hadrian threw on a cloak, stuffed crushed gildroot in his pocket, and snatched a pack for provisions. As he rushed down darkened passages, his heart beat painfully in his chest. Strange—he was sure his heart had been stolen by the weeping maiden in his dreams.

–The Brightest Thread

{It’s off to the rescue!}

3. Share a snippet that makes you want to shout to the world that you’re SO. HAPPY.

But time went on, and I learned to find happiness in what I had left. I spent hours in the studio with Father, helping him stoke the furnace and learning how to use the glassmaking tools. While his team of six workers mixed ingredients, poured molten glass into molds, or formed vessels by hand, I stayed at my father’s side. Watching. Experimenting. Learning his magic. He was so skilled, sometimes I thought he was a Vibrant, a legendary individual blessed with supernatural powers. But of course he wasn’t – Vibrants were only fairy-tales, after all.

Whenever I tired of the furnace’s heat, I would make my way to the shop at the front of the building, where daylight played over Father’s brilliant wares. Crystal clear goblets, painted dishes, and multihued vases were artfully arranged in the front windows. Prisms and ornaments dangled from the ceiling, throwing rainbows and spots of color across the walls. Glass trinkets and baubles and figurines graced the shelves like little treasures dropped by fairies. If I wasn’t spending my day in the studio, I was whiling away the hours in that wonderland of color and transparency.

–The Glass Girl

{From the opening act of my Cinderella retelling. Although the story bears many flaws, the visuals in this scene capture a childhood happiness that I still love.}

4. Share a snippet that gives a bit of insight into one of your most favorite characters ever.

She entombed the star in her fingers. No, such hopes could not be afforded. Not when death lay weeks away, immovable as a mountain. Hoping would only make it more painful when it came.

Her wrist tingled where Hadrian’s fingers had touched her. Strong and slender fingers, calloused, with dirt under the nails. He liked digging in the dirt. He liked making things grow.

“I’m just a dream to him.”

Luci curled into a ball, imprisoned star pressed to her sternum, and tried not to think of the prince who plucked light from the heavens and asked for her name.

–The Brightest Thread

{Luci just breaks my heart. She spends far too long pushing away exactly what it is she yearns for.}

5. Share a snippet that literally melts you into a puddle of adorable, squishy, OTP mush.

The first thing she noticed in the transition from sleep to wakefulness was pain—in her head and in her right foot. Emi moaned.

“Good, you’re awake.”

Prying her eyelids open, she struggled to work out where she was and what had happened. A soft pillow cushioned her head. Whose bed am I in? She tried to rise, but lightning seared inside her skull. “Ow.” She covered her face with her hands.

“Just stay still,” Will said. “You knocked your head.”

“It feels like a rock bounced off me,” she muttered, peeking at him through her fingers.

“I think it was the other way around.”

–Blood Rose

{In case you didn’t know, OTP stands for one true pairing, and refers to a fictional couple you love. In this case, I still adore Will and Emi together. The beginning stage of their relationship is so light and fun compared to what comes later. Heheh.}

6. Share a snippet that gets you beaming with pride and you’re just like yep, I wrote that beauty.

Long-forbidden memories tugged at him, and for a moment he relented. They drew him back to hazy summers, when laughing eyes teased him and a girlish giggle chased him down the corridors. When all it took was a plump red apple or a daring climb up the wall to enchant her. How distant those days seemed. Years and use had polished the memories to a sheen, softening their edges and lending them the golden air of dreams.

And yet for all their beauty, both idealized and real, these echoes of yesterday brought with them a sharp pain. For always the summer was swallowed up by winter. Forest romps, once spirited adventures, became attempts at distraction. Her laughs grew less frequent. Unfamiliar faces passed through the manor, arriving confident and departing solemn. Hushed whispers, closed doors, forced smiles, lingering glances…

Thus, summer died at winter’s hand. And then even winter surrendered to darkness, and the night reigned supreme.

–Blood Rose

{Still a favorite excerpt of mine!}

7. Share a snippet of genius, deliciously witty dialogue between your characters.

Luci eyed her company. “Master Boris.”

Her tutor raised his head. “Yes, Princess?”

“Have I ever mentioned you have the nose of a pig?”

Boris blinked and touched his round, upturned nose. “I—no, Princess, you haven’t.”

“I think it goes lovely with your squinty little eyes.”

Aleida hiccupped, but Luci suspected it was a cloaked giggle.

Boris’s face reddened. “Er, thank you, Princess.”

“Alucinora,” Mother said. “I’ve never heard such an insult leave your lips.”

Luci fought back a grin. “I was merely pointing out his natural talent.” In truth, every time she sat under his schooling, she couldn’t put the image of a pig out of mind.

Aleida’s shoulders quaked.

Mother set her fork down with a clang. “Alucinora, perhaps you should keep your compliments on others’ talents to yourself.” She forced a smile. “After all, today is about you.”

–The Brightest Thread

{When a princess “blessed”–or in her mind, cursed–with the gift of diplomacy finds a way to repress her gift for a day, and is finally free to speak her mind . . . well, that’s when the fun begins.}

8. Share a snippet that makes you feel like an evil genius for thinking up such a malevolent villain (Mwa-ha-ha!)

Lady Lurline stepped closer, seeming to tower over me on my little workbench. With her ebony hair swept up on her head and her sharp nose pointed down at me, she made me feel like I was under the shadow of a large raven. “Do not question me, Cinderella,” she hissed. “If I ask for something, you give it to me.” She put one hand over my burnt one and squeezed hard, her fingernails digging into me skin. “Do – you – understand?”

Something inside me finally cracked. Father’s death had shoved my heart into a fiery furnace. Then the Lady’s demands had yanked my heart out again into instant cold. I should’ve known that such an abrupt change would cause me to shatter like glass that hadn’t been cooled properly.

I stared up into Lady Lurline’s dark eyes. Isadora, Mysteres do exist. Your mother is one, the devil. Her grip tightened. I glanced down and saw little beads of blood where her fingernails had pierced my hand.

“I will ask you once more, Ellesandra,” she whispered. “What is your recipe?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

She flung my hand away and stepped back. “Then you have brought this upon yourself.” Fingers splayed and palm down, she extended her right hand. Her skin seemed to darken, first to ash grey, then to coal black.

I jumped off the bench and backpedalled, heart racing. My thought had come true!

She began chanting. “Fires hot and rocks so deep, thunderclouds and skies that weep – to my side you now amass…”

My legs hit a bench, stopping my backward path. Whimpering, I raised my hands in a weak attempt to protect myself.

The Lady’s eyes glowed yellow. “…Turn flesh and bone to limbs of glass!”

Blinding white flashed across my range of vision, bringing with it both searing heat and glacial cold. A scream – my own? – pierced my eardrums. Pain lancing through every nerve, I collapsed on the floor.

–The Glass Girl

{Probably the best scene involving Lady Lurline.}

9. Share a snippet that leaves you breathless, in a cold sweat with action-induced intensity.

The twinge grew to a throb beating in time with his heart. The air thinned; [Will] sucked in a shallow breath. “Emi, there are…things…I need to…explain.” He blinked hard, tried to clear the fog enfolding his brain.

She shook her head. “I think you’ve explained enough.”

“No, there’s…more,” he grunted, swaying on his feet and gripping the bars for balance.

Roar.


Take.


Kill.

The girl said something, but her words sounded garbled and strange. Will stared down at the floor and fought off the mounting wave of bestial desire.

Run.


Own.


Fight.

It descended all at once. Tearing, rending agony; a maelstrom of crimson. He dropped to the ground, felt the vibration of a growl low in his throat.

Clawing at the stones. A howl streaming from his lips. Blood rushing through his veins. Red.

Stone rose up on either side, hemming him in, trapping him. Muscles bunched beneath his skin. He threw himself at the bars.

Live.


Kill.


Flee.

He crashed against the walls. Pain flared. He lunged again, snarling, scraping, panting.

A sound, high and offensive to his ears, knifed through the air. He turned. A she-creature cried out in a language he didn’t know. He crouched there, staring at her. Heat radiated from her flesh. She was alive. She was prey.

Lips peeled back in a roar to end all roars, he slammed into the bars. They quaked but held firm. The she-creature stumbled backward. He smelled fear.

Prey!


-Blood Rose


{I think I was almost breathless when writing this scene.}

10. Share a snippet of a most interesting first meeting between your characters.

“Are you alright?” the dove asked. It wasn’t a bird, but a girl standing pale in the moonlight, golden-red hair loose and windblown. As if suddenly aware of his gaze, she turned her back, but not before he caught a glimpse of rainwater eyes.

“It’s you!”

She stood with arms crossed and spine rigid.

“You’ve been haunting my dreams,” [Hadrian] continued. “Who are you?”

“My name matters little.”

“It does if it belongs to the one who rescued me.”

“Falling would’ve woken you up, not killed you. I hardly call what I did a rescue.”

Hadrian sidestepped in an effort to see her face, but she turned too. “Since this is a dream, it makes no difference if I know your name.” But never before had his dreams been so lifelike. What could have inspired his mind to conjure her?

After a moment, her posture relaxed. “Fine. I’ll trade my name for three items from you.”

He chuckled. “One for three? You sound like a valley bargainer.”

“Sensibility isn’t required in dreams.”

–The Brightest Thread


{I’m so looking forward to expanding, perhaps even changing, their first meeting. A dream realm allows for some pretty fun experimentation, a strange and otherworldly backdrop to the beginning of the story’s central relationship. Yay!}

Thanks for reading! Now the time comes to tag some fellow writers . . .

P.S. I have had zero time to reply to comments this past week, and it looks like I’ll have less than zero time next week (yes, we are pretending that is possible). Do keep leaving those comments, and rest assured I’ll return to converse with you once March is over!
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First Lines (Part 1)

Tracey Dyck 31 Comments
Last summer, Rachel Heffington compiled a lovely little post of first lines from her stories and flash fiction pieces. Thinking that was a fun idea, I scrounged through documents both well-used and nearly-forgotten. What I found was a mix of the mysterious and the ridiculous, the excellent and the mediocre. Placing these first lines side by side, it’s interesting to note the patterns of how I begin stories, and how I’ve grown over the years. I found so many pieces from which to pull, I’ve split this into two posts.
Note: There’s no particular order to these snippets.
★ How to Make Drawing a Part Of Your Life | Daily Creativity by Keeping a Sketchbook ★:
[Pinterest]
***

The chosen ones have not yet arrived. Lord Mauray paced from one end of the balcony to the other, his boots slapping the tiles in a restless rhythm. He paused at the railing and scanned the labyrinth of rooftops and bustling streets below. A wide thoroughfare cut through the city. Across the outlying fields in the distance, a dark speck appeared.
A messenger–but does he bring news of life or death?

[The Prophet’s Quest, novel, complete]
***
He stood in the pouring rain, left hand loose at his side and right hand clenched around something. His clothes had long ago soaked up as much rainwater as they could. Now they clung to his shoulders like a cloak of grief and wrapped his legs like chains. Evening darkness shrouded the forest clearing. He stood alone–a solitary pillar holding up the thundering sky.
[Ann Marie, unfinished]
***
“I’m beginning to think your debts are going to cost you more than your life.”
[untitled, unfinished]
***

Landon awoke with his face wet and the damp leaching into his clothes.

[untitled, unfinished]
***
A rainstorm usually affects a single region, for thunderheads can only be so and so big, and cloud banks can only stretch so far. But this deluge rolled across the entire cosmos in one day.
[tentatively titled Our Destiny, unfinished]
True book Love. Girl carrying an armful of books. ~Artist: Unknown:
[Pinterest]
***

“Keeping my share of the loot, Char?” the tall man sneered down, twisting his bronzed features.

Charlotte flicked him a glance. “Never, Wolf.” She tossed him an amulet. “That good enough?”

[Redemptive Scars, short story, complete]

***

Rodin jammed the shovel into packed earth. The blade rang against a stone, and he dug it up. As big as two fists, it was–and not his own moderately-sized fists, either–more like the farmer’s meaty paws. Rodin picked up the rock with one hand and hurled it over his shoulder, where it clattered onto a pile of its brethren.

[untitled, unfinished]

***

It’s not the first time Blair has asked me to dive, and I know it won’t be the last. Serebell has too many secrets left in it to abandon our mission.

[untitled, unfinished]

***

Once upon a time, there lived a peasant man in a village. This man, Ewald, had little more than the threadbare tunic on his back and the sieve-like thatched roof  above his head.

Every day, he worked a patch of stony ground. “It’s me garden,” he’d say of it, when inquired by foot-travelers passing through. They’d raise their eyebrows at the pebbly soil and stunted green shoots, and walk on by without comment. But poor as the ‘garden’ was, for Ewald, it was his only source of income.

[untitled allegorical short story, unfinished]

***

“No, not you. Anyone but you.” Prince Tyrus–by all appearances thoroughly overwhelmed by the sight before him–covered his eyes, then scrubbed his hand down his face as if resigning himself to meet it head-on after all.

[To Fool the Court, unfinished]

Lost between the pages of a book. https://www.facebook.com/chrisgurney.author?ref=tn_tnmn:
[Pinterest]
***

The young man gaped at me with something between wonder and terror in his eyes. “How’d you do that?” he stammered.

I rolled the strawberry-sized ball, sickly green and smooth as marble, between my fingers. “I don’t know.”

[untitled, unfinished]

***

This is a story that took place a very long ways away from where you live. So you’ve probably never laid eyes on the magnificent Macaroni Kingdom. Too bad. You would have liked it. (The King ordered everyone to like it, but most do anyway.) The Macaroni Kingdom is my home, and that of many other macaroni penguins. Oh, I suppose I should introduce myself before we continue. I’m Mac, short for Mac ‘n’ Cheese, because my brilliant parents thought that was a good name for a macaroni penguin. (That’s a lot of pasta, I know, and it’s about to get worse.)

[The Quest of a Macaroni Penguin, short story, complete]

***
There it is! Beginnings are key when it comes to stories. The best ones hook us with their intrigue, unexpectedness, or humor. The worst ones make us put a book down and never pick it up again. I’m not too sure where mine fall in that spectrum, but nevertheless, this was a fun exercise.

Which ones are your favorites? What’s a first line that you’ve read or written that you absolutely love?

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The Cage // a spooky story

Tracey Dyck 27 Comments
Hey, all! Subplots and Storylines will be a bit late this month, but I aim to have it ready for next Saturday (November 5th). In the meantime, I’m participating in Jenelle Schmidt’s Spooky Stories link-up.
I really don’t know where this short story came from. It’s strange. And obviously creepy. So yeah. Here you go. (My apologies for posting a day late once again!)

The Cage

I always knew something was wrong with my
basement.

Maybe it was the smell of sickly sweet
rot that first clued me in.

Maybe it was the darkness that clung to
the corners and hung from the low-slung ceiling like the swooped top of a gypsy
tent.

Or maybe it was the iron bars forming a bizarre,
door-less cage in the middle of the room.

Nevertheless, I didn’t think much about
it. I left it alone, content to confine my evenings of chemistry homework, root
beer, and softly droning radio news to the main floor. The basement, though
strange, was merely a quirk of this old place. Other people’s houses creaked in
the night. Mine smelled funny and seemed stuck in a horror novel. No big deal.

Or so I told myself.

It was a damp October night. I was nested
in swaths of afghan in the corner of the couch, surrounded by sheets of
unbalanced chemistry equations, when the radio clicked off by itself. In the
sudden silence, a humming started. I glanced up. The single lamp behind me
flickered, disturbing the pool of yellowish light for a moment. Nothing else
stirred in my living room. I swallowed hard to pop my ears, the way I fix the
pressure changes when driving in the mountains outside of town. But the soft
hum continued, an undulating wisp of sound.

I sat very still for a few minutes and
watched beads of condensation roll down the root beer can at my elbow. I couldn’t
pin the gender of the humming voice. At times it sounded like a low female
croon, but then it seemed more like a male tenor. There were no words. Just a
rising, falling string of vowels. The more I listened, the less it sounded
human. An ethereal echo wrapped the voice as it filtered through thin walls.

My arms prickled with goosebumps.

I hear people get nervous being at home
alone in the dark—not that I have any friends to confirm it. But I like the
solitariness and the darkness. It’s better than Dad tearing through the kitchen
cupboards in search of food to settle his stomach swirling with alcohol. Better
than screams berating his disappointment of a son. When he’s gone, it’s
just me. And that’s just fine.

So when the humming began on that lonely
October night, I wasn’t immediately frightened. But I should have been.

I don’t know when I left my nest of
blankets, but all of a sudden I was standing in the dimness beyond the
lamplight, at the doorway leading to the kitchen. A cool breeze brushed my
face.

A breeze indoors?

The echoes expanded. They filled my ears,
my head, my bones. The edges of my vision softened. My knotted shoulders
relaxed. I found myself smiling—then wiped it away with a frown the minute I realized
what I was doing. What was the matter with me?

The humming floated up the stairs and
into the kitchen. It’s coming from the basement. So was the breeze, I
realized. Without thinking, I wandered to the top of the stairs and peered into
the deepening shadow at the bottom, where the door that should have been closed
hung wide.

I stood on the fifth step down.

Just like that, with no recollection of
standing on the four steps before it. I was just suddenly there, the
same way I didn’t remember leaving the couch. Heart thumping behind my ribs, I
turned and leaped to the top of the stairwell again. A sick sense of something
horribly, dreadfully wrong crawled down my spine and settled in my gut.

But the strange voice swirled anew,
louder and fuller. Its echoes overlapped each other, a layered miasma of sound.
The sick feeling left my stomach, and the shadows downstairs turned into
honeyed light. I smirked to myself. Don’t
be stupid, Derrek, there’s nothing to worry about. What was so strange about the voice that had always filled this house
and always wrapped me in safety? What was so strange about the way it turned
darkness into golden brilliance? Wasn’t this the lullaby that filled my dreams?

I pinched
myself. The shadows blackened again, though the voice continued. Always filled
this house? Had it? My memory seemed patchy. I couldn’t recall whether I was
hearing the song for the first time or the thousandth.

I blinked and
took a step down, but found myself nearly at the bottom of the stairwell. This
didn’t concern me in the slightest. Two more steps, and I stood in the open basement
doorway. Here the humming intensified, a beautiful orchestra contained in one
voice. The flowing vowels began to make sense in my head—they didn’t turn into
words so much as meanings.

Come.

Come.

Come
in.

And like the
voice was a current, I let it sweep me gently into the basement.

Time abandoned
me for a brief moment, a moment in which I couldn’t tell if I’d been walking in
the basement for a split second or a year—but it mattered little because standing
before me was the iron cage in all its splendor.

And splendid
it was, for gleaming vines of cast metal wound up the bars, decorated by
metallic blooms that seemed to shiver in the breeze blowing through the
basement. Silvery gold light streamed from within the cage—no, that was the
wrong word for it. Cage was confinement and closure.
This . . . this masterpiece of metal wrought by inhuman hands, this was
perfection.

This was
glory.

As if in
agreement, the song swelled.

Come.
Taste the glory.

Syllables
streamed faster and faster, a crescendo of impressions: Safety,
safe here, come, enfold, be enfolded, light, protection, beauty, ease, come,
come, come.

I touched a
bar, solidly anchored from the floor to the ceiling. The metal seemed to
vibrate beneath my palm; it nearly purred with pleasure.

Dimly, I was
aware of my unawareness—the way I feel when I’m half-awake and know that I’m
wavering between a dream and reality. But this reality was so much better than
the dream, because in the dream, the basement was wrong. It was smelly and dark
and off. That was the
nightmare, the fantasy of a dreaming mind. This was reality—this magnificence
calling to me, drawing me with its never-ending song.

Come.

I don’t know
when the song merged with my own thoughts, but my own voice somehow joined the
other one. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be all right. Just quiet
down. Relax. Everything’s okay. You’re okay. Just step inside.

Some little
needle of unease poked the back of my mind. Why would I reassure myself when
the safe haven of iron was here before me? That made it sound like the haven
was bad. It wasn’t bad. I needed to step inside. It was good. It was glorious.
Safe.

Come.
It’s okay.

The needling
thoughts bothered me. They disrupted the euphoria. So, to shut up that tiny
voice, I smiled . . .

And I stepped
through the iron bars to taste the glory.

The bars had
always been spaced wide enough apart that I could fit between them. But the
instant I stepped through, the singing broke off. The silvery gold light
vanished, leaving me in the dusk of an underground room. It was as if the
carved vines and flowers had never been, and now rough iron poles surrounded
me, speckled with rust.

Clanking,
creaking, the bars thickened. They swelled to twice their diameter, leaving no
room to walk through.

My heart froze.
My breathing thinned.

Then blinding
panic erupted, and I threw myself, screaming, at the grid of iron. My fists met
solid iron. My kicks couldn’t even vibrate the cage. There was no door, no
lock. No way out. I shouted for help, but there was no one in my cold, empty
house to hear me.

Sobbing—and hating
myself for my weakness—hearing Dad’s derogatory tone in my head—I backed into a
corner of the cage and sank to the concrete floor. The odor of rotting meat
thickened, and the already-dim room darkened further. Why had I let myself be
lured inside this prison? And more importantly, what had drawn me here?

The barest
echo of the voice came drifting back. This time, it was as if I could see the
sound floating just beyond the cage. I squinted, but the more I focused, the less
I could make it out and the quieter the voice became . . . until it was silent
again. I closed my eyes and focused on listening. The voice returned in pulsing
echoes. Cracking open one eye, I heard rather than truly saw a swirl of
red vapor.

Everything’s
okay, Derrek. Surrender.

Knives
appeared—blades pushing through the bars, all pointing inward. One scraped my
backbone, and I dragged myself into the center of the cage. The knives
lengthened. Closing the distance. Nearing my skin. A panting whimper sounded. Is
that me?

You’re
all right.

The singing
vapor grew denser and louder. It sang in triumph. I clung to my fear, and
curled into the smallest shape possible. The knifepoints hovered inches away on
all sides. I covered my mouth to smother my cries. No. No. No.

Don’t
worry, the voice sang wordlessly. It will be over in a moment.

As the vapor
surrounded the cage and continued to sing, my pulse eased. My thoughts settled.
I relished the damp concrete against my face and the comforting bars of safety
surrounding me, keeping out all that was wrong and evil.

It’s
okay.

The first cold
blade pricked my neck.

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