Reflections on The Chronicles of Narnia: Dragon Skin

In case any of you out there never realized this before, I am a HUGE fan of C.S. Lewis’ fantasy series, The Chronicles of Narnia. And when I say “huge” fan, I mean squeal over getting the lion crest on a silver pendant, have lion stuffed animals all over your room, read the entire series at least twice a year and usually out of order, (not to mention listen to the audio books ten times in the same year), squeal over the theater release of every movie, and constantly dream of Aslan and Narnia whether by day or by night, HUGE.

Yes, that’s me. Ever since I first read the books at the age of ten, I was absolutely hooked. (I admit I may have exaggerated about the amount of times I’ve read the entire series to a year, but I’ve still read it so many times that I’ve lost count, and I’ve listened to the audio books even more often than that.)

There is something quite compelling about these books. I think part of what draws me to them is the fact that every time I read them I am brought to a new revelation – usually one that pertains to the spiritual aspect of things.

Now recently I’ve been listening to the audio books over and over again as I’m at work… I slip in a CD, and work to the rhythm of the story being told. (And I’m allowed to do that at work, since I work for an old woman who likes to listen to things of that sort as well. :D) Lately as I’ve been listening, I’ve had a whole slew of new revelations hit me upside the head, as if they were as plain as day and always had been, and the reason I was only just realizing that was because they were shouting at me in high-pitched voices and waving their hands in the air to make it as obvious as possible.

One such revelation came to me as I was listening to The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. The story had come to the part where Eustace, after being turned into a Dragon, is found by Aslan and told that he must “undress” before he can step into the enchanted pool and ease the ache in his arm from the Lord Octesian’s arm ring.

At that point in time, I thought, “What an interesting notion… a dragon that needs to undress.” Even Eustace thought it curious at the time, but had remembered that dragons are sort of like snakes, and snakes can shed their skin.

Oh, and how he did try to get his ugly dragon skin off by himself! Two skins, and three, and I believe even a fourth skin were shed before he realized that there was no way he could peal the whole thing off without some form of help.

And it was then that Aslan stepped in.

I don’t think anyone could blame Eustace for feeling afraid at that point in time. Who wouldn’t feel scared if a lion stepped up and offered to peal your skin off of you? Especially a lion so big and powerful and imposing as Aslan.

But then, when Aslan sunk his claws into Eustace’s dragon flesh and ripped it open, though it hurt like crazy, Eustace later told Edmund how wonderful it actually felt as the whole knobby thing peeled off, leaving him smooth and tender underneath.

Now, think on that for a moment… consider that whole scene. How does that scene – that particular scene – pertain to us as Christians? How can it?

I never made the connection before the other day, but when it hit me, it hit me hard.

How many of us are like Eustace?

In the books it states that while laying on a pile of dragon’s gold, and with dragonish thoughts in his head, Eustace had become a dragon himself. And how many of us Christians have also turned into dragons? Trapped by our greed, our ambitions, our imperious thoughts, so many supposed followers of Christ in today’s society have become like dragons… not in appearance, but in our hearts. And to make matters worse, we get stuck like that. Swathed in layer upon layer of dragon skin – layers we have created thick and deep in order to protect our tender hearts from a world we consider cruel – we get to a point where we realize that our barriers, our protective coverings, our haughty gazes and upturned noses, have turned us into something monstrous; something foul and hideous, and knobby. We suddenly understand that our own supposed protections, our own justifications, have transformed us into a creature not only ugly, but fierce… something that breathes fire at anyone and anything it thinks will attack it – including friends and family – and that’s long, sharp claws can tear down others much quicker than it can rebuild.

Once this is realized, I think a lot of Christians start by trying to peel off the layers of their dragon’s skin one at a time all by themselves. We don’t know how else to do it. After all, the layers were built up one at a time – one haughty thought at a time, one ambition, one moment of greed, one hidden sin… But for us it becomes too much. If we try to do it ourselves, we’ll never get the full Dragon skin off. There will always be another dragon skin underneath each layer to replace it, just as knobbly and dirty and ugly as the first. And because it takes time for us to try and peel off each ugly layer of skin one at a time, we shall always have that same ample amount of time to grow a new skin right back. After all, it is far easier to fall back into habit and to grow a dragon skin (with all that that entails) than it is to feel the pain and peel the skin away. It would seem that growing a dragon skin is only part of Human Nature.

However, there is One who can get the whole skin off all at once.

In the chronicles of Narnia, that One is Aslan the Lion… the only son of the Emperor Over the Sea. In the books, that Lion took his great, strong claws and ripped the giant ugly dragon skin clean off of Eustace’s body, leaving it lying in a heap beside the enchanted cleansing pool. And afterward, Eustace looked back on the shed skin and saw how thick and horrible it actually was, and knew that there was no way he could have taken it off all by himself.

In real life, that Lion is actually Jesus Christ, and his claws are actually three iron nails, and the enchanted pool is actually his blood pooled at the foot of an ancient wooden cross. And our Dragon skin… well, it’s much the same as Eustace’s. Sure, we can’t actually see it – physically see it – like the crew of the Dawn Treader could see Eustace’s dragon skin in the books. But that doesn’t mean our Dragon skins are any smaller or less awful or less shameful than Eustace’s. And only the Lion himself – only Christ – can actually “undress” us of our awful ugly skin and toss us into the enchanted pool… the deep, cleansing pool of his blood.

Sometimes, however, it’s hard to admit that we can’t take the skin off by ourselves. And yet admitting our weaknesses is the first step to freedom because it is a step towards realizing and having others realize that we are not perfect… never were and never will be.

Until Eustace actually turned into a dragon, he always thought that he was right, while everyone else was terribly and inexcusably wrong. Once he became a dragon – once he realized how awful he really was in comparison to what he had originally thought the others to be – he started to understand. He started to see the ugliness for what it truly was; not just the scales, and claws, and teeth of a dragon, but the ugliness that had settled in his heart and in his soul. He started to want to be fixed… want to be made beautiful inside, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it.

And what Eustace never realized, just as we often don’t, is that once he could see and understand the wrong for what it was, only then could Aslan heal him. After all, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. If the horse doesn’t admit and realize that it’s thirsty, even if it’s going to die without water, there is nothing you can do to save that horse… it will not drink and you cannot force it to.

And just think about how much MORE stubborn a dragon would be.

And now think about how stubborn humans can be when compared to a common beast such as the horse.

But there is hope for us, just like there was for Eustace, because God is a jealous God, a loving God. He wants to make us beautiful inside and out, even though we don’t deserve it. It may not be pleasant though – sometimes it takes a lion’s claws to tear through all of the layers of Dragon Ugliness and Evilness that we’ve built up around us. But no matter what, we can rest safe in knowing that the pain is only temporary, and once the whole process is over, no matter how much hurt it may cost us at the time, we will be made new – smooth and pure, just like how we were always meant to be.

Once God cleanses us of our Dragon skins.

Goodbye for now

Well, this is it... the last post I will most likely write in the next 2 1/2 weeks.  Let's see what interesting tidbits I can come up with to hold you off until the next post, shall we?

First of all, I started looking into the book "T'aragam", a POD book originally published by createspace although the author's book publishing name is sweatshoppe.  Cool name.  I haven't read the entire book yet, but by visiting the website at http://www.taragam.com/ and going to the page titled "Free Stuff", a person can download half of the e-book and the entire audio book read by the author for nothing at all.  I've now listened to the audio book.  It was pretty good... there were a few scenes that seemed... well, cliche really.  But on the whole, it was pretty good.  And to top it off, the author -- Jack W. Regan -- is one of the judges for the Highschool contest called "Tweener Times Competition" in which Highschoolers can enter a story they wrote aimed at a middle grade audience.  The competition is hosted by Moody Ministries.  (I even entered the RD for "Song of the Daystar" a few years back.  In fact, SOTD was originally written because of that competition.  Didn't win, but that's ok; the book went through major revisions since then.)

I've also been looking up some interesting blogs.  http://www.authorhaven.blogspot.com/ is one of them.  It has an interesting post about building a platform up right now.  The owner of "authorhaven" is also soon to be a published author, come 2011.  Check out her website to learn more.   At her other blog here, there's a good post about Publishing Christian Fantasy in Today's World and Market.  I was a bit inspired and discouraged at the same time after reading it... but discouraged in a very good and wholesome way.  I would definitely suggested reading it to all of my followers; it's very good.

On another note, if you haven't already checked out http://www.createspace.com/, now is as good a time as any to do so.  It's a POD publisher for authors who would like to self publish.  It doesn't cost anything, but it does take a bit out of an author's "royalty" as compensation for publishing costs.  This means that every time someone buys your book, you get some and they get some, and depending on what your set list price is, you may get more than they do or vise-versa.  But all in all it's an intriguing site, and after seeing the success of T'aragam, I've been considering it.

Well, that's all for now.  I've finished reading Cynder's Midnight but don't have a review written up so I'll have to work on that while I'm in Colorado.  I'm come back with pictures form the trip.

Until then, Live, Laugh, Love... WRITE!

I'll see you all later.

Nichole

Book Review: Auralia's Colors

Books are very special things. There are thousands upon millions of them, yet each person has their own preference and each book has a different meaning for different people. Books draw us in with their titles, lure us to their shelves with intriguing cover art, and pique our interest with the exciting promise of a new adventure. Once opened, books can take us anywhere, wrapping us up in their enthralling pages, weaving us into the tapestry of their stories.


As an avid reader, I’m always looking for an exciting story that is well written and that draws me in from the beginning. Usually I can tell whether a book will be good (or bad) after I’m finished with the first chapter (which is why it is so important for writers to make absolutely sure that the first few chapters of their books are written well. :D)

In this case, “Aralia’s Colors” truly exceeded my expectations: I could hardly put it down. (And that is really saying something!) Rarely does a book weave a tapestry so vibrant and intriguing as in Jeffrey Overstreet’s “Auralia strand”, the title of his first fantasy series.

I was introduced to the book via reviews on the internet.  Intrigued by the discription of the book, I decided to find the book and read it for myself.  I was not disapointed.

From the very first page I was immediately transported into a world so vivid that I hardly wanted to return to my own.  Overstreet uses Third person Omnicient POV, but he also has a destinctive narrative voice.  This isn't a bad thing.  If there is one thing I've learned from writing, it's that as much as a writer wants to show the reader everything that happens in a scene, the writer still considers themself a story teller.  There is nothing wrong with this, and if a writer is good at thier craft, a certain essence of narration often adds a valuable element to the story rather than taking away from it.

After reading this book, I am willing to admit that I will probably never look at this world the same way again.  I'm not exagerating when I say that something about how this story is worded opened my eyes to a world of wonder; I will always be searching for the colors that Auralia was so adept at finding, even in the simplest things.

In the story, Auralia was found as a baby by two old men, supposed criminals cast out of House Abascar’s walls to be Gatherers. They discovered her by a river and inside a giant footprint. As a little girl, Auralia proved to be very different from the other orphans issued to the Gatherer’s for care; she was very secretive and didn’t seem to mind being along. But perhaps the most intriguing thing about her was her fascination with colors. She could find them anywhere: in the glint of the sun on a raven’s black wing, in the fur of a viscrocat, even in the rain, or in the stones on the ground. And each color she found made her want to find more. She started making things with the vibrant colors she’d come across, little trinkets and pieces of clothing to show her thanks to the gatherers who took care of her. However, in House Abascar, colors are a forbidden privilege saved only for honors and royalty. Auralia laughes at such a thought as forbidden colors, for who can forbid what the whole world flashes for its people to admire? She keeps on with her weavings, watching for the footprints on the Keeper, a creature said to be only in children’s nightmares, but whom she knows is meant to protect them.

Auralia’s gift with colors opens many eyes to the wonders around them including the eyes of a prince, a magician, and a hard-hearted king. But colors like these are a danger in themselves, and Auralia’s gift may bring about the restoration of the sad House Abascar… or the ruin of it.

Jeffrey Overstreet, the author of “Auralia’s Colors” is (in my opinion) a master in the craft of storytelling. I wouldn’t call what he does “Writing” so much as I would call it “Painting with words”. It’s difficult to describe the book otherwise. His prose are like poetry, and his use of metaphors and similies make Auralia’s world seem absolutely magical.

One of the aspects of this book that I find most intriguing and surprisingly refreshing is the easy shift from one person’s POV to the next, which is not to be mistaken for the use of the all omniscient point of view. Overstreet uses Third Person Omniscient POV consistently throughout the entire book while also telling the stories of several different characters simultaneously.

To be honest, I could not decide on which character was the most important after I had finished reading the book. I also debated with myself as to whether or not Auralia's Colors were a character unto themselves. The story in itself is more prominantly about how Auralia’s gift with colors affects everything and everyone around her, than it is about letting the reader really get to know her and get inside her head.   In fact, she remains a kind of “special mystery” throughout the entire book.

Because of Overstreet’s unique choice of style and voice, we get to read into the lives of several significant characters, including the Prince of Abascar, an Ale Boy with a secret past that he can’t remember, a guard’s daughter, and the King of Abascar himself, while we follow the lives of Auralia and her guardians at the same time. Each life we read into seems to have an equal amount of weight and importance that it adds to the story. One might even say that the book has three main characters instead of one, because the story is as much about Prince Cal-Raven and the Ale Boy, as it is about Auralia and her Colors.

I give this book five stars out of five, and can’t wait to read the rest of the series.

When Inspiration Comes A-Knocking, the Best Thing to do is Open the Door

Last night was just an ordinary night when I sat down at my keyboard. The hard copy of “Song of the Daystar” sat beside me on the desk in its neat red folder, my purple editing pen and idea-ballpoint lying on top. I glanced at it, turned back to my blank screen, opened my documents and scrolled through my options. Did I want to start something new, or work on something old? I was growing tired of editing, re-editing, questioning myself, going back and editing yet again. I wanted to write. Several documents flickered up in front of my face, each with potential but each one denied. I wanted to work on something I’d started before, something that I could get excited about… but I just couldn’t decide what.


Then it happened.

The folder was several years old, covered with several layers of digital dust from not being opened in so long. The labeled documents inside promised glimpses at old ideas, excerpts that were cut, snatches of song lyrics and poetry for the book, a half-composed attempt at a language, and other such creations expelled from a young writer’s mind.

But halfway down the folder, it was there, staring me in the face, beckoning me with the promise of adventure. I hadn’t opened it in so long, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect; four years ago I’d only managed a few chapters worth of revision before I stopped to pour all my writing efforts into “Song of the Daystar”.

I clicked the document open, scrolled down to the last scene I’d revised and…

Started to type!

I couldn’t believe it; four years on the shelf, and then quite suddenly and unexpectedly the story that had begun my love of writing had drawn me back in again. I swear my keyboard smoked as my fingers flew over its keys. It was all coming back to me: the characters’ personalities, their problems, their world. I could see the map in my mind's eye, could hear the trees whispering to the shadows that haunted their woods, the mountains’ rumbling song, the vast ocean’s quiet lullaby as the rivers rolled down to meet it on the shore.

I was back.

I never imagined it to happen that way. After I finished the revision of “Song of the Daystar” I’d thought I might go back and give one or two of my stories a once-over, see if any of them were calling my name. None of them seemed to be. I thought about this project – the one I’d titled “Eldrie” so long ago – but at the time the long and tedious hours of revising held no appeal; Eldrie’s rough draft was long and complicated, and, true to a first draft’s nature, very, very rough.

But now…

I can’t help but get excited over it. It’s like I’m stepping back into myself all over again (not that SOTD wasn’t a part of me too.) And its good to have something I can get excited over while I try to pen-in my frustrations with the cruel publishing world. When I told my mother of my unexpected joy, she just smiled and said, “Then you must know it’s time to start working on it again.” She’s been telling me to finish the revision for years.

And all of this just goes to show that when inspiration comes knocking, you’d better not let it stand out in the cold; hurry up and open that door!

Why I Write What I Do

It's a really big question when you think about it:

"Why do you write the way you do, in the genre that you do?"

If I were to answer that question off-hand, I'd probably just say, "Because it's a part of who I am."  And it is; oh, it is!  It is so much a part of me that I don't even think about it any more.  But if I were to break it down?  If I were to really take that question apart, think about it, muse over it while savoring every word and wondering what it means to me deep down?  What would I answer then?

Most of you know that I love fantasy.  I do.  I love it.  And I know a lot of writers who also enjoy fantasy (and science fiction, and a load full of other genres).  Because I love this genre so much, my writings tend to be based in this genre, and if I were to ask such a question to a writer who's genre was horror or mystery, the answer would be worlds different.

As a fantasy writer asking myself this question, I don't have to look far to find my answer: it just takes a little time.

I write fantasy because it is the genre that I feel the most free in.  Not only free in writing it, but free in reading it as well.  Fantasy is the singular genre where there are no pre-assumptions attached. 

Right about now the Science Fiction Lovers are going to pop in and start hitting me with their keyboards and paperback books (paperbacks because hopefully they aren't aiming to kill me...  and if you are aiming to kill me, please get it over with quickly and as painlessly as possible.

Anyone grabbing at their bookshelves to chuck their latest find at my head?

No?

Good!  *phew!*)

But I'm totally serious here.

Romance books are expected to have romance in them.

Horror must be scary.

Mystery has to have a secret or an question that just must be answered.

Even in Science Fiction a reader usually assumes it has something to do with space, or at least technology, and there is almost always an explanation for anything supernatural.

But with fantasy there are no such pre-assumptions.  A fantasy book can easily tie together romance, horror, mystery, and technology all in one book and in no particular order... and you never know if the next book you read in the genre will be similar or different by a thousand worlds.

As a writer, I like that.  In fact, I like it a lot.  If I sit down to write fantasy, I don't have to know exactly where the story is set or how it will end.  I don't have to have a certain element in it that makes it the genre that it is (although most people believe that there must be some form of magic in the book to make it fantasy... which isn't necessarily true.)  I don't even have to have done any research, or be any smarter than the average Joe working two part time jobs to make a living... I just have to write.

And my story can take me anywhere!

Now, if you write or read some other genre, know now that I am not trying to convert you!  The most important thing is that you write the genre that fits you best... the genre that you feel "free" in.

That is why I write what I write.  (That, and a complicated childhood back story.  :D)

And in honor of my favorite genre and my love for writing it, here's an excerpt from the novel I started for Nanowrimo last year.  It's from chapter 12 titled "Voices in the Trees".  It's still pretty rough, but it's also one of my favorite scenes
***

Ganeff turned another corner, paused, and glanced around. His fingers moved nervously up and down the haft of his bow as he glanced from tree to tree.



What is going on here? he wondered to himself. This has never happened before.


He glanced behind him, then ahead again, and then from side to side.  It was no use: everything looked the same.


Lost?


The word floated skeptically through his mind. From his first lone romp into the woods to his final mission as an apprentice pickpocket, he’d never gotten lost in Rover’s Wood; never! But then again, he’d swear he’d never even seen this part of the wood before, let alone stepped foot in it.


Perhaps if I turn around, I can track my own footsteps and they will lead me out again. But upon turning, he discovered that his footprints were not there. Dead vegetation covered the dear trail he’d followed, and it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in ages. The trail itself was gone as though the bushes had picked themselves up and moved to cover his only known way back.

Something shimmered in the corner of his eye and then was gone. He spun quickly, searching for the light. There it was again, but coming from a different direction. And again… only that time it was a different color.


Ganaff fingered the string of his bow, his free hand already slipping to the quiver at his side. What sort of devilry is this? He wondered.


There again! The light flashed and then was gone, green this time. Then again, a purplish hue. But now when he looked around he noticed that it was not just one light; thousands upon thousands of them flashed around the trees, up in the foliage and through the underbrush, blinking different colors into existence before vanishing once more. The forest was alive with them.


Only once before had Ganeff seen such a spectacle, when he and Aura had been sent to Thatcher’s Corner to investigate the rumors of ghost lights spreading throughout the forest’s inhabitants. Weapons had seemed useless against the lights then. He let his finger slowly brush by the lip of his quiver and back to his side.


A soft breeze flitted through the trees like a quiet ripple of laughter.


Come and catch me if you can!


Ganeff started at the voice, spinning around to see the speaker. There was no one there; just the lights and the laughing wind.


Come and play, Ganeff! You’re it! Try to catch me!


A few yards ahead of him, between the gaps of two tall maples, a swirl of golden light transformed itself into a hand. It beckoned towards him with long, elegant fingers before shattering into a thousand pieces and darting away among the shadows.


Ganeff ventured a step forward. A breeze rattled the branches of the trees as the laughter rippled through the air again.


Come and play with me!


“I’m coming,” Ganeff called to the empty air, and pushed his way through some thorny brambles to the place where the hand had been. Perhaps following the lights wasn’t the very best idea he had, but it was better than being totally and completely disoriented among trees that he’d never seen before.


“I’m going to catch you!”

The words seemed silly to him, but he could think of nothing else to say. Another wave of childish laughter ran through the trees. A few yards farther along, the lights converged again and another hand waved towards him before vanishing.


Ganeff chased after them, twisting and turning through the underbrush to follow the elusive lights as they darted every which way through the trees. Every few minutes another hand would appear; the trees’ laughter grew with each step forward until the whisper had become a voice, and the voice had become a song, and the song urged him forward with each step. The words of the song were strange to him, sung by a sweet childish voice. There seemed to be no particular melody to it, but the nonsense lyrics conjured pictures in his mind until he was almost sure he could understand the words.


Shuttle and loom go ‘clickle, clack'
Sting runs through and is pushed back
Patience is a virtue learned
Young fingers spin the wheel a turn
Round it goes, and round again
Each rotation one year’s end
‘Til Hair once dark is silver spun
Upon a wheel where stories run
String that ages, string that binds
String that frees the caged mind
In and out she weaves the years
Silent silver fall her tears
Ancient loom to be her cage
Ties the artist in her age
Bound eternity to spin
Weaving lives she can’t be in
Until one rises to take her place
Before the world should fall to waste


A life of stories, none the same
A work she loves, but cannot claim
A thousand years, or maybe more
Before a girl will come to her
A girl as ignorant as a child
Though fire hides within her, wild
Sit her down; the loom will tame her
Fate has come: the Tale has claimed her
Old one, teach her how to weave
New tapestries before you leave
An oracle whose gift once hidden
Comes to light before it’s bidden
Weave anew the fraying threads
Before dark might brings all to end


Suddenly the music stopped and, as if coming out of a trance, Ganeff looked about him. He was standing at the edge of a clearing. The colorful lights darted back and forth over the grasses, disappearing momentarily, reappearing the next minute.


Have you come then?  The voice was soft as if the very wind had breathed the words. Have you come to play?


“I have.”


The trees rustled with the laughing breeze as the lights dashed into the middle of the clearing, their many colors flushing gold. A woman’s voice trilled a rapid scale of notes, both terrifying and lilting at the same time. Ganeff let his fingers drift towards the hilt of his throwing knife, gulping back the terror he could feel welling up in his chest. He went to take a step back, but found that his feet were frozen in place; he couldn’t move!


The lights converged in the very center, drifting in a long, lazy spiral around the space where the strange voice seemed to come from. The voice grew louder, joined by another: a man’s this time. Their song filled the clearing with a strangely beautiful yet dissonant harmony the likes of which Ganeff had never heard uttered from the throat of any bard before. As the notes of the song escalated, the golden spiral spun faster and faster, swirling in patterns of wild abandoned, growing tighter the faster they spun until there was no space left between one line of gold and the next. Their brilliance became unbearable to look at. Ganeff squinted his eyes to try and shut out some of the light, but found he couldn’t close them completely. He had no control over them; they simply would not obey him!


Suddenly the light burst into a thousand starry pieces and Ganeff felt like the blunt end of a stick had been thrust into his stomach. He doubled over, lifting his head to squint through the haze of drifting light. A tall man and woman stepped out of the air and glanced around. The woman’s mouth was opened in song. Her voice seemed to give life to sapphire swirls of light which floated from her lips and away into the trees. The man held her hand gently, as if it were made of glass and could break in an instant; his lips were closed, but a haunting harmony still drifted from his throat; Ganeff could see it. The lines of harmony were a rich and vibrant purple. Shimmering gold lights flickered in the purple haze like the notes on a music staff.


But as strange as the colorful haze of music seemed drifting from their lips like living beasts, what seemed an even stranger sight were the set of massive wings flowering out from the two being’s backs, towering above their heads like giant and beautiful guardians: the man’s wings were the color of ink and smoke with veins of red as bright as newly spilt blood tracing their way from tip to tip; the woman’s wings were a deep sapphire, gilded with patches of gold and with veins of silver filigree swirling through the blue in intricate patterns. She glanced over her shoulder, fluttered them twice, and smiled. As the music faded away, she turned her smile on her escort.


“You were right, Creon; it does feel good to have my feet planted in the rich soil of this earth again. I had nearly forgotten how the full the air seems of song and life.”


The man called Creon nodded, glancing around the clearing. “Yes, the Tale has favor on the beings of this land. But try to remember, my dear, that we are here for a purpose that must be fulfilled ere we return to your kingdom, and we must not overstay our welcome.” His eyes finally sought out Ganeff standing in the shadows on the edge of the trees. “Ah. There he is. Just as you foretold.” He broke his grip on the woman’s hand and walked towards the boy. As he walked, his feet barely seemed to touch the ground.


“There is who, my love?” asked the woman. It took her a few minutes longer before her eyes finally settled on Ganeff. She looked him up and down, as if uncertain about something. Her pale blue eyes became worried. “Are you sure, dear? He looks so slight, as if he is only half shadow himself: unsubstantial like a Breeze Daughter. I do not doubt a single blow from your lips would knock him to the ground twice his own length from where he stands.”


Creon glanced over his shoulder, something between a smile and a sneer working the corners of his mouth. “He is slight indeed,” he said, “but do not be fooled by him; the Tale has granted the inhabitants of this world the gift of endurance, and of the Tale’s other gifts, frailty is not among them.”


Ganeff opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a single word, Creon waved his speech away. “Be still, Earth Child. We are granted but little time to speak with you, and there is much to be said. But first, answer me this: are you the guardian of Aura, Light Spinner?”


“Who?”


“You see?” said the woman, gliding towards them. “He is dazed; our words do not make sense to him.”


Ganeff drew himself taller. “I understand you,” he said, “but I don’t know who you’re talking about. The Aura I know is a spinner of nothing unless it is a story of questionable origin. I don’t know what a light spinner is.”


The woman chuckled lightly, pale white hands flying to her lips to modestly hide her mirth. “Perhaps you are right my dear,” she said to Creon. “He is not as fragile as he looks: it would seem his substance lies in a sharp tongue rather than in his body.”


Creon frowned. “My dear, you are insulting him.” Then to Ganeff, “Come and join us.”


Ganeff didn’t have much choice. The tall man grabbed him by the hand and pulled him out into the open before he could say a word. With a wave of his hand, thousands of colorful flickers danced around Creon’s palm. He studied them for a few minutes before shoeing them away. Unabashed by the dismissive gesture, the lights converged several feet away into two separate spirals: when they broke apart again, two thrones sat in the middle of the clearing, one silver set with onyx and ruby, the other gold set with sapphire and diamond. The lady made her way over to her throne and sat in it, bouncing slightly in her seat as though she were a child.


Creon stopped Ganeff in front of the thrones. “Stay here,” he ordered before walking over to the silver throne. The lady straightened herself as he approached. At a nod from him, she flicked her wrist and white staff appeared in her hands. Ganeff tried to hide his surprise, though he was sure they could see it reflected in his eyes. The lady waved the staff over a pile of leaves that stood beside her thrown.


Ganeff blinked, then blinked again. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He closed his eyes and shook his head, but when he opened them again, he could not deny the fact. Where, a moment before, nothing had stood, now a golden loom was slowly fading into view. Before it was even complete, the lady picked up the shuttle and began gently sliding it between the warp and weft threads.


Clickle, clack. Clickle, clickle, clack.


Her fingers moved so swiftly through the strings, that they shimmered as they moved. A tapestry was slowly being built, but Ganeff couldn’t quite make out the picture just yet.


Creon nodded to the lady but then turned to Ganeff.


“Young man, do you know why you stand before us today in the presence of both Fae and Faeling?”


Ganeff shook his head, his curly hair tumbling down into his eyes. His knife and bow, long forgotten, hung limp in his fingers. “I became lost,” he answered simply.


“Lost, yes!” sang out the lady. “Lost among tree shadows. Lost while searching for something… while searching for a friend. This is true, is it not?” Her fingers flew over the loom.


Clickle, clack. Clickle, clack.


“I was looking for Aura.”


“Aura.” Creon’s eyes were trained on him. “The girl who is the key to everything. The girl who could change the world forever… or break it on a whim.”


“I’m not sure we’re talking about the same…”


“But we are,” Creon interrupted. “Your friend, the Light Spinner."  At Ganeff's questioning gaze, Creon sighed impatiently.  "You say she has a gift for telling stories. Do you know why she is so gifted?”


This time Ganeff didn’t move, waiting for the answer to come to him instead. He’d made a fool enough of himself to answer right away.


As the lady spun, she began to sing:


Little girl whose gifts are hidden
Child of light, whose flame is cloaked
Stories spill from you unbidden
Mischief by your heart is stoked
You who wander field and water
Hide your talent by a mask
For all know the Rover’s daughter
Mustn’t find her father’s past

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ganeff asked. “The only gift that Aura has is an overactive imagination that keeps getting her into trouble. That’s why I’m out looking for her… and what does Rogue Quince have to hide?”


But the lady just laughed and continued to weave.


Seek the Spinner, seek and find her
Guardian of half-wove dreams
She is with those who would mind her
Teaching her the way of things
Heed my song, ye brave young warrior
Lest thy heart is clove in twain
For Aura’s life is bound by thread now
Never to be freed again.


Life is light, and she the Spinner
Stories roll from off each finger


Wove in chord, in string, in thread
That cannot be undone again


The pen is mightier than the sword
The Tale has penned its lasting word.


Ganeff scowled. “Why do you speak only in riddles?” he demanded. “Are you trying to confuse me with your worthless songs? You have told me nothing.”


“Be still.” Creon commanded. “The Lady’s song is prophetic; you would be wise to heed her words, even if you lack the understanding of them.” He waved a hand and flickers of light immediately darted to it. He held it out for Ganeff to see. “Do you recognize her?”


Ganeff leaned closer to see it better. In the middle of the ball of light, there was a face. He recognized it at once.


“That’s Aura!” he shouted but Creon shook his head.


“It is not,” the Fae Lord said. “Look again.”


Ganeff peered at the picture again. It was Aura; he could recognize her face anywhere, but…


Something was slightly wrong with this picture, though the differences were so subtle that he hardly noticed at first. In this picture, the face looked older, more mature than Aura’s did. On yet a third glance he realized that it wasn’t Aura at all. The person in the picture had lips the perfect color and shape of a rose bud, and her thick hair was almost black rather than just dark brown, falling over her shoulder in curly torrents: Aura’s hair was straight.


And her eyes… the lady’s eyes were the most captivating part of the picture. Aura’s eyes were strange and beautiful, but they almost seemed dull in comparison with these. The eyes in the picture weren’t dark brown like so many other rovers’ eyes; they weren’t the color of emeralds, like the gypsy rovers from the north, nor were they the flashing brilliant blue color that made Aura’s eyes so mysterious. These eyes were Violet, a purple so pure that it was its own primary color. And deep within the purple irises, flecks of gold gilded the rims like fireflies caught in a net.


Ganeff had only seen a picture like this once before, and then, too, he had at first mistaken the girl for Aura. But he’d soon learned the truth.


“Th-that’s Aura’s Mother,” he stammered.

Quantum Inspirations

I’ve been reading the Second book of Bryan Davis’ “Echoes on the Edge” series, titled “Eternity’s Edge”. For those of you who don't already know, Echoes on the Edge is a book series written by the author of the bestselling series "Dragons in our Midst". I've only just started reading “Eternity’s Edge”. (Haven't read the first book yet, but that's what you get for buying books at a Goodwill).

Anyway, I'll try to cut to the chase.

Reading his book last night while winding down from a busy day, I found myself totally enthralled with the idea of different dimensions being opened through music, which is the evident theme for the book. Music has always been an important part of life; it affects everything, from my mood in the car, to my writings, and even the way I talk at times. To me, the thought of Music affecting not just my mood, but also dimensions of time and space is absolutely riveting. Enchanting. Alluring. Absolutely Inspiring.

So, like a good daughter, I decided to talk to my mom about it. And do you want to know what she said?

Mom: Yeah, I've known about that for awhile. It's called Quantum Physics.

Well, you'd think I'd have thought of that beforehand!

But my denseness aside, I still think it is a wonderful idea. Really! I’m already convinced that God must be a singer, or else why would music affect human kind so entirely? Even Lucifer was the lead worshiper in heaven before his head got too big and he decided to make himself into something he wasn’t.

God loves music. He really does. A few years back while watching the Trinity Broadcasting Network (or TBN), they were doing a program on crickets: crickets of all things! But what they actually did was record a cricket chirping at regular speed and then slowed the recording down for human ears. The results were astounding. Slowed down to the frequency of a normal human’s ears, the chirping became a beautiful heavenly symphony. Even crickets are God’s worshipers!

“… Even the very stones will cry out…”

Yes, they will!

According to an article my mom was reading to me on the Elijah List a few months back, scientists have now proven that music can change the course of different events.

This stuff is astounding people! God is so amazing!!! And it opens up all sorts of interesting questions for my overly active mind to mull over.

What if, instead of speaking things into being, He sang them into existence? What if music really is the essential key to the secrets to the dimensions of time and space? What if musical notes played or sang in the correct order really could open the door to a new world, or close the door to an old one?

I feel excitement build in my chest every time I think of it! The possibilities are endless. I simply must go and write.

And that’s exactly what I’m planning to do. I’ve started planning out another book titled either “The Keeper” or “Guardian”. Both simple titles for a relatively complicated idea. I won’t bother with the details just yet as I’m only just starting to sketch them out. But as the theory of Quantum Physics is relatively well known worldwide, I figured I would share the wonder of the idea with you, my faithful readers.

And I also want to challenge those who are willing to write a short story based on this theory and post it in this thread. It should be interesting to see what you come up with. :)