Trattora is a young girl in training to succeed her adoptive father as the chieftainess of a primitive tribe of hunter-gatherer humans living on a mostly ignored planet in a seldom-traveled part of the galaxy. She desperately wants to know where she is from, but she has no clues except for a bracelet with her name and birthdate inscribed on it, which she was found with. Trattora, with an inclination towards risky behavior and a yen to visit the Nethersphere, as she calls the space between planets, soon finds herself embroiled with oremongers who have a particular interest in her planet. She moves from disaster to disaster, complication to complication, all the while trying to both save her adoptive tribe from an immediate threat and discover what she can about her origins.

Hinkens’ writing drew me in immediately. She conveys a wide, rich universe with motivated characters who work for their goals, and creates conflict in meaningful ways. Although the book includes some typical YA tropes — teenagers on a quest to save the world, no responsible or trustworthy adults in sight, too smart for their own good — Hinkens manages to use every bit of story to engross the reader and catch them up in a whirlwind of tension and zigzagging plot lines.

If you enjoy science fiction and young adult books such as Cinder by Marissa Meyer, The Thief by Megan Whalen Turner, or Brandon Sanderson’s YA books, you will definitely enjoy Girl of Fire.

I rate it for 14 and up on the Aardvark scale for physical violence and peril.

I received a complimentary copy of this book in order to review it.

Girl of Fire by Norma Hinkens was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

3

Seated at his desk some hours later, Baxter’s pen scratched at a sheet of stationery, and he made a mental note to replace it soon.

“… but were I to allow myself that luxury even in my dreams, Susan, I would say that sometimes I think I detect a hint of impatience in R’s manner towards the little proprieties of this life. Certainly, it would have shaken anyone’s mental fortitude to withstand the rabbling hordes of Vilificent; however, he very nearly declined to wear the proper tie at the funeral. I have never seen him with a less than immaculate jacket and collared shirt, but I have, though you may find it difficult to believe, occasionally had the impression that he was lingering in the neighborhood of some of the baser types of apparel shops. He has a drawer which he keeps locked, and I have a suspicion that there is a selection of denim and knit street clothing in there. I will not abuse our relationship by prying further than I am invited, but if anything along that front should develop, I shall of course keep you informed.

“As to other matters, I was pleased to receive your account of Jeffrey’s success in the way of paper airplane construction. Please inform him that when I next visit, I intend to reveal to him my own method of creating a Grumman F4F Wildcat at an accurate scale.”

Baxter carefully sealed up the envelope containing his latest missive to his sister. Susan was one of the few people who knew of Mr. Reynold’s hobby. Indeed, she had been distinctly in the forefront during one of the first escapades Baxter had participated in. Since that time she had married and settled down in a cottage which had been constructed over the site of Maliguel’s Cavern. Root cellars are not cheap, as Susan very well knew.

Putting the envelope aside for tomorrow’s post, Baxter glanced at his gold pocket watch. As Mr. Reynold was out with friends this evening, Baxter felt himself free to peruse a few incunabulae that he had previously marked in the library. Mr. Reynold had an extensive library in his mansion, and greatly enjoyed both the reading of these books and the prestige of owning many of the collectors items which he had purchased over the years. Baxter’s personal knowledge of Mr. Reynold’s finances was limited to the budgets he was responsible for, but he estimated his employer’s annual revenue to be somewhere above the gross national income of a small country, for Mr. Reynold to afford as many rarities as he did.

Baxter had been nicely settled with an ancient illuminated text and a cautious cup of tea for nearly half an hour when he heard the faint sound of music playing at a distance, and felt the subtle pressure of an active subwoofer. His watch chimed a single, clear tone. He sighed, and carefully replaced the book on the shelf. Carrying his tea, he walked back to the kitchen area and past the pantry to his nook. He raised the shade covering the back wall to reveal a screen on the wall. It was lit up with a kaleidoscope of color and an icon was blinking in the lower right hand corner. Baxter touched the icon and spoke to the computer.

“Yes, sir? How may I assist you?”

“Abacot, I need seven cocktails and a tray of various … Oh, you know. I’m entertaining some friends down in the Plangentarium.”

“Yes, sir. I shall be down shortly.”

5

Seven minutes and some odd seconds later, Abacot descended in the secret lift, his mask securely attached, with a large tray containing a selection of small sandwiches and finger foods, drinks and their various components, and a bucket of ice. He maneuvered it through the silently sliding doors and out onto a parapet. The deck-like structure had no visible exit aside from the elevator, and contained four bistro tables, an array of patio chairs, and six people. The view from the railing, which was approximately 20 feet from the wall where the lift extruded, was dim, and yet somehow spectacular. Although there was moderate lighting over the tables, the only lights currently illuminating the rest of the cavern were several rows of pinpoint small lights that extended outward from the deck, coming to a point in the distance and seeming to disappear into the void beyond. This gave the impression of a never-ending horizontal abyss, and The Panjandrum was quite proud of it.

Three ladies in fancy evening dress and two other gentlemen in tuxedos were scattered in various chairs, their identities all hidden behind masks, and in one extravagant case a feathered green concoction which showed only the eyes. They turned towards Abacot as he extended the legs of the tray he held and placed it in the center of the circle of tables. There were six cocktails already prepared, which he distributed around the guests and master, and then he stepped back to stand nearly against the wall. His clothing was impeccably black, and except for the bright white of cuffs and half-mask, he would have been practically invisible against the ebony rock which made up the walls of the cavern. Unfortunately, Baxter’s red-blonde hair did not lend itself to innocuous lurking against black backgrounds. Irish ancestry was a mixed blessing at times.

The Great The Panjandrum smiled at his guests, ivory teeth flashing behind his sepia-toned skin, and gestured towards the edibles. “Can I offer you any other refreshment?” He wore a blood red tuxedo jacket over black shirt and pants, with a satiny black pocket square and red domino mask. Subtle red embroidery teased the eyes of his guests, flickering in and out of visibility as the light shimmered over his large frame. Flexible matte black dancing shoes completed his ensemble, lending a cast of athleticism for anyone who failed to note the wiry muscles underneath his clothing.

The tall woman with the peacock-feathered mask and a brilliant blue and aquamarine dress which flowed in waves to the floor held her glass delicately at the stem, raising it in a toasting gesture. Abacot recognized her as a frequent visitor to The Panjandrum’s estate. Her long gloves, full mask, and high-collared dress prevented any sliver of skin from showing past the costume, leaving only her distinctive blue-green eyes and riotously curling black hair as clues to her identity.

“I should like to propose a toast, O Great The Panjandrum. To Friendship! May it always be paramount among us, and nothing divide these comrades in arms.”

The Panjandrum gave a nod of his head in appreciation, and downed the glass. “Shall I ask whether you are speaking to an ideal, Marine? Or do you anticipate a sudden spasm of confidence to cause us to all unmask?”

Marine sipped at her drink, slightly raising the draped veil covering the lower half of her face in order to bring it to her hidden lips. She chuckled in response to The Panjandrum’s comment, filmy fabric shifting with each breath. “My toast refers to the ongoing health of our relationships, rather than any push to guilt anyone into revelations beyond their current comfort level. I should no more expect you to unmask than I would expect Abacot here to start clucking like a chicken or suddenly throw a pastry in one of your guests’ faces.”

The Panjandrum laughed aloud. “And yet, madam, although my good Abacot here has never done nor shall ever, I trust, think of doing the latter, he has performed the former function for me. And admirably. There is no one whose creature impersonations I should sooner trust.”

“Then perhaps, my dear The Panjandrum, there is hope for an unmasking yet.” Marine turned to one of the other gentlemen in the room. “How about you, Beau, can we hope to learn your true identity? Or by which face will you greet us tonight?”

The fair-haired young man in the denim jeans and plaid button-down shirt grinned back below his golden half-mask and cowboy hat. His belt held a holster with a ’51 Navy Colt at his hip. “I don’t think I’m ready for that, yet. I’m having too much fun to throw aside all pretense at pretense.” Belle, the silver-bewigged and silver-masked girl sitting next to him, giggled slightly. “I have to agree with Beau, of course. Although I don’t do barnyard noises, I’m still a side-kick.” Her bare feet and hands showed the callouses of a gymnast, silver leggings and a securely fastened wrap-around top completing her monochrome outfit.

The other two members of the group, a black-haired girl in black dress and black mask with cherry red lipstick and a gentleman in a navy blue suit with a simple brown leather mask nodded in agreement. “We have nothing to gain by being precipitate.” The bass voice of Azrael resounded deeply through the echoing cavern after the giggles of the silver Belle. Scarlet said nothing, merely taking a seat in one of the deck chairs and crossing her legs underneath the black slit skirt, her red patent leather pumps gleaming sullenly in the shadows.

Throughout the conversation Baxter had stood quietly with his back to the wall, his breathing barely noticeable. He had allowed neither his curiosity at the new tack Marine was taking nor his amusement at the recollection of the chicken incident to crack his exterior stolid demeanor. Complete innocuity was his goal, and he knew he was near to accomplishing it when Scarlet leaned over towards Azrael. She whispered what was meant for his ears alone, not realizing Abacot was near enough to hear her. While The Panjandrum began to show Belle how to operate the searchlights in the cavern, illuminating in turn his various vehicles and special containment and operations quarters below, the conversation between these two taciturn guests was crystal clear to Baxter.

“Az, why are we here? I thought we were breaking this off.”

“Well, I was going to talk to you previously, but this whole party was brought together so quickly I didn’t have a chance.” Azrael glanced at Marine, who was indulgently watching Belle and The Panjandrum, and then at Beau, who was engaged in sampling the hors d’oeuvres Abacot had carried in earlier.

“We can’t afford to lose our standing with The Panjandrum. I thought we could talk to him about — ” he stopped, and lowered his voice, “but after last week, we can’t risk it.”

Scarlet frowned, pushing a strand of her loose hair back behind her ears. “I’m not happy with this. You know how dangerous it is to have these free-form meetings, all of us together.” She bit her lip. “I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s up to something.”

Azrael laughed softly. “He’s always up to something, Scarlet. That’s what keeps the job interesting.” He put his hand on her knee. “It’ll be okay. He won’t do anything too crazy. I’ve been working with him for nearly six years now, I know how his mind works.”

“I know.” Scarlet let her mouth relax. “I’m still concerned, though. Let’s please be careful. Don’t get in too deep.”

“I’ll be careful. But you know that reciprocity is what keeps us going around here. Otherwise, there’d be no meeting in the first place.”

“Ha. Well,I trust your intuition.” Scarlet cocked an eyebrow at Azrael. “Just don’t be stupid, okay?”

“Okay. But you really shouldn’t worry so much.” Azrael got up and moved over to the group surrounding the searchlight, leaving Scarlet sitting there with a worried look on her face. She took out her cell phone and began tapping something on the screen, ignoring the rest of the group.

“So, The Panjandrum,” Azrael’s voice boomed across the patio. ”Did you invite us here just to admire your view, or was there another reason?”

The Great The Panjandrum, still leaning close to Belle and gesturing out towards the far walls of the cavern, paused as he heard Azrael’s question.

Stepping back slightly from Belle, he stood upright and grinned.

“I thought no one would ever ask! Of course, I brought you here because I wanted to show off all the fancy equipment I have.” The Panjandrum bowed facetiously. “And to flaunt my complete trust in each of you. Or was it to flush out a … Nah, must be the trust bit.”

Scarlet raised a skeptical eyebrow, looking up from her phone.

Beau chuckled, and swiftly countered, “Oh, of course, and that’s why we just got through explaining why no one was going to remove his or her masks tonight. It’s all perfectly clear, now.” Silver Belle gave another clear giggle, twin to the one which had escaped her lips earlier.

The Panjandrum took the jibe in good humor. “To be honest, the reason I brought you all here tonight is that I have been thinking about something for a while now. And I’m hoping we can brainstorm a bit about how to put my plan into action.”

Abacot stepped forward and handed The Panjandrum a small silvery pointer, reminiscent of an old television remote control. The Panjandrum punched a series of commands into it, and the lighting in the cave changed.

Rows of bright halogen lights began to gleam along the black walls, and over head five large spotlights made popping sounds as they warmed up. The light levels in the cave slowly began to increase, and the rest of the room came into view. Marine gazed appreciatively at the seven vehicles below them, and Beau seemed to be taking a mental inventory of the computer equipment and technological gadgetry pushed against the lower walls.

The balcony they were on jutted out over a portion of the room below, so that some of the contents were hidden, but most of the cavern was spread out beneath their eager gazes. Only Scarlet maintained her frosty attitude in the face of The Panjandrum’s gleeful display.

Abacot activated the button on the elevator as The Panjandrum ushered his guests towards it. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me give you a bit more of a tour. Please descend with me to the actual working environment of The Panjandrum. When he’s at home, anyway. Welcome to the Plangentarium.”

“We all seem to work from home,” Marine smiled. “I guess it’s part of the job.”

When everyone was in the elevator, Abacot pressed the button labeled ‘Fundament.’ Belle squealed. “Finally, to see The Panjandrum’s Lair!” She excitedly clapped her hands.

The Great Panjandrum was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Courvosier Base, not even a pinprick of light when I q’d in, expanded below me, bigger and bigger, until I could see every detail of the dark foothold man had carved on Earth’s longsuffering companion globe. The long receiving funnel of the marnite storage, the bare, dusty acreage of the landing site, the gleaming black matte of the outer dome and the smaller atmosphere caps scattered around it in a Brownian field of dark pockmarks, nearly lost in the deep shadows and highlights of the cratered moon’s surface. They were all becoming familiar to me. Not quite a homecoming, but familiar.

“Send the ping, Clarence,” I said. My hail was immediately responded to by the automated attendant, which fed Clarence course info for the autopilot to follow. No driving allowed for me, except in the event of a full systems failure, at which point I would be all rights already be dead or unconscious.

Gryphon tumbled past my head, practicing his long jumps. Towards the end of our long trips, he always got a little antsy. We’d been out nearly an extra two weeks this trip, so my crazy patsy had been leaping from wall to wall for nearly a month. Three month stints were bad enough, but we’d run clear through my personal food stores and most of the company overstock this time around. Except for that final chocolate bar, still perched like a promise in its foil on top of my station shoes.

Now that we were within a five minute lag window, I determined it was as good a time as any to call Tim back.

He answered immediately.

“Korinne! We were worried about you, we heard you had some trouble with some military cargo.” His thin, lined face peered at the viewscreen slightly to the left of his console cam.

I responded with voice only, since I was saving my last clean uniform for my mandatory debrief after landing. “Hey, Tim. Yeah, we had some complications. I’ll put it all in my report.” I wasn’t ready to display the havoc Captain Android and his guards had wreaked on my ship’s interior, either. CPS was going to be presenting military insurance with a hefty claim, to be sure.

Courvosier Station was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

2

Boredom can be a great motivator. When you’re sitting doing nothing it can be one of three things: relaxing, irritating, or just simply, stolidly, mind-numbing. If you’ve been busy, and you’ve successfully completed a project, doing nothing for a while can be the best thing ever. Or if you are waiting for something to happen so that you complete an assigned task, then you spend the time fretting about who’s not doing what, why the situation won’t allow you to complete that task, or steadfastly avoiding said task. If any of these situations perseveres, however, eventually a normal human being will get fidgety, and start picking at his nails or chewing on the table, just to find something to occupy a bit of your manual and mental attention.

This musing was all that was occupying Theophilus Baxter, a.k.a. Abacot at the moment. That and wondering how long his arm muscles would be able to hold him upright, preventing the blood from rushing to his head and causing him to pass out. Even hanging from a hook over a pit full of scorpions can get old. The situation was untenable.

The hook that suspended him was attached to a rope tied firmly about his ankles, which was causing one leg to experience sharp nerve pain. Standing upright against the knot, while by far the most preferable position, was not amending that particular feeling. And lifting himself up with his arms to relieve the pressure only made it worse each time he had to rest and relax back against the rope, knotted as it was against a sensitive part of his ankle.

Fighting the urge to simply release the rope and allow himself to swing upside-down, possibly within reach of the poisonous arachnids below, Baxter cast about for something else to occupy himself. Finally, after an eternity, during which Baxter had calculated how many bricks lined the pit mathematically, and then checked his work by counting each, his earpiece buzzed.

“Abacot, you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, good. Hold on a bit, I’ve got to triangulate your location … Got it. The old scorpion pit, eh?”

“Correct, sir.”

“Be right there, don’t go anywhere.”

“No, sir.” Alone in the dim lighting, Abacot considered allowing himself to roll his eyes at Mr. Reynold’s sense of humor, but in the time it took to consider, the moment passed, and instead he flexed his burning arms yet again, his sweaty hands carefully grasping the large links of the chain above him.

There was a light jerk, and then Baxter began to slowly ascend.

The Great Panjandrum was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It comes as no surprise to some of us that a lack of sound nutrition education and loss of traditional home-based food preparation values have opened the gates to unhealthy habits. To some people, however, all of this is a surprise. So is it the responsibility of the food manufacturers (or in many cases the government at a federal level) to educate them via food packaging or other public means? Keep in mind that this is not a new problem; since public schools began the currently popular method of child education there has been a tug of war in regulatory circles to have healthy food versus profitable food available for school lunches. I think we all know who’s winning that one. The majority of publicly available information is misleading and contradictory at best, as you will have seen if you have any interest in self-improvement through diet and exercise.

Let’s consider possible causes of this problem. Should we blame corporations who are interested in turning a profit with value-added, cheap food products? Should we blame the government for accepting bribes and threats from lobbyists and changing the recommended daily allowances on food labels to reflect a preferred version of ‘reality’? Should we blame schools for accepting funds from soda manufacturers and fast food chains to supplement their menus? Should we blame television for showing our children brightly-colored and cheerful portrayals of sugary cereal and instant snack foods? Should we blame parents who expose their children to these influences and are then surprised when those children, true to their underdeveloped intellects, choose the easy, fun, tasty options over their dinner vegetables (if their dinner even includes vegetables!).

It’s easy to find something in that list to choose as your personal scapegoat, but would eliminating one or even all of those really prevent people from overconsumption? Human nature always seeks the path of lowest resistance. “There is a way that appears to be right, but in the end it leads to death.” (Proverbs 14:12) “The simple believe anything, but the prudent give thought to their steps.” (Proverbs 14:15) The Bible makes it clear that wisdom takes work and should be sought out. (Proverbs 2) Anyone who wants to make further study of gluttony or the human tendency towards sin and error can easily find a multitude of verses to convince them that people are unlikely to make good choices in their own strength.

This problem is not reserved for the physical diet, and it makes a good model for considering the effects of fiction in our lives. Do we rely on ratings, rules, and regulations to control what goes into our bodies through our ears and eyes? When did it become appropriate for anyone 13 and over to vicariously experience the roller-coaster of emotion in a movie where the goal of the hero and heroine is a hormonal connection with each other, in a fantasy world with unrealistic moral choices and consequences, because that’s how you know you found ‘the one?’ Why are ‘YA’ books full of themes of death, alternative sexuality, and self-empowerment through magic or rebellion, with parents artificially excluded or devoid of sense? Are middle-grade or children’s books promoting good values or the politically correct versions of tolerance and socialism that ‘educated’ people think we should strive for? (More on those air-quotes later!)

We’re sometimes too happy to let ourselves be lulled into a false sense of security with someone else’s opinion of what’s good for us and our children. Then we are upset or surprised when those opinions end up leading us astray. It should not be a surprise that just as sugar can be camouflaged in items marketed as ‘healthy,’ ideas can be deceptively costumed as attractive and enlightening.

When you concentrate on a particular work of fiction (whether written, audio, or visual), it changes how you interact with the world around you. Narratives can create feelings of tension, satisfaction, dissatisfaction, anger, sadness, and the list goes on. If you enjoy the feelings, you will seek to feel them again through similar stories, even to the detriment of your real relationships and spiritual life.

I have personally dealt with this issue in various forms throughout my life. A mental addiction. Addictive substances include drugs, sex, horror, other emotional titillation, vicarious or real feelings of power, adrenaline, etc. This can manifest as an insidious influence over my thoughts; one that changes my expectations for what love should feel like, causes me to feel superior to those around me and treat them poorly, or creates dissatisfaction with my life and reality itself. Continuous exposure eats away bit by bit at your spiritual and mental health, growing its mold over your principles and values under the guise of enlightenment or escapism.

Although I am concentrating on fiction here, non-fiction has the same pitfalls. It is impossible to avoid point of view when a limited person (i.e. not omniscient) is relaying what they see as fact.

Unless your addiction is to reading the Bible (nice job on that!), that someone is another fallen human with errors of perception and thought. It’s possible to learn and grow based on information from other humans, but they should never become your yardstick of morality or spiritual growth. It’s important to be careful what you allow into your mind and body, both.(Proverbs 4:23–27)

Anything that changes the priorities in your life because you just have to have it qualifies as an addiction. (See the definition of addiction.)

What do you allow to influence you?
How do you decide when something is too influential in your life?
How do you guard against bad influences?

Junk Food, or Unrealistic Expectations was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What do all of these ideas have in common? Prioritizing your writing. By extension, prioritizing your personal goals.

But I have several personal goals, and some of them definitely rate above writing. Being a good wife and mother, keeping myself and my family healthy, keeping the house livably clean, to name a few. In order to keep up with those personal goals, sometimes the goal of writing every day or getting something published have to be pushed down on the list.

To encourage myself, I consider several things:

Firstly, my life experience.

I’m already way past any spectacular ages at which to be published. Thanks to several young authors (yeah, I’m talking about you, Christopher Paolini), I’d have to be publishing around eight years old to be remarkable. So I can fall back on the fact that life experience can deepen and enrich my worldview and characterizations. Now I can write about married life, being a parent of young children, weight loss struggles, bad hair days, and housekeeping tribulations with an air of authority! But in all seriousness, the more exposure I have to life, and the more situations I encounter, my ability to imagine and portray characters in various life stages should only improve. No cookie-cutter gingerbread characters for me!

Secondly, increased general knowledge.

Even without specific study, I manage to pick up random information on a regular basis. Plus, I discover new areas to investigate. String theory? I don’t math that, but it’s fun to read about. Strange creatures? There are amazing plants and animals on earth, some of which I never heard of before. Medical conditions? Thanks to my friends and family (a little morbid humor here) I have more or less intimate knowledge of several fatal or serious illnesses and how they progress. Charming, I know. But the basic point is, that my knowledge continues to increase through my life. Until senility sets in, at least! Every book I read, even the fiction stories, contribute to my personal well of knowledge and imagination.

Thirdly, personal growth.

Putting my own ambitions and goals aside in order to deal with more immediate concerns develops my patience and other positive character traits. I work on tasks that seem never-ending, but contribute to quality of life and health for my family; I train my young child to have a good attitude about life; I concentrate on my marriage and personal relationships; I work out what my true goals are and how to reach them efficiently.

Fourthly, famous writers and their publication ages.

Did you know that Laura Ingalls Wilder wasn’t published until she was 65? You might assume that makes sense for someone writing a biography, until you consider that her books only take her own age up until around seventeen. She didn’t have to wait that long to write about her early life, surely! But although they are children’s books, her stories have a beautiful depth and tone to them that I can only assume was assisted by her own experiences as a parent and her deeper understanding of the situations from a mature point of view.

Terry Pratchett’s first Discworld novel was published at 35 — he did have other novels published before then, but I’ve also written other things before now. Nothing published, but I refuse to let that get me down!

At 45, J.R.R. Tolkien was finally convinced to professionally publish The Hobbit. Although he was academically and professionally involved in the literary world since at last 28, he took years to develop his world and writing style. Maybe I should make it a goal to have my first book published when I’m exactly 45!

All joking aside, even these few examples illustrate that there’s no reason an author at any age shouldn’t be successful. So I will continue to write when I can, develop my point of view, and live my life, with the expectation that when I’m ready to publish, I can pursue it whole-heartedly, knowing that in the meantime I’ve considered my priorities and given first place to the things that are most important in my life.

And let’s not discount or forget, in the midst of all of this discuss of how my writing may benefit from good priorities, the fact that I am honoring God with my obedience to Him in conducting myself in a way that makes good use of my time. God honors those who place themselves last, and He knows not only what I want in life, but what I will eventually have or not have.

If you yourself are struggling with trying to find a place to fit writing into your life, take courage. My mother waited through the childhood and twelfth-grade education of seven children, lasting about thirty years, before she could concentrate on her blogging and media empire. And now she can write with authority on subjects such as raising and disciplining children to become great adults, housekeeping, gardening on a slim budget and schedule, and much more.

You have time!

Writing Priorities was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Feald, what is it?” he said, coming out in a flurry of dressing gown and disturbed servants. “What’s happened”?
“I -” I began to sob, unable to stop long enough to form words. The captain of the guard had tried to get me to dismount, but I had refused, so he stationed a man by my horse to catch me if I fell off. My uncle lifted me off the horse, and I was too overwhelmed to object. Uncle Jereth carried me into the castle and to a side room, where he ordered hot broth and blankets, and stayed with me until I was able to calm down.

“Have a drink of water while they fetch the broth, my dear,” he said, and I gratefully took the cup from him.

“We have to go now,” I told him. “They have Elda, and if I’m not back by sunrise -” I felt my throat begin to constrict again, and concentrated on breathing deeply. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not making any sense. Vocsin was attacked. I think it was Rylans, I don’t know how things stand there. But Elda and I were away at the time, and Elda was carried off by a party of Kunnarians -”

“Kunnarians!” my uncle exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

“She — the Mage — she has a dragon. She said she wants to talk to the Queen, or she’ll let him eat Elda.”

My uncle frowned, then rang the servants’ bell. “Wake the Queen,” he told the man who answered, immaculate in his footman’s attire even in the middle of the night. “Tell her it’s urgent and ask her if she will join me in the Charter Room.”

I shivered, and gratefully accepted the hot broth brought to me by a serving girl. My uncle waited for both servants to leave, then said, “I need the whole story, Feald, but drink your broth first. Then you can tell both me and the Queen.”

The Queen arrived more quickly than I would have thought possible, fully clothed and with intricately braided hair. She had a cup of warm tea in hand, the only indication that she had been summoned unexpectedly.

“Hello, Feald,” she said, showing no surprise at my presence. “Good morning, Jereth.”

“Your Majesty,” Uncle Jereth said. “I believe you will be interested in Feald’s story.”

I told them the events of the past two days, summarizing as best I could my own journey and dwelling more on my interactions with the Sagalia and my observations of the camp. I put Elda firmly to one side in my mind, trying not to think about how she was lying helpless in a meadow, watched over only by a hungry dragon and its mistress.
They sat quietly after I had finished.

“Normally, your Majesty,” said Uncle Jereth, “I would say there was no question of your attendance upon a kidnapper in the forest in the middle of then night. But even putting aside the question of my niece’s safety, which does weigh heavily on my mind, if this Sagalia is truly a Kunnarian from an invading force, it is imperative that we speak with her immediately.”

“I agree,” Queen Ivy said, shocking me even through my misery. “Tell the Captain to saddle my horse, and one for each of you. I will take an honor guard of two — even the Sagalia cannot object to that, when she has a dragon at her disposal. We will leave in fifteen minutes, and arrive before sunrise.”

Uncle Jereth had us all ready to go by the time the Queen mounted her own horse, with the adjustment of placing me in front of himself. It was a wise decision, because as soon as we left the gates, I fell fast asleep and did not wake until we arrived at Gethrad, the village where I had stolen the horse.

He woke me, then, and I guided them back along my previous trail to the meadow where the Sagalia and Elda sat near a small fire, the hulking shadow of Tinodde curled behind them. I wrinkled my nose at the scent of meat and blood that hung in the air, surmising that Tinodde must have made a kill before returning. Sagalia Carun was feeding my sister small scraps of cooked meat from a spit she held in one hand. I hoped it was venison.

As soon as Uncle Jereth helped me dismount, I ran to Elda. She was still sitting silently, but the color had come back to her face, and she clung to me in return when I embraced her.

“Your Majesty,” Sagalia Carun greeted the Queen. “Thank you for coming.”

Queen Ivy looked around at the Sagalia and her dragon. “You requested my presence,” she said. “I am here.”

The Sagalia inclined her head, and invited the Queen over to her fire. “Please sit down,” she said. “I have information which you will find quite valuable.”

As soon as the Queen sat, the Sagalia began to speak.

“My Tinodde and I are part of a faction among the Kunnarians which would, to put it plainly, benefit greatly were our kinspeople to retreat from a campaign on this continent. We have been sent with the expedition in order to undermine it and dispose of the treaty between Rylan and Kunnaria. We cannot act directly without our sympathies becoming known, but it is my hope that with your assistance we can convince the leaders of my group that it is not in their best interests to continue attacks on your people.”

Elda’s breathing slowed into sleep, and I struggled to keep my own eyes open as the Queen and Sagalia discussed their options. I shifted my aching limbs and resettled my skirts to cover my bruised feet, sheltering them from the chill. The sky grew lighter as we sat, until a sunbeam, striking out from over the mountain, illuminated our tiny camp. The Sagalia and the Queen sat opposite the fire in their contrasting outfits, Queen Ivy in light blue and gold to match her hair, and the Sagalia still in her severe black and red. Tinodde, his full outline revealed by the light, lay in seeming slumber behind the Sagalia, the guards watching him nervously for any sign of movement.

It wasn’t until the Sagalia stood, offered the Queen a bow, and turned from the fire, that Tinodde sat up and stretched. The two men muttered excitedly, but Uncle Jereth motioned them to silence. The horses at the far end of the meadow whinnied and tugged at their secured harnesses, showing the whites of their eyes. The Kunnarians did not linger; the Sagalia mounted Tinodde and they walked a few hundred yards away before he lept into the air and circled back around to point at the mountains.

We waited for the guards to calm the horses, which took a considerable time, before Uncle Jereth took Elda up in front of himself and put me on my own horse for the trip back to Aram Castle.

“I will send troops to Vocsin, and you will return to your family once it is safe,” he told me. “You’ll stay with me until then.”

I only nodded, and concentrated on guiding onto the horse. When we arrived back home, I would have a lot of explaining to do.

“Feald,” Elda sighed in her sleep.

“I’m here,” I told her, reaching across to smooth her hair back. Uncle Jereth held her securely.

“She told me you have a strong soul,” Elda said. “She said you were like dragonkin, that you would come back for me. And you did.”

I swallowed past my dry, scratchy throat and blinked in surprise. “Of course, I did. I always will, dear.”

Feald — Part 5 was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I call her my grandmother, but strictly speaking she was 1/19th mine. (Assuming that great-grandchildren have to make their own claims, and only my generation has a stake on the ‘grandma’ title.) I did get to enjoy her company a little longer than the rest, though, by virtue of being the oldest grandchild.

My first memories of my grandmother are of being picked up in a spotless car, taken to a spotless house, and eating Oreos and listening to records in the living room, doubtless not at the same time. After I turned four years old we lived only a block away for about five years. Of course I was too young to make the journey myself, and it still seemed like a trip to the other side of the world, but we interacted with my mother’s parents on a regular basis. I remember the stairs, very scary and long but surrounded by a railing I could hang on. I remember the soft couches and the long table where the family would eat holiday meals. I get this house mixed up with the next one, though, so don’t quote me on any of that.

When I was around 9, my parents moved out of the neighborhood and so did my grandparents, to a house they built that ended up a solid 20 minutes away from our ‘new’ house. Over the years my grandmother took us to the Boise Zoo and Discovery Center in small groups of two or three as my siblings and cousins grew old enough to appreciate the trips. We listened to opera with Grandpa and watched old cartoons and Cary Grant movies.

My parents and grandparents partnered to buy a cabin up near Lewiston, Idaho, a minimum 6 hour drive from Boise, around the time I turned 15 or so, if I remember correctly. We spent at least two amazing summers up there before our small world became tainted with the concept of cancer, as my younger sister fought leukemia for two years and finally died up at the cabin, surrounded by her loving family.

I was involved in school after that, and didn’t get too many more chances to visit before Grandma Kathy and Grandpa Paul decided they would rather live back down in the Treasure Valley, closer to family.

Life picked up a bit more for me, as well, with work and marriage, and all the accouterments of those. Every so often I would think back to the old days of lounging on my grandparents’ sofa for what seemed like days at a time, voraciously reading all of their books. Or going through old family genealogies and photographs with Grandma, with a vague curiosity to find out where certain familiar quirks might have originated and see the family resemblances to long-dead relatives in their sepia-toned portraits. Or working in the wood shop with Grandpa, building structurally sound birdhouses with scraps.

I’m glad I had that time with them, and sometimes I wish I would have spent more with them. My grandfather is still healthy, but my grandmother died of brain cancer in 2014, within three months of her initial collapse and diagnosis. I will always remember her fondly, but now there is yet another set of childhood experiences that will be forever tinged with bitter-sweetness. It’s all well and good to expect to see someone again, but the impact of ‘never again in this life’ hits hard.

My great-grandfather Byron died when I was in the neighborhood of six years old, but my mother has vivid memories of him throughout her childhood. My great-grandmother Octavia wrote letters back and forth to me until my early teens, but my youngest sister only has the vaguest memories of her, if any. Every generation grows up missing some of what happened to the previous one, whether it be people or experiences, and it’s impossible to transfer those intact. My own recollection of Katherine Louise Davidson nee Donovan cannot be what her husband’s is, or what my mother’s is, and my daughter will not remember her at all. It is the nature of this life to be fleeting.

When my family is reunited in Heaven, perhaps we will have the opportunity to build and rebuild our relationships and bonds, this time knowing that we will not be separated after a measly little lifetime. I’d like to think so.

My Grandma Kathy was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked, smoothing back her tangled hair.

She shook her head.

“It’s all right,” I reassured her. “You don’t have to tell me about it.”

“My arm hurts,” Elda whispered.

I gently pushed up one of her elbow-length sleeves to display purple bands of day-old bruises, obviously from fingers holding tightly around her arm. Fury beyond my exhaustion soured my stomach and made my head pound, and I couldn’t speak for several minutes. The side of my face where the soldier had struck me throbbed with each heartbeat.

“It’s going to be all right,” I told Elda. “I’ll get us out of here.”

I set her to one side and stood, my legs rubbery and stinging from rock scrapes. Holding Elda’s hand, I examined the limits of our prison. Rocky walls formed the back two sides of the triangular enclosure, steep and relatively smooth. Even if I hadn’t already been tired, there was no way to get Elda up that sheer face. The space we stood in had been cleared as the center of the gardde cluster had died out and new growth moved outwards. It was like most other elderly bush hearts, with old woody roots clustering in the middle where the tap root still resided. The whole space was four feet or so in diameter, and the wall of new growth blocking us in had vicious thorns as long as my little finger. No one tangled with a gardde cluster willingly, and I had nothing to protect our skin if we tried to squeeze through. Our dresses were worse than useless, being more likely to impede progress than block any thorns.

The trees rustled and we jumped away as the bound section drew back. A man in the same uniform as my captors stood in the entrance looking at us.

“I am Commander Thurst Samitsson.” He waited, seeming to expect an answer.

“Feald Jana and Elda Lilla,” I replied. “Daughters of Lord Drakoved Vocsin, nieces to Lord Jereth Vocsin, Head Advisor to Queen Ivana of Aram. Our capture is an act of war against Aram, and will not be tolerated. Release us immediately.”

He nodded. “You are both fighters,” he said. “Good. We need strong souls. You will honor the Sagalia Tinodde in three hours. Prepare yourselves.” He withdrew, and someone pulled the trees back into place.

Elda began to cry again, the tear tracks making the rest of her face look even grayer with dirt.

I sat down, back against stone. Three hours, and we’d be able to speak with someone in charge, if the other Sagalia I had met was any indication of what to expect. It was a relief to know that someone would give me a chance to speak. Surely they would not ignore how important we could be as live hostages. The ‘strong soul’ comment was a little confusing, but my thoughts were too sluggish to grasp at any guesses or implications. Elda’s breathing slowed and steadied as she fell asleep, and I did not resist as my own eyelids closed.

I was awoken by my own shivering as the sun’s light faded and the shadows of the cliffs around us grew deeper. My face felt swollen, and my back and shoulders ached where they pressed against the rock wall. Elda was still asleep in my lap, my skirt pulled over her legs, the skin of my own legs prickled with painful goosebumps. I tried to rearrange us into a tighter cuddle of warmth, but only succeeded in startling her. She cried out, eyes tightly shut, until I woke her completely and she realized who I was.

We drank from the pitcher again, and I convinced her to eat some of the cold, dry bread. My own stomach was still cramping with hunger, and I wolfed my portion down while she nibbled at hers. Then I rebraided our hair and smoothed our skirts as best I could, using what little water was left to wipe the tear tracks and worst of the dust from our faces.

The rustling of the gardde trees told us when our guard was opening the door again.

“Come,” said Commander Samitsson. “The Sagalia is waiting.” He and two footsoldiers escorted us out of the enclosure and up the path towards the camp. Instead of heading towards the main grouping of tents, though, we were led around the side and back of the five ornate tents to descend a second path which led to a small lake with a sandy beach back below the treeline. Several giant boulders lay scattered about on the shoreline, and the Sagalia whom I had first met on entering the camp was standing next to the nearest one.

The Commander led us over to her, then bowed, and without waiting to be dismissed he and the two footsoldiers left us shivering there on the beach with the black-haired woman.

“I am Sagalia Carun,” she said. She looked us up and down, then stepped forward and took my hands, and looked directly into my eyes. A chill ran over my body from my head to my toes, as though I had jumped into an icy pond. I shivered violently, and she let go of my hands. I wrapped them around myself, wishing for a blazing hot fire.
“Every soul presented to Sagalia Tinodde must be examined for defects and sickness,” she said, stepping back. “You are acceptable.” She stepped up to Elda. “Give me your hands,” she said.

Elda promptly put her hands behind her back, and backed up against my leg.

“Tell your sister to obey me,” Sagalia Carun said.

I looked at her. A lone woman on a long beach. Surely we could outrun her and escape. But her eyes were confident and commanding.

“It would be better if she cooperated voluntarily,” the woman said. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Elda,” I said, “give her your hands.”

I pulled Elda’s hands out for the Sagalia, who bent to take them. Elda let me move her, and after a moment I saw the same shiver pass over her. The woman frowned, and gently moved Elda’s sleeve so she could see the marks there. She pulled the sleeve back down and straightened.

“Now what?” I asked her, gathering Elda in for a hug. Her hands and face were turning white with cold.

“They are mostly undamaged,” Sagalia Carun said, one hand on the rock nearest us. “The smaller one has some bruising, but she will not spoil from it.”

The stone rumbled and moved, and I swallowed a shriek of fear and surprise. Elda, clinging to me, could not see it, but she shuddered again at the trembling earth and pushed her face in tighter to my neck. I stood, holding her weight off of the ground, ready to run.

A dragon, fully twenty yards long, uncoiled itself and stretched, wings rising above Sagalia Carun, who did not make any motion except to let her hand slide off the creature’s side.

“I feel them,” the dragon growled, his voice echoing off the cliffs and water.

“This is Sagalia Tinodde,” Sagalia Carun told me, with a gleam in her eyes that I wasn’t sure how to interpret.
“It can talk?” I breathed, squeaking a bit.

“He” she said, emphasizing the pronoun, “is a highly respected and educated member of our society.” Sagalia Carun said, “And the fastest flyer since Sagalia Tottenak died last beyton.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “What is that word?”
“Decade,” Sagalia Tinodde rumbled. “But he was a cheat and a liar, anyway. If he had not died before I was full grown, I would have shown him for a charlatan.”

“As you say,” Sagalia Carun said, without a hint of irony or sarcasm. She knew this dragon, it seemed.

“It is not meet to display these souls to my kin,” the dragon said. “We must remove to a private location.”

“Very well,” Sagalia Carun said. “Bring them.” She stepped towards the dragon, and grasped at what I could now see was a light leather harness strapped to its sinewy neck. She swung herself up into a position just above the wings where the shoulders bulged and created a natural indentation, then I lost sight of her as the dragon opened its wings and a great clawed forefoot came towards me, grasping both Elda and I at once, the second one closing beneath us as the dragon launched itself into the air with a dizzying power that caused my skull to sharply connect with Elda’s and both of us to gasp. My braids whipped around me as I grimly held Elda to my chest, wordlessly praying to the High Soul for mercy.

It seemed a long time before the dragon landed again, braking gently and touching down into a grassy meadow. When it put me back on the ground, I simply fell over, unable to move my limbs. Elda was so shocked she wasn’t even crying, just breathing like a fish out of water, her eyes wild and her hair once again a bird’s nest of tangles and fuzz.

“I will talk to them,” I heard Sagalia Carun say. “Go find something to eat.”

The dragon made no answer, and the silence in the meadow grew until I could bear my curiosity no longer, and I sat up dizzily. We were alone with the black-haired woman, and the dragon was nowhere to be seen.

“We have very little time,” she said, as she met my eyes. “I must speak with your Queen, in secret.” She stood from where she had been sitting on a low rock.

I gaped at her, every inch the gawky village girl. Elda’s fingers twitched, and I took her hand.

“We are fortunate you were captured on Tinodde’s feeding day, or else one of the other dragons would have first right to you,” Sagalia Carun continued.

“What are you talking about?” I spluttered. “Where are we?”

“We are still an hour’s ride from your capital city,” she said. “Tinodde is allowed this night for rest and feeding, but if we are not back by morning there will be questions. You said you are related to the Queen’s Head Advisor. Can you get a message to him?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s my uncle, but I haven’t seen him in years. I would have to -”

She made a sharp motion with her hand. “I don’t care how you do it. But do it quickly. I will keep Elda with me until you return with the Queen or someone authorized to speak for her. If you do not return by the time the sun rises past the top of that mountain,” she pointed at the highest peak in the range to the east, “then I will allow Tinodde to eat her and we will return to our camp.”

I sat frozen in horror. “Eat her?”

She sighed. “I don’t have time for an explanation. Suffice it to say, all Kunnarian dragons must eat souls in order to be Sagalia. I am willing to spare you for the sake of a conference with your Queen, but if I cannot speak with her, if I return to my camp unsuccessful, I will not further endanger Tinodde by refusing him the sustenance he needs. He is hunting now, but using animal meat to sustain his powers is inefficient.”

Among the jumble of words, I picked out the ones that seemed most important to me. “Kunnarian? You are Kunnarian?”

“We are Kunnarians, allied with Rylan. If your Queen is not warned of our coming, we will fall on your villages with the invading Rylan force and her kingdom will fall. Tell her I have this one opportunity to speak, but if she does not come I will not be able to negotiate any further.”

“How will I get there?”

“There is a village two miles to the west, and the main road to Aram Castle goes through it. I cannot help you more than that.”

I looked at my sister. Her eyes were open, but unfocused.

“She is in shock,” Sagalia Carun said. “I will keep her well until you return, bug you must go now.”

I disengaged my hand from Elda’s and stood, swaying on my feet. I oriented myself west, and began to walk again.

Feald — Part 4 was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I emerged from the tree line onto a slope of shale which spilled from the upper cliffs like acorns from a disturbed squirrel’s nest. A few minutes’ testing told me that hiking up that shale would be impossible for any horse and improbably difficult for a human carrying a small child. I must have lost the trail a ways back, and now I was following a true goat or deer track. I scanned the forest wall behind me for clues without success. Perhaps if I could get higher up, I’d be able to see some sign of the horse and rider and small blonde captive.

It took a long time to reach a vantage point on the mound of shale. Every rock shifted beneath my feet, threatening a rock slide or twisted ankle, and I scraped my calves and shins more than once. The top of the mountain was inaccessible from my side, because the shale field met sheer rocky cliffs, but with a little maneuvering I was able to raise my point of view by a hundred feet and gaze down upon the forest and nearby hilltops. A boulder to my left cracked forward from the cliffside like a tavern brawler’s front tooth, blocking my panorama. I crept carefully around the front of it to see if there was anything visible on that side.

As I slipped for the hundredth time on a loose plate of rock, two men stepped around the boulder, one with a nocked arrow pointed at my midsection and the other with a sword at his belt. They were dressed in chain shirts and leather pants with a black tunic over the top. The tunic had a red dragon rampant on the front of it. The man with the sword held a rope coiled around one shoulder. I raised my hands up to show my empty palms and realized a little belatedly that I had come rushing after the kidnapper without any weaponry save my fingernails and teeth.

The men said nothing to me, but the one with the rope stepped forward and gestured at my arms.

“I mean you no harm,” I said, my throat dry and voice squeaking with stress. “I’m looking for my sister.” The one with the bow pulled back on it, the arrow still pointing directly at my midsection. I understood the threat, and held out my arms, wrists together.

The footsoldier roughly tied my hands together leaving a tail of rope which he held in his own hands. He pulled me after himself, still silent, and we all struggled across the shale until, rounding yet another broken tooth in the mountain’s ancient face, we encountered a smooth, sandy trail. It could have passed for another goat or deer track, but I spied the markings of at least one shod horse coming and going recently. Someone’s sentries must have seen me as soon as I stepped from the cover of the trees and sent these two to get me before I found my own way up to their camp.

I didn’t attempt to talk to the men again, but I examined their clothing and faces as much as I could as we went. The one behind me was out of view most of the time, but the one in front had a square jaw and hair like felted wool, cut short under a leather cap which had flaps hanging over his ears. He was not Aramayan, nor like any Rylan I had ever seen. The sleeveless tunic was fitted around the chest, shifting slightly over the shortsleeved chain shirt.

The sun rose higher as we ascended the hill, and soon I began to feel the effects of having no water or food for a full day. It took all my concentration to keep from stumbling on the smooth path, and my feet felt clumsy and raw. I knew we had reached the camp when the man ahead of me let the rope end fall. I registered the change as a mere footnote to the journey at first, and nearly ran into his back. But I stopped myself, swaying slightly before that happened, and painfully raised my head to look around.

A row of brightly colored flags lined each side of the path, guiding us down the center of the massed tents on either side and past my current point of view. There were at least twenty tents on my left, with black and white banners, and only five on my right. But the five were nearly a match for the twenty, larger and more imposing with black and red flags and the red dragon design worked into a pattern on the front panel of each. A cooking fire sat among the tents to my left, and I smelled venison and pork roasting. I licked my chapped lips, conscious again of my hunger and thirst.

A figure approached us, clad in the same chain and black tunic costume, but with the addition of a sort of black robe, open in front and lined with a deep crimson fabric, the color of fresh blood. It took me a moment to realize that under the unfamiliar armor was a woman. She had dark eyes and the same squared jaw and flattened aspect as the men who had captured me. Shining black hair hung in a thick braid over one shoulder, and she wore no headcovering. She regarded me with interest, though I wasn’t much to look at by then.

“Sagalia Carun,” the archer said from behind me in a burred accent. “Dacenti caris manuna beysid.”

She looked at him and answered in a melodic voice, a string of nonsense syllables for all I could tell.

“Do you speak Correl?” I asked her. The soldier ahead of me whipped around and hit my face with the flat of his hand, and I stumbled with the surprise and impact, nearly falling.

The woman spoke again, sounding amused. The archer barked a short laugh, and put a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to kneel or fall forward.

“It is not meet,” the woman said in lilting Correl, “for a fachting to speak to a Sagalia, except in answer to a direct question. If you wish to avoid bruises, you should remember that.” Her tone was not angry or condemning, merely factual. She continued, “Why have you come here?”

I tasted blood, and kept my eyes respectfully down. Another blow could shake loose a tooth or break my jaw, with the enthusiastic force that soldier had put into it. I answered as civilly as I could.

“I am Feald of Vocsin. My sister was taken from our village, and I followed her captor here.”

The woman held a short conversation with the two men, then the archer pulled me to my feet.

“These will take you to her,” the woman said. For a moment I thought I detected pity in her voice, but when I glanced at her face it was smooth and disinterested. She met my eyes, then turned away, resuming her walk.

The archer pushed me forward, and we kept walking, past the tents and down a short sloped path into a rocky cleft surrounded by thorny gardde trees. Ropes bound several branches together to create a door the swordsman tugged open with a rope handle, and the archer shoved me through the gap.

The clearing inside was as big as the interior of the copse behind the smithy, and Elda was there, wild-eyed and tangled and filthy like a wild bear cub.

“Feald!” she shrieked when she saw me, and flung herself across the three foot gap between us, sobbing loudly.

I clung to her, too bemused by our situation and my condition to do more than thank the High Soul that she seemed unharmed.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw over her shoulder a barrel sitting upended to one side bearing a pitcher and a tray of fruit and bread. I pulled her with me towards it, and drank gratefully, then bit into a fresh apple, savoring the crisp juice. It was possibly unwise, but I was too famished and dehydrated to think clearly, and I needed to make plans if we were to escape this situation.

Feald — Part 3 was originally published in Anemone Flynn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.