A Drift of Quills – Movies, “What was your favorite, favorite?”

What are your top three movies? Well…I’m so glad you asked. 🙂


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

When Hubby and I sit down to watch a movie together, one of our top favorite genres is fantasy. (You’re surprised, right? I knew you would be.) Much to our delight, the offerings are increasing in both volume and quality. And it’s about darned time my favorite genre in the whole wide world got wider recognition! It did, however, make the task of narrowing the selection down to three fairly formidable. There are “the greats,” of course: Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and The Hunger Games (in that order), but they’re so obvious. What about the other stuff? What about the also-really-great movies like…


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Of course, the most obvious choice of all, is Lord of the Rings. So much so, that I’m not going to include it as one of my three choices. Indeed, the LOTR trilogy is in a category all of its own. Yes, it is a great story. Still, that is not the draw for me. I am most taken with LOTR because of its cinematography, and in particular, its lighting, which I think surpasses that of any other film every produced. The mists . . .


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

I love movies. Cinema. Film. My love of visual storytelling propelled me to get a master’s degree in film-making and digital storytelling. So to pick a favorite movie, or even three, is a hard thing. It depends on my mood. The weather. The time of year. When did I last see it?

I suppose I define a favorite as something that I watch time and again. That helps, as there are literally hundreds of wonderful, inspiring or challenging stories that I’ve watched but don’t see them over and over. With that definition in mind, the movies I mention here will end up feeling more like comfort food than world-changers. Another time perhaps I could answer the question by genre – what’s your favorite classic, live-action Disney movie, or what are your top three Westerns, or best comedy, or most painful to watch, or spiritually profound. You get the picture. 😉

Today is top repeat offenders. Which movies do I watch, (and enjoy), over and over?

The Hobbit, animated and released in 1977 is probably right at the top. It is epic, slow and thoughtful. The animation is interesting, hand drawn, and sometimes frightening. It tells a classic tale without too much embellishment or agenda. The soundtrack is appropriate and thoughtful. It was one I grew up with, and it has never tired. In fact, one of my great joys a few years ago was introducing The Hobbit to my boys. And so, the adventure continues.

Second up would be Marley & Me. Released about a decade ago in 2008, it is similar thematically to Frank Capra’s It’s A Wonderful Life – a young man works through his career, frustrated that he can’t be more, do more, travel more – only to find out, years later, looking back on his life, that the things that were so often frustrating were the very things that fills his life with love and joy. They are both stories that celebrate the long, mundane, work that is much of life, and while I enjoy both , in certain ways Marley & Me is very similar to our own family. It gets me every time. (Fun fact, Owen Wilson went to the same military boarding school I did, though at different times. I believe his time there was short-lived. Nevertheless, New Mexico Military Institute is still proud to have had him, even for a few months.)

Finally, I’ve got a tie for third place. I enjoy both The Croods, and Disney’s classic, animated rendition of Robin Hood. They are both fun, tightly written, and worth a second, third and three-hundredth viewing.

🙂

 

What about you? What are your top comfort-food movies? Comment below!

 

A Drift of Quills – Gifting

When we talk about gifting, I hope you are filled with the warm memories that come from the thoughtful care involved in selfless giving. What are some of your favorite recollections of gifting and receiving?


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

It was 1999, and my father was dying. The cancer was fairly aggressive. Shocking, when he’d been so healthy all his life. He’d left the family years before to follow a drummer only he heard. We didn’t see much of him, but still—it was Dad. Time was short. So was money…


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Gift giving is an art – a fine art. Gift giving is the fine art of selecting just the right thing for someone—and it is one that I work at. At times I’ve hit the sweet spot so perfectly, that it left even me surprised. But before I get to that, let me comment on a gift I received that made a lasting memory.

Some years ago …


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

“I do not believe one can settle how much we ought to give. I am afraid the only safe rule is to give more than we can spare.” ― C.S. Lewis

When I think about giving, and gifts, a story from when I was close to nine or ten comes to mind.

My younger brother and I were given a few dollars by our folks and encouraged to find something for each other for Christmas. Being a kid, I did some quick math, figured I could snatch a passable something and still have monies left over. And so I did. I found my brother some cheesy, cheap, plastic thing, wrapped it in some pretty paper, and checked off my duty.

At Christmas, I went first, as I often did. I ripped open my present, and I can still feel my shame in that moment. Because my brother did something very different. He found those few dollars weren’t enough. He raided his match-box treasure trove of discarded shell casings, one-legged army men, stale candy, hard bubble-gum and an odd assortment of wrinkled bills. He smoothed out the wadded cash and added it to his allowance so that he could buy a the shiniest imitation silver and ivory cap gun with a genuine plastic holster money could buy. Hundreds of caps, in tiny rolls, included.

I wanted to start over. I didn’t want him to open his present. Even now, over twenty years later, I can see the disappointment he tried to hide when he unwrapped it. But then he put on his best grin, said ‘thank you’, and set it gently aside. That particular thing, whatever it was, has been long discarded and forgotten.

But something was planted in me there, something that grew and continues to grow even now. I found that taking time and care to give a selfless kindness to another is a thing of great beauty, unlike any other. It is perhaps not all that common a thing in this shadowy world, which makes it shine all the brighter when we encounter it.

Selfless giving of ourselves is an expression of our hearts, one to another, and is as old and true as can be found: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

I hope your Advent season is filled with the good cheer that comes from both encountering and giving that love. And whether you are surrounded this season by that selflessness, or not, there is always opportunity to receive and be filled with that most sacred of loves. Emanuel. God with us.

Merry Christmas.

 

 

A Drift of Quills – Fool’s Feet

Short stories, fantastic tales, spun from a single picture. It’s flash fiction month! This month a young fool’s apprentice discovers power and glory are elusive quarry…I enjoyed this one on both a literary and metaphysical level.

But first, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

Starry-eyed

The autumn sun slid toward the horizon, gilding the moors and pulling twilight ever closer. Little streamers of fog drifted this way and that, half-formed fairy ribbons. Archibald Cumming laughed to himself. The old man was getting to him. Had already got to him, years ago, truth be told. And where was the old fool now? Shifting his backpack, he trudged up the sparse hill. Hands on hips, he stopped at the top to catch his breath before he had a look around. When he had his breathing under control again, he straightened and stood still and quiet, listening. Listening as he’d done dozens of times already just today. This wasn’t the first time the old codger had taken off on his own.

He was about to move on when he heard it…


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

Calico Dew and the Boots of Ominous Delight

by Patricia Reding

Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

The ramshackle hut sat in a damp tree-shaded hollow, deep in the Forest of Infatuation. An occasional bright green patch of mold stood out on its thatched roof and spotted its weathered, paint-crackled, windows.Their half-open shades looked like eyes peering down at a bed of poison ivy just outside the hut’s door, which hung slightly askew on its rusty hinges.

Nearby, Calico Dew hid. She patted Sneaker, her faithful canine companion, whose shaggy mottled coat helped him to meld into his surroundings. This well-served Calico’s purposes in carrying out her duties as an official retriever of stolen magic artifacts. However, Sneaker also came with a downside. That is, while his physical traits allowed him to rummage about stealthily, he also possessed a particularly annoying personality quirk. Specifically …


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

“I’ll be requested by kings,” said the shiny face of ambition, caught somewhere between a boy and a man. But the glint in his eye was ageless.

“You’ll be an outcast.”

“Princes will offer me untold wealth and honor,” he continued, unhearing.

“You’ll reject it all.”

He rubbed his hands together unconsciously, unaware of how silly he looked, how small and unworthy. “My name will be known from the border of Darjil to the Jabob River and beyond.”

“Where you will be unwelcome and hunted until the last of your days.” The old man sighed. Ambition turned his head, the sigh finally catching his attention. Was the old one dying? Would he pass on the boots now?

“Master Eli…are you well?”

The grizzled beard, streaked white and grey and sandy-desert brown, twitched. Eli looked full at his apprentice. Looked in his soul through the undisguised eyes.

The boots would instruct him.

“I must go.” Eli struggled to his feet. He could not rest. Not yet.

The apprentice’s long eager fingers grasped an elbow, half helping, half clinging. “I’m going with you.”

Eli shrugged. “Do what you must.”

The dust lingering in the air marked their path. But the boots Eli wore stayed as bright as ever, as if the things of this earth could not touch them. The kid wondered again at the boots and grinned despite the taste of the road in his mouth. The Jester’s League Boots. He knew the stories. The boots carried the power to heal, or destroy. There were tales of cleansing wells and rivers, whole cities, even bringing the dead back from the Underworld. And then there were the really good ones. Of control of wild animals, silencing enemies, fire from the heavens and the destruction of entire armies.

So Eli was more than a jester. There were none like him. He traveled far, speaking to kings and queens, wandering from region to region, calling no place home. He told stories and tales, but they differed from other jesters. They puzzled and irritated more than entertained. And yet there was no one more sought after than Eli.

Except for his boots, he wore the traditional garb of jesters, with the bright cloak–now faded–and the painted face. Although the kid thought Eli had always veered a little dark in his colors. Almost frightening. The kid would change that. He would be the lighthearted one. The loved one.

“Here.” Eli had stopped at a river. It was wide and deep and fast. The kid looked either direction for a crossing. Eli stepped off the bank. The water ran from the boots like a mouse runs from a cat. The kid hesitated and then scrambled after the old man, on dry ground. On the other side Eli glanced down at the apprentice, as if surprised to see him there. “I am finished here.” He started to unlace the boots with knotted hands. “If the boots stay behind, boy, you may carry on.”

The kid watched his master untie the long cords. “Why don’t you call me by my name?”

Eli set the boots aside and stood on unsteady, white feet–feet that had clearly not seen the sun in years. Not like the youth’s calloused brown ones. Eli grunted. “You have no name. If they choose you, the boots will name you.”

The kid bit back his hot retort. This was no time to argue. He would not spoil this chance. The desert stretched out ahead of them with no end in sight. Not a cloud in the sky. All was still. Eli nodded, satisfied. He turned and tottered into the desert on soft feet. The kid frowned. He looked at the boots, sitting innocently, discarded a few feet away. Then a breath of wind sighed. Eli’s faded cloak rippled. The kid’s frown deepened. He began to speak, to ask, to question, but the next instant a gale had struck. Desert sand rose up like a wave. Lightening crackled and sparked through the air. The boots disappeared. Eli was barely visible, climbing the wall of sand and lightening like a stair.

And then, just as the apprentice thought he would suffocate or be blown away or burn up–it was gone. Covered in dirt he grabbed his chest, gulping air. Then he remembered. He looked around, desperately. They were gone!

No, there were still there! He laughed, and half sobbed. The boots sat there, clean, untouched by the storm. The kid grabbed them, afraid they would disappear again. He held them, cradled to his chest. He would be known. He would have glory. He would entertain kings and raze cities! First, he would cross back into the Reyfa region, but not like before. No, this time he would dry up the river clear to Tribek…everyone would know a new jester had the boots. Trembling, he slipped them on.

They fit. Perfectly.

***

Forty years. Forty years as the world’s jester. No other jester had traveled as far–not even Eli.

Elias leaned heavily on his staff. The boots had carried him. He was both sought after and hunted throughout the known world. He owned nothing, least of all the boots. He knew that now.

 

A Drift of Quills – Openers

This month I’m late publishing – I was on a trip to the Outer Banks with the fam and several of our close friends when Hurricane Dorian hit. Fortunately we were able evacuate and found another spot to land on Lake Gaston. It just so happened that despite the change in location and plans we had a perfect week, beautiful weather, refreshing conversation and lots and lots of laughter.

Now I’m back, fall is in the air and life is begging to be lived. My oldest boy started 1st grade on Monday and I got to walk him to his first day of class. He was decked out in new shoes and new backpack, but the wonder, curiosity and excitement were the same that he’s carried with him since he started tottering after me half a decade ago.

It feels like the opening line to a new story. And I suppose it is.

Speaking of opening lines, our group of writers have put together some favorites for you. Check them out below…


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

The internet is full of lists of “best first sentences.” That opening line garners a lot of attention. It has a lot of work to do! It’s got to set the mood and draw the reader in. No hemming and hawing, blushing, or flailing around for something to talk about. (So I would totally fail as an opening line…)

Luckily, writers can devote a little time to figuring out that all-important greeting before someone opens the door. Er… book. I’m going to skip past the Usual Suspects and head straight to my own shelves. Oh, the hand-rubbing and gleeful expressions! I love rummaging through my books and I’m in the mood for a little questionable book-sniffing. So I’m going to stick with physical copies this go-round, which is strictly unfair to the digital part of the collection, but who’s the boss? I’m the boss!

Let’s dive right into something a little terrifying…


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

I found this subject fun—and challenging, as there are so many great lines to choose from. In the end, I chose to go with a couple very well-known openings—followed by a lesser known line, namely (uh-oh, hear the self-promotion here!) one of my own. The reason for my last choice is that I worked very long and hard on the line, and in the end, am so thoroughly satisfied with it, that I’d like to share it with you (and, in truth, I can’t think of a better time to do so).


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

 

 

Three favorite opening lines?! Impossible! There are too many! But that’s the point of the exercise I suppose. I’m going to throw these out there, undefended, naked and afraid:

1. “Call me Ishmael.” – Moby Dick, by Herman Melville. Interestingly, while both noteworthy and instantly recognizable, this isn’t the opening line to Moby Dick. It’s actually the opening line to Chapter 1, “Loomings,” wherein Ishmael introduces himself, but the novel started some many pages before with two rambling introductory chapters respectively titled “Etymology” and “Extracts.” Melville used these two sections to introduce us to two fictitious researchers who begin to educate us on cetology: the study of whales. You’ve seen an epigraph before – many novels begin with them – a little apropos quotation that precedes the opening lines. But these two chapters go way beyond that, supplying no fewer than eighty epigraphs. Ugg. Talk about foreshadowing. Melville foreshadowed that the novel would frequently digress into the minutia of whales and whaling, leaving us plodding forward in an attempt to recapture the nominal plot. Nevertheless, “Call me Ishmael,” will always be a great opener.

2. “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.” – Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone, by J.K. Rowling. There’s probably something of nostalgia mixed in my selection here, but who cares. I’m the one picking. From a literary standpoint I love the whole sentence – every word is working on several levels. The hook is instant – the Dursleys are presented as stuffy and boorish, with the implication that there is something perfectly abnormal to come. We’re in. We want to know what strange and wonderful things are coming, and how it will interrupt the Dursley’s normal, boring, and silly lives.

3. It’s a toss up. “He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.” – The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway or “Running for my life was not a part of the plan.” – Nightrage Rising, P.S. Broaddus or just about every one of Rick Riordan’s openers.

 


What about you? Do you have a favorite opening line? Comment and let me know!

A Drift of Quills – The Standing Stone

Short stories, fantastic tales, spun from a single picture. It’s flash fiction month!


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

The Judgement Stone

There’s a town near the Rhogan coast that has a unique way of dealing with undesirables. Their “undesirables” consist of murderers, rapists, and arsonists. Thieves—unless their theft ruins a citizen’s livelihood or affects the entire town—are generously permitted a second chance. Upon conviction, the criminal is immediately taken to the Stone of Judgement, bound there, and left to the whims of the local dragon. If he or she is still breathing at the same time the next day, freedom is restored. Apparently the almighty dragon decide whether or not they are innocent, no matter what other proof previously stood against them.

You can safely imagine that those who escape leave the surrounds and never return. You might also imagine my astonishment at being arrested, tried, and found guilty of something called “High Thievery.” I’ve never stolen a thing in my life, unless you count a nap now and then. Well, I have helped myself to apples in the orchards I pass on my way between towns… But a face? How does a person steal a face?


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Left Ahead

by Patricia Reding

Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

A musty odor greeted Lorna as she awakened, stiff and cramped. She groaned. Her head hurt; her body ached.

​A clicking sounded out, as something brushed her cheek.

Lorna’s eyes flashed open. She bolted upright, then turned to the source of the touch. Although semi-dark, there was no mistake.

“Onyx!” she cried, recognizing her long time companion, a snowy owl that had adopted her shortly after her father’s death. She wrapped her arms around his neck and combed her fingers through his soft fur-like chest feathers.


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

The guardian standing at water’s edge hadn’t always been there. At one time no shadow from the pillar of rock crept across the long salt-grass, as the western sun sank into the wine-dark sea. The path that ran along the coast from the capitol of Plen toward the high timbered trees of Greatwood Forest didn’t always have the patch of stone shade that marked the half-way point. There hadn’t been a section of the monolith rubbed smooth by thousands of hands, touching the rock and then touching the forehead for good fortune. Luck in the markets of Plen. Or in the courts. Or perhaps luck on the path home to Greatwood. Luck deep in the twilight depths of unfellable trees. At some point in the past, there had been no such place to get a bit of extra luck, or shade, or at the least, something to break the monotony of the coastal trail.

But no one in the Kingdom of Mar remembered that time. No one remembered the story of the Standing Stone. Save three people. And one of them was not exactly, ‘people.’ She was Pardum—a race of cat-like creatures from far across the Eastern Seas. And it wasn’t as if she remembered the event herself. The story had been told, quietly, in a room full of books with sunlight dancing through the dust floating in the air. The speaker hadn’t known there was an extra set of ears in the room. Ears that understood Lingua Comma.

The second one who knew the story was not surprising, for she knew many things. She had lived across many lifetimes thanks to sunfire. She had seen kingdoms rise and crumble. She had been present at the destruction of several. She knew the truth of the pillar of rock. She remembered the empty coastline. She also knew that the silly stories people shared and little traditions that sprang up around those stories—like touching the Standing Stone for good fortune—were not so silly. But there was one rather important thing Torinalas Grastbane did not know. She did not know that there were two others who knew the history of the unusual pillar along the coastal path.

The final character who knew the story was perhaps the last person anyone would have hoped. At least, anyone who loved sunshine and children laughing and warm bread and happiness. He too had been told the story. In fact, he too had been in the room of books and dust and sunlight. Too much sunlight for his taste. He preferred dark, drippy dungeons, or the caverns and halls under Plen.

There, in a quiet, wheezy voice the royal historian had related the tale. It wouldn’t be right to hold it against the historian for telling the story. His mind had begun to wander, and few listened to the dry histories of the past. Had he not been so lonely, and had he been able to see the nasty glint in the young scholar’s watery eye, he would have certainly been more careful of the secrets he told. But tell it he did, in a rambling sort of roundabout way, buried in a long list of seemingly mundane details of feats and deeds done well before Plen was built. And that day two separate sets of ears, one hidden high above on a bookcase, learned a curious, mostly forgotten, long-guarded story.

The royal historian died shortly thereafter. He was old, so it didn’t come as a great surprise, although it was unusual that he would have climbed to the top of the library tower stairs only to fall back down the way he came.

And so life in Plen went on. At least for everyone but the royal historian. Three now knew the secret of the Standing Stone. One was old and blind and untroubled. The Standing Stone had remained unmoved for a millennia. There was no reason for worry now. The other was a race foreign to Plen, her identity hidden in the seemingly mundane. She was assumed to be nothing more than an ordinary, if quite large, cat. And the third, well, that’s the trouble with sharing secrets. No telling who might hear.

A Drift of Quills – A Story’s Picture

Every so often we write about images that inspired aspects of our individual stories, and if we can, we share those pictures with you. This is one of those times.


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

This recurring theme is one of my favorites! I love sharing with you the images that have inspired my stories (or the images I’ve had to hunt for, trying to match a description!).

I’ve come back to Sherakai’s story—I figure it makes sense since his first book, Blood and Shadow, is currently part of the Self-Published Fantasy Blog Off (SPFBO). Hosted by Mark Lawrence, author of The Broken Empire series and other books, a total of 300 books are judged by 10 bloggers. Am I nervous? (Gulp!) Mostly, I try not to think about it. There is some serious competition in the running!

Since we already caught a glimpse of things in my previous post about him, I thought I’d share some images from the second book of The Mage’s Gift. In Flesh and Bone, Sherakai receives…


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

This month we Quills are sharing one or more pictures that help to illustrate something from our stories. I’ve chosen to sprinkle a few pics throughout my post, all relating to the same part of the storyline from Oathtaker, The Oathtaker Series Volume One.

Before sharing any pics, let me open by saying that while perhaps a bit odd, I’ve always been fascinated by the words we give to groups of animals. Here are just a few great ones:

Animals: Group Name
Apes: A shrewdness
Buffalo: A gang or obstinacy
Wild cats: A destruction
Otters: A raft
Cobras: A quiver
Crocodiles: A bask
Eagles: A convocation
Ferrets: A business
Hyenas: A cackle
Owls: A parliament
Porcupines: A prickle

To the above, I would add a couple I’ve made good use of in my stories, including the words used for a group of vultures, namely, a kettle, committee, or wake, depending on what they are up to at the time. Then there is my favorite, which is the word used for a group of crows: a murder…


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

I love illustration and I think it works well for the young reader genre and age. One of my favorite things to do as a kid was to flip through a book looking for the pictures, and things haven’t changed.

I’m a particular fan of simple sketches. I have a collection of them, some commissioned, some that were done by readers. I think that’s something I wish I could do as well, but my sketch art is little more Essie and Tig Concept Artthan a series of stick figures.

This sketch of Essie and Tig, on the edge of the Valley of Fire, looking over the Gray Wasteland evokes a feeling – perhaps of a long journey still to be taken.

 

 

 

This sketch of mercenaries chasing Essie and Tig into the Valley of Fire is great – the looming character in the front is foreboding, and Danny captured the spiky, crusty lava flow with all of its fascinating colors and implied dangers.

Here’s a character exploration of Essie Brightsday. This feels like a good representation of her in Nightrage Rising – you can feel her confidence and ability, and her outfit is just unusual enough to be interesting.

 

Fantasy protagonist, A Hero's Curse

 

And then there’s Tig. I don’t know that I’ve found a rendering of Tig that really captures him in all of his snark and sass. I like these simple drawings, because they seem to capture both his confidence and his connection to Essie.

 

 

 

What about you? What story sketches do you find interesting? I’m reading through The Edge Chronicles right now by Chris Riddell and Paul Stewart. The illustration, on almost every page, is interesting, fascinating, and sometimes downright frightening.  What do you think, or what are you reading that has interesting pictures or a cool cover that inspires the imagination? Comment below or send me an email!

 

A Drift of Quills – Bad Guys

Bad guys. Villains. Antagonists. That’s what we’re writing about this month. Each of our trio of writers is forwarding our top five baddies for you to consider. And we challenge you to prove us wrong by submitting your own compilation. Let the listing begin!


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

Oh, dear, so many villains, so few spaces in the list…! Granted, antagonists are not always villains, per se, but someone or something manifesting opposite actions, thoughts, or motives than the protagonist. Still, I’ve chosen to lean toward the villainous in my list. I enjoy the motivations and thought processes of characters over, say, weather or landscape. Weeks of mulling over various evil qualities and their deployment (Ho! Launch the greed! Commence the revelation of dark secrets!) gave me a list.


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Since the antagonist in a story is frequently a villain, the first antagonist/villain that comes to my mind is … Now, don’t laugh. It’s Cruella deVil. There are goods reasons for this. Well, good reasons to me, anyway. You see, Cruella, as played by Glenn Close (who I had the great pleasure of seeing on Broadway a couple years ago) gets to wear the most amazing things! I’d like to try some of the things she wore—perhaps with a bit less in the shoulder padding department, to be sure—but aside from that, who wouldn’t have fun dressing up like Cruella from time to time? Seriously though, Cruella is deliciously naughty, and thoroughly egocentric. It would be so much fun to play her character …


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Mine is a list of truly evil baddies, fantastic villains, complex antagonists, and a lovable toad. In the style of FilmFisher’s “Undefended” articles, I’m putting these forward with only minimal comment.

  1. Darth Vader. I have the same response my 3-year-old has when asked to defend something: “Because, yes.”
  2. Lord Voldemort. A compelling example of hatred, narcissism, and evil.
  3. Severus Snape. Another character from the Harry Potter series, but then, they were very well written. There is a long list of antagonists and heroes worth mentioning in that series. Snape deserves a special place as a complex antagonist that is just the right push against Harry Potter’s courageous and heady recklessness. I had difficulty not putting Hans Solo in this spot. Like Snape, he provides that perfect, practical and selfish push against Luke Skywalker’s idealism.
  4. Long John Silver. Here’s one that continues to survive the test of time. He’s a murdering, evil, greedy and selfish pirate, and yet a likeable character. It’s difficult to tell if there is a character arc in this one. Does he change, or do we simply forgive him of all his faults because he likes Jim Hawkins? Whatever the case, we’ll continue to see renditions of Long John Silver.
  5. Mr. Toad. Something different, and yet so relatable and real. Toad from The Wind in the Willows is the self-centeredness that we all experience and bump up against in our world. He is the reason that the idyllic, pastoral life is at best caught only in fleeting moments, or at worst simply illusory. There are too many Mr. Toads in our world. We are Mr. Toad.

What do you think? I didn’t mention Scar from The Lion King. He’s up there with Darth Vader and Lord Voldemort. But what do you think? Who’s on your list of best (or worst) antagonists? Let me know in the comments, shoot me an email, or start the discussion on Facebook!

 

A Drift of Quills – Beginnings

This month is exciting. For one, it’s May. April showers have brought May flowers. So, there’s that. Then, Avengers: Endgame came out. It was, for various reasons, phenomenal. I won’t spoil it for you. It’s worth the price of admission.

Finally, our writer’s collective is sharing short stories this month (our most popular topic), written from a common image and, interestingly, relating somehow to our published work. I’ll share the picture several times in the story below.

And here’s where I’m thrilled. Below is a snippet of story that you’ve never read, but, if you’ve followed Essie’s chronicles, you’ll recognize the characters immediately.

These are parallel openings to Nightrage Rising – if you haven’t heard the tale, no fear! There’s no better place to jump in. If you have read Nightrage Rising, you’re in for a special treat, from a new perspective…


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

 

Tigrabum Fendor, or “Tig,” is Essie Brightsday’s talking cat. No, that is not normal. Nor is his unusually condensed amount of sarcasm. Tig trained Essie to listen, taste, feel, smell and sense like no one in her family. He despises all things wet.

Tigrabum Fendor had never been, nor ever would be, an ordinary cat, thank you very much. He examined the new pin that had been placed in the latch and chuckled silently. When would they learn?

He pried a paw between the crate and the pin and wiggled the latch. The addition of a pin added a finesse requirement and five extra seconds before he freed the lid. He hopped up on his hind feet, resting his forepaws against the crate to look around the dock. Nobody had noticed him yet. He hooked his paw under the lid and lifted. Hundreds of blank, white eyes stared up at him, cold and unfeeling.

Tig swiped a sharp claw down into the box and snagged the nearest dead fish. It flopped onto the dock with a squelching thud. He pulled the lid back into place and snatched his catch in his teeth. The fish’s bulk didn’t quite make it off the ground, causing the head to bounce unceremoniously across the cobbles.

Nel “Baby Face” Gorchsand glowered across the dock, certain he had heard something knocking, but he just missed the gray striped tail whip into the narrow alley between the harbor patrol station and the merchant record keeper’s. Baby Face, who acquired his nickname not because he looked babyish but because he frightened infants with his large, flat face and tiny squashed nose, squinted through bushy eyebrows and shrugged his beefy shoulders. Just as he hadn’t been recruited by the harbor patrol for his good looks, neither had he been recruited for his intelligence.

Tig watched from the dark of the alley as he stumped back toward the middle of the docks, mumbling unintelligible swear words and doing what he had been recruited for—looking formidable—at least to anyone who didn’t know him.

Tig sighed and spoke to the dead. “If they were really concerned about the blue iron that got stolen off the ships, they should’ve posted somebody besides Baby Face.” The fish didn’t blink. Tig smirked. “Not the talkative kind, huh?”

The soft clunk of boots echoed down the wooden dock. Tig stuck one eye, a nose and a couple of whiskers around the corner to investigate. “Well, well.” He said it admiringly, and a gleam came into the one eye. “Amberfal. A watch commander. And Protector Godred.” He glanced back at the fish. “Maybe we’re in luck. Maybe it’s a big deal after all.”

Illiana is a servant girl and refugee from the Kingdom of Aeola who works in the Palace, but struggles to find her place in her new surroundings. She is Essie Brightsday’s close friend, likes to see the best in others, is a good listener, and even better talker. (This section was published once previously, under the title “Song Girl“)

Illiana could sing. Song ran in her veins. It called in her ears. It lived in her mouth. It danced in her eyes.

And so it should. Her native Kingdom above the Sun—Aeola—was built by the cloudweavers, who use music to bind the elements. For, as they have said since The Beginning, music is stronger than magic.

But though she could, Illiana did not, in fact, sing.

It wasn’t because she had lost her parents when she was very young. Though that was true. It wasn’t because she worked as a servant in the palace, though that was also true.

She didn’t feel sorry for herself. She felt grateful that she had been invited by King Mactogonii to the Kingdom of Mar after the Aeolan council banished her from her homeland for thievery and treason. Never mind it was a onetime thing.

In fact, if you had asked Illiana why she didn’t sing, she probably couldn’t have told you.

It troubled her, when she thought about it. So she tried not to think about it. She tried not to think about the Kingdom of Aeola either. She tried to forget the way the melody wove through the air—even the very ground. She knew that her best friend Essie could hear the notes sometimes, when it rained. But Essie could hear and sense more than most. As hard as Illiana listened, she couldn’t hear the cloudweavers music in the rain.

So she didn’t think about it. Any of it.

But she missed it, just the same.

***

“Strange goings on,” Milp muttered to herself, punching the pillow a bit more violently than it deserved. She tweaked the corner and set it against the arm of the couch, surveying the effect. “Fire and blastin’, splinterin’ to little pieces,” she grumbled.

Illiana knew better than to ask Milp what she was talking about. Stay quiet and listen was the best way to handle Milp. “Folks thinkin’ somethin’ can be had for nothin’,” she continued. Illiana swept the last of her pile of dust into a bunch and gathered it up. Milp whipped around, pointing a bony finger in Illiana’s face. “But everything’s got a cost!”

Milp shuffled off, hunched and angry, throwing fresh blankets over the bed like they had personally offended her. The tower smelled clean. Not that it had smelled bad when Illiana and Milp arrived this morning—just dusty and unused, with that stale, stuffy odor a place that has been shut up for too long gets.

The arched windows in the tower above the archives let in a welcome breeze that carried with it the sound of the city. Illiana ran a finger along the sill, making sure it came away speck free. Small blackbirds with yellow breasts chirped from a nest on the outside ledge, shrill and angry at the intrusion. Illiana breathed in deep and smiled. “It’ll be nice for whoever moves in up here.” The mother blackbird ruffled her feathers as if imitating Milp and turned her back on Illiana.

Illiana could see the main street, Market Way, crawling all the way from the city gates, through the Trade District, and finally ending here, at the palace. There was nothing unusual in the busy main street, bustling with hawkers, shoppers and general activity. Except one thing. A tall woman with silver gray hair moved purposefully through the erratic throng, clearing a neat path as she swept a long stick in front of her. She wore a blindfold. Behind the woman plodded a squat, fat donkey, whose back was heaped with neat bundles tied in an intricate web.
Illiana leaned further out the window as the stranger headed for the courtyard below, passing out of view. It felt unusual to see a blind person move with such confidence. Illiana had only seen that in Essie.

“Let’s go!” Milp snapped. Illiana shrugged and followed Milp out the tower, down the circular steps, and past the public archives. She was done for the day. She left Milp with a cheery goodbye, which was met with more grumbled complaining, and trotted toward Market Way, headed for the city stables on the other side of Blacksmith’s Row.

She would meet Essie—and Tig, of course—on schedule at noon. A blind stranger in Plen—that would catch Essie’s attention. It might even be enough to pull her out of her obsession over her Arcane Academy rejection for a few minutes.

Illiana checked her own thoughts for a moment. The street felt odd today. She slowed her walk, paying more attention to the babbling noise around her. The chatter in the street was animated and happy. Folks were trading and buying and selling and gossiping. But there. An old man threw her a quick glance from a conversation with two dressed like farmers from up the valley, snapping his mouth shut in a thin line as she passed. Illiana blushed and quickened her pace. That was it. Some news was running through the city—but what kind of gossip would turn the Trade District and the valley folk on the palace staff? She could only stand the stares and little silences for another block. She slipped behind a market stall and between a row of shop fronts, spilling into a quiet back street. As she turned the corner she nearly ran into a boy who looked about her own age, or maybe a bit older. It was hard to tell as he kept his head down behind a heavy looking box of braided and polished steel.

“I’m sorry!” Illiana skipped to one side, but the boy ignored her and staggered off with his load. She shrugged. “Rude.”

She didn’t even realize she had finished the trip to the stables until she heard Cragg, a stable manager, call her name.

She smiled. “And good day to you Mr. Cragg.”

“Goin’ by yourself today?” Cragg asked. His knobby hands were swollen and bent with age. He couldn’t lift heavy things anymore, but no one could match him for handling the horses. He handed her a couple of twisted, tuber-like carrots.

Illiana’s smile slipped. “Essie’s not here?”

Cragg scratched at his untidy beard and shook his head. “Not yet. Haven’ seen her cat neither.”

Illiana spent the next little while brushing Champie, her big bay gelding. She looked him in the eye. “It was probably nothing. Just my imagination.” Champie nodded. Encouraged, Illiana broke off a piece of carrot and offered it in the palm of her hand. “Most of the palace staff are from the Trade District anyway…”

Champie crunched and drippled carrot pieces all over her arm. Illiana brushed them off absently. “But the fire last week on Nobble Street was real.” She pulled at Champie’s forelock. “And nobody believes the protectors report that it was started by ‘natural causes.’”

The tower bell sounded, far away, noting the time change. She had been brushing Champie for an hour. Even running late, Essie should have been here by now. She looked over at Tangerine, Essie’s short, sleek, black mare. Tangerine tossed her head as if to say, “I know as much as you do.”

Illiana cleaned out Champie’s stall, even though she didn’t have too. She shared the rest of the carrots with Champie and Tangerine. But by late afternoon, it was evident.

Essie wasn’t coming.

Sam Waltborn is a commoner who lives in the Trade District, on Blacksmith’s Row. Slightly autistic, Sam is a brilliant blacksmith with a knack for engineering, a dislike for people, and a soft spot for dogs.

Nobody called him Sam, even though that was his name. Folks didn’t call him much of anything. He was awkward and withdrawn and his parents hadn’t brought him out much, due to the fits. The shaking. The outbursts.

That was before. He was better now, some. He could go out. Even by himself. Then his ma died.

“Terrible tragedy. He’ll go off for sure,” they would whisper, in a carrying sort of way that could be heard for miles.

But Sam didn’t go off, or go under, or go anything. He stayed Sam. Quiet. Withdrawn. Smart. When they called him ‘rude,’ he didn’t mean to be. But he didn’t care much either.

So it continued to be easier for them to ignore Sam, even though he ran errands for his pa, picking up steel or dropping off orders all over Blacksmith’s Row, and even further up the Trade District, all on his own.

***

Clank and Jangles contracted with the public stables. The smell of horses and hot iron mixed strong in their barn-like shop, and barrels of horseshoes, all different sizes, stood along the wall in front. Bree owned Clank and Jangles and could be called the finest farrier on Blacksmith’s Row. He could also be called other things, some nice, some not so nice. The not so nice things weren’t usually said to his face, as it was piggish and mean, and his arms were bullish and huge. Sam ducked in the side door with an armload of fine, braided steel, shaped for bits and bridles. At one time all the fine steel in Sam’s arms would have been shaped and cut and polished by his pa. Now it could have been either of them. But only Sam knew that.

Bree hunched over the bellows, stoking his fire. Another craftsman lounged against the anvil rack, idly swinging a pair of tongs. Bree’s eyes passed over Sam like they would a discarded horseshoe. Disinterested and bored. Sam didn’t need instructions. He carried his burden to the bins set beside the barrels in front of the barn. Leather straps, some thick, some thin, hung from the wall, ready to cut for reigns or harness. Sam sorted his polished work into the bins. Bree knew his work wasn’t fine enough for a bridle, or a bit in a horse’s mouth.

Only a few steps away at the forge, Bree nodded in a morose sort of way, finishing some conversation interrupted by Sam’s appearance. “Never did like the looks of ‘im.”

Hol grunted and dropped his voice. “Some folks visited Tran.”

Bree gave the slightest of shrugs. “Yeah?”

“Magic folk. He says, they says,” Hol glanced at Sam, and dropped his voice even further, but he was still quite audible in the large, hot room—blacksmiths rarely know how to be quiet, “magic, is for all. Everybody. Not jus’ protectors and heroes.”

“Magic.” Bree snorted, coughed, and hacked something sticky to the floor. “Air. Hot air. Tavern talk.”

Hol grabbed Bree’s arm, a fierce glint in his eye. “These innit just talkers Bree. Davus, over on Brickstone, they healed his daughter.”

Bree delivered a slow look at Hol’s hand on his arm. Hol dropped the offending hand apologetically. “It’s true Bree,” he insisted. “Tran saw her, walkin’.”

Bree’s eyes narrowed. “Walkin’? Davus’ girl? She never walked. Her legs is all froze up.”

Hol’s face glinted feverishly in the firelight. “That’s what I’m sayin’, if’n you’d listen. No waiting on the healer’s lists. Just—” Hol made a little gesture toward his legs.

Bree chewed on his lip a minute, then turned back to his forge. “That innit just a cold. That’s a lot ‘o magic. Lot o’ power.” He pinched a glowing piece of iron with his own set of tongs, turned it over and pushed it deeper into the fire before facing Hol again. “It’s illegal. That kinda thing will upset the system. Bound to be dangerous.”

Hol grinned. “Only to those who don’ want to share.”

Sam realized he had finished his sorting. He shuffled to his feet and glanced at the men on his way to the door, but they ignored the invisible boy.
That evening after supper Sam squatted on the hearth with a puzzle he had made of interlaced hoops. There was a way to pull them apart and put them together again. His pa had tried it, but couldn’t figure how it was done. Sam’s hands disassembled the loops automatically, as he watched his pa stir a mug of tea. Everyone called his pa, “Waltborn.” No one used his first name.

Waltborn continued to stir his no longer hot tea and stare into the fire. A log popped and the flame crackled. Sam studied the shadows on his face. The lines ran deep. Like canyons. His pa had always had lines in his face, but they used to be caused by a deep laugh, unguarded and unchecked.

Sam wondered if his pa had heard about the “magic folk” yet. Probably. News in the Trade District traveled like spilled water. Impossible to hold and filling every crack.

“Pa?” Sam asked. Hesitant.

Waltborn twitched. His eyes moved to his boy—a young man now, if he was honest—sitting in front of him on the hearth.

Sam toyed with the puzzle in his hands, nervous. “If there was some way Ma could have lived—well, I mean—she’s gone now, and there’s no use in trying to bring her back.”

The firelight threw shadows over the room. Sam watched his pa’s face. Deep shadows hooded his dark eyes. Even the light from the flames seemed to be sucked into the blackness and disappear. There was no light, no reflection. Just darkness.

“I suppose so,” he sighed, his voice weary. Heavy.

Sam’s fingers relaxed. He nodded. “You wouldn’t try to do something though—try to make it right? I mean, we can’t. Except like you said, just keep doing what she’d want us to do.”

If Waltborn heard him, he didn’t respond. He just stared into the fire. Sucking the light of the flames into his eyes and holding it prisoner there.
Sam stood to leave, but patted the large shoulder on his way past. “I miss her too, Pa.”

Late that night, from somewhere nearby, a muffled explosion sounded. The rumble shook the small shopfront, hanging tools tinkled against each other on the wall, and all was still.

Sam’s eyes opened wide. Had it started? He looked across the bedroom at the bulky lump that was his pa. Still here. Sam relaxed, the tension easing. Let it begin then. They had weathered worse.

Essie Brightsday is a young blind girl, and the primary heroine in The Unseen Chronicles. She is stubborn, curious and loves to ride horses, (which she discovered in A Hero’s Curse), and is now caught in the middle of an impending civil rebellion in Nightrage Rising.

Running for my life was not a part of the plan. To be fair, there hadn’t really been a plan. Which is why I’m hurtling down unfamiliar streets with three Ratcliff thugs on my tail.

The narrow alleys in the Wayfair District save my life—the three behind me are big and bulky. They can’t move as quickly as I can between these buildings. I may be blind, but Tig has trained me for this. Well, maybe not this exactly; but I can still feel, taste, smell and sense like no one else in my family.

Blood pounding in my ears makes it difficult to hear—difficult to navigate. Sooner or later, I’ll end up at a dead end, which will turn literal in a hurry. The echoes bouncing off the stone on either side of me finally open up, giving me the break I’ve been hoping for. I launch myself over the low wall I’m running next to in an attempt to get out of this alley and back around to the more hospitable parts of Plen.

Except, there is no street on the other side. In fact, there’s nothing. My feet drop out from under me and I feel a whooshing in my stomach before I land with a squelch at the bottom of a slick refuse channel. I didn’t say I was perfect. I’m still blind, after all. The stench is overwhelming. I could kick myself for missing that before I jumped. In my defense, most of the Wayfair smells this way. I try to stand but I can barely get a footing in the sludge around me.

The heavies come stamping to a halt, breathing hard in the alley above me. My dead end. I face them as proud and defiant as I can, which is tough since I can barely stand and I’m covered in filth. As much as I wish Tig was with me today, at least he isn’t seeing this.

“You’re in tha wrong parta Plen, Missy,” growls one of the thugs, his accent thick with the Wayfair. “Bin listenin’ on tha wronga bunch. Nobody spies on tha Ratcliff gang on they’s own turf.” He pauses, apparently taking in the red bandana I wear across my eyes. “Canna believe a blind wench gave us such a run. Sorcery no doubt. Bren, get down an’ hit ‘er o’er tha head—careful if she got magic in her.”

“Blow offn. That’s a nasty spot down there. You git in tha drink and knock ‘er ‘ead.” Apparently Bren doesn’t want to get dirty. Which is ironic since I can smell them over the sewer drain.

“Carnie—you was slow at tha last killin’ job. Dinna do naw but stand and wheeze. It’s yourn turn. You get ‘er.”

Carnie responds with a rasp of steel and the chink of stone. He must be clambering down the wall into the canal. “I git ‘er boots,” he giggles.

“I’m Essie Brightsday! First Champion Killian Brightsday’s daughter. I’m worth a ransom!” I blurt in desperation. As soon as Dad hears where I’ve been, he’ll kill me, but at least I won’t die in a sewage canal—probably.

“Well, Essie Brightsy, even if ya are who ya say, ya innit worth near enuff that Boss Champs wudn’t want us ter keep ya quiet.”

“But wouldn’t Boss Champs want the ransom? You’ll lose it for him by killing me!”

Carnie plops into the canal a few feet from me. I scramble backward, but he just chuckles. “You’ve nowhere to run now missy. An’ Boss Champs don’ care about monies. He jus likes bein’ left alone like. He’ll send you back to the nicer parts of Plen as a warnin’. Stay out.”

“I can tell them—I can send that message!”

“Oh, you’ll send the message all right—”

Something thumps and the rustle of silk carries from the alley above, behind the two thugs. “A little far abroad for the Ratcliff Gang, aren’t we boys?” says a smooth, feminine voice with a slight accent. She sounds foreign to our Kingdom of Mar.

“This here’s Ratcliff business and that makes it our’n turf. Ain’t got nobbit to do with you, ya smarmy magic-eatin’ cultist—”

“Ah—language.”

A blast of heat tears through the alley above, knocking me flat. I scramble up from the sludge for a second time.

Carnie swears violently. “What’d ya do wi’ ‘em?”

“Ash and wind,” she says. “What Rats deserve.”

“Boss Champs will level ya! All of ya!” Carnie screams. “Ya purple-robed magic eaters is nuthin’ in the Wayfair! He’ll rip ya apart!”

“Quiet,” orders the woman above. Carnie makes a choking sound as his tirade stops short. “Tell Champs that Nightrage is now at war with the Ratcliff Gang.”

Carnie resumes in a gurgling whisper. “He’s—tha beatin’ heart—o’ tha Wayfair! He rules ‘ere, stronger than a—king ever was! He’ll eat ya alive! You’ve done announced yer—war!”

“You’re right. I don’t need you after all.” The smile in her voice raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

This time I feel the heat build and I dive to the side of the drain before it erupts again. I still feel the hot wave wash through the canal and for a terrifying second I can’t breathe.

I retch and stagger to my feet for the third time. Not one of my better days.

“Here girl,” the woman beckons.

What choice do I have? And I am so done with the sewer. I crunch across the now dry canal, my foot kicking through a pile of ash on the way. A soft hand grabs mine and hoists me easily over the wall and back into the narrow alley.

“Thanks.”

“Can’t have the first champion’s daughter getting tossed in a canal by the Ratcliff gang.”

“I jumped in, actually.”

She gives a wry chuckle. “I know—I saw.” The silk of her robe whispers as she whirls and glides back up the cramped street.

“Wait! Why save me?”

Her robes rustle to a stop. “There is a war coming, Essie Brightsday. Nightrage is rising. We could use someone with your…spunk.” As the ripple of silk slips further down the alley she calls back over her shoulder. “Take this alley three blocks further. Left at the machinists—you’ll smell the grease. That will take you back to the market. And hurry. Champ’s bruisers will be sore when they see this mess.”

“Who are you?” I ask, but there is no response from the silent, hot alley.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve been reading a piece of parallel storytelling based on the Nightrage Rising novel. To find out more visit our main page for Nightrage Rising, or the Kickstarter update where it was first announced or go straight to Amazon to find the print, e-book, or audio version! Also a special thanks Mariaglorum for use of the picture, which you can find here.

Now for Robin & Trish…


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

A Thief Worth His Salt

I have come to the conclusion that all great people have their rivals. Qahan Nijamar, the mythic hero of yore, had his Ashlock; the pirate Maid Mihriban had her Princess Pakize; I have Raza Qimeh. Or at least he likes to think so. Most of his success stems from the fact that no one would believe someone as tall or broad or loud as he could ever be a quiet, agile, wily thief. Typically, he’s a mere thorn in my side. Like now, for instance…


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Arriving in Aventown

The moon, now full, lit the way for the traveling entourage as it entered the village of Aventown. Dixon had described the town as “sleepy,” and so it seemed to be, in that few lights shown through any windows, although the hour was not yet late.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. The travelers’ horses drummed a steady rhythm as they made their way down the cobblestone street, announcing their presence to anyone in the least interested. The sound startled Adele from her musings. Then just as she turned her thoughts inward again, unexpected laughter interrupted her reverie.

“What’s so funny?” Basha asked Jules who rode at her side.

“It looks like someone here held a contest for the wildest place names …


Thanks for following along with us as we write and live and breathe. It’s all the same thing. Please subscribe to my website so that I can send you (very infrequent) updates, stories, or quirkiness.

The very best to you.

 

A Drift of Quills – Quotables

This month our intrepid band of writers is looking at some of our favorite quotes–those faded and curled post-it notes pinned to the corkboard that inspire, encourage, and challenge–we hope they do the same for you!


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

I am a lemon in the book quotation collection department. Oh, I have accumulated scores of quotes, but mostly in the line of pithy truisms. Like, “All of us could take a lesson from the weather; it pays no attention to criticism.” Or “A ship in the harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.” They are little reminders to myself that I need to buck up, knuckle down, stop being overly sensitive, work toward my goals, and remember to breathe. Those reminders get jotted down on post-it notes and stuck around my workspace. Bright, rich butterflies whispering directions I would otherwise forget.


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

It’s interesting to consider those things that catch one’s attention. For my part, they are often obscure lines that most people likely pass by without a second thought. Occasionally when I find a gem tucked in amidst all the words surrounding it, I grasp it, then adopt it for my own for later use. No, I don’t mean that I copy and use it in my written works, I just say it from time to time. For example, back as a young adult, I read some of Robert A. Heinlein’s science fiction. From his works, one line stood out that I’ve revised—just a bit—and repeated many times over the years (giving Heinlein credit, of course). My version reads thusly …


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

The quotes with the most meaning to me personally have come from within stories themselves, as opposed to quotes from an author or prominent individual. I think that’s because for me a quote can capture the essence a story–suddenly a snippet evokes an entire journey. The sentence is no longer a disassociated fragment, it has a context. It becomes the story itself, capturing some essential element that inspires me to consider, at least for a moment, the entire narrative from a single perspective.

“Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.” It’s by J.M. Barrie, of Peter Pan fame, but I love that quote in large part because of its attachment to the book Wonder by R.J. Palacio. The quote invokes the memory of the entire story and I am encouraged to look not only at that story from the perspective of this one line, but also at my own life through this single lens.

I love this one from Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets: “It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” That is such a beautiful theme. One to remember and examine, like an intricately cut diamond. I watched “Captain Marvel” a couple of days ago and I saw the same theme run through the show. I hope I can remember this one, and pass it on to my kids.

And there is no book for me which quite so captures the nostalgia and love of place–love of home–like Wind in the Willows does. “Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way.”

Finally, the wisdom, cheer and adventure found in Tolkien’s work is worth revisiting. Remembering. Here are a few from The Hobbit, or There and Back Again. “There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

“So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.” This one is so good. It reminds me that, “This too, shall pass.” For every thing there is a season, and nothing, either good or bad, lasts forever in this world.

Finally, one more from The Hobbit: “A safe fairyland is untrue to all worlds.” And this. Just–it’s so true it hurts, and it is perhaps one reason I love fairy stories, as C.S. Lewis called them in his essay, “Sometimes Fairy Stories May Say Best What’s to be Said.”

What about you? What are some of your favorite quotes? What makes a quote special to you? Is it the wisdom within, or the person it comes from? Leave a comment below or send me an email!

A Drift of Quills – Stranded on an Island!

Here’s how it is – you’re stranded on an island, somewhere in the far South Pacific. Chance of rescue anytime soon is…bleak. So, as you get your Tom Hanks on and go hunting for a volleyball you can name “Wilson,” the heavy question on our minds is, what three books would you want with you? Let me know in the comments, or drop me an email!


Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

I’m cold. A desert island sounds good right now with its sandy beaches, rolling waves, peace and quiet… I put in a request for palm trees and other vegetation, too. Birds. No snakes. A hammock. One terrific thunderstorm. And chocolate, of course. Would it be cheating if I brought my e-reader and a solar charger? It only takes up the space of one book, right?

Choosing a mere three books is serious business. I think I’ll go with something old, something new, and…


Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Before I fully answer this question, I admit that I’m going to cheat juuuuuussssst a little bit. You see, I think that others might expect that I should respond to this question by listing first, the book of authority for …


Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

I have a wonderful life. I’m surrounded, tackled, and set upon by four wonderful kiddos, loved by a beautiful wife, and I have several vocations I truly enjoy. I write, I teach, and I work in real estate. I get to be a part of restoring old buildings in a small yet interesting and thriving community.

All that said, getting stranded on a distant island sometimes sounds like a holiday. I wonder how long I would procrastinate starting a signal fire…Especially if I had three good books.

I think I would want the books to fall into categories – something that I’ve read and love and could read again and again would be the first category. It’s like comfort food. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone settles into this place for me. It’s fun, engaging and nostalgic, while still offering enough literary depth for an extended island stay.

Second, I’d enjoy a book I haven’t read. A big fat one. Probably something that would qualify as a classic. War and Peace? Atlas Shrugged? I tried getting through Dicken’s David Copperfield once, and never made it. The danger would be that I end up disliking it, and I’m stuck on an island with a book I hate. But who knows, in the time it takes to get rescued, maybe we would become good friends.

Finally, I read a small section of the Bible almost every day, but it seems like a cheat to claim the whole Bible. If I couldn’t have the whole thing, having the Book of Psalms would be a treasure, or the Gospel of John.

What about you? Can you relate, or are you more of a Dwight Schrute: “Physician’s Desk Reference-hollowed out, inside-waterproof matches, iodine tablets, beet seeds, protein bars, NASA blanket and, in case I get bored, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. No, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Question, did my shoes come off in the plane crash?”

Comment below or shoot me an email! And, as a brief aside, I’ll be teaching a storytelling class in a couple of weeks. If you’re a writer, or a dabbler, or a scribbler – come talk about storycraft and myth. We’ll tell tall tales and spin new yarns. But be very careful, because you may end up thinking writing can be fun.