Posts Tagged ‘The Mirror’
December 22, 2011 by Kiersi
December 15, 2011 by Kiersi
The Final Installment
He is running.
His sword is stained red.
Towards the castle. Weaving between houses and shops and servants’ quarters, seeing clearly every stone under his feet, his chest heaving deep inside him.
Up an outer staircase to two heavy wooden doors, locked with iron brackets and a thick iron lock.
Clambering up the wall, reaching for ivy and tree branches.
Inside a third-story window, sweat running down the small of his back and his forehead and his hands.
Then his vision dims, spirals away from him, and Calean is blind to the world again. (more…)
December 8, 2011 by Kiersi
How Do You Write?
Jen Fejta holds a BA in English and French Studies from Lewis & Clark College. She works at Literary Arts in Portland, Oregon, where she directs Delve: Readers’ Seminars, a program that engages readers with discussion-based seminars led by professional writers and scholars on classic and contemporary literature.
She is also my friend and cohort in the writing and editing process.
Jen: So let’s start with your day. What time do you wake up? Is writing the very first thing you do, or is it the last thing? Now that you’re working at home, how is your day structured?
Kiersi: I’m freshest in the morning. A lot of my stories are based on dreams. I find that when I wake up in the morning, sometimes I am exhausted and lazy. Those times, I have to take a long shower and cook a big breakfast for myself to feel ready for the day. Most of the time, though, I wake up rejuvenated, with the energy that I need to write.
I like to start early if I can. The other morning I woke up at 5 a.m. My neighbor was making some noise, and I’d gotten to bed early, so I just jumped out of bed and I was ready to rock and roll for about four hours until I stopped for breakfast. (more…)
December 2, 2011 by Kiersi
Texture surrounds this place. The soap is silky and sweet, and reminds Calean of waking up in the grass on a spring morning with dew on one’s nose. The clothes slip through his hands because the weave of the cotton is finer than spider’s silk. His toes both shudder at the cold of the marble floors and marvel at their punctuated smoothness.
Even the oak table where Jacobsen seats him is solid and the grain of the wood pure and straight under his fingertips. (more…)
November 27, 2011 by Kiersi
The earth rumbles.
The boy with pale yellow hair and pale blue eyes stands once more on a sandy plain, but this time the sand is so smooth and flat and unforgiving that it could also be glass. He tests it with one foot, not sure what to make of it. It is hard.
Then his own face appears in the ground. He observes his features. They are confident, unlike his own face, which is tight and charred with terror.
The face in the sand smiles like the lips were carved with a knife. (more…)
November 25, 2011 by Kiersi
Every writer worth her salt has heard this phrase. Often times we, as artists of the written word, prolong what does not need prolonging; we spell out for a reader (sometimes in painful detail) what we could accomplish with barely a hint. While your description of the landscape may be poetic or your dialogue clever and crisp, an equally clever editor will probably tell you: “Delete it.”
Today I want to assure you that you can trust the reader to imagine things for himself. It sounds scary, I know. I’ve been there. I’ve imagined interactions and situations so complex I feel I must tell my reader everything.
But often times a reader’s imagination can do more for you and your story than the writing can. (more…)
November 21, 2011 by Kiersi
The city basks in the glow of sunset. Merchants lock up and retreat to their wagons for dinner. Mothers herd children indoors. The tent roofs of fruit stalls and trinket shops radiate a brilliant, fiery orange.
“The castle looks dark tonight,” says Kren. He protects his eyes from the sun with one hand and peers up at a castle turret. It is a great white pillar of light. “I’d best be off.”
Calean’s eyes widen, as if he can’t tell whether to be blessed by his good fortune, or cursed by the loss of a companion.
“You were right about that horse,” Calean says to the old man. He is rewarded with a wide smile but has no inkling of it. “She’ll get me as far as I need to go.”
“And where is that, dare I ask?”
“The end of the world.” (more…)
October 4, 2011 by Kiersi
Cicadas hum in the branches of a nearby grove of honeypole trees. The Capitol looms overhead, the domed white roofs of the castle at the center of the city glimmering silver in the afternoon sun.
A guard steps out of his post when a boy approaches the gate to the city. The boy wears a sharp vest, dark boots a size too big, a fine steel sword and a purse. His hair turns gold in the light and his white eyes are vacant as the underside of a cloud.
September 27, 2011 by Kiersi
The boy’s eyes fly open and he sits up. The sky is purple. On the edge of the horizon, the sun is rising. It casts long ribbons of orange over the foothills, lighting up the young, bright green leaves of new spring.
“Must be morning,” he says, touching his face. The surface of his skin is warm now that the sun has emerged. His glacial eyes stare off into space, rarely following along with the movement of his head.
“Chirrup,” agrees a nearby frog. (more…)
September 24, 2011 by Kiersi
Each foot buries itself in the sand. His legs shudder, swallowing the impact. The grains of shattered seashells wrap around his bare toes, tugging him downward, tugging him into the earth.
Above the sky glows red as embers, but no sun circles overhead. (more…)