There’s a lot of excitement connected with writing. A firewood splitting redneck can become the master of men’s fates… elves’ fates… dragon’s fates… Everything put to paper is alive and breathing. Monsters under the bed become real with the most powerful skill we humans possess:
Blessed by our Creator we can build worlds around ourselves and in our own minds. Through the magic and beauty of writing we can invite others into those worlds and those who take that step are supremely courageous. It takes some dogged determination to stand up to the criticism of others against what came solely from your own mind.
Our minds are astoundingly powerful, bringing images out of letters and scenes off of paper.
This is why I write and I hope you enjoy my stories and this final teaser from my third book. This is not a published work (puppy dog eyes) yet. But it will be someday soon and I hope you enjoy this little taste.
Emmet tugged and fought vainly against the leather straps binding him against a rough tree trunk, a tree trunk he was uncomfortably familiar with. The wooden block in his mouth made him wish he hadn’t leveled Scullar. A swollen lip, bruised forehead, and blackened eye made him even more remorseful. In all truthfulness he wouldn’t have struck the Colonel if he hadn’t hit a particularly sore nerve. With the recent loss of his dear friend he was a bit touchy about being called a collaborator with the Nashi.
The fight had been planned, but Emmet hadn’t figured on breaking the Colonel’s nose. Now he wasn’t sure if he was the orchestrator or the victim of disaster. Perhaps he was both.
The guards who stood in front of him, to keep the other soldiers away, looked at him with grim, pitying glances. Emmet only had to wonder about this unusual behavior until Scullar came bursting out of the trees in full wrath. He held a whip in his hand, no doubt from his personal belongings. Emmet now understood the soldiers’ remorse. They had seen their colonel angry before.
As a prince, and a soldier, Emmet had seen disciplinary whippings before. They were usually dealt out to thieves and deserters, but he could tell this was no ordinary punishment. He would pay a heavy cost for his temper. As he suspected, his shirt and mail were taken from him and his hands were retied to a branch overhead. Scullar dealt the lashings himself and took delight in their results.