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  • Writer's picturemarikenney

Fantasy F-Around

When I write, I usually don't have a plan in place. I usually let the emotion, character, story take the reigns, but sometimes (most times) I have no clear focus or moral of the story in mind.

What is the reason for the story? Why am I writing it?

A lot of times, I really don't know. I get an itch. A spark. An idea. A thought. And I just go.

I've tried to outline and plan - but when I do, part of me feels like the creative magic is minimalized somehow. I'm searching for a way to create a more organized chaos to my writing.

I think I need to better understand my process. All that being said -

This is an excerpt from the story. I'm trying to update and make the story something. Right now, super drafting mode. But I want to expand the world and see where it takes me. I think I need to outline. I think I need to put the chaos in order. In all honesty, I may have already uploaded this in the past - if I did - at least I'm still trucking.

Oh, and I guess this story could be classified as a Fantasy F-Around (just trying a different genre)


Mist danced across the blood drenched field. Bodies scattered the ground. Vultures dove down devouring their fill.

King Attah stomped across the gore littered green.

Attah kicked, knocking a vulture from its perch inside the open cavity of a young warrior. Attah didn't stop, but uttered a quick prayer for the man’s soul. He prayed the young warrior would be met in the Underworld with drink and women.

As he neared the edge of the bloody playground, Attah spied the elaborate, red velvet tent perched perfectly on the outskirts of the carnage. He tensed and quickened his walk.

Attah hated his brother's tent.

Crine believed that the red monstrosity was his Holy Temple. Protection given to him by the gods. Attah shook the thought from his head and marched through the huddling masses of his brother's men. Defeat written in blood and dirt smeared on their faces. Attah did not fear their retaliation for the people knew who was King and knew the consequences of going against him. As much as Crine protested, Attah was the one true King.

Attah whipped open the flap of his brother’s ornately decorated tent and a cloud of sickly, sweet smoke invaded his nostrils. He pulled his large, blood drenched hand over his nose, thankful for the comforting smell of metal to erase the saccharine scent. Attah squinted as his eyes adjusted to the candle light.

“It’s called Libations of Circes. A difficult find. A luxury in more sophisticated lands. Is it too sweet for you?” Crine teased, his voice grating and shrill danced through the dimly lit temple. Attah stiffened, not knowing from where Crine's voice drifted.

“I know how you prefer the smell of rot.” Crine huffed.

Attah grimaced.

“You must stop this.” Attah’s gruff voice pushed back. "Show yourself, brother."

“So grumpy.” Crine's snakelike form slithered out of the darkness, pleasure dancing on his lips. Attah surveyed his brother's movements. He knew Crine could not be trusted. He looked so much like his mother, the Priestess of the Temple of Ophidian. Their father had killed hundreds of men to win her hand. After Crine’s birth, to thank the King, she tried to kill him.

Attah cracked his large bulbous knuckles, ready for a fight. His mother had come from the Winterlands. She was strong and of good stock. Their father chose her, because he knew she would birth a mighty warrior. And she did.

“I’m tired of your foolishness.” Attah kept his eyes trained on the shape of his brother.

“My foolishness?” Crine hissed. “I’m not the one who thinks he’s going to win.” Crine teased.

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