Finding, refining, amplifying

In a recent blog interview, I shared that when my high school English teacher asked me why I write, my answer was “because I have something to say.”

I seem to keep stumbling across a writing-related theme recently: does writing require talent? If so, what is it, specifically? If not, why do we keep torturing ourselves with it?

I think writing is about finding, then refining and amplifying your voice.

On finding your voice:

Finding your voice takes serious guts. Not everyone is going to like your voice, or even understand it, and some will positively detest it. Writing in your own voice, and then sending the piece to be read, and critiqued, by (gasp) others is a people-pleasers’ worst nightmare.

It also takes time and hard work. I was told that most people who start a story never finish. Finishing your story is your voice is very, very difficult. I’ve lost count of how many times I almost deleted my first draft of CYRION and THE BURNED BRIDGES PROTOCOL.

It’s too difficult, I told myself. People hate it. Novellas/MG is out of fashion – no one will even look at it. It’s too complicated. It’s too dark. It’s been done to death. I can’t do this.

Then, I walk away from my laptop, spend some time to collect myself, and dive back into my WIP. Repeat, until the tale is complete.

On refining your voice:

This is where things get really tricky. On one hand, it has taken a lot for me to find my voice, so compromise is not an option. On the other hand, I want to become a better writer.

I suggest the following experiment for illustrative purposes. No, no one else has to know but you. Find the busiest, noisiest street corner you can find, and then sing something into your phone/recording device. Sing the verse/line/song with your normal volume. Repeat song in your bathroom/any room with reasonably good acoustics. Finally, if you can, repeat in a recording studio.

Study the results.

The irritating background noise obscuring your song when you were at the street corner? That’s what poor grammar, typos, and miscellaneous line errors are doing to your prose. The bit of the song where you were a little flat/sharp/off key? Those are conceptual missteps in your prose. Notice how you can’t even hear those details when they were still buried under traffic noise? Refining your writing means removing the ‘noise’ and then reinforcing your melody, so your voice comes across strong, clear, and beautiful. That’s it.

Safely delete any critique failing this purpose.

On amplifying your voice:

I was recently reminded that pace and descriptive prose have an inverse relationship. When a burning plane is about to crash land on the roof of your MC’s house (for example), your MC is not going to spend time studying the sunny sky, the fluffy clouds, the spring breeze ruffling his/her hair and the clean scent of fresh-cut grass. No. S/he is going to be groping into the pockets of his/her dressing robe, praying that the pocket lint his/her questing fingers has found thus far would somehow materialize into a cellphone, so s/he could call 911. Or so s/he could record the whole thing for YouTube purposes.

Unless, of course, your MC is the antihero who masterminded the entire plane-on-fire-landing-on roof debacle. In which case, the descriptive prose might work exceedingly well. The YouTube bit would also make a lot more sense.

My point: there is a time and place for descriptive prose. In the right time and place, descriptive passages can amplify your voice – which is what you want. This applies to all the rules of writing. Well, they’re really more guidelines, aren’t they? Use them if they help. Otherwise, feel free to toss them away.

Any thoughts to share? Do feel free to comment below 🙂

Gratitude

I am profoundly grateful and blessed at how so many people have supported The Burned Bridges Protocol by purchasing the book and leaving their thoughts on the review sections in both Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Thank you! Cyberflowers for everyone 🙂

 

I’m especially grateful for Mr. Cyrus Keith for taking the time to write his very kind review. Do pop by his homeplace for a bit of natter and a nice cuppa of cyber-joe 😀

Since I can’t seem to find the re-blog button (ironic, I know, since I *write* science fiction), here what Mr. Keith said:

Enjoy it I did. First off, it’s an easy read. And by easy, I mean the words flow so easily through my brain that it’s notwork to read. I finished this in just a few hours. It’s a short work, too at just over 200 pages, and the print is a bit larger than many other recent works I’ve read. It’s marketed as a novella, which is  just shy of a full novel-length work.

Which leads into my one minor criticism of the book: It could be longer. One or two scenes, in my opinion, could have been filled out just a fuzzy more. But don’t let that stop you from diving in head-first and devouring it.

I promise no plot-spoilers, but it’s not easy. I want to tell you all how it starts with a “What the…” and ends with an “Oh, wow,” and fills the pages between with more than one “I did NOT see that one coming!”

I can guarantee your mouth will drop open when you get to the reason for the title of the book. It takes a lot to surprise me like that, but she did it. I think what I like the most is Abigail’s sense of humor, a twisted, tongue-in-cheek kind of style that reminds me of a fluffy pink bunny riding a werewolf’s shoulder and pointing at Elmer Fudd while screaming “There he is: Get him!”

I should have expected this from Abigail, but with an imagination as lively as hers, it’s hard to know what to expect at any given time. And in this case, that’s a very good thing.

Five thumbs up.

I am a fan of Mr. Keith and his NADIA series, I feel honored that he thought this way about BBP.

And now I am wondering what Jon and Nadia would think of Lilliane and company….

😀

Whoops of joy

You know, I hoped that I’d have my excitement in check by this point.

Nope, no such luck. LOL

The Burned Bridges Protocol is now available on Amazon, Kindle and Barnes and Noble.

*happy*happy*happy*

Would you like a sneak peek into a few random pages? *randomly flipping pages* How about these?

———————————————————————————

God, he feels and smells like heaven.

Get a grip, she reminded herself. It’s all a game. Just a—

He kissed her. All coherent thought fled from her mind.

He kept his head close when their lips finally parted. His breath in her. Becoming part of her. Of her consciousness. Just as he breathed in her exhalations, making her a part of him.

“Curious little kitty.”

She inhaled more of him. Intoxicating musk. Her entire world shrunk to the irresistible curve of his cupid’s bow. Her own lips parted as she panted.

Begging for another kiss.

“Care to find out?”

Anything for more.

She nodded.

“Then come.”

She left without a backward glance.

# # #

David tugged her hand and pulled her onwards. Away from the New Edinburgh pod and deep into the rats’ nest of alleyways surrounding the docking bays. Away from the safety of her shipmates. From the watchful eye of her ship’s AI.

Lemon – wasn’t that what she called it?

Cute.

Well, as far as he was concerned, Lemon would soon be toast. And then he’d turn it into another of his hungry little devils. Just like he turned the AIs of the other pods that docked in the Lady Di. Not that he needed another devil since the New Edinburgh was the last, after all.

But as they say: Waste not, want not.

He glanced at his gauntlet to check on the virus’ progress. His hungry little devils had almost eaten through all of Lemon’s defenses. It will be checking on its Mother’s status soon. Good thing they were almost at his favorite blackout zone, beyond the reach of Lemon’s sensors.

Still, must move fast.

Her hand slipped from his grip. She stood in the middle of the refuse-strewn alley and looked around, perfect teeth gnawing perfect coral lips, hesitation written all over her face.

He stifled an exasperated sigh – I don’t need this right now – and advanced towards her, a pronounced swagger in his steps. He dropped his voice into a rumble.

“What’s the matter, angel?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know where we are. I don’t recognize any of this.”

He gathered her into his arms, tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder. With a twitch of his thumb, he released another dose of aerosolized gamma – gamma-hydroxybuterate – from his gauntlet.

Let her have a few lungfuls of that.

Her taut muscles loosened. She leaned into him, lithe body molding to his. He buried his smile of satisfaction in the wealth of gold at the crown of her head.

“If you’re scared, I can take you home.” He allowed just the smallest note of regret creep into his baritone. “I was just really looking forward to…” He sighed, then bent his head and parted her lips with his own. Another flick of his thumb instructed the nanobots on his tongue to release a combination of concentrated human pheromones and even more gamma.

He held his kiss for a few minutes, to ensure she gets the full dose, before pulling away. He noted the flushed cheeks, ice-cold hands and dilated pupils in her eyes.

“Shall I take you home?”

Note to self:

I can’t see the wind blow,

but I can see wild grasses ripple under the moonlight,

the daffodils nod their golden heads,

and the crests of wavelets sparkle in the noonday sun.

 

I don’t need the wind to howl,

when I can hear leaves gossip in the trees,

a dead branch skritch against my bedroom window,

and dry flowers rustle before forgotten gravestones.

 

Maybe ‘hidden’ characters – secondary characters with ulterior motives – work the same way. I cannot explicitly write about what they do. At least, not too early. I can only write about the effects of their actions, and maybe their reactions to these effects.

This could be tricky.

And fun 🙂

 

 

Memorial to my fallen darling.

In obedience to Faulkner’s advice to kill my darlings, I wish to bid adieu to one of my darlings.

Farewell, dear snippet. I’ve fought to include you in my draft for months, and can no longer stay the executioner’s blade.  You were a treat to write, but far too serious for middle grade high fantasy. Maybe I can find another home for you some other where, some other time. For now though, my sweet, rest well here, and know that you are loved.

Arti’s Lament – a murdered snippet from the Watchlings.

            My love, I dreamt you came to me last night.

            In my dream, I went to bed alone and afraid. The sheets whispered as your body slid next to mine. Your elusive, subtle scent, I love it so.

            Your familiar rumble pulled me further from sleep. “What are you doing all the way over there? Come here, silly.”

            A chuckle, as you drew me to you, turned me around and folded me into your arms. My chilled skin tingled against yours. I luxuriated in your warmth. I put my arms around you, every part of me, greedy for you. For the touch of your skin. The gentle exhalations of your sweet breath. The pressure of your chin on the crown of my head.

            I knew then it was a dream. But a fleeting dream of you is worth more than an eternity without you.

            I’d spend my life dreaming of you, if I could.  

            I gave the sweet hollow of your neck an equally sweet kiss. Your salt on my tongue. Like the salt of our mingled tears. Do you remember?

            Living silk – wasn’t that how you described my skin? I pressed my ear to your chest. The strong, steady beat of your heart lulled me deeper into slumber.

            That was how we were. All our lives, until now. Two separate individuals, inextricably entwined. Our bodies, a perfect match, in perfect harmony. Two imperfect halves of a perfect whole.

            I opened my eyes, and found myself alone. My heart was broken anew.  

            My love, I dreamt you came to me last night.

            What will I do without you?

It’s done! Kind of….

I’m sorry for pulling the submarine act on you. I’ve been rushing to finish the first draft of my science fiction experiment. My test-tube baby weighs in at just shy of twenty nine thousand words. I know she is small, but at this point in time, she is still just a novella. I am debating whether I should free her from the tubes, polish her, and then let her run free as the short, sleek, tiny tale she is. Or if I should extend the plotline and let her mature into a full-grown novel. Thoughts?

Anyway, here is one of the final scenes of Burning Bridges. I apologize for its rough state, but little Cleo wants to play 🙂

—

In Luna’s holding station the Lady Diana, it was time for the hunt. Lilliane had been hunting with Becca and Cleo for about a week. She quickly grew accustomed to her specialized gear and mastered her gauntlet’s non-verbal, fine motor controls. She’s even memorized the ritual words Lemon insisted they use prior to each kill.

They soon found their quarry. He was in the shadows, bent over his victim, his blade still dripping with blood. The three of them stepped into the pool of flickering fluorescent light. Lilliane caught Hecuba’s gaze, grinned and cleared her throat to get the quarry’s attention. Only the decent thing to do. He’s already dead and doesn’t even know it.

He jerked his head up at the sound. 

“You know, murder is frowned upon by civilized society,” Hecuba said in her low, mellow voice.

“The slaughter of innocents is traditionally considered especially heinous.” Lilliane stretched her arms and yawned. The work is stimulating and highly rewarding. But the hours are terrible.

“And who will stop me?” He rose and stepped into the light. “Three little girls?” He scoffed. An ugly leer snaked its way across his pock-marked face. “I must’ve been a very good boy. I’ve got me three little lambs for the slaughter.”

“You should be afraid. Sweating bullets.” Hecuba flexed her arm, a humorless smile on her face. A glowing scorpion flail slipped out of her gauntlet.

“Pissing in your boots—” Lilliane made a similar movement, with similar effects.

“And in your pants, you’d—” Cleo stopped short and stomped her foot. “Scat, I’ve messed it up.”

“It’s okay, Cleo,” Lilliane said. The head scorpion on her flail twined around her form. “I think he’s got the idea.”

“Can I have him, please?” Cleo practically vibrated in her excitement.

Hecuba bent her head, lines of hesitation on her face. “Cleo—”

“You had the last one. I should have this one. I won’t mess it up. I’ll even say the words right. Pleeeease?” Her voice rose in a whine.

Hecuba caught Lilliane’s gaze, eyebrow arched in silent enquiry. Lilliane shrugged. Why not?

Cleo giggled and flicked her gaze back to their quarry.

“You should fear us because we are vengeance incarnate,” Cleo chanted the ritual words in her piping child’s voice. She flexed her arm. The electronic scorpion flail slipped out of her gauntlet and hovered to her eye level, weaving back and forth like something truly alive. She cocked her head at him, a beatific smile on her face. “You’ve victimized innocents.” The smile dropped away. Her dark eyes glittered with cold fury. “We claim a blood-debt on their behalf.” She flicked her wrist. The flail snaked forward, landed on his cheek with the gentleness of a lover’s caress, and bestowed on him its lethal kiss.

Cleo watched his death throes for a few moments in rapt attention before turning back to Lilliane and Hecuba. “That’s the last, right? I’m hungry. Can we get something to eat?”

Lilliane reached out and ruffled the dark curls on the little girl’s head. “Sure, Cleo. Let’s go.”

More Twinkle and Sledge

Chapter Three: Through the Water Star.
Morgaine raised her arms as high as they’d go, then swung them down. Hard. The delicate crystal vase, reputed to have adorned Napoleon’s private chambers in Elba centuries ago, shattered on the granite bathroom floor. She stepped back and studied the glittering, star-shaped carnage in complete silence.

Nurse is going to get so mad at me.

Twinkle and Sledge hovered over the wreck of rose petals and crystal shards.

“You’re right,” Sledge said. “She is the Hag who summoned us. I haven’t seen a Water Star this perfect in a long time.”

Twinkle sniffed. “Told you so.”

“Excuse me?” Morgaine shifted her weight back and forth, from one bunny-slippered foot to the other. “What’s a Water Star?”

Sledge flew to Morgaine’s face and sat on the bridge of her nose. “You’re looking at it. It’s our portal to,” she waved her arms with a flourish, presumably to add drama, “other worlds beyond.”

Twinkle clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Are you fibbing to our Hag already?” He abandoned the bruised rose petal he’d been studying and joined Sledge on Morgaine’s nose. Morgaine’s eyes crossed as she tried to focus on the two fairies. “The Water Star is just a way out. To go to the land of the Fae, we have to follow the trail of the butterflies.”

Sledge turned to him, tiny arms akimbo. “How’s that different from what I said?”

Morgaine shook her head. Twinkle and Sledge tumbled from their perch. “Would you mind picking a different place to sit? I’m getting a migraine.” Morgaine rubbed her forehead and stretched her neck. “So what do I have to do to see Mother?”

Sledge cocked her head. “You jump in with both feet.”

“Jump where?”

“Through there. The Water Star,” Twinkle said. “We have to be on some part of you though. Unless you don’t mind losing your mind in the process.”

Sledge snickered. “What mind?” Twinkle frowned at her. Sledge bit her lip and fell into silence.

“Just jump into that?” Morgaine pointed at the mess on her bathroom floor.

“Yep,” Sledge said, nodding. “That’s it.” She flitted to just above Morgaine’s left ear. There was a faint tug as Sledge held onto strands of her hair. “Trust us.”

“Trust you?” Morgaine ticked the points on her fingertips. “I am a sweet, innocent girl, this is New York City, you broke into my room, insulted me, then forced me to break a priceless piece of modern history. Now, you’re asking me to do something that you said might cost me my mind. And you’re asking me to trust you?”

Morgaine felt a faint tug on her scalp just above her right ear. “Yes,” Twinkle said. “You summoned us.”

Sledge sounded uncharacteristically sad. “And we want to go home.”

Morgaine shrugged. She already broke the bloody vase. How much more trouble could she possibly get into?

And she really wanted to see Mother again.

“Okay, hold on tight you two.” Morgaine spared a breath for a quick prayer, bent her knees, closed her eyes, and jumped.

What a hag is not, and my apologies to Ancram

The fourth installment, folks. While I still don’t have a title, I do have a setting. Hooray for every small victory, right?

😉

“Twinkle,” Sledge said in warning, her voice pitched low. “We have a job to do.”

“Well, she’s not making it easy.”

Sledge flitted beside the blue orb, her glow muting and coalescing into the shape of a female. A winged female. “Think of what is at stake. Don’t you want to go home? I do.”

The red lightning ceased and Twinkle turned a lighter shade of blue. “Very well.”

Morgaine relaxed.

Sledge stayed beside Twinkle until he was the shade of a summer’s day at high noon before flitting in front of Morgaine’s nose. “Well? Are you ready?”

Morgaine’s eyes crossed. “Ready? For what?”

Sledge sighed and turned back to Twinkle. “You got your wish. Are you happy now? Our hag is stupid.”

“You’d rather she’s stupid. I was hoping for epilepsy.”

The scowl returned to Morgaine’s brows. “I am not stupid. Or blind. Or deaf. Or a hag.”

Pearlescent lightning flashed in Twinkle’s nimbus. “So there’s still a chance you’re epileptic?”

Morgaine’s voice dropped a few hundred degrees. “No.”

Both she and Twinkle yelped as Sledge head-butted them in turn.

“Twinkle, focus. Remember the job?” Sledge turned back to Morgaine. “You’re a hag because you summoned us. You want a name to go with the title? Earn it. Start by getting out of bed because we have to go.”

Morgaine swung her legs off the bed. “Where?”

Sledge heaved a long-suffering sigh, then spoke very slowly. “What. Did. You. Wish. For?”

I’m going to see Mother! She slid into a pair of bunny slippers beside her bed. “What? Now? But it’s the middle of the night.”

“Daytrips are for sissies.” Twinkle flitted to the crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers on the ivory-inlaid rosewood table at the foot of her bed. “I think this will do, Sledge.”

“But it’s the middle of the night in New York City.” Morgaine glanced in the mirror, noting her pillow-crushed curls. “And I can’t go anywhere looking like this. Nurse would kill me.”

“At least it’s not Ancram.” Twinkle shuddered. “Nothing’s as bad as Ancram.”

Sledge flitted around her head for a moment. “Looks fine to me.” She flew to the vase. “Is your bathroom floor perfectly level?”

“I think so.” Morgaine approached the vase of lush, odorless hothouses roses. “Why?”

“Grab the vase and meet us there.” Two glowing puffballs flew to the bathroom. The pink orb hovered for a moment. “Well? Hurry up, night’s wasting.”

Morgaine grasped the vase with both hands and made her way to the granite-tiled bathroom adjoining her bedroom. By the time she got there, Twinkle and Sledge had gotten the lamb hide bath rug out of the way.

Twinkle flew by her right ear. “You need to smash it. Hard.”

“But –“

Sledge flew to her left ear. “Listen to me. I know this place nowhere near as dangerous as Ancram, but it’s dangerous all the same. Not just for you, but for all of us. If you want us to grant your wish, you’ll have to do precisely what, how and when we say. If this is beyond you, then return to bed and pretend we’re just vivid dreams induced by excessive nocturnal lactose consumption. Your choice.” She flitted away. A tiny fairy foot tapped the air with impatience. “Well? We don’t have all night.”

The Angry Puffball

The third installment and I still don’t know where it wants to go. Feel free to comment and give me your input on whether I should keep working on it, or stick it in story cold-storage for now. I hope you will enjoy 🙂

Chapter 2: Daytrips are for sissies.

Morgaine opened her hand, stung by shocked horror. “Please don’t tell me you’re my fairy godmothers.”

“Fine.” Sledge flitted out of reach. “I won’t.”

“Let. Sledge. Go!” Twinkle barreled into Morgaine’s torso with each word.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch! I already did. Pay attention, would you?”

“Twinkle.” A blur of pink flashed in the gloom, then stopped in mid-air, pulsating. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

“Sledge.” Morgaine watched the tiniest blue spark flit beside the pink. “Are you really all right? Hag or not, I can take her on.”

“Twinkle. I’m fine.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Morgaine resolved to wait in what she considered respectful silence for an appropriate length of time.

Five seconds ought to be ample.

About three seconds later, she cleared her throat meaningfully.

Twinkle turned a midnight shade of blue. His voice was larded with disapproval. “Do. You. Mind?”

“Excuse me?” Her pitch rose in outraged disbelief. “You broke into my room!”

The glowing blue orb expanded and flew right up to her face, pulsating at a higher frequency. She reared back. Murderous maroon flashed from a shrouded figure within the orb.

Red virulent lightning against storm clouds.

Her voice faltered. “What?”

Twinkle’s voice dropped into a growl. “You, Hag, laid hands on my associate.”

Morgaine shrank from Twinkle, a glowing puff ball no bigger than the average dust bunny. “Hand. Singular.” She couldn’t stop herself. She never could.

More flashes of maroon. Streaks of dried blood against dark velvet.

Morgaine ducked her head, voice dropping to a whisper. “Never mind.”

“If you hurt Sledge –“

Twinkle and Sledge

The continued rough draft of untitled, unset, untimed, un-everything fairy tale. Moral of the story (thus far anyway), never make a wish then squash your fairy ring 😉

Morgaine stared at the upholstered underside of her canopied bed. Teeth, cleaned. Silver-blue curls, brushed until they glowed. Silly, frilly, fussy nightdress, on. Covers, tucked tight. Cheeks, good night-kissed and bedside candle, blown out.

By Nurse.

Daddy was busy. He had to attend a meeting.

Morgaine heaved a sigh and turned over to her side. Squeezing her eyes shut, she resolved to find another fairy ring in the morning and try again.

She was in the twilight realm between wakefulness and dreams when she heard them.

A light, sweet voice, one that made her think of soap bubbles twinkling in the summer breeze, said “Is that her?”

A deeper voice, one that made her think of a plough horse hopelessly mired in muck, responded. “Yes. She made the wish.”

The spell worked!

Morgaine kept her eyes closed, her breathing regular and consciously relaxed every muscle on her torso. She did not want to scare them, whoever they were. Not if they could take her to see Mother. She sensed rather than heard the two entities circle around her bed, coming closer. Her nose flared at the scent of night-blooming jasmine that unexpectedly assaulted her senses.

They must be very close.

“Are you sure?” Soap-bubble said, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Whatever happened to: ‘Skin of alabaster/ Hair of spun gold/ Grace incarnate/ Behold the maiden fair’?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, look at her. Why do we always get the ugly ones?”

Morgaine sat bolt upright, the embodiment of wounded outrage. “Hey!” She squinted in the gloom, trying to make out the two entities.

Soap-bubble, somewhere to her left. “She doesn’t even have proper witchy eyes. What self-respecting witch has brown eyes? Should be green. Or violet.”

Plough horse. From the right. “Or electric blue. So she could fry you with a glare.”

Morgaine flapped her arms around, trying to catch them. “There’s nothing wrong with brown eyes!” The air whistled as Soap-bubbles and Plough-horse ducked her open palms.

“Or silver even. At least then it’s obvious she’s blind.” Soap-bubbles, from above her head.

Morgaine gritted her teeth. “Am. Not. Blind!” She swiped at where she thought Soap-bubbles was, but caught nothing but crisp autumn air with one hand and a fistful of her own hair with the other.

“It’s not nice to tease the blind, Sledge,” Plough-horse said, somewhere unexpectedly close to her left ear.

Morgaine reared away, instinctively batting at her ear. “For the last time, I’m not blind.”

“Only calling it like I see it, Twinkle. Just look at her flail around.”

“I’m also not deaf. Are you?”

Twinkle, from somewhere behind her. “Epilepsy.” Morgaine heard a groan from Sledge and the smacking sound of a face-palm. Twinkle continued his sonorous drone. “Epilepsy could explain why she is flailing around.”

“I don’t have epilepsy. Whatever that is.”

Sledge, from her right. “I’d prefer simple stupidity to epilepsy. Or narcolepsy.”

Morgaine clenched her jaws and kept still, waiting for Sledge to get closer.

“Do you remember Sleeping Beauty, Twinkle? She looked the part, but what a nightmare to work with.” Sledge chuckled. Morgaine heard a whir wings and felt a gentle breeze on her left cheek. “Sleeping Beauty. Nightmare. Get it?”

She weaved her head – fast – and snapped her fingers closed on… something. A set of wings beat a frantic tattoo against her palm.

“Twinkle, help!” Sledge’s soap bubble voice was muffled. “The Hag’s got me!”

Hag? Morgaine growled. She brought her closed fist up to her face. “Who are you calling a hag, you –“  Morgaine yelped at an unexpected sharp pain from her side.

“Let. Sledge. Go!” Twinkle roared, punctuating each word with a head butt.

“Yeah,” Sledge said. “Lemme go. We were just teasing. We knew you weren’t asleep.”

“Let. Sledge. Go!” Twinkle roared again, each word accompanied by a burst of pain from Morgaine’s side.

“Can’t grant your wish unless you let me go.”