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Week 3 posts / In the Shadow of the Tower - Draft 3
« on: November 18, 2019, 10:46:22 PM »
A huge thank you to my CP Fabierien/@steelforgedgame whose notes were incredibly insightful and helpful. If you are interested in the process behind this transformation, or you want to see those notes I mentioned, head on over here: https://www.natlockettwrites.com/post/writer-in-motion-week-3-critique-partner-draft
The hearth lit of its own volition, a spirited flame dancing to life. It was a constant companion from frost to first harvest. Save for its muted roar, Thea barely noticed it anymore. Each evening, as the sun kissed the snowcapped mountains across the channel, her tower came to life--unseen servants fluffed the pillows and delivered decadent dishes of glistening meat and aged cheese, making it a comfortable place to be held captive.
She ran her fingers over the icy stone ledge where she perched by the window. Her entire memory was of this place, its rich furniture and the smell of sun warmed leather the only thing she knew of the world. She spent her time following paths of imagination through the pages of books, and looking down on the village and the wood beyond. The people below became her favorite characters. She watched as they fell in love, had children, and most enviable of all--lived. All while her own, unchanging face reflected back at her in the glass.
Tonight her neighbors busied themselves preparing for the full moon, shuttering the windows and anchoring floating lanterns along the shore to warn away passing vessels. An older boy with broad shoulders and a wicked grin danced along the bank, kicking up tiny waves and splashing girls who giggled in spite of themselves.
Soon, the ripened moon traded places with the sun and the village fell quiet, its paths dark and deserted. At the edge of the trees a thick fog crawled ever closer, as familiar and inexplicable as Thea's tower. She tugged at the curtains, closing them before they deigned to do it themselves. Crossing to her bed, she pulled the covers over her head just as the screams began. High up in her tower she was safe, but nightmares don't have to touch you to keep you awake.
The screaming would stop in the late hours of darkness, a hush settling over the village until a new sound rose with the sun. The mornings were always worse as villagers wailed, mourning loved ones lost during the cursed night, while others said prayers of quiet thanks for having been spared. Their cries were a stone in Thea's stomach, taking the place of her appetite.
The curtains opened themselves, light spilling across the stone floor and inviting her to rise from slumber. As if she'd gotten any sleep. Though fear gripped her, she took up her seat by the window, surveying the waking village. One house in particular held her attention, its thatch roof glittering in the sun. The door opened, a black void that seemed to grow darker as the minutes stretched on.
"Please be ok," Thea whispered into her fist.
A figure stumbled from the house, nearly hitting his knees before catching himself on a low, split rail fence. It buckled under the weight of his bowed shoulders. Thea's heart stuttered.
The first time she saw Orion she'd named him after the hero from her favorite book. He was strapping and handsome, with hair the color of winter wheat. While she couldn't be sure from up so high, she liked to imagine his eyes were the green of new grass and always alight with mischief. But even from her tower she could see today was different.
Orion wiped at his face with his sleeve, staggering toward the wood where he crumpled to the ground. His fingers tore at the collar of his shirt, clutching his chest and Thea thought he might rip out her heart.
Back at his cottage, the village men carried out a wooden plank draped with a white sheet. Thea was too preoccupied to see where they took the body, instead watching the boy in the wood repeatedly slamming his fist into the dirt. She cried for him and though she knew she could not touch him, the window was smudged with her fingerprints.
The sun tumbled over the moon again, the night quiet and uneventful. It did this over and over, as the moon became nothing more than a sliver of light in the sky. The village moved forward as usual--tending gardens, fishing, letting go--but Orion did not. He stayed hidden in his house and on the rare occasion she saw him on the paths he never smiled, never looked up. On the afternoon of the next full moon he didn't shutter his windows.
When the sun set, Thea tugged at her curtains, but something moved on the path below, catching her eye before they closed. The moonlight cut his shadow out in the dark, glinting off his golden hair. Her heart crawled into her throat like a spider, its spindly legs threatening to make her vomit.
No.
As the fog crept over the quiet village, Orion lit a torch, a beacon in the night. At first, the dense mist shied away from the fire, like a hand afraid of the heat. He swung the torch in a wide arc, keeping the fog at bay, but it surrounded him, circling as close as it dared. Then it nipped at the flame, seeming to dance in delight when it retreated unscathed.
No.
Thea slammed her fists against the glass, screaming a name that didn't truly belong to him. The name of a beloved hero. Why had she named him that? How had she forgotten the hero always died? It was the worst part of the book.
She climbed onto the window ledge, her feet slick against the cool stone. Standing at her full height, she pounded harder as if it made any difference. Tears blurred her vision and her hands throbbed.
The glass shattered.
Surrounded by fog, Jaime growled, swinging the torch in another wide arc. The mist was not afraid of the flame, instead appearing to enjoy playing with its food. He shut his eyes, preparing to join his mother in the afterlife when he heard a sound akin to the tinkling of bells. Clenching his teeth, he risked a look just as the fog began slinking back through the trees where it dissipated completely.
In the morning, the sun rose over the tower, reflecting off the glossy stone roof. The broken window sat jagged and empty, no one looking on as Jaime was praised as the savior of the small, tormented village on the edge of the wood.
In the Shadow of the Tower
By Natalie Lockett
By Natalie Lockett
The hearth lit of its own volition, a spirited flame dancing to life. It was a constant companion from frost to first harvest. Save for its muted roar, Thea barely noticed it anymore. Each evening, as the sun kissed the snowcapped mountains across the channel, her tower came to life--unseen servants fluffed the pillows and delivered decadent dishes of glistening meat and aged cheese, making it a comfortable place to be held captive.
She ran her fingers over the icy stone ledge where she perched by the window. Her entire memory was of this place, its rich furniture and the smell of sun warmed leather the only thing she knew of the world. She spent her time following paths of imagination through the pages of books, and looking down on the village and the wood beyond. The people below became her favorite characters. She watched as they fell in love, had children, and most enviable of all--lived. All while her own, unchanging face reflected back at her in the glass.
Tonight her neighbors busied themselves preparing for the full moon, shuttering the windows and anchoring floating lanterns along the shore to warn away passing vessels. An older boy with broad shoulders and a wicked grin danced along the bank, kicking up tiny waves and splashing girls who giggled in spite of themselves.
Soon, the ripened moon traded places with the sun and the village fell quiet, its paths dark and deserted. At the edge of the trees a thick fog crawled ever closer, as familiar and inexplicable as Thea's tower. She tugged at the curtains, closing them before they deigned to do it themselves. Crossing to her bed, she pulled the covers over her head just as the screams began. High up in her tower she was safe, but nightmares don't have to touch you to keep you awake.
The screaming would stop in the late hours of darkness, a hush settling over the village until a new sound rose with the sun. The mornings were always worse as villagers wailed, mourning loved ones lost during the cursed night, while others said prayers of quiet thanks for having been spared. Their cries were a stone in Thea's stomach, taking the place of her appetite.
The curtains opened themselves, light spilling across the stone floor and inviting her to rise from slumber. As if she'd gotten any sleep. Though fear gripped her, she took up her seat by the window, surveying the waking village. One house in particular held her attention, its thatch roof glittering in the sun. The door opened, a black void that seemed to grow darker as the minutes stretched on.
"Please be ok," Thea whispered into her fist.
A figure stumbled from the house, nearly hitting his knees before catching himself on a low, split rail fence. It buckled under the weight of his bowed shoulders. Thea's heart stuttered.
The first time she saw Orion she'd named him after the hero from her favorite book. He was strapping and handsome, with hair the color of winter wheat. While she couldn't be sure from up so high, she liked to imagine his eyes were the green of new grass and always alight with mischief. But even from her tower she could see today was different.
Orion wiped at his face with his sleeve, staggering toward the wood where he crumpled to the ground. His fingers tore at the collar of his shirt, clutching his chest and Thea thought he might rip out her heart.
Back at his cottage, the village men carried out a wooden plank draped with a white sheet. Thea was too preoccupied to see where they took the body, instead watching the boy in the wood repeatedly slamming his fist into the dirt. She cried for him and though she knew she could not touch him, the window was smudged with her fingerprints.
The sun tumbled over the moon again, the night quiet and uneventful. It did this over and over, as the moon became nothing more than a sliver of light in the sky. The village moved forward as usual--tending gardens, fishing, letting go--but Orion did not. He stayed hidden in his house and on the rare occasion she saw him on the paths he never smiled, never looked up. On the afternoon of the next full moon he didn't shutter his windows.
When the sun set, Thea tugged at her curtains, but something moved on the path below, catching her eye before they closed. The moonlight cut his shadow out in the dark, glinting off his golden hair. Her heart crawled into her throat like a spider, its spindly legs threatening to make her vomit.
No.
As the fog crept over the quiet village, Orion lit a torch, a beacon in the night. At first, the dense mist shied away from the fire, like a hand afraid of the heat. He swung the torch in a wide arc, keeping the fog at bay, but it surrounded him, circling as close as it dared. Then it nipped at the flame, seeming to dance in delight when it retreated unscathed.
No.
Thea slammed her fists against the glass, screaming a name that didn't truly belong to him. The name of a beloved hero. Why had she named him that? How had she forgotten the hero always died? It was the worst part of the book.
She climbed onto the window ledge, her feet slick against the cool stone. Standing at her full height, she pounded harder as if it made any difference. Tears blurred her vision and her hands throbbed.
The glass shattered.
Surrounded by fog, Jaime growled, swinging the torch in another wide arc. The mist was not afraid of the flame, instead appearing to enjoy playing with its food. He shut his eyes, preparing to join his mother in the afterlife when he heard a sound akin to the tinkling of bells. Clenching his teeth, he risked a look just as the fog began slinking back through the trees where it dissipated completely.
In the morning, the sun rose over the tower, reflecting off the glossy stone roof. The broken window sat jagged and empty, no one looking on as Jaime was praised as the savior of the small, tormented village on the edge of the wood.
2
Week 2 posts / Re: Self-Edited: The Crow on a Birch
« on: November 16, 2019, 04:03:19 AM »
Unrelated to the story: Love how crisp and clean your website is!
I really liked getting to see your process and I definitely felt like the workplace affair angle made her a more sympathetic (but also badass) character. The parallels/epiphany with the crow vs. geese is really cool too--I like that it gives color to her drive for revenge.
I really liked getting to see your process and I definitely felt like the workplace affair angle made her a more sympathetic (but also badass) character. The parallels/epiphany with the crow vs. geese is really cool too--I like that it gives color to her drive for revenge.
3
Week 2 posts / Re: The Final Goodbye
« on: November 16, 2019, 03:54:38 AM »
Love the tension that the thunderstorm adds to this! And the allusion to a really interesting back story without needing to get fully into the details.
4
Week 2 posts / Self Edit - In the Shadow of the Tower (formerly Towering)
« on: November 16, 2019, 03:46:56 AM »
Thanks so much to those of you who took a look at this last week and for your kind words! I hope to repay the favor now that I have a little more time this week. 
Here's the second draft in the form of a blog post: https://www.natlockettwrites.com/post/writer-in-motion-week-2-second-draft
Here's the second draft in the form of a blog post: https://www.natlockettwrites.com/post/writer-in-motion-week-2-second-draft
5
Writer & Editor Bios / Natalie Lockett - Usually not what I went in intending to write
« on: November 08, 2019, 09:39:34 PM »
Name: Natalie Lockett (Nat)
Pronouns: She/Her
Bio: Natalie Lockett is a real estate agent, videographer, and unacclaimed one-on-one comedian you didn't invite to the party but she showed up anyway.
She's been featured in Bob Eckstein's LitHub piece about the Writer's Digest Conference and her personal essay Rural in the City can be found in Across the Margin.
Natalie is also the producer and host of the podcast Write Away with Natalie Lockett, on which she interviews writers and publishing professionals. When not writing, she can be found annoying her critique partners and trying to convince herself to switch to decaf.
Talents include being caught on film laughing in really unflattering ways.
What type of stories do you write?
Mostly YA, generally fantasy, always dark and deathy. Cute, right?
What are you working on right now?
I am revising a YA Fantasy/Horror called The Dead King.
My Writer In Motion Project:
A mess. Jk. I'm calling it Towering for now and it's about a girl watching a small village that is attacked by a mysterious monster fog every full moon from the tower she's being held captive in.
Published Books:
None yet. Someday my prince...ahem, publishing deal will come.
Connect With Me:
@natlockettwrites
@writeawaypod
natlockettwrites.com
Pronouns: She/Her
Bio: Natalie Lockett is a real estate agent, videographer, and unacclaimed one-on-one comedian you didn't invite to the party but she showed up anyway.
She's been featured in Bob Eckstein's LitHub piece about the Writer's Digest Conference and her personal essay Rural in the City can be found in Across the Margin.
Natalie is also the producer and host of the podcast Write Away with Natalie Lockett, on which she interviews writers and publishing professionals. When not writing, she can be found annoying her critique partners and trying to convince herself to switch to decaf.
Talents include being caught on film laughing in really unflattering ways.
What type of stories do you write?
Mostly YA, generally fantasy, always dark and deathy. Cute, right?
What are you working on right now?
I am revising a YA Fantasy/Horror called The Dead King.
My Writer In Motion Project:
A mess. Jk. I'm calling it Towering for now and it's about a girl watching a small village that is attacked by a mysterious monster fog every full moon from the tower she's being held captive in.
Published Books:
None yet. Someday my prince...ahem, publishing deal will come.
Connect With Me:
@natlockettwrites
@writeawaypod
natlockettwrites.com
6
Week 1 posts / Draft 1 - Towering - Fantasy/Horror
« on: November 08, 2019, 09:28:09 PM »
Writing this draft was like eating peanut butter toast without something to drink. 
It strayed a bit from the original intent, leaving the prompt visuals in the dust. But here we are and here works for me. Can't wait to see what everyone else came up with!
The hearth lit with rollicking flame of its own volition. Save for the muted roar, Thea barely noticed it anymore. Each evening, as the sun kissed the snow capped mountains across the channel, her tower came to life with invisible servants making it a comfortable place to be held captive.
Her entire memory was of this place, it's stone walls and rich furniture never changing, and her face in the mirror never appearing to age. She spent her time following paths of imagination through the pages of books and looking down on the village. The people below became her favorite characters. She watched through the glass as they fell in love, had children, and most enviable of all--they lived.
Tonight her neighbors busied themselves preparing for the full moon. The men boarded the windows, while the women and children set lanterns afloat along the shore to warn away passing vessels. An older boy with strong shoulders and a wicked grin danced along the bank, kicking up tiny waves and splashing girls who giggled in spite of themselves.
Soon, the ripened moon traded places with the sun and the village fell quiet. On the edge of the surrounding wood a thick fog crawled ever closer, as familiar and unexplainable as her tower. Thea shut the curtains as the screaming began, crossing to her bed where she pulled the covers over her head until the sound stopped in the late hours of darkness. The monsters never came for her high up in the tower, but nightmares don't have to touch you to keep you up at night.
The morning was worse, after hours of silence a new sound settled over the village like a pit in Thea's stomach--wailing. Villagers mourned their loved ones lost during the cursed night. Thea used to cry with them, feeling the loss as if it were her own. But after years of suffering it only thwarted her appetite.
The curtains had opened themselves, inviting her to rise from slumber as if she'd gotten any sleep. Though fear gripped her, she took up her perch, surveying the waking village. She focused on one house in particular, it?s thatch roof glittering in the sunlight. The door opened but she could not see inside. The black void seemed to grow darker as time stretched on.
"Please be ok," she whispered into her fist.
A figure stumbled from the house, nearly hitting his knees before catching himself. Thea?s heart stuttered. He'd made it through the night.
The first time Thea saw Orion from her window perch, she named him after the hero from her favorite novel. He was strapping and handsome, with hair the color of sand. While she couldn't see from up so high, she imagined his eyes were green as fresh grass and always alight with mischief. But even from her tower she could see today was different.
Orion wiped at his face with his sleeve, nose red and glaring. He staggered toward the wood, breaching the line of trees where he crumpled to the ground and clutched his chest. His grief seized Thea's throat.
Back at his house, the village men carried out a wooden plank covered with a white sheet. Thea was too preoccupied to see where they took the body, instead watching the boy in the wood, taking out his pain with his fist on the dirt. She cried for him until the well in her chest was empty and the sun tumbled over the moon once again, the night quiet and uneventful.
Though the village moved forward as usual--tending gardens, fishing, letting go--Orion was not the same. After a week of missing him in the morning, Thea woke before the sun to see him stalking into the wood. He returned just before dark each time, his hair coated in mud and face stained. When he wasn't hidden by the canopy of trees, he was inside his house. In the moments between, he never smiled or even looked up. The afternoon of the next full moon he did not board his windows.
When the sun set, Thea tugged at her curtains but something moved on the path below, catching her eye before they were shut. The moonlight cut his shadow out in the dark. Her heart crawled into her throat like a spider, followed by a chill up her spine. The fog drew closer and Orion meant to meet it.
No.
As the fog crept over the quiet village, he dipped a torch in fuel and lit it, a beacon in the night. The dense mist shied away from the flame, like a hand afraid of the heat. He swung the torch in wide arcs keeping it at bay, but it surrounded him. He would tire eventually. Or the flame would go out.
No.
Thea slammed her fists against the glass, screaming the name that didn't truly belong to him. The name of a beloved hero. But she didn't want to see his heroism tonight.
She climbed onto the ledge, standing at her full height, hitting harder as if it made any difference. Her face was slick with tears and her hands throbbed from the onslaught.
Until the glass shattered.
From his place on the path, surrounded by fog, it sounded like the tinkling of bells to Jaime. It was a distraction, he thought. If he turned around the fog would swallow him whole. But instead, it began to retreat, slinking back through the trees.
In the morning, the sun rose over the tower, reflecting off the glossy stone roof. The broken window sat empty, no one looking on as Jaime was praised as the savior of the small, tormented village on the edge of the wood.
The fog never returned.
Thanks for reading. Here's a taco.
It strayed a bit from the original intent, leaving the prompt visuals in the dust. But here we are and here works for me. Can't wait to see what everyone else came up with!The hearth lit with rollicking flame of its own volition. Save for the muted roar, Thea barely noticed it anymore. Each evening, as the sun kissed the snow capped mountains across the channel, her tower came to life with invisible servants making it a comfortable place to be held captive.
Her entire memory was of this place, it's stone walls and rich furniture never changing, and her face in the mirror never appearing to age. She spent her time following paths of imagination through the pages of books and looking down on the village. The people below became her favorite characters. She watched through the glass as they fell in love, had children, and most enviable of all--they lived.
Tonight her neighbors busied themselves preparing for the full moon. The men boarded the windows, while the women and children set lanterns afloat along the shore to warn away passing vessels. An older boy with strong shoulders and a wicked grin danced along the bank, kicking up tiny waves and splashing girls who giggled in spite of themselves.
Soon, the ripened moon traded places with the sun and the village fell quiet. On the edge of the surrounding wood a thick fog crawled ever closer, as familiar and unexplainable as her tower. Thea shut the curtains as the screaming began, crossing to her bed where she pulled the covers over her head until the sound stopped in the late hours of darkness. The monsters never came for her high up in the tower, but nightmares don't have to touch you to keep you up at night.
The morning was worse, after hours of silence a new sound settled over the village like a pit in Thea's stomach--wailing. Villagers mourned their loved ones lost during the cursed night. Thea used to cry with them, feeling the loss as if it were her own. But after years of suffering it only thwarted her appetite.
The curtains had opened themselves, inviting her to rise from slumber as if she'd gotten any sleep. Though fear gripped her, she took up her perch, surveying the waking village. She focused on one house in particular, it?s thatch roof glittering in the sunlight. The door opened but she could not see inside. The black void seemed to grow darker as time stretched on.
"Please be ok," she whispered into her fist.
A figure stumbled from the house, nearly hitting his knees before catching himself. Thea?s heart stuttered. He'd made it through the night.
The first time Thea saw Orion from her window perch, she named him after the hero from her favorite novel. He was strapping and handsome, with hair the color of sand. While she couldn't see from up so high, she imagined his eyes were green as fresh grass and always alight with mischief. But even from her tower she could see today was different.
Orion wiped at his face with his sleeve, nose red and glaring. He staggered toward the wood, breaching the line of trees where he crumpled to the ground and clutched his chest. His grief seized Thea's throat.
Back at his house, the village men carried out a wooden plank covered with a white sheet. Thea was too preoccupied to see where they took the body, instead watching the boy in the wood, taking out his pain with his fist on the dirt. She cried for him until the well in her chest was empty and the sun tumbled over the moon once again, the night quiet and uneventful.
Though the village moved forward as usual--tending gardens, fishing, letting go--Orion was not the same. After a week of missing him in the morning, Thea woke before the sun to see him stalking into the wood. He returned just before dark each time, his hair coated in mud and face stained. When he wasn't hidden by the canopy of trees, he was inside his house. In the moments between, he never smiled or even looked up. The afternoon of the next full moon he did not board his windows.
When the sun set, Thea tugged at her curtains but something moved on the path below, catching her eye before they were shut. The moonlight cut his shadow out in the dark. Her heart crawled into her throat like a spider, followed by a chill up her spine. The fog drew closer and Orion meant to meet it.
No.
As the fog crept over the quiet village, he dipped a torch in fuel and lit it, a beacon in the night. The dense mist shied away from the flame, like a hand afraid of the heat. He swung the torch in wide arcs keeping it at bay, but it surrounded him. He would tire eventually. Or the flame would go out.
No.
Thea slammed her fists against the glass, screaming the name that didn't truly belong to him. The name of a beloved hero. But she didn't want to see his heroism tonight.
She climbed onto the ledge, standing at her full height, hitting harder as if it made any difference. Her face was slick with tears and her hands throbbed from the onslaught.
Until the glass shattered.
From his place on the path, surrounded by fog, it sounded like the tinkling of bells to Jaime. It was a distraction, he thought. If he turned around the fog would swallow him whole. But instead, it began to retreat, slinking back through the trees.
In the morning, the sun rose over the tower, reflecting off the glossy stone roof. The broken window sat empty, no one looking on as Jaime was praised as the savior of the small, tormented village on the edge of the wood.
The fog never returned.
Thanks for reading. Here's a taco.
Pages: [1]