As part of an artwork challenge on Facebook, I was nominated by a fellow writer to post my own art/writing for five consecutive days. Each day I’ll nominate another female artist to join with the challenge.
Excerpt from Gaudiloquence and the Frozen Story, Chapter 1:
“It was an ordinary Friday with a slight December wind when she declared, ‘I will be King.’”
Monoria was narrating again. She moved through her house in the dying light of evening, whispering to herself. “She did not say from the time she could speak, ‘I will be King.’ The grownups never stared in wonder at the passion in her eyes, or whispered amongst themselves at the inner workings of her mind. She was no miracle child.”
Monoria grabbed her scarf and boots. “So on Friday it was decided, and she started making the necessary preparations.” She looked over at the tiny glass fox on her windowsill, enchanted to move and play like the real thing. “‘Necessary preparations’ are two long words that sound well in stories,” she explained to it. “In this story, they mean tying one’s boots, making sure one has one’s pocket handkerchief, and putting on an exceptionally long scarf.”
She wrapped the scarf around once for warmth, draped it twice for dramatic effect, and let the end trail behind her, just short enough to skim above the ground. She stepped out into the crisp air and greeted the evening with a shiver and a grin.
Monoria spun her story as she walked through the village and up the big hill. “She saddled her faithful mare, Briony, and rode westward to the setting sun.” Her voice grew louder when she was far enough away from Whigmaleerie not to be heard. She dodged and weaved between small, scrubby trees and bushes. “The king motioned for her knights to gather round,” she said. “‘Be ever vigilant, my friends. I believe we may be headed straight into a trap.’”
She crossed the wobbly plank that served as a bridge over the stream. “When the king stepped onto the bridge, she woke the troll who lived under it. It would not let her pass and tried to trick her, but she was too clever and answered its three riddles with ease.” She kicked a stone into the muddy stream. “The troll gave a furious shout and leapt into the river.”
In Monoria’s imagination, her ragged sleeves were sapphire-studded leather braces. Her worn-out boots had the power to run swiftly as the wind. Her dark braid was a shining mane of raven-black hair. The short, twig-thin, thirteen-year-old girl was a tall, beautiful woman who exuded nobility, strength, and authority.
She came to the top of the hill and shouted, “The king raised her sword, and her knights took up a wild, joyful cry of triumph!”
Down in Whigmaleerie, colorful glass lanterns winked to life. People bustled about, setting up long dinner tables and tents. The hours to wait until midnight were unbearable, and Monoria had wriggled out of town like out of an itchy sweater, distracting herself with her story. But now the smell of roasted goose and the sound of playful drums teased and tugged at her.
“The king turned and led the procession home.”