In celebration of random holiday that I just created day, here's an excerpt from Scarecrow! I know several of you have expressed interest in that one. I hope you enjoy. It's rough, so keep it in mind and don't throw tomatoes at me.
Tyrin Fallows was unlucky.
Not your average
lose your keys, spill wine on your favorite white tunic unlucky either. No, his bad luck was more of the drop your keys
into the soup that is being served to the king and nearly choke him to death,
spill your wine and slide headlong into a lamp knocking it over and setting your
brother in law’s house on fire variety. Fellow
citizens in the town of Upper Farthing would tread twenty paces out of their
way to avoid passing by him, and every major social event barred its doors as
soon as his silhouette darkened the window dressings. Even his eldest sister Maryna, who had spent
most of her teenage years defending Tyrin from the abuse of the other Farthing
children, politely asked him if he would mind very much not attending her
wedding.
Even
such humiliation as this would have been bearable if he had not been the son of
Rigand Fallows and Erlena Malwit, two of the mostly highly respected sorcerers
from two of the oldest magical lineages in the kingdom of Rewnyn. It was bad enough setting fire to houses and
narrowly avoiding accidental regicide without also having magic to worry
about. And as far as magic was
concerned, Tyrin was a complete disaster.
He understood the theory well enough, but he always managed to make some
mistake that would send the spell horribly awry—and turning your mathematics
teacher into a piece of chalk was much less forgivable than a little
unintentional arson. His mother and
father told him he was a late bloomer.
Maryna told him he would find his talent eventually. Tharena would tell him he could always become
a stable hand. Tyrin would smile sadly,
pretending to believe them, but he could see in their eyes every time he exploded
a potion or liquefied the bricks of the horse barn that they thought he was a
lost cause. After all, he had just
turned eighteen—how much more blooming could he be expected to do? He had resigned himself to a life of
loneliness and catastrophe—and probably accidental suicide by way of magicked
shoe-laces. Yes, Tyrin was supremely
unlucky.
So
the sight of the letter that he received on the third of July nearly killed
him.
No tomatoes being thrown over here! ;) You write very well! Thanks for sharing that little snippet. I would happily read more. :)
ReplyDeleteAw, I'm glad! Hopefully you'll be able to, soon.
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