The Betrayed

Darkness.  I looked around and could see only darkness.  The wind continued to blow, cold and biting, so I knew it was only in my head.  Biting.  The word seemed so fitting for the moment.  The world had a tendency to bite, didn’t it?  Funny, as much as being the King of my own kingdom didn’t change that.  A night of sleep in my soft bed couldn’t abate this feeling.  I had woken early, fending the shadows of morning off just barely enough to get out of bed. How could she??  Stepping out onto the battlements, feeling the icy winter’s breath on my face cooled my headache, but did little to push back the dread and bewilderment.  Is anything real?  What am I even doing in life?  I ran my fingers over the crenelations in the stone walls.  Standing above the land, and behind these grand blocks of stone kept me from the pain. Or so you thought, fool.  

I looked out over the holdings I could see from my vantage point.  The river cutting through the earth to the southwest, churning with it’s haste to reach the destination.  Ironically, the battering seas, do you begin to see?  Comfort.  That’s where my life meant something before.  In days past.  I had been upended by her betrayal.

To find that an acquaintance was naught but smoke and mirrors, that could be handled easily enough.  Banishment.  This woman, however flawed and however distant, moving around far reaches of the castle, had gained a place at the table.  Comfort and counsel were in her laugh.  When she came around (chose to, that is), lights brightened, the air felt warmer…more, home.  No more. You should have known, pushed her away.  You should have exiled her.  

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thoughts, break away from the feeling of painful euphoria.  The stone beneath my hands and the fittingly icy winds reminded me I wasn’t dreaming.  I would take the day away from Royal Appointments, away from the throne room.  Today is a day to regroup.  The people, my people…rely on me.  They look to me for leadership and advice, they turn to me when they are in doubt.  Now I am the one in doubt – that is no good for anyone.

A day.  That’s what I need.  To be angry.  To be hurt.  To scream out my kingly fury on a page if need be.  I’ve learned now.  Or have you?  Have you truly learned?  To what….trust yourself?  You just let a witch hold you captive for 4 years.  Can you trust you?

It was a good question.  As I backed into my rooms, looking out at the sun, I could still only see the shadows, the darkness.  Who could I trust?

I’m coming back…

Are you ready????

Excerpt.

An excerpt from Shadowveil:  Rise of the Power  ©Anthony M. Oleson 2012-2013

               In the distance, the fog was barely visible over the horizon, yet, he swore he could see something, and the surrounding area flashed as if lightning had unleashed a single lashing upon the mountainside.  The flash drew his gaze downward, and coming over the easterly hill shambled a figure.  It looked to have long hair, and trudged along, obviously road-worn.  Each step brought the figure closer, and faintly he could hear a voice.

The voice held a lilting female tone, and cried out in a restrained silent song, on the verge of panic.  As the words wafted through the air, they became audible as no more than a whispering plea.  But he couldn’t be hearing them right.

“Treyfallow…Maernyn,” the voice caressed, “Maernyn…”  The words brought the clearly female form closer in a shimmering blur, and suddenly the nonsensical woman was fully visible.  She was a vision of perfection and nightmare, so closely twined he didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

Her figure bent as if to propel her forward, but her legs slowed her.  Both looked as if they had been broken several times and allowed to set out of place.  Her face, while young and spritely, held the true horror.  Her lips cracked, bleeding in several places.  Her nose, jutting at angry angles in defiance of itself, carried into eyes of milky white.  Dual surfaces of Shal’tza, the Mothermoon, projecting from beneath agonized eyebrows.

A wide cut swathed her features from temple to jaw, blood flowing unchecked down her neck, soaking the riding dress she wore with its crimson touch.  A few paces from Maernyn, she fell to her knees, tears now mingling with the distress of her position.  She reached out her trembling hand to gain hold on his foot.

The woman’s cold skin touched his ankle, shocking Maernyn, making him fully alert.  He didn’t wake up.  I didn’t wake up. He thought. Wait, I’m not dreaming?  His pulse quickened at the horror of his situation.  The woman terrified him, and he jerked away, his ankle burning like a raw nerve.  She looked as though she still wanted to plead with him, but didn’t have the energy.  Her breathing came in short, ragged gasps and she no longer stretched for him.

She wept.  Her wail was ice.  It bore the weight of life, a freezing sound of sorrow that could crush the soul.

The Wizard’s Way

The silvered beard wagged to-and-fro,

This Wizard knew the friend from foe.

In the deep and dark fear swallows fast,

Shades rising up from beyond his past.

Turns he quick ’round corners slick,

Magic dancing with  finger’s  flick.

Whither and where and here and there,

His eyes did light, and powered glare.

Shadows and demons black as night,

Vaulted and screamed within his sight.

Deep dug he, through ages gone,

In the ancient flame he would carry on.

They howled and shrieked and cursed his name,

He shattered and broke them, chained in shame.

“Not lost, this day, while light holds sway,

For ages to come, no matter the fray.”

The Essence of Me(Possibly Graphic: Reader Beware).

I do not know where this will go, or if it will be chronological. This may or may NOT be graphic. Continue at your own discretion.

It’s strange the path my life has taken, ne’er could I have expected to be where I am, or what it took to get me here. As the ultimate song story-teller, Garth Brooks, put it: “I could’ve missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance”.  The good, sweet memories are worth the sorrows. You would think, growing up as the skinny-legged kid with hearing aids that I would have realized my path early on and followed it.

The problem is, at least as I’ve found it, that darkness often obscures the path, covering it in brambles and branches; allowing it to be strewn with thorns and snags, snares and pain. Being sexually abused as a child is a horror I wouldn’t wish upon even my worst enemy. Being sexually abused again as a young teenager I can’t even comprehend. I often sit and wonder why I didn’t fight back, why I didn’t react in any way other than to retreat…Fight or Flight be damned I aimed to escape. And I did. I don’t know any other person who read more, or spent more time “away from earth” than me throughout my entire schooling career.

Even as the anger threatened to consume me, as my sense of self and self-worth slowly drained down my leg, I fought. I fought demons raging inside that nearly swallowed me with the need for revenge, vengeance and yes, blood. It was not pretty to be inside my mind and in very rare times, it is still not. I fought by out-studying anyone I could, answering questions faster and blindly reaching out to my teachers for their friendship. I was the definition of teacher’s pet because they were safe. They wouldn’t, or rather COULDN’T hurt me with so many people around.

Through the studying and all that, books sustained me. I would read after completing my assignments in class before the lecture was even over. You’d rarely see me walking without my nose in a book from class to class, or sneaking paragraphs in while a teacher spoke. Books always opened, never said “No.”, and only sometimes fell apart on me. But they, unlike people, were easy to fix and easy to put back in order for my own needs.

It behooves me that I have wandered. ADHD… Yes, the point of this is to show what writing and books have done but I took a wrong step back there somewhere. When I was very young, perhaps 3 or 4, a male teenage babysitter took advantage of me. I will spare you the details of the things he made me do; just know they were not pretty.

A few years later I was introduced to another young man in my life, which I had no control over and whose name I won’t reveal. I’ll call him Chris. I should have raised red flags and screamed bloody murder the first time he ever wanted to show me his business. Looking back, I see the tiny child retreating to a safe place and abandoning all reason. I was afraid of him, and afraid of his mother.

It was he who introduced me to pornography, he who broke into MY father’s “secret cabinet” and he who snuck into far too many things. Chris wanted me to do things to him that to this day make bile rise into the back of my throat. He wanted to watch films I thought were terrible initially, but of course as with all sinful things, became second nature with repetition. It is an addiction, like any a person encounters, that I battle day in and day out with more than a little grace and some good old fashioned grit.

I say grace, because the fall of 2000 I was introduced to the reality of it. I found community and family in my church, and Jesus pursued me with unwavering determination. I gave my heart and my life to Him in November of that year and experienced my very first spiritual renaissance/awakening/high. While I was freed from my guilt of sin, I didn’t realize the battle had only just begun.

Since those days I have often struggled with feeling worthy of anyone. I had no girlfriends in high school, not finding love or companionship until I had moved away from home to Minneapolis. We got engaged, and less than a month later she left me only to end up pregnant by her ex 3 months later. The next one lied to me about being pregnant, and about cheating on me to get me to leave her, admitting such to me a few months later. The next one left me with no reason and moved back home down south within a few weeks. The next left me to go back to her ex and give her family another try. I can understand that, but at the same time still do not.

I’m not asking for an ounce of your pity. I want you to know that I have been there, seen it. Through all of it I have never doubted God’s hand on my life, and his very real presence. How can I believe? How can I have faith? I am still alive. I am still able to find joy and while my demons have for the most part been banished, I still struggle with fear and insecurity. I still ask questions, still have doubts and want to tear my brain from my skull at times.

This is where books and writing come into play. They are my safe haven. They are my first and forever love. When I open the pages of a book, the world around me ceases to exist. My four walls melt away and become the environment of whatever world I’m visiting. I make friends with the company, get to know the characters and invest in their patterns of thinking. I sometimes have my own conversations with them, wondering at what their answers would be. So far to date my favorite conversationalists have been Drizzt Do’Urden and Richard Rahl…but a little Gandalf wisdom peeks in now and again of course.

It isn’t about getting away from the pain of my abuse anymore. I am dealing with that as well, and the effects of that are works in progress: For a lot of years I couldn’t use a public restroom, or stop on the side of a country road and go to the restroom. I have a very hard time introducing myself to the opposite sex, regardless of the amount of attraction I feel toward them. My mind speeds forward to the fear of inability to perform or fear of them leaving me with only my tears and questions. If you’ve ever felt these fears or dealt with these things, you have my complete empathy and love. It is not easy, but we can rise above.

Now my reading and writing are all about the beauty of arranged language, the music that words put into my mind and the dance that takes place when putting the words on paper. As I continue to heal, I expect the beauty will only shine brighter. So will my layers of pain and anger come apart and fade? Will the memories ever disappear? No, not completely at least. In his book “7 Deadly Sins”, Corey Taylor of Slipknot/Stonesour fame puts it like this: “Sometimes you have to be more than a survivor. Sometimes you have to move on.”

I have set 2015 as my goal to be published, and to that end I am not giving up.  I’m finding that I constrain myself with the fears I spoke of above, fears of success, and fears of failure.  I mean, what happens if I am well received?  What happens when people start to expect me to actually expand on the beginning of my story?  Will I be able to get a second piece out that measures up?  And all these fears rear their ugly heads before I’ve even begun the body of my writing!

My goal, with my writing, is to take you away. If you’re feeling pain, shame, sorrow, fear…Just let go, even for that tiny little bit and go on a journey with me away from it. But also know that you’re not alone. I am brother to you in your journey. Should you need, I will be an ear, an eye or a shoulder for you. I pray for you that you would turn and see Christ chasing you with steadfast love and mercy.

I’m exposing myself to show you that I am me.  I am you.  I’m here and there with you.  Take care.

-Tony

 

The Steed and the Serpent….(Friday Fictioneers!!!)

Yep.  I’m back.  I should have warned you like Arnold in Terminator.  I did not, and for that I am horrendously sorry.  Actually, no I’m not, but that’s not the point.  I’m back!!  Boom.  Let’s do this.  Consider me….rusty.

 

Genre: Seriously? By now I’d think you’d know its Fantasy.

The serpent sneered.  He was too devious for this Stone Steed.  How he ended up in the brute’s mouth still befuddled.  His lightning-fast tongue gave ample warning, the ground rumbling with the granite gallop, yet here he was.  He tested his range of motion, sliding his body to the left.  Motion.  Good…  Just a little bit of scaly tail around a hoof, and he could end this.  The horse twisted its head.  Never mind.  He was debating using the strength of his water-glands when he felt a sharp increase in the pressure.  Water sprayed and he smiled wistfully.  So this is……..

After the Battle – (Friday Fictioneers!!)

Ah, and there you were…thinking you had done away with me.  Lay thy fears to rest, tis only a brief reprieve and rest that I took.

Let us continue on Fictioneers, in mad and reckless fashion!  Thank you to Rochelle for hosting yet another week of shorty abandon.  100 words, based on a photo.  Ready, set, go!

Fantasy be the name of the game:

Wood, posts, and dirt.  Fire, smoke, and ash.  These things lay heavily on the minds of the warriors as they trudged in melancholy toward the last shores.  The night’s scourge had taken many lives both noble and not.  They stared at one another, each beaten and blackened in his or her own way, with a new sense of hope and purpose.  For yet again, the suns rose brilliantly and worked their mysterious flaming magics on wounds both physical and internal.  These sands, these free sands; they stood as testament to the hearts of all.  Here would be their last stand.

And So They Rested. (Friday Fictioneers!!)

This week came out a little different, though I didn’t expect a different genre 🙂  Friday Fictioneers it is time once again to delve into my brain!

Genre:  Fantasy

And so they rested, last instruments of power,

In a feeble cabinet locked, beneath the vaults of Master’s tower.

A song they sang upon a sunrise long ago,

Beauty and light once rang upon the bow.

Master abandoned them to a deepest darkest night,

Let their power fade into abyssal twilight.

Alas!  Their day has finally come,

That a hero should rise to make the bodies hum.

Banished will be the blackness that lingers,

Unless greed and anger does come upon his fingers.

‘Ware thee then, oh simple man,

It may be you the power shall command.

Works In Progress

Boy, being new to this doesn’t help.  I think I’m simply promoting this page on my own blog.  This is where I will randomly post updates or pieces of my story as I work on it.

 

Works In Progress.

Phryne Amarantyne

First of all the disclaimer.  I do NOT own any of these names, places or events named here.  This is a “mid-chapter” doodle in between events in the book “Legends of Shannara: The Measure of the Magic” by Terry Brooks.  All copyright belongs to the author alone.  

The elven eyes betrayed only sadness and desperation as the girl realized the truth of things.  Though their lives were immeasurably longer than that of their human counterpart, she knew death and knew it well.  Her father had been murdered within sight just moments before.  King Oparion Amarantyne was beloved of his people, and respected by those of the “lesser” races who rarely visited and were welcomed into the elven city of Arborlon.  She shed a many a tear, feeling each subsequent roll of moisture down her cheek.

The Home Guard had not yet come to claim her, yet she suspected it would not be long.  Her lengthy childhood prepared her for any amount of love and life, but Oparion had warned her that life as a Princess would also bring a certain amount of intrigue, drama and possibly much deeper threats.  The wife her father chose after mother passed harbored a secret love of power that was hard to miss unless you were enthralled by the sights and scents of the woman.  Father, in a very foolhardy and dramatic fashion, was completely taken with Iseold’s beauty…the allure of all that is to be young.

Phryne Amarantyne was not tricked, nor was she lured by the sweetness of the woman.  For all the sweetness of tongue, the older woman could not trick or persuade the princess into loving or believing her.  The King had drawn away from his daughter, as much from the shock of memory as distraction by his new muse.  She commanded his attention, absorbed it, and radiated it back to the Court so as to be seen in a favorable light.

Thus, the Princess knew it was only a matter of time before she was unduly blamed and locked up for her father’s death.  Both the King’s wife and her perpetual slime of an aide, Teonette, had raised no small fuss about the proximity of the teenage girl to the gruesome scene unfolding in her father’s chambers.  They shrieked that the blood on her robes and hands were the end result of a fight witnessed in the hours before.

“She said she hated her father and she wished he would just hurry up and die!!” the blubbering Iseold said to the arriving Guardsmen.  “I saw the knife rise and fall, and couldn’t believe for a moment what I was seeing.”  She wiped the tears and sweat away from her face, glancing quickly at Phryne to make sure the girl was frozen in fear, just as she expected.  A slight curve tinged the edge of her mouth, and a sparkle lit the corner of her eye as she witnessed the tears Princess Phryne could not stop.

“I must take action immediately to ensure this vile child can harm no more members of the Amarantyne household.”  The woman drew herself up, straightening her back as if to enlarge her stature, and her power right along with it.

Iseold Severine would have what she wanted, and nothing could stand in her way this time.  “Take this patricidal villain into the supply room in the Council chambers.  Murderer or not, she is still a princess.  We must show the elves every pretense of respect if I’m to take the throne without outright civil war.”  A slight wave of fear brushed past her eyes as she considered the Orullians, who would surely stand up against her in Phryne’s name…..