Category Archives: -Wendi Knape

Witchy Woman

Crows circled the house as my footfalls cracked branches and dirt sank between my toes. The old house was my safe haven, the darkness my hiding place when the light seemed too oppressive. Weeds clung to the worn slats of siding, vines crept up the walls, their small fingerless leaves reaching for the light and overgrown trees and foliage blocked the sun like living gravestones. I looked up to the ominous birds again, and asked, “Why do you circle crows? You shouldn’t be here.”

I walked faster, my steps uncharacteristically thoughtless. My worries were my own here in the dense woods, as I wandered outside the walls of my secret world. Then a tinkle of laughter filled my ears. I turned my head to listen closer. The delightful but abrupt sound echoed inside the abandoned house off its walls as I drew closer. I stopped, my throat closing in anger. This was my place. Unsheathing my dagger, strapped to my chest, I prepared to defend what was mine.

I listened for the sound again. Not hearing anything, I moved up onto the back concrete porch where the backdoor was wide open, broken from its hinges long ago. This time, I entered without a sound, my eyes scanning for any disturbance in the familiar landscape. I wondered what the humans were like who had lived here. Did they eat their meals together and talk about their day, or did they find the nearest pub to paw up the skirt of a wench. My long hardened fingers clenched and released.

I heard the laughter again, and sucked in a painful breath. I would have to find another place to go to for solitude. My shoulders slumped low, my fists clenched and my chin fell nearly to my chest, my mood slowly moving onto rage. I didn’t get very far. My name seemed to come to me on the wind from the next room, making my skin prickle and shiver with need.

“Silas Anastad,” the voice said joined by her tinkling laugh. “Do not leave.” The feminine timber singed my body. I turned to the voice unwilling to leave but my feet carried me closer.

“I’ve waited too long to meet you.” I smiled again as she spoke. “Come to me, male of the Sidhe.” That got my attention even more. How did the female know I was of the Fae?

“Because silly, I’m special.” She continued to laugh, the wonderful sound finally dropping off as I walked through the grand archway into the core of the dilapidated home. I held my weapon firm.

What greeted me was nothing less than astounding, the most beautiful human woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She seemed to glow from the inside out, her warmth radiating onto my dark, flesh, like a soft caress from her lips. I closed my eyes and felt it sink into my soul, opening a part of me that had been stuck in an abyss of hate. My body swayed forward.

Blinking my eyes open, I couldn’t help but stare. Her cerulean colored eyes were luminous. They glowed as if they were jewels filled with laughter. Soft plump lips, painted a glossy crimson, curled up in a mischievous smile. Her dark chestnut hair lay in soft curls winding down and over her full pale breasts that a black lace and blood red satin corset hugged so lovingly. Her lush hips flared out draped with more red satin accentuating her full figure so well, I wanted to grip those curves bring her hips flush with mine. When I trained my eyes on her feet, they were bare, her small delicate toes adorned with black paint on her nails, just as she’d done to her fingernails.

I cleared my dry throat, but the word stuck. I tried again. “Hello.”

She waved and looked at me coyly from under her lashes, her skirt twirling back and forth.

“Hello, Silas.” She stopped moving, her stature growing as she straightened to her full height, which was still much shorter than my six foot four frame, but no less commanding. She seemed luminous in her confidence, her age somewhere in her twenties, belying the number. It was amazing to watch the transformation from the shy but excited female to this more regal woman who stood before me.

I cleared my throat again, “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve seen you,” she tapped her temple, “up here, since I was very young.”

She was so beautiful, I lost track of what I was going to say. I shook my head to clear the confusion of her appearance, and finally asked, “But how? You’re human. How do you know about my kind?”

Her lips twisted up at one corner and her head tilted to the side, as if to tell me I was an idiot. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I returned my dagger to my harness. She seemed so excited to see me, but I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said.

She started to twirl in a circle and hummed to a tune I couldn’t hear. I finally had had enough and quickly moved toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders, bringing her to a standstill, or so I thought. But she swept me up in her joy and my arms easily wrapped around her, one hand going to her little waist and the other gripping her nape at her hair, and we started to dance around the grand room. The music I hadn’t heard suddenly flit across the room as it transformed into something wild. The chandelier above us sparkled anew and the floor became a polished marble, the walls a rich tapestry of  fabric, as the magic emanating from her touched us both, carrying us in the dance. Her head went back, she smiled through her laughter, and all I could do was hold on.

“Finally,” she kept saying, “Finally.”

When the music dwindled and we came to a stop, she looked up at me and the world came to a sudden halt as our heads came closer together. She lifted a hand to my face and brushed her slight fingers against my cheek, up, over my pointed ear, and down my jaw, stopping on my lips. Her fingers touched me, where her eyes focused on my lips, in a lazy back and forth motion. Her tiny pink tongue swept across her own lips making them wet and I groaned. My head bent down to hers and…

I snapped my head up, but still held her close, my hand twining in her soft hair, tipping her head further back, not loosening my controlled grip. “You’re a witch.” It was a statement of fact and she gave another one of her tiny coy smiles. But there was nothing really coy about her. Her eyes flared with sexual heat and power that made my body stir as only a males could. I leaned in again, her lips parting, her breath hot, and my blood pumping hard as I leaned in once again. “What’s your name?” I whispered so close I could almost taste her.

“Analise,” she said, her voice a shiver across my skin, as her body started to tremble with a need as strong as mine, her scent sharpening as I breathed her in.

“Who are you?”

“I am yours.”

Black Wings

The sun lit fire to the still and quiet water as it set. It was the exact opposite of how Melanie felt. Her insides boiled like an acid stew, her shame the meat of it. What she’d ended had poisoned her so deep that she would never be clean again. Beholden to her creator, she’d done even worse to herself. Time had stopped, holding its breath to see what she would do next as she sat on the black beach, the place was not familiar, but there was nowhere to go. All she knew was she was dead.

Callum had made promises, promises that had held Melanie together for a long time. To find out they were all lies…

The picture of his lean and muscular body came to her mind. He always got out of bed without a care about his nakedness. She lay sated after a forceful and wild coupling. He had marked her skin, making it red, his grip tight and unforgiving, just how she liked it. When she stared at him as he dressed, she had become quite aware of what he was doing when, with a satisfied and smug smile, he pulled out a gold band and slid it on his ring finger, slicing apart her heart as if he held the knife himself.

The one word, “married,” echoed throughout the small one room cabin that they had been coming to for over six months, bitten out through her swollen pink lips, as she lost all control.

Melanie had screamed her rage making her throat raw, attacking him with fists, teeth and nails, making him bleed for what he had done to her. His grunts joined their struggle until he grabbed her by her arms and threw her away onto the bed. Melanie looked around, her eyes wild, until they lit on the knives in small kitchen. Before Callum knew what she was doing, as he drew on his coat and headed for the door, she grabbed the biggest blade and launched herself at him, the knife coming down and into his chest over and over as she kept yelling, “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” with each strike of the knife.

She yelled the word now at the still water, the scream so powerful, if she had had super powers the water would have rippled as if hit by shockwave after shockwave of sound. She looked down at the blood congealed on her wrists, hers and Callum’s blood mixed as one. The tears that came did not wash away her sin.

“Melanie,” the male voice boomed all around her, behind her, inside her. She froze, her hands digging into the sand as if she could hide the gaping wounds she had cut into her skin. Afraid to move, afraid to speak she waited for her punishment.

“Melly. Stand up.” Her entire being, down to her soul, jerked with the word. She stood instantly, her body not in her control. Fear raced up her spine. The only person who had ever called her Melly was her mother. Social workers had taken Melanie away from her. She was only six.

“Turn to me, Melly.”

Her body shook as she complied with his command. The choice to turn was her own as she stamped down her fear of what might happen.

Melanie’s mouth went dry as a surge of heat, so strong, went straight to her core, almost causing her to fall to her knees. He was the most magnificent man she had ever seen. His chest bare, the muscles forming like he were a god, his skin tone glowing bronze to the suns red, the black designer slacks he wore fitting as if born to him, and his eyes hot as he took her in from her polished toes to unruly golden hair. She shook her head back and forth. Melanie shouldn’t be feeling anything for anyone. She didn’t deserve to feel good.

“You turn to me freely?” She shrugged her shoulders, not willing to show how much he unnerved her. There was nothing really to say anyway. Melanie was ready to accept whatever punishment she deserved.

His gaze bored into hers as if he was reading her soul. Maybe he was. Eyes firing brighter than the sun, she couldn’t cover her own as invisible arms came around her holding her body still. There was no need. It was as if the light was coming into her, filling, pressing to every corner of her mind; peeling away all her layers, her secrets. Everything.

She sobbed.

“I know what you have done to your lover.” She said nothing. He came closer lifting one of her wrists. “You dare take your own life.” His words reverberated through her making her shiver.

“There will be an agreement between you and me,” he said, his arms wrapping around her in truth, his light surrounding them both. The light was cold and fractious. It wasn’t warm, as she would have thought, making her bones ache and her want to wrench herself from his arms. His grip tightened. “The agreement is really no agreement at all. You are mine, one of many in my army, but special nonetheless. Your sins demand it.” His hand reached out as he looked down on her, as his fingers stroked her cheek and came down to her neck and back to her nape. He gripped hard and she sucked in a breath. “For taking your own life you are mine to command and do with as I will it.” She thought about what she had done to Callum.

With a piercing tear, Melanie’s body arched as his fingers became claws tearing through her skin and bones, just below her shoulder blades, reaching in and taking hold. She screamed and screamed. The pain was so great she couldn’t see and collapsed, but his arms still held her until he drew his claws out, his hold now onto something else that felt foreign yet a part of her. Her breaths bellowed from her chest and out of her mouth, her distress searing his skin. Her heart beat frantically banging against his chest as he held her with one arm, when suddenly, she saw lustrous black wings, spread so wide behind him, she stopped breathing. And when he let her go raising his arms behind her back she tried to step away but then he yanked hard on something that was…attached…to her.

“Oh, God!”

She wrenched her neck around and gasped. Mirroring his wings, were a pair of wings so black, so grand, they sucked up all the light. She had no words.

Melanie looked up into this being eyes, not a man at all. “What are you?” she whispered grabbing onto the taut skin of his shoulders, her balance unexpectedly shifting.

“I am what you are.” He paused, taking her shoulders and bringing her up so her lips were an inch from his. “I am vengeance!”

She licked her lips as her eyes dropped to his.

“And you are mine.”

His lips came down hard on hers and somehow she knew that the promise in his kiss was more than anything she had ever known, the warmth that starved the original chill suffusing them both, sealing something between them forevermore.

Dancing on Stilts

The paradigm shift was like a blast to the heart of me, peeling back the shadows that have long lingered, filtering in the sun and enlightening my mind. It hasn’t happened at the best time. The shift starts to move, its future on stilts. A small man with dollar signs for eyes looks up at me poised to run the sharp and wicked teeth of a saw across my newly born legs. I don’t know which way I’m going but I know I want to get there.

A step forward and I’m racing to catch up momentum carrying me, my balance precarious. I stop, hop and readjust. The stilts are very uncomfortable. I try again when a fork in the road appears before me. Which path do I take? There’s the black one. It’s poured and rolled to perfection, the double yellow line telling me not to cross, to stay on course, my destination is directly ahead. I see a sign adjacent to the road written in gold telling of untold riches dead ahead. The other road is uneven, made of dirt, rocks and clay, the dust a cloudy mass, making the road barely visible. I inch forward and test the road with a single stilt. I watch it disappear and pull back quickly, stumble, and nearly fall.

A sudden breeze brushes my skin and it carries a familiar young whisper. Should I turn back? No. But I answer, sending my voice on the same wind. A sense of calm turns the voice away and I look back to the path. The way is clear. There are large gaping holes and no lines of sight to help me on my way, no signs telling me what might wait for me ahead. These boarders meander to mysterious pockets of forest calling me, small voices daring, beckoning me to enter. What lay in the hidden knolls, waiting for discovery? My heart tells me to go.

Hugging one stilt, fortifying my choice I look ahead before I move. From this height, what I see on the craggy path makes me smile. Letters large and small paint a picture of wild passion. Structures thin and wide made from the trees, burst above the canopy dotting the landscape opening wide the sounds like a hurricane. However, each comes with trappings and danger, my mind spinning with the flux of images, the barrage of letters making my mind spin and my fingers twitch. Are they trying to tell me something? My breath hitches and my heart races but I look further ahead trying to see where it all ends. The images change to ones of hope and love. I reach for them, want to grab hold, and never let go, their light embrace a wish in my heart, each a start helping build something beautiful and lasting.

Then I look down and see the small man. He smiles and I shiver, his small flat and pointy teeth seeming huge as if I were seeing them through a magnified glass. He taunts me. He knows my weaknesses.

“Leave me alone!” I yell, stumble, and right myself quickly, the wake and power of my words causing a ripple in the vast line of trees.

The little man laughs. I make my way to the dirt road.

The little man claws at my stilts with one hand, banging the terrible saw on my tall wooden legs. I wobble and tip back. Bending at the waste, my momentum carries me toward the road. I hold on tight afraid I’ll meet the ground.

If I fall, will I be able to get up again? To find the end of this journey where I can start a new one, it is a chance I have to take.

I, jump, and lift my legs dancing out of his reach trying to flee, kicking him away. In a flash of light, he is below me again banging and banging and banging, laughing. He forces me one way when I’m leaning, reaching for another. I kick him off again and run, gripping tight to the handles of the stilts praying I won’t fall and I’ll find my way.

When the uneven road connects with the burden attached to my feet, I sigh with the reprieve. I am careful. My balance strengthens. My confidence grows. The dirt road is mine and the little man is far behind, but I still feel him watching. My eyes look to the road ahead. My dreams are there. I don’t care that it is laden with potholes and dust storms. I will dance around the ruts and cover my eyes through the storms until I get to the destination that awaits me.

A Talisman, a Tool

What does a tarot deck, an athame, a grimoire, silver and a cross have in common? I’m sure you can guess. They all are tools used in the paranormal trade that are staples in any number of different manuscripts. But how do your characters use them, and how can you as a writer find authentic information that will read true within your characters? Some tools you’ve probably read or heard about come from perceived truths based on lore passed down from generation to generation. Others stem traditionally from religious practices, be it Christianity or Paganism.

I am Christian, not Catholic, but the first symbol of Christianity besides Jesus and the cross that comes to mind is the rosary, a string of beads used specifically for prayer and meditation. It’s an important part in the daily lives of a Catholic. But what about those that are not practicing Catholics? Did you ever wonder why someone dangles a rosary from a rearview mirror of his or her car? Or why they might place a rosary on a mantel next to a picture of a deceased loved one. At some level that persons mind has a powerful connection to the rosary. It gives him or her some assurance that God is with them. It’s a visible reminder of something greater than they are, seated deeply in their faith.

Near the opposite end of the spectrum is Paganism, not to be confused with an Atheist who doesn’t believe in God. Definition no. 2 on Dictionary.com lists a pagan as a person that is not Christian, Jewish or Muslim. The definition of a pagan I like most is, “a follower of any various contemporary religions that are based on the worship of nature or the Earth; a neopagan.” Do they have something similar to the rosary?

What am I alluding to here exactly? Consider the creation of a talisman. A talisman, an object with special meaning for its owner, used by a witch or Wiccan, is no different from a Catholic that clings to their rosary. I know some might think differently, but in both cases, each person believes the items hold power based on their faith, so it’s important to understand how it holds that power for the character you are building.

Even if you’re not developing a witch or a Catholic, what if the girl next door carries a worry-stone in her pocket because her mother said it would lesson her anxiety. Would a blue-eyed, glass broche pinned to a baby’s onesie help ward off evil? Could the mother of the baby become obsessed in her quest to hide her baby from evil, the broche being the catalyst? Would she do something drastic making future events spin out of control?

Wrapped tiger iron pendant by WjK DESiGNS

Wrapped tiger iron pendant by WjK DESiGNS

A very mundane character could be similar in my own beliefs. I occasionally wear stones that have meaning for me. It’s not because I believe in witchcraft, it’s because when I wear a stone it has a purpose–besides looking nice—placing a specific intent in my mind as to where I should focus my creativity or thoughts. It acts as a reminder. The photo on the right shows a tiger-iron stone I purchased from Earth Lore in Plymouth, MI, that I made into a necklace. Defined by the expertise of the owners of Earth Lore the stone brings the bearer confidence, strength, and insight of the tiger-eye with the grounding energy of jasper and hematite, or it can boost creativity.

The use of a talisman, a tarot card or rosary gives the writer a different avenue, draping their characters in thick layers of back-story. They add elements that are significant to the characters helping move them toward his or her goal, enriching your story.

Even looking back on the way I used the Hermit tarot card in my last post, the paranormal tool used, helped flush out a purpose or path to get around writers block for character development. Still that same use, drawing a tarot card, could be something a witch, a psychic, a telepath, uses to gain knowledge for his or her goals.

Developing a ghost story where the protagonist is hunting ghosts might add a very long list of technical and scientific tools, but the key word is scientific not supernatural. But what if your character were sensitive to ghosts, what tools introduced could press the tension up in the story?

In this case, might the tool be his or her body or consciousness? Could it be the ghost becomes the tool in your manuscript? The main character is a medium in this case, channeling the spirit of the ghost. On the other hand, the ghost could be malevolent, similar to a poltergeist or one that possesses, controlling your character. Maybe he or she becomes your antagonist instead and the ghost becomes his tool to terrorize because of a symbiotic relationship. The outside source or tool, the ghost, can give you a vast number of options for developing a characters mannerisms, flaws, and idiosyncrasies.

Another great example of a tool in a paranormal world (this one is fantasy) is the ring in Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. It’s one of the most iconic tools in a fictional world. Many scholars could go on and on about the symbolism of the one ring, fashioned for the most evil being in Middle-Earth, or a king, or a Hobbit, and let’s not forget Gollum. If you look at all of these characters, the ring did something different for each of them, driven by Tolkien’s imagination and words.

It’s fascinating to me, the idea of a talisman. Look to your own lives, your surroundings. What’s on your desk, your nightstand? Did you have a box filled with little things you’ve collected over the years, each having a memory attached to it? We all have them in some form or another, a necklace, a coin, a stone. Maybe we don’t know why we carry them, but the need is within us, even if it’s on a subconscious level.

If I give a character a particular item, how does it move them through a story, does it corrupt, does it help, and does it give him or her power? Does an enemy want it for his own, and what happens to your hero or heroine then? So many things can cascade into something else, when you give a character a tool. But be careful. If you see it throughout a story, it has to have meaning, a past, a present, a purpose. All you and I have to do is choose what that purpose is.

Happy Writing!

Writer’s Block: 8 Strategies to Bust Out

In my last blog, A Picture is worth a Thousand Words, I talked about free writing. The pictures I used sparked my imagination, but pictures aren’t the only way to get out of a creative rut, they were just one example.

Writers know that a slide into the white abyss of a blank page will eventually happen; the dreaded writers block. We also know how to influence our writing style for the best results, what exercises we can use to push our thoughts into a colorful explosion of images created by our words. Even if we’re trying to start a new project, develop a new character, or find a crazy and different meet-cute that will attract readers, we all have certain exercises we like to use. Or we find the ones that help our creative process unfold.

Here are some of my favorite ways to break down walls that are stalling my creativity, or what I use to come up with something fresh.

Tarot Cards

A few years ago, one of my favorite mystery writers was having issues with character development. Her main protagonist in her series is a psychic. The first idea that came to mind was to suggest the author pull a tarot card and use it to develop character traits.

Zach Wong, Revelations Tarot

Zach Wong, Revelations Tarot

I randomly pulled one of my own tarot cards while writing this and drew The Hermit card. In Zach Wong’s depiction of The Hermit from Revelations Tarot–based on Arthur Edward Waite’s and Pamela Colman Smith’s tarot deck–the image represents “a teacher, someone wise, or an old soul who can point you in the right direction.”[1] The card, “recommends wisdom and forethought before making a decision.” [2] If I draw the card in reverse (upside-down), “the card reflects the need to run away from situations and to hide from problems.”[3] The interpretation of the card is completely up to the author. My take on the card is the character could be on an internal journey that will lead to answers that he/she has been searching for, finding happiness. In reverse, it could mean the character mired in his or her mind, morphs into an unreality that threatens them or others. Hero or villain, draw your own conclusions.

Word Association

Another exercise I like to use when I’m stuck is word association. Even though in your own work you’ve developed everything down to the single gray hair that your character can’t seem to get rid of, he or she might not be moving in a direction you foresaw. So what do you do? Try listing words in a column, by hand—a change of medium might help too—that relate to an inner turmoil or flaw your character has that is keeping him from getting to the end of his journey. In an adjacent column, write down where you want your character to end up, what place you might want him to go physically, or something he might need to find, a person he needs to see, things that make him feel good, or bad, etc. It’s all up to you. Nothing may come from the exercise, but you might also light a fire that you don’t want to extinguish.

A book that shows a slightly different take on word association is Plot & Structure: Techniques and exercises for crafting a plot that grips readers from start to finish by James Scott Bell. Bell talks about the use of mind maps.[4] He breaks it down into three steps: ready, fire, and aim.

  • Ready, invites you to pick a concept you want to develop. Pick a word the story should revolve around. Bell gives baseball as his example.
  • Fire, inspires a scrawl of words with connections and associations to the one word concept.
  • Aim, allows the writer to sift through words they have written down. Bell’s exercise inspires the writer to find direction to their thoughts and gives a good sense of the journey the writer might want to take as the story unfolds.

Books

A great place to find writing help are the old trusty books about writing. We all have them. A few I’ve found very helpful are Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark, Make a Scene by Jordan Rosenfeld, which I spoke of in an earlier post, Clarity, and Write Starts by Hal Zina Bennett.

In Writing Tools, Clark gives clear editing tools allowing us to improve on what we’ve written, which once done helps engage the reader more. With the use of chapters like, Tool 6, Take it easy on the –ings, or Tool 28, Put odd and interesting things together, he helps us in the editing process. For the latter, Clark gives an example from Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. The author uses ironic juxtaposition to enhance a scene and make Madame Bovary oblivious to Rodolphe Boulanger’s true intentions.[5] What if you did this with your own work? Take one of your scenes and change it up. How can the background give you focus to the mood or motives of your character, while leaving the other character in the scene in the dark? It might allow you to richen your dialogue or give a dull scene a glow that never would have come about if you hadn’t taken the time to look into tools that work for you.

The examples above might not be perfect for you, but they could give you a jumping off point to do your own search on the internet. Below are a few places you might want to start your search.

  • Fiction University by Janice Hardy takes you through several areas of the writing process and answers many questions that might motivate you to write again.
  • One Minute Writer – This blog is a place where writing from a prompt can help you get words on the page; any words.
  • 13 Famous Writers – Read about famous authors own solutions for writers block.
  • A Map to Get Out of Writer’s Block – A great diagram of questions you need to ask yourself to help clear your thoughts and get writing again.

[1]Zach Wong, Revelations Tarot Companion, Llewellyn Publications, 2005, 29.

[2]Zach Wong, Revelations Tarot Companion, Llewellyn Publications, 2005, 29.

[3] Zach Wong, Revelations Tarot Companion, Llewellyn Publications, 2005, 30.

[4] James Scott Bell, Plot & Structure: Techniques and exercises for crafting a plot that grips readers from start to finish, Writer’s Digest Books 2004, 45-46.

[5] Roy Peter Clark, Writing Tools, Little, Brown and Company, 2006, 137.