The Reader - Prologue

Prologue 

The woman clutched her son to her chest as she ran through the forest, feet pounding the ground so loudly she was sure she would give herself away. But she continued running anyways, knowing that it was the only way to save her baby boy. 

She wished she had never gave birth to the child in the first place. She wished that she had never gone to Viridi - the Green Kingdom - to see the beuatiful palace. 

But it was too late to change the past now. The boy was wailing, beating his tiny fists against her chest. She knew he was hungry but stopping meant death - for both her and her son. No, she had to keep running. Even if her legs hurt and her lungs begged for breath, she wouldn’t stop. Her son needed to live. 

The dark marks that streaked down her arms rippled as she ran. The Reader had told her that she would die a painful death, and she had never believed it. But now she wasn’t so sure. The men chasing her had crossbows, and she was had no invincibility. 

The woman wondered if she should pray to the goddesses. Maybe Dixral would help her and her son live. Maybe Elyviella would heal them both if they were injured. 

But the woman knew the goddesses were looking down on her with disgust - some of them, at least. No one would ever approve of her actions. Not her husband, not her parents, and definitely not the people from the kingdoms. 

She had started a war, and if she was caught the entire world could be destroyed. 

The woman needed to get the tiny boy to safety. There was a place, a place in the Crossover Forest where she would be safe. If only she could make it in time. 

The trees even seemed to frown at her as she raced by, their long limbs reaching outwards, snagging on her skirts and scratching her cheeks. She tucked the boy closer to herself as he began to cry louder still. 

She knew she was probably hopelessly lost by now, so far from her destination that her son would die beside her. At least they would die together. 

Surprisingly, however, one of the goddesses must have had mercy on her because she soon discovered the very place she was looking for. 

A large, stone building stood before her, its white stones cracked with age. The dark hole of an entrance loomed overhead, but she pushed back her fears and stepped inside. Torches flickered to life with dancing blue flames as she slowed her pace. 

Not too deep inside the temple was a white slab, hovering off the ground about three feet. This is it, the woman thought to herself. This is my goodbye. 

She pulled her son closer, feeling his warmth seep into her pale skin. Sweat dripped down her back as tears dripped down her face. The boy had quieted, his face still slick with tears as well. The woman planted a kiss on his forehead. 

Her arms were shaking as she unwrapped the shall from her head and held it in her arms with the boy. Then she laid him on the table. Even though he wriggled, she was able to drape her shawl across him. Immediately, the boy stilled, his heart slowing and his eyes closing as the shawl pushed him into a deep sleep. 

The woman took a step back, admiring her handiwork. 

“Sleep, my child,” she whispered to him. “Eternal peace awaits you.” 

The boy did not move, and the woman breathed a sigh of relief. He would age one year for every decade outside the tomb. He could sleep forever, in a way. And one day he would join her in the lands beyond. May Dixral have pity on us, the woman thought to herself with a sad smile.. The woman then removed a silver crown from her bag and placed it on her mass of silvery-blonde curls. 

She could hear the stampede of the guards outside the temple. They would find this place, there was no doubt. Even Gollare couldn’t hide the temple for as long as her son would be there. No, the best way was to simply use the temple and the blessings it held. 

The woman stepped out of the temple and into the bed of pine needles. Immediately, she felt the cold metal of a blade of a sword pressed against her neck. Her crown fell to the ground with a thump, rolling across the pine needles and coming to a stop at a pair of booted feet. “Interesting,” was the only word she heard. 

The woman kept calm although her heart was racing. She looked up at the emerald uniforms, knowing that the Green Kingdom would not have mercy. She was out of luck. 

“You try for the Temple of Purity?” the man asked her, dark eyes boring into her chest. He stared at her but the woman broke her gaze and the man laughed, voice deep and low. “Someone attempt entry, that is an order,” he barked at his men. 

Two men climbed off their horses, clutching the hilt of their swords as they approached the Temple of Purity, boots crunching the leaves on the ground. 

The soldiers shared a comprehensive look, seemingly afraid of the Temple. As they well should be, the woman laughed to herself. If her defenses worked, she would have nothing to worry about for her son. But if the guards managed to get in… 

There will be nothing I can do, the woman reminded herself. Her arms were pinned behind her back by her sworn enemy. There would be no escape. 

The first soldier, clutched the hilt of his sword even tighter, his knuckles turning white. The woman wondered if he was a Cursed, Blessed, or Normie. If he was from the Green Kingdom, odds were he was probably a Blessed from Layene. Most of the Green soldiers were. 

The two shared another look and the woman couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. She knew she was going to die, why were they taking so long? 

As if they had read her thoughts, the two soldiers advanced into the entrance to the Temple. But just as the woman had hoped, they immediately shattered into thousands of pieces. The woman fought back a sickened smile. Her boy was safe … for now. 

The captain of the guard behind her huffed, and he pressed the edge of the sword closer to her throat. She slowed her breathing as to not appear scared as the guard circled her until he was in front. His sword stayed on her body, his eyes tracking her every movement, preparing to strike at a moment’s notice. 

The guard watched her for what seemed like years before finally looking up. “Send for the carriage,” he bellowed. “We’ll see what His Majesty wants to do with her.” 

A tall king sat on his throne, the cushions beneath him reeking of death. Perhaps he should have ordered a throne faster. His father’s throne stank, possibly from his death that occurred on the very seat. 

To think just a week ago I was a prince, the king thought to himself. Now I’m the Green King, feared by all throughout the lands. He bit back a laugh. This was too good. 

He had been called to his throne an hour ago, by his best messenger. The king was tired of waiting, his mood had been worsening and he was more likely to kill this mystery rebel by the second. 

Then the doors burst open and the king straightened up, keeping the good posture that had been drilled into his head. 

He was not expecting the young woman that Captain Damian was holding. She was pale looking, her silvery-blonde curls coated in dirt and something that looked suspiciously like blood. 

The king’s heart leapt into his throat as the woman met his eyes with hers, shock on her face and a sword tip on her back. 

The king forced his expression into a calm one, ignoring his racing heart. “You brought me the Princess of the Silver Kingdom? For what exact purpose? She hasn’t been in this kingdom long enough to commit a crime.” The princess thanked him with her eyes. 

“Your highness,” Captain Damian spat. “Princess Persephone was caught smuggling the child into the Crossover Forest. She hid him in the Temple of Purity and the blessings have been restored. The child is stuck in there and we can’t get to him. Therefore, the princess has committed a crime against us and should be sentenced to death.” 

The king thought for a moment before waving his hands to dismiss the guards still positioned around the outside the throne room. Only Captain Damian and Princess Persephone remained. 

“Captain, do you know who the father of this child was?” the king asked, risking a glance at the princess. 

Captain Damian seemed surprised by this question. “Well, the father is unknown, of course. But we know that the Reader said that he was a danger to all, so the parents don’t really matter…” He trailed off when the king signaled him to silence. 

“You see,” the king smiled, taking great pleasure in this moment. “I was the father. Princess Persephone and I have been married for a year now, so I cannot and will not charge her with any crimes.” 

Captain Damian remained silent as the silver princess fled to her husband, pecking him on the cheek affectionately. The king grasped her hand tightly. “Is he alive, Seph? Is our darling alive?” He breathed a sigh of relief when his wife nodded, a tear glistening on her cheek. He had killed his own father for her, and he was ecstatic that both his child and love had made it. 

Finally, Captain Damian interrupted the love fest. “Sir, I’m so sorry, but you aren’t the only one in lin for the throne. I charge you with treason among other accusations.” 

The captain of the guard whistled loudly and immediately he was flanked by his soldiers. “King Rook has committed several crimes against the Green Kingdom. He and Princess Persephone are hereby sentenced to death and his brother, King Gray, is now our leader. Escort the two lovers to the Tower Ruins in Layene.” 

Captain Damian’s voice was firm, but it didn’t shake King Rook as he clutched his wife in his hands. The guards grabbed them and began to rope their hands behind their backs. 

“You’ll regret this,” King Rook warned. “My son will be your downfall.”

Reviews

[JayG]

You’re still reporting and explaining as if the reader knows as much as you do. Look at the opening as a reader, not someone who already knows where we are, who we are, and what’s going on:

• The woman clutched her son to her chest as she ran through the forest, feet pounding the ground so loudly she was sure she would give herself away.

“The woman?” How can we have “the” woman when we don’t yet have “a” woman? And why isn't she important enough to have a name?

Clearly you, the narrator are talking TO the reader, about the story. We aren't living it in the moment she calls "now." How important is it that we do? Enough that were this a submission to a publisher they would stop reading right here. And I say that not as a personal opinion, but as someone who owned a manuscript critiquing service.

I cannot stress this strongly enough: When writing for the page we do not TELL the reader a story. We make them live it, in real-time, with the protagonist as their avatar. We're not working to make them know, we're making them CARE. And a parade of facts won't do that.

As I mentioned when I looked at Chapter 1 of, Last One Standing, “When ‘telling a story’ TO the reader, in an outside-in way, the author, who knows the characters, their backstory, the situation, and more will tend to leave out things obvious to them which the reader needs, if they're to make sense of the prose.”

And look at this. An unknown female, old enough to be classified as a woman, is carrying a make child of unknown age and gender as she runs though a woods in an unknown place in an unknown era, for an unknown reason. So, lacking the smallest trace of context, the words are meaningless to the reader. You know what's going on. She knows. The men chasing her, and the one who ordered it knows. Even the kid might know. But as they read it the one you wrote this for has no idea of what you’re talking about. None. And that confusion is NOT an invitation to read on and find out what you mean, it’s a command to turn away and find something to read that makes sense. Will all become clear if they read on? Probably. But there is no such thing as a second first-impression. Confuse a reader for a line and they're gone. Bore them for a line and they're gone. In the words of Sol Stein: “A novel is like a car—it won’t go anywhere until you turn on the engine. The “engine” of both fiction and nonfiction is the point at which the reader makes the decision not to put the book down. The engine should start in the first three pages, the closer to the top of page one the better.” But if, instead of pulling the reader in you confuse them...

Why am I hitting you so hard on this? Because three months ago you showed promise. Since that time you’ve been churning out writing that would be rejected in a paragraph because they're written with those same schooldays nonfiction writing skills. And all that work did for you was to harden bad habits and make the transition to fiction writing skills more difficult.

Place yourself into HER viewpoint. She’s running desperately, and her short-term goal is escape. So what is she focused on:

1. The path ahead, so she doesn’t fall.
2. The sounds of the forest, listening for sounds of pursuit.
3. What she might do that will increase her odds of survival over the next few minutes.
4. She’ll wonder if climbing a tree might help, but reject that because the baby will cry, even if she can climb while holding it.
5. She’ll think about how she might make it more difficult for the men to hit her with a crossbow bolt, and will think about heading through more dense forest. But that will slow her, and tire her, and make falling more likely—even place her in a dead-end.

In short, she will think about what matters to her in the moment she calls now.

Does she, for one second, think about how it would have been better not to have the child? Hell no. Does she waste a moment wishing she’s not gone to Virdi? Does she think about someone predicting that she would die a painful death? Of course not. She's too busy staying alive for that. Only you, comfortably sitting in front of your keyboard have time to think of that. But you’re neither in the story nor on the scene. So how can you have any opinion on her life?

As Sol Stein put it: “In sum, if you want to improve your chances of publication, keep your story visible on stage and yourself mum.” So because you’re blocking the reader’s view of the action, get your a*s offstage and into the prompter's booth. It’s her scene, remember, not yours. She’s trying to save her own and her child’s life. She’s running desperately, and believes that to stop is to die. But you can stop typing, or reading, go grab a snack, and come back. So because you don't feel her urgency, you literally leave her suspended between one step and another, and as yourself, lecture the reader about her. How in the pluperfect hells can that seem real, or interesting to a reader?

You cannot tell a story TO the reader because on the page the narrator’s voice is a dead voice. Only you know how you want it read, and you’re not there to explain, or read.

The short version:

You’re working hard. You want to please the reader. But you’re missing a critical point, one E. L. Doctorow hit well with: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” At the moment you’re focused on providing the weather report.

Since the day you learned to read you’ve been choosing work created with the tools of professional Fiction-Writing. You can’t see, or know the decisions the author made, or know why they mattered. But you can see the result of them in use, and expect to—just as your reader expects it in your work. But unless you take the time to learn and perfect those skills your work will read like a transcription of a storyteller’s script minus the performance notes. And that's the best argument I know of for spending time, and perhaps a few coins, acquiring your writer’s education.

And in that I’ll help, by providing a free copy of the best book on the nuts-and-bolts of creating scenes that sing to the reader that I’ve found to date. Hit the link below and use the leftmost of the three download buttons to select the format your reader requires.
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

Then read the book slowly. At each now point raised, take time to think about how it relates to your writing. Then address that point in every story you’ve created, so you’ll make it yours by usage, and not forget you heard about it a day later. It’s going to be frustrating, and you’ll feel stupid for missing so many things—just as I did. But when you master the techniques you’ll love having the protagonist whispering warnings and advice into your ear as you write. And your reader will thank you.

Then, six months after you finished reading the book, do it again. This time, having a better idea of what he means, you’ll learn as much that’s new as you did the first time.

Fail that…continue writing with your grade school nonfiction writing skills and you will kill any chance of success, because it’s not a matter of how good or bad the story is, or talent, it’s how much the reader enjoys the WRITING.

Someone might read a story and say, “The story wasn’t all that good, but I loved the writing.” But no one, ever says, “I loved the plot but the writing sucks," because they'll stop reading as soon as they decide that the writing is bad. Again, in the words of Sol Stein: “Readers don’t notice point-of-view errors. They simply sense that the writing is bad.”