The Mysterious Dissapearance of Drakenberg's witch

A girl accused of being a witch in her tiny town struggles to survive each horrible day all the while dreaming of venturing the infamous city in the distance.

Ch. 1; A Town Unforgiving

Sibyl dried her streaming tears on her thin cotton sleeve, which was pulled up to comfort her wrist. redness sprouted up on her cheeks and moved radially around her eyes, in angry streaks. Her baited breaths were ragged as she sat on the hard wooden benches that had been placed strategically outside the Preacher’s office, just far enough so you could hear bits and pieces of the heated conversion raging inside.

“She’s the devil’s child!” He sniped harshly, “and if you won’t seek God’s help, then it is the church's duty to bring it you,”

“Preacher please,” Sibyl’s mother’s distressed voice came, barely audible, “She’s just a girl, she’s just a girl,” she pleaded

it went on and on, like a brewing storm, not even close to the awaited finale. Sibyl denied, as did her mother, any trade of witchcraft, any mischief managed by the thin little girl her mother desperately tried to dismiss as child’s play. although, she was, as of yesterday, a teenager; and therefore according to the preacher could no longer be ignored and overlooked. to the townspeople, Sibyl's suspiciousness are a loud and obnoxious banging on the doors of their quiet lives, and god forbid its not their intimate business to put a stop to the ringing in their christian ears, put their by the abnormal girl.

she leaned against the wall, which was painted an ugly yellow. Her eyes scanned the bright stained glass windows, searching for a distraction. Eventually, her mother, Cynthia Littyre, stepped out of sea of argument, her head bowed and hands folded.

“Sibyl, come” she commanded, whispering, as if speaking to a dog, making careful precautions not meeting the emptiness that swallowed up her daughter’s eyes. Slowly, draggingly Sibyl lifted herself from the seat she had melted into, her fingers trembled with tepid anticipation.

The pair walked out the town of Drakenberg’s only church, like canines with their tails between their legs. As went every day, Sibyl was greeted by the marksmen of the village; usually consisting of bored housewifes, activist men, and troublesome schoolboys; who enjoyed throwing insults like they were rocks, and they sometimes were, if they felt their voices couldn't cut deep enough. Today was no different than any other, Sibyl even wished they would dig in their painfully simple minds to draw new insults so they didn't bore her with their overused cliches.

“little rat!!”

“devil child!!”

“witch!!”

the usual digs and cracks flew at them with full-force. Sybil's mother took it all to heart, every jab was like a rusted knife piercing her withered heart, and breaking her scrapped throne. Sibyl had learned to respect their insults as she would respect dirt, but Cynthia, her mother, had yet to master this skill. Tears curled up in Cynthia’s eyes, threatening to spill as they left the church’s courtyard, and walked among the crowd of cursors. they followed them like the plague, always waiting for Sibyl to slip up, so they could run to the church to tattle. They wanted nothing more than to be rid of the menace, known kindly as Sibyl.

Sibyl’s moony eyes caught faces in the sea of people, faces of caring mothers and broad fathers, who could be loving and kind; so why weren’t they now? thier faces were twisted into angry sneers, there was no love in their spiteful glares. Why turn all their swelled hatred onto the shoulders of Sibyl? Sibyl had been the result of unbearable bad luck that haunted her since her birth, and ranged far before. Her father, a handsome wanderer who passed through the village many years ago, without a penny in his torn pockets, he claimed to be engaged to a beautiful princess lands away. It wasn't hard to believe most of Drakensbreg brushed him off, urged him to go somewhere else. After all, they never did tolerate strange visitors, or strange things at all. Sybil's mother, although being raised to the values of this town her whole life, was intrigued by this nomad. They were involved in a passionate one night affair, and he left at dawn riding heroically off into the sunset on pack mule, while Cynthia stood in the light waving him off. only nineteen, and unmarried; once the villagers found out about the illegitimate baby that had been unluckily conceived, Cynthia was a complete outcast abandoned by her family-, she begged for sympathy to no advance. Not only that, but the little girl was born with inhuman white hair and other worldly red eyes. When everybody tried to picture what that young hermit looked like, no one could recall; only adding to veil of mysteriousness. Drakensberg suspicion of Sibyl only grew as she aged, it didn’t take much to convince them she was cursed, or possessed, or some kind of godless mutt.

they eventually parted off from the mob, and came close to their shack right outside city boundaries, kicking up the plentiful dust that flurried beyond the village streets. Their ‘house’ was a sorry sight, it was basically planks of rotting wood, loosely nailed together and at constant slant. dents dotted the outside walls which were born from rocks thrown by children. If houses could embody emotions, the one Sibyl and Cynthia shared would symbolize nothing else than pathetic depression; something the small family knew all too well. As they entered the two room shack, Cynthia collapsed into a creaky chair by the small round table, which manifested the majority of the first room, not including the moldy sink and piteous woodstove accompanied by a small trough of wet firewood collected from dreary yesterday. Cynthia made weak attempts at muffling her sobs in her cupped hands, and Sibyl eyeing her mother moved into her back bedroom. Sitting down roughly on her old slumping mattress that lounged and rusted in her corner. running her hands through her ruffled short hair, which she had cut to boy’s length in a fit of rage some weeks ago. Sibyl gaited her glance towards a stained mirror that was propped up against her far wall, which was only a few feet away. Sibyl did not look like other children, one of the most prominent reasons she was so often put down. first of all, her cloud-white hair and brushed aside bangs were practically begging to be ostracized, and that’s not to mention her fiery red eyes with blood red specks and streaks of orange embers. These unusual colors lit up Sibyl’s face against her pearly pale skin. Drakensberg had a nasty habit of producing only the most plain and dismal patterns of boring pale brunettes and cream tans. in fact, it looked like half the town was related because the all shared the same forgettable colors in their hair, eyes, and skins. Even Sibyl’s mother shared the constant traits of the village, thin brown hair and light hazel eyes.

“Don’t cry,” Sibyl called to her reflection, “Don’t you dare..” her voice grew soft in the dimly lit room. As she sat in her room, she concentrated on the easily visible dust that danced and looped in the stale air. An hour passed, as Sibyl napped in her room, and when she emerged her mother stood at their bucket sink scrubbing already cleaned copper plated with a wooden toothbrush.

ignoring her mother’s needless, and quite worrying, act of rewashing the old dishware. Sibyl, who had kept her jacket wrapped around her, walked to the front door where she paused.

“I’m going out,” Sibyl declared, her mother made no response and Sibyl disappeared out the door. as she left, Cynthia turned at the last second, only to be greeted by a slamming door.

Skirting around the perimeter of the relatively small town, Sibyl was able to easily to get to the other side without having the deal with dirty glances that evolved into loud protests which eventually became physical attacks. Sibyl had been painted with more than a few war scars because of the townspeople’s rage and fear. she walked into the forest at the south end of Drakensberg, she could start to hear the rushing waters of the Magnolia river that nicked the southern end of town. You couldn't actually see the river from inside the village border, you had to stumble and cut your way through thickets of foliage to get to the streaming river’s bed, where a beautiful clearing rested, but was rarely visited because the population of Drakensberg had an irrational fear of anything that was outside the town’s boundaries, which included the dense, overbearing forest that circulated around the measly town, casting it’s giant shadow over the small circle of life. The only road out of town was thin stretch that led right to the city held miles away, the city was another thing Drakensbreg preached against, ‘a city of sin’ they called it, though of course everything that wasn’t Drakensbreg was sinful. Anything that was different could only be of malevolence, destined to be damned; this, of course, included Sibyl.

She often visited Magnolia River, the constant roar of the water made blocked out the inconsistent pain that meddled in her head. Finally arriving at the right spot, she took off her muddy shoes and dipping her feet into the eerily cool stream. She held her trembling fingers under the cascading liquid, until they ceased shaking from uneasiness and took up shivering from the cold; a small condolence. The sky in Drakensbreg was a permanent gray, speckled with shifting clouds with a bad temperament. more often than not, the dismal town was victim to inconsistent showers and sheets of snow, in fact the banks of slush never seemed to melt and seasons never seemed to change, which kept the river at an always rushing state, and never did much in terms of improving a sour mood.

Her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a rustling in the bushes behind her. Sibyl turned to greet the only person in town who would dare wander near, he also happened to be her cousin, he emerged from the bushels and walked up to her lounging space in the water, he spoke warily,

“How’s your mother,” he asked

“Who cares,” she answered quickly, focusing her gaze on the moving waters. he smiled, and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

he dropped down next to Sibyl, “You know, we could prove to them you aren’t a witch if you let me just throw you into the river,”

“I’d drown,” she pointed out

“well, that’s kind of the point,” he teased,” I’d jump in after you," he figured matter-of-factly

Sibyl wrapped her arms around her legs, and rested her chin on the tops of her knees.

“It’s getting worse,” she muttered, the smile faded from the boy’s lips, “Oh Wendell,” she rubbed her temples roughly,

“thinking about it only makes worse,” he offered

“everything makes it worse, crying makes it worse, breathing makes it worse,” she babbled, her hands started shaking,”i hate them all so much, honestly Wendell, this town, it's killing me,"

he chuckled nervously and she flashed him a dirty look.

“I’m serious,” she repeated

“then lets jump on the mail carrier’s cart tomorrow and ride it all the way to the city,” he said smirking, “Im serious, the Mail Carrier’ll be here tomorrow,” he joked, erupting into laughter

Sibyl stood up, frowning,”Stand up,” she ordered

“Why,” he asked, still giggling

“Just stand up,”

he complied and came to stand next to Sibyl, ankle deep in cool river water. in a swift movement, Sibyl gripped the front of Wendell’s jacket and threw him backwards, the small waves breaking his sprawling fall.

“The hell, Sibyl,” he sputtered, staring up at her laughing face.

"You mind sharing dinner?" Sybil conversed casually stepping out from the tiny waves and making her way back through the brush. Wendell hastily got up and followed, muttering under his breath, ringing out the sleeves of his coat, and wiping the glistening specks from his glasses.

They walked back arm in arm, and Sibyl insisted they walk straight through to the other end, skipping the detour she usually took.

"It's cold out, and you're soaking," she argued

"And whose fault is that?" He nagged

"It's not fair we always have to avoid them, they're the ones with the issues," sibyl pouted

"Arguably," Wendell muttered, but complying with with his cousins wishes, and forged ahead into angry territory

Wendell was another creature of misfortune among Drakensbreg. Both his parents had died in mysterious accidents a few years earlier, since then Wendell had grown increasingly close to his cousin and aunt, sibyl and Cynthia, whom his side of the family had rejected. But even being a cousin to Sibyl, he was still an outsider to her. For the population of the town found no trouble in selling him goods, and participating in small talk with him.

Crack......crack..crack...............crack...crack..crack.........crack

The sound of the pebbles on the cobblestone streets erupted, as the odd pair tried to walk. Snickering boys, half hidden behind alleyways, dotted every corner, entertaining themselves in other’s misery. But the cousins paid no mind, and offered little attention to them. Eventually, bored without any reactions to gauge, a brave boy hurled a rock the size of an apple at Sibyl, hitting her straight in the face, and ripping down her cheek, painting a scratch of red to match her eyes. The boys retreated a ways, perhaps scared that their actions would earn them a curse from the rumored witch. But no curse came, not even a whisper, as Sibyl clutched her cheek and gritted her teeth. Wendell almost shook with anger, but his cousin grabbing his arm tightly persuading him out of action. His nostrils flared, and they made an even more hurried attempt to go home. And when they finally did, blood dripped through the cracks of Sibyls finger.

"Those little brats, who the hell do they think they are," Wendell ranted, pacing the tiny kitchen, while her mother cooed over Wendell, her long time favorite.

" I egged them on," Sibyl admitted,

"How?" He demanded," by existing? Don't be unfair to yourself Sibyl," he raged

" we could have walked around the edge, I was asking for it," she said, her voice cracked pitifully, and she hung her weary head. Wendell continued to pace the room, shaking his head in anger.

They had little to eat that night, mostly stale bread and watered down soup, because the majority of markets in town refuse to sell to Sibyl or Cynthia. So Wendell took care of the shopping, but since no one would offer their family jobs, most of their budget was based purely off of the money Wendell’s parents had left them.  Wendell insisted he spend the night at home, which wasn’t hard to explain because his cottage was a mansion compared to their filthy hut. That also meant traversing back through hateful streets, but Wendell without Sibyl was just an outcast, instead of a demon.

Sibyl and Cynthia barely spoke a word, the weather spoke for them, as a violent downpour of wet snow erupted soon after Wendell’s departure, only adding to the build up of disgusting discolored slush, and Sibyl was busy crawling around the musty wood flooring catching all the water from the roof’s collection, that crawled in between the cracks, with copper tins. Her mother tried, without success, to light their plain wood stove with still damp logs. streams of smoke curled around Cynthia’s figure as she bent over the stove, occasionally sighing obviously frustrated but trying not to show it.

“Just give up, it won’t light,” Sibyl prompted, while she positioned a cup under a persistent leak.

“We’ll freeze,” she responded in annoyance

“I’m not cold,” her daughter commented

Cynthia whipped her pack of matches at Sibyl

“If we could just live in town, we could buy dry wood,” her eyes were full of anger, as she voice rose at Sibyl, who had her back turned. a awkward silence crawled into the space.

“Is that really my fault,” sibyl demanded, quietly, her mother burst out in whelping anger

“You don’t know how hard it is!,” Cynthia cried, despairingly, slamming the stoves door,,”the way they look at us! the way they treat us!” tears surged down her scarlet cheeks, she stood up, “ It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” she screamed hysterically

Throughout her mother’s cries, Sibyl held her head down, refusing to cry, or make any sound at all. she clenched her fists at her sides, and waited. She waited until her mother’s voice ran out, and Cynthia stumbled into the back bedroom, cursing. taking deep breaths, Sibyl rubbed her hands on the floor, as they had taken to shaking once again, and she didn’t stop until her palms were ridden with painful splinters, that Sibyl spent the rest of the terrible night working out of her irritated red hands. Which took away from her catching the misguided rainfall that came into the house and by morning the floor was covered in mildewy puddles that had iced over. As her mother had predicted that night was crammed with a rowdy freezing winter that raided the loose house, and an eery frost that crept up over them sometime in the dark. So when the family woke up in the middle of the night, it was due to brutal cold that serpented it's way into their beds. Sibyl jolted awake at last, having fallen asleep at the table, racked with shivers and pain from the chill, her hands and feet dreadfully stiff.

She rubbed her hands together, ineffectively, hoping for warmth that refused to come. she wrapped her thin, thready blanket around her, and crawled into the room, the brisk brittle floors sending uncomfortable sensations through her pained body. she cracked open her the bedroom door slightly, peering inward. Her mother stomach rose softly with each breath as she slept, centered on the mattress that sat pitifully on the floor stained and worn. Covered by a thick patched quilt, Sibyl recalled it was sewn by her grandmother, who had, thankfully, passed before Sibyl was born.

She held her icy fists under her arms, watching her breath hang in the waiting air before dissipating, forever. Maybe it was raw wintriness of the night driving her to insanity or maybe it was the blocks of her commiserable and lamenting reality crumbling that forced her up onto her feet, and out the door. If the brisk trapped air inside their hut wasn't bad enough, the warped contemptuous winds battling outside was a pure freezed over hell, to which Sibyl was now apart of. Like a bastardized ballet, she danced brutally against the wind, her blanket she sheathed around herself billowed in the wind, as her cape. she trekked on and on, her ivory hair whipping wildly,  blind from the swirling chunks of snow that blizzarded around her, shrouding the night in a painfully impure white.

In a way, Sibyl stumbling through the village at night, could’ve have been poetic. Turned upside down into a heroic little tale of her besting the cold to visit her cousin, sleeping cozily in his well lit cabin. she could have made it sound like she traveled across town, at twilight, to deliver an important and very essential message, but that wouldn’t be the truth. the truth, a gift so often soiled and broken and twisted beyond recognition, would be in this situation was that Sibyl met Wendell on whim, a whim created by Sibyl’s tired, freezed mind at past midnight.

she practically fell through the door she had used the last of her strength to push open. landing on the oak, she moaned in delight as ringlets of precious precious warmth seeped into her, wrapping their light grasps on her beyond feeling cheeks and fingers. she dragged herself further in the room, kicking the door closed before working off her boots that freezed to her feet. it would have been much easier if she even had the muscle to sit up,and instead laid pathetically on the floor, trying to kick off the leather. Minutes later, Wendell shuffled into the main room, bedraggled with ratty bedhead and wide eyes.

“Sibyl?,” he questioned, unable to believe the creature before him, iced in white was his cousin, and then realizing it was, rushed over pulling her up in his arms, “What were you thinking?! what ‘appened,” he was close to yelling, but all Sybil could do was snuggle into him. He placed her into the couch near a blazing fireplace. shadows danced around her wearied, hollowed face

Finally, after downing two glasses of warmed water, Sibyl could form coherent sentences. and tried to explain why her midnight promenade meant so much.

“no just listen! Wendell,” she cried gleefully, “It came to me, in the cold” she explained, “i was staring at my own breath, waving at me in the air before disappearin’, y’know,”

“Sibyl-,”

“Air doesn’t follow any rules, or regulations, air turns into wind and goes wherever the hell it wants,”

“Are you mad?” he asked earnestly

“I had this.. this epiphany, Wendell. we could just leave,” she stated, “follow the windey road into the city, and never, never, look back. What are we so afraid of? we’ve joked about leaving for long enough, lets actually do it! let’s just go”

Wendell gave a nervous laugh, and looked at her curiously

“You’ve heard the stories, right?”

“Of course, But-,” Sibyl began

“Soddomy, sin, greed, drugs,” He listed off, “People who go there, don’t come back,”

“Maybe, because it’s so much better over there,”

“oh sure,” he laughed at her, dismissing her statements as if she were a child.she grabbed his hand tight

“Don’t laugh, i can’t -I won’t- stay here another day,” she persisted solemnly

“You’re tired,” he said insistently, “and half frozen, you're not thinking clearly,” he spoke patronizingly

“it’s worth a shot,” she begged

“forget it, no sense in making yourself even more of an outcast,”

“But wendell, it could be better there,”

“You’re wishful thinking is going a bit overboard,” he said sternly, like a parent ciritczing their child

“Those b******s from the church, would be glad to get rid of us!” Sibyl continued to argue

he pulled his hand free, and stood away from her, turning his back.

“You just don’t get it, Wendell,” she accused, “Because, you get to live here. Inside the city, warm, unbothered-”

“No, you just don’t get it,” he put tersely, “ Things are gonna suck, wherever you go, Sibyl!” he yelled, waving his hands through the stiff air, “ You’re not.. not,”

“Not what?” Sibyl demanded, Wendell sighed and shook his head slowly

An impatient silence curled over the pair, as they stared darkly at each other in the dimly lit room. Finally, Sibyl turned her cheek, shakily getting up from the warmed couch. she let her tired blanket slip off from her shoulders.

Sibyl, being much shorter than her well-built cousin, was only eye-level with his shoulders . But she was no more less intimidating, with eery black shadows twisting and turning, igniting her fiery eyes and making her cryptic hair glow around her pale face. In that moment, Sibyl Littyre resembled very closely to an actual witch.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be looked down on, every damn second of your life, “ her voice cracked, but even then loomed over the room. she stared daggers into Wendell, until eventually he stared them back.

“I don’t trust you, Sibyl,”

“Oh, you dont?”

“No, not completely,”

Her cheeks turned turned a bright pink, before she spoke again.

“What am i supposed to do?” her voice was tiny in the void room. They stood for several cold minutes in a darkened quiet

“I’m going to stay the night, is that okay?” she asked trying hard to keep her voice level

she disappeared into the back guest room, leaving Wendell standing in front of the glowing fire. why why whyyyy, Sibyl yelled over and over again in her head, why did it seem like every particle i breathe is against me!. Sibyl took advantage of her opportunity to use a bed with not only a fresh mattress, but one with sheets and blanket, multiple blankets! she curled up inside it like an injured dog, silently cursing the boy whose home she was occupying. Wendell scorns repeated themselves in her head, his distrust haunted her. That night, Sibyl dreamed that every person she touched turned to stone, until she was completely alone.

the next morning came all too fast, and shaken from her dream, Sibyl crept groggily down the hallway. Waking up Wendell would be a whole new batch of awkwardness, so instead of saying any kind of formal goodbye, she snuck out the back door weaving her way back to her own pathetic excuse for a house, hoping no one would discover her walk of shame.

When Sibyl burst not-so-confidently into her shared shack. She was met with Cynthia, cooking wood in their, now thankfully dry, oven.

“I spent the night at Wendell’s,” Sibyl spoke, daring for a lecture about the blizzard the night before

her mother shot around, but not from anger or motherly worry, but instead surprise.

“Oh, Sibyl,” her mother said offbeat, then turning towards her daughter’s door, “i thought you were still sleeping,”

Sibyl sighed internally, of course, her mother’s uncaring attitude resulted in a complete unawareness of her child’s disappearance. But what was Sibyl to expect, she seemed to be construing a pattern of letting down the only people in her small world who would tolerate her, and her mother’s addled mind was nothing to count on. Putting on a robot of a smile, she went to work putting away the tins she had set up as traps for the invading wetness. curling her hurt feelings into her stomach and out of her mind. When the copper was all tucked safely away atop their box/fridge, Sibyl wandered outside the back, lazily waltzing in between the paths of lost chickens that snuck out beyond city limits. grabbing an ax she had stuck forcefully in a tree stump the other day, she searched for an unsuspecting tree for her weapon to claim as a victim. Just far enough, so that she couldn’t hear her mother’s disappointment, and just close enough so she could see the hut behind overlapping tree faces, Sibyl set up shop. Tightening her frail jacket that used to belong to her mother, and swinging the ax artfully in her clever hands. Sibyl hacked away at the bark of a tree, infant compared to the massiveness of it’s neighbors. When she was halfway through the grain, beating away bits of the tree’s pale flesh, she saw a flash of black in the corner of her eye, no, not black, a dark dark blue. turning wildly, Sibyl abandoning the ax in the crevice of the tree. She held her hands up defensively, if it was someone from the village they must have been planning some sort of attack, no one went beyond the village’s sacred boundaries, especially not the space behind her house. If they weren’t from the village, the situation was infinitely worse, the only people, if any, found in these woods were dirty gypsies, or criminals. Either option was bad for Sibyl, but as she scanned the space behind her, her eyes caught no one. Being the daring rebel she was, she continued working on her tree, turning around ever so often to survey the area. by the time she done, and was hauling the tree’s length over her shoulder to be concentrated into wood blocks, her hands ached from the chill. as she trekked back towards her shack, she swore she saw a smudge of navy blue arc across her vision,but this time with more of an outline. Rubbing her eyes furiously with one hand, she continued down the path. Her paranoia spiking and her anxiety worsened as she gripped the ax in her hand ready for any oncoming attack, an attack that never did come. And as if the occurrence couldn't have gotten any stranger, Sibyl was sure she saw the outline consisted of a top hat and cape.

Shaking off her nervousness, she tried to denounce the strange images as brought on by stress. heaving the chunk of wood back the proved tiresome, although Sibyl was used to burden, as the cold temperatures grew increasingly worse and her mother could swing an ax as well as she could support her troublesome daughter, it was up to Sibyl to keep their small house warm.

She hacked away at it, until blisters burned on her fingertips, and her shoulders sighed wearily with each motion. lucky for her, Wendell had appeared from inside the town. trying her best to ignore him, Sibyl slammed the ax again into the thick bark.

“I didn’t mean what i said,” Wendell coaxed as he grew closer, “I’m sorry,” he apologized simply

Sibyl said nothing as the ax head again disappeared into the soon-to-be firewood. a raging debate swirled in her mind.

Either Sibyl’s pride or stubbornness kept her from accepting his apologetic gesture verbally. Instead she forgave by continuing to work in silence, letting him continue to be ‘there’ was her own gesture of acceptance. and after a few minutes, he placed his hand on the ax tentatively she raised it for another blow. And she released it into his custody, silently forging forgiveness.  

regaining her breath, Sibyl watched her broad cousin, cut the tree much more efficiently than she ever could. She stared at him sourly.

Birds called to each other in the high trees, and wind wrapped and danced around the pair, whistling past their ears. That with the crunch of snow at every movement, made it easy for the two to stay silent, let the nature around them talk.

Eventually, Cynthia called from inside. Her voice easily working through the thin walls. Sibyl and Wendell entered the houses side by side, greeted by her mothers figure.

"Oh Wendell, you're too good to us," Cynthia flattered, referring to the fact that he continued to associate with us almost daily, despite the cost to his own.

"What do you have, if not family," he said, and Sibyl couldn't help by feel to was jab at her. As if he was trying to say, we do so much for you, why be selfish and throw it away in the city.

The city. According to Drakensbreg, the most sinful reputable place, full of malice and sinister people. Sibyl often thought her father was from the city, daydreamed more like it. She had never actually told anyone, never even said it aloud except when she was far off in the woods away from prying eyes and ears. But Sibyl craved that city, envied its people. She wouldn't believe the grand gesture made by the church to discourage all the city was. Originally, that scary place beyond our timid town was titled 'The City of Glowing Lights' and it wasn't far from accurate. Once in  a blue moon, you could see, just over the tips  of looking evergreens, an eerily inspiring hum of light. Stretching over the close horizon like sunlight through rooftop cracks. it was beautiful, it was demanding in its glow, and it magnetized Sibyl.

She went about the day robotically, mimicking smiles and frowns from her cousin, who was fishing for forgiveness that is there, but just isn't what he hoped for. I am civil, She began to think,  but I am also resolved. Resolved not to stay here, to be a slave of my family's emotion, and a euphemism for the devil in the villagers eyes. I was tired, the answer came to me simply when I fell asleep and when I woke. I couldn't stay, unless I was to risk losing the last bits of myself I still cling to.

Dinner was bare, watered down soup with stiff carrots. But Sibyl ate without complaint, as it was better than when she went to bed stomach aching with emptiness. Wendell abstained from eating, for he could always go back to his own home and cook up rabbit, deer, or anything he wanted. He had offered food to them under the table many times, and they took it gratefully. If the village were to find he was not only staying in close contact with them, but aiding them in resource they themselves refused to offer, they saw it as an insult to their tolerance of Wendell in their stores. So carefully, only small loaves, bottles, and handfuls were snuck in like contraband.

Wendell departed after the sun dipped into the treeline, waving and smiling so amicably it made Sibyl’s heart ache. Cynthia hummed to herself slightly as the night grew on, some odd tune, one she often reprised but Sibyl didn’t recognize as a church hymn. And other than church hymns, the village rarely participated in the distraction and distrust that is music. Eventually, Sibyl interrupted her mother’s chorus.

“Where was my Father from?” Sibyl asked more forceful than she had intended. Cynthia’s shoulders stiffened.

“Your father,”  she sneered to herself., continued to wash dishes more forcefully

“Where did he go?” she pressed.

“He was a worthless, penny pinching, peasant,” Her mother derided , “and he didn’t care about you, or me, or anybody else,”

“That’s not true,” Sibyl whispered

“Yes it is!” Cynthia asserted, Sibyl backed off

“Did he look like me?” she asked at last, Cynthia scoffed

“He didn’t.. look like anyone,” she mumbled, and then said loudly, “He looked like a man with nowhere to go, and nowhere he should be.” she finished, ending the discussion

Her mother retired to bed early, letting Sibyl sit laid back idly at the table, biting at her torn thumbnail. When chill bit into Sibyl’s bare shoulder, she tiptoed to the back room. Her mother laid in a ball under the heavy blanket. As quietly as possible, Sibyl crawled on her hands and knees onto the stiff mattress. Lifting the quilt ever so slightly, she crept into her mother’s warmth she so seldom was given. Barely touching her, Sibyl’s body folded into her mother. Praying her mother wouldn’t wake and spoil the moment. Closing her eyes peacefully, Sibyl etched this moment into her memory so she would never lose it. And that night, Sibyl slept next to her mother, tears sleepily slipped from her eyes, a melancholy ache filled her heart with nostalgic grief.

Author's Note

I wrote two versions of this story, one of which followed a more realistic approach where Sibyl traveled to the city which turned out to be what I can only compare to a mix of 1920s New York and Japan on acid. The other version followed a more Harry Potter-esque plot where Sibyl meets her godfather who turns out to be a wizard and promises to bring her to the city (which turns out to be the hub of magical people and business) and teach her magic along the way, they meet goblins, banshees, magical blacksmiths, and fortune tellers and learn more and more about who Sibyl's father really was. Tell me what you think and what path I should take it. Thanks!

Reviews

[JayG]

• Sibyl dried her streaming tears on her thin cotton sleeve, which was pulled up to comfort her wrist.

Clearly, someone is watching this, and telling us what they see. But who? It can’t be the author because you’re neither in the story nor on the scene. And since Sibyl doesn’t ask this person who they are, or react to them, as you and I would, were someone to talk about us, how can this seem real?

What I’m getting at is that you, personally, are telling the reader the story—explaining it.
Problem is, as you read what you’ve written you visualize the scene that generated the words. So you have both context and intent. The reader has neither, so with what seems a simple straightforward line, that reader has questions you don’t want them asking:

• Who’s Sibyl? Old? Young? Human? This matters if she’s to be our avatar. And explaining after the fact can’t retroactively remove the questions. So perhaps you should introduce her and her situation first, so we know what caused her to cry. Were a reader to know that they would sympathize and perhaps feel what she’s feeling. Without it, it’s just data, to be memorized in case of need. And who wants to study in order to read a story?

• Why does it matter that she dried her tears on her sleeve, as against sometwhere else? Remember, the reader can’t see the scene, and doesn’t know where they are in time and space yet. So telling them what happens in a scene they can’t visualize does nothing toward giving that picture.

• Umm… how can you dry “streaming tears?” Wipe, perhaps.

• Is a thin cotton sleeve made of thin cotton, worn cotton material, or is it “thin” because it’s cut narrowly? You know. She knows. If the material it’s made of matters to her, in some way, the reader should know too. If it doesn’t, why tell them about something she’s ignoring?

I could go on, but my point is that when you read, every line acts as a pointer to images, ideas, and story, all residing in your head. So it works. But unless you make the reader know what matters, and give them that information in a way meaningful to them, as they read, every line acts as a pointer to images, ideas, and story, all residing in YOUR head. And since my head is empty, as everyone knows, and you’re not available to ask…

Here’s the thing: Story, with a capital S, is about events. But story to a reader lives in the protagonist’s struggle to succeed. It lives in their hopes, the aspirations, the needs, and all the emotional issues that make life interesting.

The reader doesn’t come to you to be told a story. The medium won’t support storytelling because it’s a performance art. How you tell the story is every bit as important as what you say, because virtually all of the emotional content comes through nonverbal means. So it’s all missing on the page.

Take a line like, “Sam, you truly are a b*****d.” Spoken one way it’s deadly insult. In another it’s high praise. In a third it’s a doctor delivering a DNA report. Both vision and sound would tell you. But the page reproduces neither, so we need to use another way. Instead of thinking visually we need to think emotionally. We need to take the reader into Sibyl’s head so they know WHY she does things, not just that she did them. We need to know what has her attention and how she views it, so we can reason in parallel with her and understand her as-she-lives-the-story. And we need that in real-time. Why? Because the reader needs to be given a reason to care, not just know.

History books tell us the story. They contain betrayal, adventure, and all the things that make a story interesting. But when did you last pick up a history book to be entertained?

History books are filled with facts. But facts are immutable. Interesting, perhaps, but seldom entertaining. And there’s the problem. Your reader is hoping to be entertained, right from the start. And no way in hell can we do that with the book-report writing skills we learn in school. We’re taught those skills to make us useful on the job, where the ability to write a report and an essay is a necessary skill.

And that, in the end, is my point. It’s not a matter of talent, or potential as a writer. It’s about owning the tools the job requires. How you use them is up to you. But you can’t apply the tool you don’t own. And as Mark Twain observed long ago, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

Look back at what I said about the cotton sleeve. You and I read the same words. But did they mean the same thing to both of us? Obviously not. That makes sense, because we have different backgrounds, are of a different age group, probably come from different areas, and perhaps are of a different gender—all of which contribute to how we view the words of the story. So of course there’s a communication problem. And because we don’t meet in person, the question is: how can we fix the problem, so your story means to me what it means to you? And remember, this problem is true of every reader, so it’s a critical question.

Obviously writers do it, so there’s a trick to it. And here it is: If everyone is different, and views things from where they sit, we have to make them all the same. We have to turn them all into the protagonist. We have to show them the protagonist’s world as THE PROTAGONIST see it, preconceptions, misunderstandings, and all.

In other words, we need the protagonist to be our POV character. And again, no way in hell can we do that with schooldays English writing skills.

For an expansion on that idea, and why it matters so much, try this article: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2015/05/13/inside-out-the-grumpy-writing-coach/

You might also find the article next to it helpful, Mirror for the Mind, which explains what we’re trying to do.

But in the end, if we want to write like a pro, don’t we need the knowledge, and the tricks-of-the-trade of one? Doesn’t it make sense to spend a bit of time acquiring our writers education? I certainly think so. And in that quest the local free library’s fiction writing section is a cheap but huge resource. Look for the names Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon on the cover. They’re the best I’ve found to date.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/