I am a writer..

Well I want to be one that is. This would be dream number two!

Let mear129633617459561 share with you a few snippets of what I write.   I will add them as I write them or they may end up on my main blog page, who knows..  I teeter from reality to fantasy at a moments notice… so we will just ride this wave as it comes.

You can comment if you like, but just so you know, I will get sore if you hate it or say mean things 😦  – like my momma always said ‘if you can’t say anything nice…’   you know the rest.

Here is a snippet from a book idea I have been tossing around.   It was part of an assignment I had to do in one of my on-line classes.  Please ignore any grammar or spelling issues, after all isn’t that what editors are for???

Fighting the Viking

He couldn’t panic now, he closed his eyes from the horror and took several deep breaths to calm his beating heart.   She was smart and wily, she would find a place to hide, or fight her way through this, he was sure of it.

The smell of death and the cries of those left to mourn filled the air like hollows in the wind.  The eerie sounds made his skin prickle and beads of sweat fell from his forehead, stinging his eyes.

Looking around frantically at the carnage, his heart lurched.  He spotted a dark cloth lying in the mud and soot, forgotten from the cloth line as its owner rushed to safety.  Tearing a strip from it he tied it around his head, pulling his hair back and tightened the leather that bound it, now,  at least, he could see.  He slipped his blade from its sheath, a whisper of a sound amongst the chaos, closed his eyes and whispered to the flat side. “Cha d’fhuaireadh facal Beurla mar, sa Bhriathrachan Bheag.”  So it shall be done.  He kissed the cold steel, said a quick prayer to the heavens and moved out of the shadows to confront come what may.

What he saw devastated him to his very core, now, open on the paths he saw what was left of the village he had once called home.  Houses burned to the ground, broken and anked bodies strewn in heaps.   Clothes and wares tossed about the cobblestones without care.

The knot grew thicker in his stomach…  It takes only seconds for that moment to come, the feel of heat as the adrenalin pumps through the body, muscles tensing, mind focusing.  His mind, his body and his soul shielded itself as he marched without thought, turning bed frames, moving through alleyways and searching turned carts. Seeking desperately.

He turned the corner quickly and headed toward the fisherman’s wharf, a row of single homes where men of various sea trades could stay for a meal or rest before heading to the next larger port.   It was a well maintained row of establishments, catered to by two elderly sisters, widows, the both of them.  Food was always hot, beds were always clean.  Today, however, it was a row of ashes and the sisters; nowhere to be found.  His whole body shook in anguish as he fought back tears of anger and grief.

Grant heard a sound near the bushes, a small part of the landscape that had escaped the savage destruction of fire and wind.

“Aye, who is there?” His whispered loudly. Moving cautiously, he wanted to shush whoever it was and keep them there behind the safety of the bushes as long as possible but the face that loomed up from the shadows was neither woman nor child; its fierce boldness faced him head on and without fear.  A large horned helmet that adorned a weather ravaged face, a nose that looked to have been recently broken and clear steely blue eyes stared him down, sneered at him from behind the bush where he had apparently been relieving himself.    The warrior was shorter than him by inches but wider by stones, thick roped muscle in his arms and shoulders bulged out from the ragged cuts of the animal skin he wore; Grant did not hesitate  to take his stance, swinging his blade in a slow, menacing wide arch, readying himself.

Tilting his head to one side the Viking smiled slowly, showing deep empty pockets of darkness where teeth once had been.  No stranger to the art of war, he too took his own stance holding a large hammer like object, swinging it to and fro, cutting the thickened air with a clear whoosh.  He too was ready for a fight and looked a might bit too happy about it for Grants personal tastes.

The Viking was rancid; rotted fish, decay, blood, urine and the undeniable smell of death surrounded him.  Grant took a once over, head to toe, finding, if any, weak spots in the knees or ankles.  He noticed the man had with him several items in a sack, dangling from his side, it was heavy; …leverage, he thought, to knock him from the other side.  The warrior, quickly reading Grants thoughts quickly tossed the heavy sack aside.  Grunting with what Grant thought was glee.  It took only a moment, as the sack flapped open in the wind, to see the bound leather of the book.  Morgana’s book.  Anger rose like bile in his stomach and Grant took his first angry swing. It was deflected.

The ping of the large object hitting his blade jarred his back and shoulders unbalancing him making the great Viking laugh heartily. Grants eyes narrowed, his back straightened and his muscles flexed.  The next swing Grant was able to dodge and he began to move his feet, nimbly, bending his knees, ready and alert.  The years spent at Castle Leon with his kinsmen learning the art of battle with a sword had prepared him for this day.  Being the only able-bodied man currently on this rock with boats loaded to the nines with filthy Viking marauders, however, was not what he’d hoped his first battle would be like. The blow to his shoulder was unlucky but it was his head that the armored man had meant to hit, which gave Grant the advantage to swing his blade up fiercely with both hands on the hilt, slicing the man’s chest deeply through the leather skinned pelt.

This took the Viking by surprise as he stared at the red splotch slowly seeping through the leather.  Grant, who had learned to seize the moment as they came or lose the current battle, took the hesitation to take another swing, this time carving the man’s favoured arm.  The metallic smell of blood filled the air, making Grants nostril’s flare and contract.  A guttural cry rose from the Vikings barrel chest and after a the shock resided the man became berserk, swinging and moving rapidly like an angry child in a wild tantrum of temper.   Grant dodged and shifted, ducked and swirled, missing the attacks by mere breathes.    He took a blow to his kidney and one to the large thigh bone within seconds, taking him down onto one knee.  Moving quickly, he rolled, feeling a blast of air as the hammer hit the ground with a heavy thud close to his ear.  Swinging himself back Grant roared loudly, the pain and the adrenalin creating havoc in his body.  He watched the Viking bend and shift quickly as the hammer fell to the ground with a loud ‘thump’.  Grant hesitated briefly allowing the wily man to pull a small blade from his leather bound boot.    Grant swung his blade with both hands in large arches cutting the air with loud swooshes.  With each wide swing he took cautious steps backward on cobbled stone, carefully avoiding any life endangering missteps. The man was crazed, coming toward Grant, grunting and drooling like a rabid beast as blood dripped from his wounds, moving forward, swinging his small blade with his left hand.

The scream that tore through the air shook Grant and he stumbled slightly giving the crazed Viking the advantage, as quick as lighting the Viking dodged at Grant and he felt the burn on his arm instantly.   It was then that the moment took him, as the mind clears, and the body clicks into perfect position, each cell in each muscle comes alive and the mind goes inward.  The body ready’s itself within seconds for just such a moment, sheltering both its heart and its mind for what is to come.

With a loud battle cry, Grant moved swiftly and without delay, calm and tempered, swinging and shifting, moving toward the man with such vehemence and dexterity, the Viking blinked and stumbled back.  Grant took the hilt of his sword first to the large man’s face, breaking the nose again, blood spurted from the mans face as his head snapped back.  Dropping his sword, Grant quickly made a fist with one hand and plunged it into the Vikings stomach, grabbing one horn of the helmet with his other, Grant used his knee, swinging it upward, slamming it into the man’s thick neck then throwing him viciously to the ground.  The Viking, gasping for air, weak and bloodied, began uttering something in his own language.  His eyes pleading, raising a hand in helpless gesture.

“I swore an oath on my father’s grave to not kill a man in anger.”  Grant stated calmly, as he stared into weary eyes of this worthy opponent.  “Lucky for you I have no anger in my heart today.”  He raised the sword and with two hands swiftly plunged it into the man’s heart.

“Today my heart holds only grief.” Grant said as he watched the Viking take his last guttural breath, eyes locked on each other.

Hearing the scream again, he pulled the sword; death had taken its victim quickly.  Grant grabbed the man’s  bag before he kicked the him over the edge of the rocky ledge, Grant watched for only a moment as the heavy body tumbled toward the sea.   He could see men scrambling into the row boats loading them with stolen goods, heading toward the large ships, all casually and without heed. He could hear their laughter as they loaded their loot and his heart clenched again, this time, in anger.

Taking stock of his injury he quickly removed the wrap from his head,  using his teeth and left hand, he quickly tied it around the worst of the deep cut, grunting in pain as he tightened the knot and ran toward the sound.

A heavy rain was beginning to fall, the cobbled stone had become slippery.  Stumbling in pain and anguish through the now empty streets, Grant  could hear the last of the fires hiss and spit in desperate attempt to stay alive.  “Morgana!”  He called his voice gruff with emotion.  “Morgana!” he cried again, weakening.

Grant fell to his knees. “Oh my God please let her be ok” he prayed.

He bowed his head and let the rain fall heavy upon his head.  The eerie cry of a crow’s cah caught his attention and he looked up.   One of Morgana’s he thought, moving unsteadily to his feet again.

“Show me!” he growled at the bird.  “Take me to her NOW!”  The bird flew off.  Grant followed.


He realized shortly that the bird was taking him toward the cave.  The one he and Morgana spent many a childhood escaping to, once they had found  its many secrets.    The cave where they professed their love to each other.  Their cave.

He moved to run to the lower northern entrance realizing it would take too long to get there, shifting he moved toward the cliff side where the old rope still hung.

He moved swiftly reaching for the rope, the pain in his arm ripped through him like a sword to the heart and he found himself stumbling blindly, his hair hung wet and dripping plastering itself to his forehead and face.  With a growl he grabbed the rope in his left hand and wrapped it once loosely around his waist, jumping and turning in mid-air he landed feet first against the cliff side in a grunt of pain.

“Breathe Grant, breathe man, ye have to find her.”

Moving swiftly, he shimmied his way, painfully, down toward the deep cavern.  Making short time of it he landed quickly on the ledge leaving the rope to dangle.   Moving cautiously into the cave he listened first for wind, then for the bats and then for any sign of her.

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