A Hero As Lover

Romance Story written by kt6550 on Saturday 4, September 2010

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Description
A tragedy originally submitted by james

Overall Rating: 93%

This writing has been rated by 1 members, resulting in a rating of 93% overall. Below is a breakdown of these results:

Concept/Plot:92%
Imagery:94%
Spelling & Grammar:94%
Flow/Rhythm:93%
Vocabulary:92%
Note: This story was originally submitted by james. He requested that someone tell it in a different way. I felt it was a good, sensitive tale that just needed a ton of cleaning and formatting. So, james, here is what I did with it. Let james know what you think. His eyes danced with fire and light as he told me about the world he had come to know. He said that there was power, strength, and purpose in everything around us, and deities to shepherd and control them all. I almost saw those beautiful things too. But I couldn't see past his burning eyes. The brilliance blinded me. It was his last night before finally leaving to go to the monastery to begin his training. But you could see that part of him had already gone. It was silly of me to think that one night could change his passions. But, I wanted more than just another empty bed in the morning. I was selfish in thinking that I could take his gift away from the world. Stories drifted back to town about his training and the great deeds he had done. Some were so fantastic I couldn't tell what was true or what was legend. What was truth was that I was carrying his child. I would name her Madeira. My family cast me out, branding me a harlot when I denied knowledge of the father's true name. I would never tell; he would find out and leave the monastery to take care of us. His training and skills were needed by the world; that was more important. Eventually the town treated me as an outcast as well. I had to work hard, at low-paying jobs, just to keep a small hovel at the edge of the town and to feed the two of us. Finally, the strain was too much. I wrote him and asked for help. I begged him to come home and save us. My emotions raged; I slept but little. One night, unable to sleep, I heard screams coming from the village. But it was the loud crash in my daughter's bedroom that really jolted me. I ran to Madeira's room, finding a glowing eye glaring from the corner. The eye burned. I was too frightened to strike it, but I would not let it burn my daughter. I covered, and protected, my daughter. And the eye burnt me, scarring my face. Madeira grew up embarrassed to be seen with her disfigured mother. She came to hate me because of our poverty. And she blamed me because she had no father. At night, I would tell her of the great deeds of a stalwart monk. As she grew older, I told her that this monk was her father. My strength and will returned; the scar and the talks rebuilt my spirit. Those nights, I believe, were the only time we were truly happy. Madeira is now a grown woman, with the same fire in her eyes that her father has. She sees all of the power and purpose surrounding us, just as her father did. She sees me, however, as weak and frail in spirit. I stay in my humble home. I still think of the night I met and loved the monk. And I pray that he remembers, and thinks of me, at times.
   

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    @James
    : If you try really hard you can imagine a real life love story with the father giving the mother a black eye and high-tailing it towards "The Wet Cloister*" somewhere in Vegas.

    My advice would be to drop the fantasy setting and think of what else could make your story orriginal and fascinating. Or at least stop relying on the fantasy to pull your story forward.

    The main rule is that you should write about what you're familiar with - people, places, ideas and events. Most writers do fantasy, cause for the most part you can get away with just making stuff up. The truth is it wares off quickly if your main theme is describing a situation that would be taken as a metaphor IRL (as in 'fiery eyes' ) and then pulling the fantasy card by turning it into a literal 'fire eye'.

    * a 'cloister' : an architectural element, the usual place for taking a walk in a building otherwise designed solely for the purpose of sitting on your knees while talking to the ceiling

    PP: You know what, I'm intrigued. I'll rewrite this as soon as I can get back to my PC later today.
    Although I apparently have missed something here, I think this is a nice litttle story.
    I saw a deal of this, in the first telling; but it was a little like looking out out the world through frosted glass.

    Now, the glass is clean, and the story can shine through.

    I'm a fantasy writer; I write, read, and love the genre. I will, naturally, disagree with Nev_a.

    Good fantasy; in fact, any good telling of a story, no matter what the genre, be it fantasy, allegory, or just plain essay, can be absorbing, if told the right way.

    Like any genre, fantasy can be a tool; a vehicle, to carry the thoughts, ideas, philosophies, of the author to an eager and attentive audience.

    If the writer is proficient at his trade, then his audience will listen, enraptured, to what he has to say. He can expound his ideas, his theories, his deepest desires, and people will listen; engrossed in the tale he has to tell.

    Tolkien knew this; Terry Goodkind, Davind Eddings and Raymond Feist; all masters at their craft.

    Any genre can be a vehicle; all it needs, is to be driven properly. There are a good deal of expert drivers here in the Den.

    Sorry; rant over.
    Well, and what can I add to that? I believe my friends above have said it all. I too have to disagree with your 'view' on the fantasy genre... as you can probably imagine.

    Kt/James - I would love to see this developed into something permanent. Maybe with the guidance of Kt, you could carry this on James. I won't tell you how to write this because if you look deep enough, you'll find your own flow and imagination. It is there. Smile

    Good Luck.