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Friday, February 3, 2012

Variety Short Story: "Tragedy" by Rachel Rossano

In 2006, Rachel Rossano and seven other authors, two other veterans and five newbies, began an exciting venture. They resolved to write eight fantasy novels that begin and ended in the same place. The characters would be a family of eight siblings. Each writer adopted a sibling for their own and wrote that character’s story, posting each completed chapter on a blog dedicated to that character.
Rachel Rossano’s novel following Wren Romany, one of the middle siblings, took over five years to write. Three years of that time she was not writing due to pregnancy or newborns. Pregnancy and sleep deprivation make her brain disconnect. However, once she finished Wren’s story, she realized she couldn’t leave the world or the characters alone.
Tragedy is part two of a series of flash fiction pieces that follow Svhen Bejork. This installment picks up a few weeks after BlondStranger. The third installment is still in the author’s head somewhere.
Wren Romany is available free at http://wren-romany.blogspot.com/.  Currently in editing with the intention of publication, hopefully it will debut 2012 or 2013. For more information about the status of the other novels (also available online) go to http://romanyepistles.blogspot.com/.

By Rachel Rossano

Rain pelted my head, ran in rivulets down my face, and plastered my wool cloak to my back. Frigid moisture seeped through to my bones. My body absorbed the cold, unable to repel the deluge. My heart declared it would never warm again.

“Lenora, I can’t feel my toes.” My brother, Ander, clung to my hand with all of his seven-year-old strength.
I hadn’t the heart to peel my hand free despite the pain. Mother was gone. In many ways, I was the last anchor he had.
Behind us, our home gave in to the fire with a groan and crash. The sound tore through my chest, leaving my heart raw and oozing pain like an open sore. I refused to glance back.
Why hadn’t father listened?
I passed on the stranger’s warnings. The Enforcer’s men grew bolder with each passing day. Tales of destruction, ravaging, and pillaging passed from villager to farmer and back, taking precedent over the cost of feed and the lack of harvest. Additional news of Lord Mynth’s movements and rumors of strangers appearing in the woods added the undercurrent of tension in every conversation. Life grew dangerous, yet Father ignored the outside.
“Focus on the harvest. Clear the fields,” he ordered. “Then we can take time to rest and gossip.”
A sob punched my gut, but I choked it back.
The grain rotted. The barn flamed. The house burned with mother’s broken body inside as father marched off at sword point to serve the Enforcer.
Now we were refugees, rushing away from home with no hope of ever returning. I lifted my head to peer through the rain at the barren foliage around us. Trees rose from the sodden dimness beyond the path. Their branches reached out to us like hag’s fingers. I push onward, dragging my brother with me.
Ander stumbled, pulling me down to my knees. Mud soaked my skirt. It sucked at my legs as I struggled to my feet. Ander rose crying, whimpering sobs that shook his thin shoulders. I tugged him close until his sharp edges pressed into my stomach. So young, yet so tall, he resembled father more each season, except for his hair. He had mother’s hair, straight and thick. I ran my numb fingers across the slick strands.
“Preserve us! A pair of ragamuffins.” The booming voice jolted through me.
Indignation rose to the offense. I turned to face the man, shoving Ander behind me.
He was tall and broad in the shoulders, but not as towering and solid as Svhen. Rain fell on his bare head, forcing the hair to conform to his skull.
“Leave us be.”
“Why should I? You are trespassing on private land.”
“Whose?” I didn’t like the way his dark eyes studied me, almost as though measuring my worth.
“Lord Mynth’s. These woods aren’t safe at night.”
“The valley isn’t safe, we know well enough. I have lived here my whole life. Do you come from the ruins?”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Aye.”
“I ...” Ander pressed against my back as I spoke. “We need to speak with Svhen Bejork.”
His thick eyebrows rose and his eyes widened as a grin pulled at one side of his mouth. “Is that so?” Then he laughed. “That explains a lot.”
Now it was my turn to frown.
“Come. Bring the shy one too. What is your name?” He motioned for us to follow and then set off perpendicular to our previous direction.
I followed him, pulling Ander.
“You will take us to Svhen?”
“Of course. Svhen never looked twice at a girl. Now one shows up with a kid in tow asking for him by name.  Wait until I tell Arthus. He is going to be sorry he missed this.”
Pressing through the brush, he broke through into a small clearing. Water fell in heavy streams from the sky. Its path unbroken by the leaves, water pounded his head and shoulders. Ignoring the deluge, he strode straight through the tightly woven branches of two bushes on the other side.
“Yes?” The reply came behind us.
I turned and came face to face with a looming shadow. He was taller than I remembered and more tangible. My chin lifted a few inches before I met his hidden eyes below the hood. I opened my mouth, but no words came. My chin quivered. I clamped my jaw shut to still it and studied the mud.
“What is wrong?” A large hand, rough with an oilskin mit, forced my face up. “Lenora, what happened?”
The gentle sound of my name broke through my defenses and tore them away. A sob convulsed my chest. I couldn’t breathe as emotion welled up. “Mother ... dead.” I gasped.
“Press gang.”
Our guide swore.
“They took your father?” Svhen asked.
I nodded.
Ander’s thin arms cinched my waist, seeking or offering comfort. Pulling him close, I pressed his head to my middle and let the tears fall. The swells of ache overwhelmed my walls.
Svhen’s hand caught my head and gently guided it to his chest beneath the folds of his cloak. I breathed warmth and leather. The steady of thud of his heart beneath layers of cloth strangely reassured me. I let my tears fall, soaking his tunic. Ander’s hair tangled in my painful fingers, his skull firm and whole beneath their span. Visions of my mother’s body pressed behind my eyes.
“Does that mean you have gained two new pets?” Our guide asked. His voice was no longer laced with laughter.
“Tourth won’t mind. They are his people.”
“True enough. At this rate they are going to be your people too.”
“Let Tourth know we are coming.”
The dark man left. One moment he was there, the next the rain pelted us only the three of us. I drank in Svhen’s stillness, hungering for peace in the storm.
“We will bring him home.” Svhen stroked my hair. “I will see things made right.”

(C) 2011 Rachel Rossano

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About Me!

I've been writing since I was old enough to grasp a crayon--my grandma even has an early copy of a "book" I made her. I have a bachelor's degree in history from the University of Wyoming and will (hopefully) soon be starting a graduate program in English. When I'm not breaking up impromptu UFC fights in the living room or losing miserably to my boys at Uno, I'm ... well, writing or editing, of course! I'm married to my best friend, and we have three rambunctious but simply amazing little boys.


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