Doran clenched his throat in fear and mewled, "They've  found us.  Take the boy and  run.  I'll do what I can to lead
them astray, but you must run now."


"Run where?   I don't know where we are.   I don’t know these woods at night.   What if we plead with them? 
Beg for them to us go?"  Myr'ia knew her husband was right but  attempted to hold on to what little hope was
left.

The rolling pulse of galloping horses and the feral twist  in Doran's face was the only answer to Myr'ia’s questions. 
Doran pushed her and Gonath into the river's current.   Myr'ia lost the hold she had on her son Gonath.  The glacial shock gripped her spine and paralyzed her senses.   In a turbulent mix of maternal guardianship and self reservation, Myr'ia  reached out for her son with her right hand with her left and she clutched out  at the darkness in hopes of reaching a solid handhold that would end her stormy  immersion in and out of the river's course.  She frantically reached out toward  Gonath's cries and failed to seize him each time she tried.   It was only when the clouds resigned to the moon and allowed the light to  cascade down over Myr'ia that she finally saw the boy.  She summoned the last of her strength and lunged herself further out into  the river.  She reached out again  and felt resolve as the leather strap of the boy’s necklace filled her clenched  fist and she was able to pull him in to her.  The pace of the river carried them  through the current and slammed them against the rocky bank.   Myr'ia struck headfirst into the rugged shoreline and went limp; her body  was caught at the water's edge while Gonath rested unconscious upon his mother's  lifeless chest.

Doran stood fixed when he heard the splash after Myr'ia and Gonath fell past the sandy bank and plunged into the river.  In his harried attempt to propel her into action, he miscalculated.  He lost all sense of sanity when he  realized what he had done.  Anger  and anguish filled his mind and left no room for sober thought.   At that moment the moon broke through its clouded veil and exposed the  riders approaching where he stood. Doran turned and faced the oncoming threat and wailed as the riders  approached.  He stormed the  assailants in a burst of madness.  As a lifelong farmer, Doran wasn’t prepared to engage the men but fury  fueled his melee.  He only saw a  brief shine of the sword as it sliced through the indifferent space and rendered  the death sentence he bestowed on himself.

The  moon was swallowed again by the gluttonous clouds just as Doran’s lifeless body  rolled into the river and disappeared under the rolling waves.  The riders searched as darkness overtook the area again.  They found nothing in their impatient search.   The men quickly deserted the site and rode back into the woods with  uncertain hope of finding the boy they chased from the village.  Their lives depended on it.

Tonight’s attack on his village, coupled with the fear of  losing his only son, compelled Doran to take his family and flee to the forest   that stretched south of his home.

 “Doran, we need to stop for just a bit.  I can barely keep your pace and Gonath is exhausted,” urged  Myr'ia.

Doran stopped for the first time since they ran from the bedlam currently taking place in and around their home. 
The warm wind that chased them made him cringe as it struck his skin exposed through the tears in his clothes. The smell of the charred dwelling they left behind still lingered on the clothing he was wearing and it emanated around
him, incited the urge of another panicked scramble deeper into the woods. He grab Myri’a’s arm and continued their
forced flight.

 “We can’t stop.  It’s still not safe.  You can rest once we reach the river.  It’s only a short distance from here.” Doran offered as moved further on into the forest.

 After what felt like hours of running, the family began to hear the determined rush of the river began as the sound crept within earshot.  Water slapped the rooted stones in the riverbed and wet patches of rock could be seen from the little amount of light trickling down from the moon.

 “Quickly, drink what you can. We'll rest once we reach the other side.”  Doran knelt beside his wife and cupped his hands to snare the cool water.  “The bridge should…”

He stopped short as he reached into the water's flow to draw it up to drink.  Unsure of what he was feeling beneath
the river's surface, he raised his hands and pulled out pieces of rope that once held a bridge in place.  The
rope had been cut and had unraveled into several loose frays.  Small drops of the river ran down each strand of the severed rope. Each wet bead of water dropped back into the river as if it were counting down to a perilous end.

The dim light of the moon caused slight shadows of the  obstacles the family encountered during their frantic flight through the dense  forest.  Low hanging branches reached out from the dark as a suggestion to the weary of their desire to snatch the trespasser and draw him into the timber cluster above.  Thick bramble tugged at skin and cloth and hindered the human’s escape as  they fled deeper into the forest.  The small child towed behind the woman gave up crying long ago as the  powdered dirt swirled around the forest floor, rose in ghostlike wisps, and coated the inside of his mouth, causing him to choke.  Each footfall broke the silence that surrounded them and disturbed the
uneven ground.  It was the only  record of their passage through Iron Stone  forest.

Doran, Myr’ia, and the boy had deserted their farmland  only a few hours ago.  At last  glance Doran could see the peak of the seething flames as they lit in and  ignited the thatched roof of their home.

As of late it was commonplace for their village to be  looted.  King Mylor’s ability to rule the region began to crumble the very day he received word of the unexpected  death of his wife and child.  His attention was no longer directed on the prosperity of the land and only found  content when crawling into the shadows of misery.  The effect of Mylor’s stoic plight devastated the countryside and allowed  the influx of corruption and nefarious activity. Eventually Mylor began to succumb to the  dark areas of necromantic belief.

The  courage of the small bands of outlaws began to grow.   Theft that was based merely on survival had turned to festive diversions  from the degenerative lifestyle taking hold. Small villages scattered between Iron  Stone and the eastern bough of the Broken Spine mountains were now prone to  random burning.  The abduction of  young boys also spread and insinuated that the once aimless lawbreakers now had a purpose.

I can't think of a better day on which to break away from a little oppression an so with the coming of Independence Day I've decided to seek a little freedom.

A good number of years ago, I'm ashamed to even take the time to count them now, I had the incredible urge to begin the process of writing a novel (thanks to a few lower level creative writing courses and very encouraging instructors). Very early on I made pretty good progress too or at least in my mind I did. So I kept at it.

Life finally muscled it's way back to the front of the line and the book writing continued to get pushed away into the shadows. However, just like in a bad horror flick, from the shadows I can see those glowing amber eyes that remind me that those 47 pages of text haven't completely vanished.

I didn't completely toss whole writing idea. There were times I'd get the itch again, did out the draft from inside a dusty box and carry the damned thing around me until I was inspired to continue on. That didn't work. I even coerced my son, who was nine or ten at the time, into reading it hoping that something magical would take place and the flood gates of prose would open up wide. He made it through 5 pages before the lure of electronics grabbed his attention.

There was also I time when I figured I would start from page one and begin, somewhat prematurely I think, revising the little bit that I had been able to put down on paper. I figured, "Just a couple of pages a day and I'll get that writing bug all over again." I think I was able to manage three days until something came up and I had to set the novel aside...again.

Recently I've started thinking that I've grown out of the storyline I was using and that maybe I should start from scratch on something entirely new. Yep, that's my latest plan and part of that plan was to take the 47 pages that have been haunting me and let the shredder at work devour them. I tried to do that today but I couldn't get myself to let them go. Yes, I've grown to loathe the idea of that unfinished project but that emotional tie is still pretty strong and so I've come up with yet another stroke of brilliance that will hopefully quench this nagging itch and finally, as the title of this entry reads, lay my nemesis to rest.

Every other week I will be posting (that's twice a month) one page of my old attempt at writing that book. Lucky you right? Not only is it a good way of saying goodbye to those characters but it also lays out what I'll be posting on here for several months to come. Unless of course I get death threats from you all. Seriously though, you folks are coming back here for some reason so if it becomes apparent that the book thing on here is a bad idea, well, let me know.

Alrighty, so check back this Sunday, July 7th and we'll go from there. Who knows, this might just resurrect the whole damned thing.