Saturday was a day of firsts at our house. First we slept in for three glorious hours. Can you say bliss? Then we got up, because for some reason the children like to be fed and such, and they seem to depend on us for that. Weird.
At 10:18 we experienced a whole new kind of first. Kid A got a phone call. Not that she hasn't talked on the phone before, it's what happened during that call that changed our whole day.
She talked for a few minutes then came to us for guidance. Our conversation went something like this:
Kid A: Mom, Dad, I need to talk.
Us: Okay.
Kid A: That was Friend A. She wants me to ask this guy out to the Sweet Heart Ball.
Me staring at Kid A with bulging eyes: Ummmmmmmm. Ummmmmmm. Ummmmmm. Isn't that today?
Kid A: Yes?
Hubby trying not to laugh: Do you want to go?
Kid A: I don't know. Friend A really, really, really wants me to ask this guy.
Me trying to breath normally so that Kid A won't be frightened: Isn't the dance semi-formal?
Kid A: Yes.
Me still trying to breath normally since this would be Kid A's first date, and I remember how terrifying that is, but also being a mom and knowing how much effort goes into preparing for a dance, and not knowing what Kid A would wear to a semi formal dance that just happens to be in a about six hours: Isn't that today?
Hubby patting my back to calm me down while asking Kid A: Do you want to go?
Kid A: I don't know. They're doing the day activities at noon.
Me staring in dumb disbelief at the clock, which reads 10:22, and realizing my six hours just shrank to one-and-a-half, and thinking we need a dress, shoes, hair, make-up, money, oh crap--she still needs to ask this guy out: Ummmmmm. Ummmmmm. Ummmmmm.
Hubby still trying not to laugh: Well, you'd better make up your mind fast. Who is this guy?
Kid A: I don't know. Some senior.
I'd finish this conversation for you, but it would be painful for most of us--okay, probably just for me. So instead of pain, I'll sum up. She decided to go because she didn't want to let Friend A down and because there was Chinese food involved. Okay, and because she's a brave girl who can have fun under pressure.
She called to inform Friend A of this monumentous decision while I hyperventilated for a minute or two. Then Kid A informed me that Friend A would be at our door in ten minutes to pick her up to go ask the guy out. I hyperventilated some more and ordered Kid A into the shower.
Then the rush began. I ran to the kitchen shouting, "What do we have to ask someone to a dance?" I yanked open the pantry and stared. "Beans! We have beans!"
Hubby, who had followed me, told me I couldn't use beans. We made cookies. Fast. Okay, I started the cookies, and hubby finished them while Kid A and I did the speediest hair and make-up job in the history of the world. Then she left to go ask some poor, unsuspecting senior to the dance (with a plate of cookies and a can of beans) that was in just a few hours. I felt bad for his mother for a second or two. It would have been more, but I didn't have time.
While she was gone, I called in reinforcements, my mom for a dress, my sister for the real hair and make-up, my neighbor for pictures, a prayer or two for sanity and a miracle. They all came through with flying colors.
By the time Kid A came back from asking the now-stressed senior to the dance we had eleven semi-formal gowns, shoes, and everything else lined up--except an oxygen tank for me.
So the long and short of this tale is, we made it. Kid A looked beautiful. The dance was a success, and so was Kid A's first date.
What does this have to do with writing? Oh, tons of things, but I've gone on too long already. So I'll just list three.
1: Firsts are exciting and scary, and all of us like to relive them. That's why I love YA. It's all about firsts.
2: Sometimes you just have to dive into the writing, like Kid A did with her first date, and let the words fall where they may.
3: When you do dive in, have a support group like someone to help with a dress and make-up. You know, readers, and critique partners, and back-patters, and such. But most of all, just love it. There's nothing better than the rush of excitement as the words come. Oh, and keep some beans and chocolate chips handy, you never know when you'll need them.
Are you going to write a first today?
Leisha Maw
Showing posts with label YA books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label YA books. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Lost Saint
I was lucky enough to be given an ARC of The Lost Saint by Bree Despain. It's the second Dark Divine novel and comes out December 28, 2010. If you haven't devoured the first book, The Dark Divine, you should before this one comes out.
Doesn't it sound yummy? Well, it is. Bree does a great job of pulling you into the world of a teenager trying to come to grips with her inner wolf, something we all deal with in a less life threatening and much more metaphorical way.
One of my favorite things about this novel is that it deals strongly with choices and their consequences. I'm dying to share several parts of this luscious book with you, but since it isn't mine, and it doesn't come out until December, you will just have to take my word for it.
Put it on your wish list.
Here's the blurb from the back of the book:
*Spoiler Alert* - If you haven't read The Dark Divine, this synopsis may contain spoilers.
Really
Grace Divine made the ultimate sacrifice to cure Daniel Kalbi. She was infected with the werewolf curse while trying to save him, and lost her beloved brother in the process. When Grace receives a haunting phone call from Jude, she knows what she must do. She must become a Hound of Heaven.
Desperate to find Jude, Grace befriends Talbot—a newcomer to town who promises her that he can help her be a hero. But as the two grow closer, the wolf grows in Grace, and her relationship with Daniel is put in danger—in more ways than one.
Unaware of the dark path she is walking, Grace begins to give into the wolf inside of her—not realizing that an enemy has returned and a deadly trap is about to be sprung.
Doesn't it sound yummy? Well, it is. Bree does a great job of pulling you into the world of a teenager trying to come to grips with her inner wolf, something we all deal with in a less life threatening and much more metaphorical way.
One of my favorite things about this novel is that it deals strongly with choices and their consequences. I'm dying to share several parts of this luscious book with you, but since it isn't mine, and it doesn't come out until December, you will just have to take my word for it.
Put it on your wish list.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Romance, Young Love, and Books
I'm thinking romance. The early stages that is. You know, the first loaded looks that hint at simmering feelings, the shy almost burning first touches when fingers meet fingers, and the heady, soaring emotions that wipe away fear. Young love.
Why am I thinking this? Well, it's not because I'm young, that's for sure. My hubby and I are celebrating our eighteenth anniversary tomorrow. See, so not young. Yikes. But I was young once. And I have a good memory.
And, I'm working on a romance scene in my WIP. It's challenging and fun. Struggling to find a way to express those first racing moments without sounding cliche and cheesy is frustrating. I delete more than I leave, and find myself turning to other books (and movies) for insight.
Here is a delicious example from Carol Lynch William's The Chosen One:
Isn't that scrumptious?
What is your favorite first love scene? Me? I'm off to create my own.
Why am I thinking this? Well, it's not because I'm young, that's for sure. My hubby and I are celebrating our eighteenth anniversary tomorrow. See, so not young. Yikes. But I was young once. And I have a good memory.
And, I'm working on a romance scene in my WIP. It's challenging and fun. Struggling to find a way to express those first racing moments without sounding cliche and cheesy is frustrating. I delete more than I leave, and find myself turning to other books (and movies) for insight.
Here is a delicious example from Carol Lynch William's The Chosen One:
"But. Here is another secret. Another sin. Because I am not allowed to be with Joshua. I am not allowed to feel this way. Tingly when he looks at me. Weak when his hand is near mine. And the worst part--I couldn't help but wonder how it would be to kiss him.
And when we did kiss, it was all my fault.
Emily in the corner with her baby doll.
Me, in the Fellowship Hall with Joshua.
On the piano bench.
Smelling the soap he uses.
Watching his hands.
Hardly thinking of music.
...I glanced in his direction and saw him looking at me. Not at the piano keys.
"Put your hand like this," I told him. "You have to look here." I tapped the keyboard.
He let me move his fingers to the right position. So warm, those fingers.
"The C and E and G," I said.
But Joshua's hand didn't stay where I put it. Instead his fingers tangled up with mine. The whole side of his body leaned into me. His other arm slid around my waist.
"You can't play the piano holding my hand. Or leaning crooked like that, either," I said, my voice breathy. The words almost didn't come out of my mouth. But I thought, I could kiss you right now and go to hell and it would be worth it. Worth it.
...And then I kissed him. Just fell into him right in the middle of a sentence. Pressed my lips to his. So soft. Then he was kissing me back. And I didn't even know how to kiss, had never kissed anyone in my life but my family, and then only little pecks on the cheek.
It felt like Joshua sucked the breath from me, there on the piano bench, with all the thoughts of sin going through my head, but me not caring at all. Not at all.
"I better go," I said, when I finally pushed away from him. My hands trembled. My knees shook.
And he said, "Don't be scared, Kyra. I'm right here."
Isn't that scrumptious?
What is your favorite first love scene? Me? I'm off to create my own.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Mockingjay and Promises
Sorry this post is so late, but I had to go into town. Why? Because Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins came out today.
I had to get it. It wasn't a question of want. It was more like breathing. You must, or you will die. If anyone out there is shaking their head and saying, you won't die, you obviously don't know how serious this is.
I rushed into Costco and headed straight to the books. There it was, a large stack of beautiful blue, calling to me like a siren. Well, it started out as a large stack, but each new shopper gnawed at it, chewing away at the pile. I grabbed my two copies and then stood back to watch. Every person who passed the dwindling pallet stopped and added a blue-bound promise to their cart. And everyone of them sported a wistful smile. Why? Because that's what a good book is. It's a promise.
Of What? Of oh so many things. Adventure, romance, danger, anger, sorrow, death, blood, heroes, heroins, struggle, lessons learned, triumph, and above all emotions galore. Because that's what reading is. It's emotion packed between page one and the end. Gobs of it. Good and bad, sweet and harsh. It's life, sped up and consumed, in 400 pages. And the author promises the reader that life, that emotional experience--all the rush of first love, the terror of death, the soft, silent moments, and the triumph of surviving it all and maybe even winning--all from the safety of our easy chairs.
I can't wait to sink into the softness of my couch and disappear into Katniss's world. Because as I said, it's like breathing. I must.
I had to get it. It wasn't a question of want. It was more like breathing. You must, or you will die. If anyone out there is shaking their head and saying, you won't die, you obviously don't know how serious this is.
I rushed into Costco and headed straight to the books. There it was, a large stack of beautiful blue, calling to me like a siren. Well, it started out as a large stack, but each new shopper gnawed at it, chewing away at the pile. I grabbed my two copies and then stood back to watch. Every person who passed the dwindling pallet stopped and added a blue-bound promise to their cart. And everyone of them sported a wistful smile. Why? Because that's what a good book is. It's a promise.
Of What? Of oh so many things. Adventure, romance, danger, anger, sorrow, death, blood, heroes, heroins, struggle, lessons learned, triumph, and above all emotions galore. Because that's what reading is. It's emotion packed between page one and the end. Gobs of it. Good and bad, sweet and harsh. It's life, sped up and consumed, in 400 pages. And the author promises the reader that life, that emotional experience--all the rush of first love, the terror of death, the soft, silent moments, and the triumph of surviving it all and maybe even winning--all from the safety of our easy chairs.
I can't wait to sink into the softness of my couch and disappear into Katniss's world. Because as I said, it's like breathing. I must.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Making The Perfect Man
What makes the perfect man? We start out as little girls swooning over Prince Charming, then we grow up a bit and want someone who isn't a cartoon and has a little more personality. We even want him to have a name. We want him to be more than an idea. We want depth. We even makes lists. Yes men out there, we make lists of what we want in a guy. But how often in life do we really get the chance to create the perfect man? Never. Unless you're a writer.
So as a writer, how do you know when you strike upon that elusive mix of characteristics that make the perfect man? I don't know. I'm working on a re-write and my leading man just won't cooperate. He doesn't know he's the leading man and keeps slipping into the background. It makes me want to reach into the pages and smack him.
This got me thinking about some of my favorite characters. What makes them memorable, and why do I fall for them when all I have are words to connect me to their world? I even asked my hubby who his favorite male love interest in a book was. I got this kind of the panicked blank stare and a, "Um ... do I have one of those?"
It was a priceless moment, and of course I laughed. A lot. But then my question led to a discussion on several books we've read. What makes the characters in these books so yummy? Why do we go back to read about them again and again?
Here is an excerpt (Spoiler Alert)from Catching Fire by the amazing Suzanne Collins. If you haven't read it yet, it's beyond delicious.
Peeta pulls the chain with the gold disk from around his neck. He holds it in the moonlight so I can clearly see the mockinjay. Then his thumb slides along a catch I didn't notice before and the disk pops open. It's not solid, as I had thought, but a locket. And within the locket are photos. On the right side, my mother and Prim, laughing. And on the left, Gale. Actually smiling.
There is nothing in the world that could break me faster at this moment than these three faces. After what I heard this afternoon . . . it is the perfect weapon.
"Your family needs you, Katniss," Peeta says.
My family. My mother. My sister. And my pretend cousin Gale. But Peeta's intention is clear. That Gale really is my family, or will be one day, if I live. That I'll marry him. So Peeta's giving me his life and Gale at the same time. To let me know I shouldn't ever have doubts about it. Everything. That's what Peeta wants me to take from him.
I wait for him to mention the baby, to play to the cameras, but he doesn't. And that's how I know that none of this is part of the Games. That he is telling me the truth about what he feels.
"No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.
"I do," I say. "I need you." He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss.
Doesn't this just make you love Peeta? What are your requirements for the perfect guy? Or the perfect girl if you happen to be a guy, like my hubby, and are a little uncomfortable with that question? If you could design anyone, what would they be like? Would they have Jacob's abs and Peeta's dedication? Would they be the strong, silent type, or would they whine and complain their way into your hearts like one of my own personal favorites, Eugenides in the King of Attolia by Megan Whallen Turner? (If you haven't read this series, you should close your computer, after you finish my blog, and run to the nearest bookstore. It's that good.)
Here's a short expert.
Once again, spoiler alert.
Seriously.
"Because the king will not quit, Teleus," said Ornon as he joined them. "You must have noticed," he said. "He whines, he complains, he ducks out of the most obvious responsibility. He is vain, petty, and maddening, but he doesn't ever quit." Ornon shrugged. "Ever."
"He may not quit, but he will lose."
"Oh, I wouldn't place my money on it. I've seen him suffer setbacks." Ornon looked at the queen and away. "I have never seen him, in the end, lose. He just persists until he comes out ahead. No match is finished for him until he has won." Ornon shrugged expressively. "He won't quit, and he won't thank you for interfering."
...
Eugenides didn't respond. He limped slowly over to the his own wooden sword and stooped awkwardly to pick it up. Trailing it on the ground behind him, he limped toward the queen, and the courtyard quieted as he approached and was silent again as he dropped to his knees before her and laid the sword across her lap.
"My Queen," he said.
"My King," she said back.
Only those closet saw him nod his rueful acceptance.
He lifted his hand to brush her cheek softly. As the entire court listened breathlessly, he said, "I want my breakfast."
The queen's lips thinned, and she shook her head as she said, "You are incorrigible."
"Yes," the king agreed, "and I have a headache and I want a bath."
Isn't he loveable? And he is, flaws and all. Now, I just have to go on and create my own perfect man.
Drop a comment on what makes for the perfect man, for you, in a book or movie.
So as a writer, how do you know when you strike upon that elusive mix of characteristics that make the perfect man? I don't know. I'm working on a re-write and my leading man just won't cooperate. He doesn't know he's the leading man and keeps slipping into the background. It makes me want to reach into the pages and smack him.
This got me thinking about some of my favorite characters. What makes them memorable, and why do I fall for them when all I have are words to connect me to their world? I even asked my hubby who his favorite male love interest in a book was. I got this kind of the panicked blank stare and a, "Um ... do I have one of those?"
It was a priceless moment, and of course I laughed. A lot. But then my question led to a discussion on several books we've read. What makes the characters in these books so yummy? Why do we go back to read about them again and again?
Here is an excerpt (Spoiler Alert)from Catching Fire by the amazing Suzanne Collins. If you haven't read it yet, it's beyond delicious.
Peeta pulls the chain with the gold disk from around his neck. He holds it in the moonlight so I can clearly see the mockinjay. Then his thumb slides along a catch I didn't notice before and the disk pops open. It's not solid, as I had thought, but a locket. And within the locket are photos. On the right side, my mother and Prim, laughing. And on the left, Gale. Actually smiling.
There is nothing in the world that could break me faster at this moment than these three faces. After what I heard this afternoon . . . it is the perfect weapon.
"Your family needs you, Katniss," Peeta says.
My family. My mother. My sister. And my pretend cousin Gale. But Peeta's intention is clear. That Gale really is my family, or will be one day, if I live. That I'll marry him. So Peeta's giving me his life and Gale at the same time. To let me know I shouldn't ever have doubts about it. Everything. That's what Peeta wants me to take from him.
I wait for him to mention the baby, to play to the cameras, but he doesn't. And that's how I know that none of this is part of the Games. That he is telling me the truth about what he feels.
"No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.
"I do," I say. "I need you." He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss.
Doesn't this just make you love Peeta? What are your requirements for the perfect guy? Or the perfect girl if you happen to be a guy, like my hubby, and are a little uncomfortable with that question? If you could design anyone, what would they be like? Would they have Jacob's abs and Peeta's dedication? Would they be the strong, silent type, or would they whine and complain their way into your hearts like one of my own personal favorites, Eugenides in the King of Attolia by Megan Whallen Turner? (If you haven't read this series, you should close your computer, after you finish my blog, and run to the nearest bookstore. It's that good.)
Here's a short expert.
Once again, spoiler alert.
Seriously.
"Because the king will not quit, Teleus," said Ornon as he joined them. "You must have noticed," he said. "He whines, he complains, he ducks out of the most obvious responsibility. He is vain, petty, and maddening, but he doesn't ever quit." Ornon shrugged. "Ever."
"He may not quit, but he will lose."
"Oh, I wouldn't place my money on it. I've seen him suffer setbacks." Ornon looked at the queen and away. "I have never seen him, in the end, lose. He just persists until he comes out ahead. No match is finished for him until he has won." Ornon shrugged expressively. "He won't quit, and he won't thank you for interfering."
...
Eugenides didn't respond. He limped slowly over to the his own wooden sword and stooped awkwardly to pick it up. Trailing it on the ground behind him, he limped toward the queen, and the courtyard quieted as he approached and was silent again as he dropped to his knees before her and laid the sword across her lap.
"My Queen," he said.
"My King," she said back.
Only those closet saw him nod his rueful acceptance.
He lifted his hand to brush her cheek softly. As the entire court listened breathlessly, he said, "I want my breakfast."
The queen's lips thinned, and she shook her head as she said, "You are incorrigible."
"Yes," the king agreed, "and I have a headache and I want a bath."
Isn't he loveable? And he is, flaws and all. Now, I just have to go on and create my own perfect man.
Drop a comment on what makes for the perfect man, for you, in a book or movie.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Another First Page--Again
Hey, today I decided to post another first page from one of my WIPs. This is book two in a three book series. And no, it's not a Vampire book. I don't to the blood sucker thing. :)
Vic crouched in the semi-darkness between the towering stacks tensing and un-tensing his muscles. How long is she going to sit there? He peered through the rows of books to where Trin hunched over a thick tome. She hasn’t moved in hours.
A low animal growl bubbled up from his chest before he clamped his lips shut and clenched his jaw, forcing the low bass rumble into silence. Patience! he chided himself. It used to come so easily. Before. A lot of things were easy before. Patience, laughter . . . sleep. He closed his eyes and sighed. Who needs sleep anyway?
Vic and Trin had been trapped in Taazair’s realm, for thirteen days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes, and in all that time, Vic had barely slept. Not because exhaustion didn't stalk him, but because of the noise. Even now in the calm, private library, the sounds of the city overwhelmed him.
It wasn’t just the sounds, though they left his head ringing, it was the smells. They drove him to distraction, because everything reeked! And along with the smell came the relentless taste. At least if he didn’t breath, he couldn’t smell, but he couldn’t get away from the taste. It coated his mouth, clung to his lips, and wormed its way into his middle.
He wrinkled his nose in response to a stray odor and bit back another snarl. Sinking back on his haunches, he forced another calming breath. He raked his fingers through his disheveled hair and then ran them down his face, scrapping against two days of stubble.
Silently he cursed Brascarn, Taazair, and every other mage in this stinking land, including Trin. What is wrong with me? Vic wondered, shocked by his volatile thoughts. This isn’t Trin or Taazair’s fault.
Across the room, Trin’s head fell forward onto the pages of her current book. The movement, small as it was, snagged Vic’s attention. In an instant, he sprang to his feet and drifted from the shadows.
Vic crouched in the semi-darkness between the towering stacks tensing and un-tensing his muscles. How long is she going to sit there? He peered through the rows of books to where Trin hunched over a thick tome. She hasn’t moved in hours.
A low animal growl bubbled up from his chest before he clamped his lips shut and clenched his jaw, forcing the low bass rumble into silence. Patience! he chided himself. It used to come so easily. Before. A lot of things were easy before. Patience, laughter . . . sleep. He closed his eyes and sighed. Who needs sleep anyway?
Vic and Trin had been trapped in Taazair’s realm, for thirteen days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes, and in all that time, Vic had barely slept. Not because exhaustion didn't stalk him, but because of the noise. Even now in the calm, private library, the sounds of the city overwhelmed him.
It wasn’t just the sounds, though they left his head ringing, it was the smells. They drove him to distraction, because everything reeked! And along with the smell came the relentless taste. At least if he didn’t breath, he couldn’t smell, but he couldn’t get away from the taste. It coated his mouth, clung to his lips, and wormed its way into his middle.
He wrinkled his nose in response to a stray odor and bit back another snarl. Sinking back on his haunches, he forced another calming breath. He raked his fingers through his disheveled hair and then ran them down his face, scrapping against two days of stubble.
Silently he cursed Brascarn, Taazair, and every other mage in this stinking land, including Trin. What is wrong with me? Vic wondered, shocked by his volatile thoughts. This isn’t Trin or Taazair’s fault.
Across the room, Trin’s head fell forward onto the pages of her current book. The movement, small as it was, snagged Vic’s attention. In an instant, he sprang to his feet and drifted from the shadows.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The First Page Of My Book
As a wanna-be writer I spend most of my time slaving away at my WIP, or work in progress. Today, I'm posting the first page of my YA Fantasy for you to read. I hope you enjoy.
Leisha.
Trin’s head snapped up. She stared forward, eyes wide, thin hands trailing to her sides. The handle of the butter churn sank into the thickening liquid and the rhythmic sloshing quieted. A tremor ran through her small body and she blinked as sudden images swarmed her mind.
“What’s wrong with your girl?” Gerterude’s voice shattered Trin’s concentration and she looked up. The village seamstress’s square form blocked the light from the open door, plunging the one-room cabin into near darkness.
Mama glanced between Trin and Gerterude before forcing a pained smile. “Back to work, Dear Heart. Your face looks like an ancient’s. Don’t pucker it so.”
Trin bit her lip and hung her head, but the pounding in her chest drew it back up. She whimpered.
Mama’s head inched up at the sound. She turned away from her visitor, eyes narrowing, mirroring the compression of her full lips. Trin bit back another whimper, knowing the look said, Be careful! Keep silent!
“Mind the churn, Dear Heart.”
Trin reached out and grasped the work-smoothed handle, but paused after the first sucking plunge. “Mama,” she whispered, licking her lips as she found her voice. “I’m afraid.”
“Are you, Dear Heart?” Mama’s hand holding the dress patterns trembled.
Trin nodded, noting how her mother’s forehead crinkled in response to her words.
“Silly child, there’s nothing to be frightened of.” Gerterude stamped her foot on the whitewashed stone floor. “Mille, you must do something about her. She’s five winters old! And queer. Always saying things.”
“Trin,” Mama said, low and still. “Go find your papa.”
Trin twined her small fists into the hem of her dress to dry her now sticky palms before rising off the three-legged stool. “But, Mama, the men are coming.”
Leisha.
Trin’s head snapped up. She stared forward, eyes wide, thin hands trailing to her sides. The handle of the butter churn sank into the thickening liquid and the rhythmic sloshing quieted. A tremor ran through her small body and she blinked as sudden images swarmed her mind.
“What’s wrong with your girl?” Gerterude’s voice shattered Trin’s concentration and she looked up. The village seamstress’s square form blocked the light from the open door, plunging the one-room cabin into near darkness.
Mama glanced between Trin and Gerterude before forcing a pained smile. “Back to work, Dear Heart. Your face looks like an ancient’s. Don’t pucker it so.”
Trin bit her lip and hung her head, but the pounding in her chest drew it back up. She whimpered.
Mama’s head inched up at the sound. She turned away from her visitor, eyes narrowing, mirroring the compression of her full lips. Trin bit back another whimper, knowing the look said, Be careful! Keep silent!
“Mind the churn, Dear Heart.”
Trin reached out and grasped the work-smoothed handle, but paused after the first sucking plunge. “Mama,” she whispered, licking her lips as she found her voice. “I’m afraid.”
“Are you, Dear Heart?” Mama’s hand holding the dress patterns trembled.
Trin nodded, noting how her mother’s forehead crinkled in response to her words.
“Silly child, there’s nothing to be frightened of.” Gerterude stamped her foot on the whitewashed stone floor. “Mille, you must do something about her. She’s five winters old! And queer. Always saying things.”
“Trin,” Mama said, low and still. “Go find your papa.”
Trin twined her small fists into the hem of her dress to dry her now sticky palms before rising off the three-legged stool. “But, Mama, the men are coming.”
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