Author's Note: This will help you a lot. Also, since the majority of people that are reading this story aren’t my intended audience I’m going to include a very brief glossary.
*Saxe Knife: A knife that was originally a viking knife called a sea axe, which was then called seax and then saxe knife. If is a larger knife that has a broken back and is semi-balanced for throwing.
*Throwing Knife: A smaller knife that is light and well balanced for throwing.
*Double Knife Defense: A technique where you cross the blades of two shorter weapons to create a gap such that you can use leverage to deflect or block a stroke from a heavier weapon that has more momentum behind it.
The fish flow with the cool water past my feet, the sun’s light slipping through the canopy of leaves and sparkling off of the stream. In the moment all is peaceful, a harmonious melody echoes throughout the clearing, relaxing the mind. A faint smile graces my lips as birds glide through the air. In this state fond memories of my time in this forest surface, when I had frollicked about without a care in the world, radiating joy that only a child could express. I remember how small my world had been at the time, no survival, no pain, just pleasure; as it should be. Within those memories rests a figure who was both a friend and a father to me. With whom I would sit at this very spot, watching the fish glide by in all of their glory, and looking at the beauty in the ancient trees surrounding this haven. As was the time that I stumbled up his steps, laughing and offering him a flower in exchange for a small treat that everyone knows old people keep handy for precisely this purpose. I had knocked on his door, aster and azalea in hand, and waited patiently for his old bones to carry him down some creaky steps. He opened the door with a smile and without saying a word welcomed me into his home. I skipped through the doorway into his rustic cabin, one that he had likely built himself in his younger days. I plopped the flowers into an empty vase that was on the center table and jumped back into a surprisingly hard seat. Giving a slight chuckle at my discomfort the man offered me a cushion and then sat down himself, his joints cracking in protest. We sat there in amiable silence for some time and then I left, but not before having received my treat. My visiting then became a routine that both of us enjoyed for months to come.
One day, however, I had come in tears. After a heartfelt embrace I then went up the stairs in his cabin and cried to myself. That night I did not return home, nor the next day, or the one after that. From that point on I stayed with the Moses, whom I quickly nicknamed Mo, and learned his craft, which was bow smithing, and also learned to hunt. During that time I even became a master archer. Those years were some of the best years of my life, I learned the art of stealth in order to sneak up on animals, and how to set traps, and shoot rapidly yet accurately with a bow. By the time I was fifteen I could shoot a fly at 20 yards without a struggle and likely hit the same fly at 30 yards if the wind was calm. I also mastered the double knife defense which uses my saxe and throwing knives together in order to give me an advantage against weapons with more reach. All of this was learned under Mo’s masterful gaze.
Despite his solitary life Mo knew many important people, the village chief, the county’s battlemaster, and some other people who I didn’t see at all because there were certain conversations I was not privy to. Regardless I had much more fun outside than in, and spent my time traversing the wilderness for sometimes weeks at a time, bringing only my bow, knives, and some rope. I traveled all over that forest, learning where the animals went when they sensed danger, and how you could track animals by their footprints, or even make a comfy bed out of pine needles. Sometimes I wasn’t just out for pleasure though, if a panther or bear got a little too nosey around the village Mo and I might go and take care of it, and have amazing meals for the following week. Sometimes Mo would leave for months at a time and I had to take care of the house myself. Which was fine because I could hunt for food and get water from the well all on my own. The best times were when Mo and I could go hunting for days at a time and just forget that the rest of the world existed, those were the times that I had truly cherished.
The snapping of a twig cuts through my daydream; immediately alert I lean back slightly, brushing back my cloak and granting myself easier access to the two knives that lay at my hip. Neither one would be particularly useful in the event of a potential assailant wanting me dead, but as it is I don’t have an easy way to get the bow slung over my shoulder into a useable position. I sit still for some time, daring not to move, feeling as if I’m being watched, yet not entirely sure if it’s just paranoia. This silent standoff is broken by the sound of a traveler stumbling through the forest who; to the dismay of my poor ears, is singing his drunken heart out. A slight whisper can be heard as my body slides over the rock and a slight squelch as my boots sink into the riverbank mud. With a brief glance in the direction of the original sound I satisfy my paranoia and then fade into the forest, leaving not a trace that I had once sat on that rock.
Throughout the day I travel, never once feeling watched or finding signs of being followed. I quickly assigned the cause of the twig snap to a rabbit or squirrel and then proceed with my goal of mapping the entirety of the surrounding area; in the least methodical way possible... According to Mo, in order to become an adult I must accomplish an ordeal of some significance. After running it by him I chose to accurately map the continent. During my journey I hunt for any food that I require and sleep in the trees in order to avoid the morning dew. Not that being wet bothers me, I am quite alright with traveling through rain, although at times I do stay in caves when the sky pours so hard that the terrain becomes impassable. For the most part nothing dangerous happens except for the time that I accidentally decide to sleep in the same cave as a brown bear. Needless to say I leave in quite hurry. Awestruck, I find the mountains, facing the greenery of the forest, that could have been sentinels that guard a fortress. Enthralled by their grandiose I spend an entire day just hiking around them.
I find many other wonders later in my journey as well. I discover lakes that are so clear that the bottom is still visible thirty feet down, auroras that stretch across the sky with all of the colors of the rainbow and fields that go on for miles with the prettiest of flowers. I learn the lands of my home country like the back of my hand and navigate through them like a ghost, without a trace of my presence. By the setting sun of each day I transcribe all that I have seen onto a hand drawn map that holds detailed imagery of every place that I visit. As my ink runs dry I occasionally make stops in small villages or towns, trading furs or allowing townsfolk sight of my map in exchange for a refill. Word of my travels spreads like wildfire through the tinder countryside, resulting in me being welcomed into taverns and given food and drink in exchange for some of my tales which I had a never ending supply of.
Eventually I am saddened to find that passable land does not go on forever. There comes a point where craggy mountains, deserts and ocean inhibit me from traveling any further. Initially saddened that my journey has to come to an end, I am oddly excited to return home and see Mo for the first time in forever. I set off for home, wondering what has happened in my absence, hoping that Mo has retired from his political game and that he now spends his time enjoying the outdoors as he had always wished to.
The journey back home takes no more than a couple of days because I forego unnecessary stops. A well tended garden and empty house greets me on my return. Which is not particularly unusual considering that the sun has just crossed its peak position. I step across the doorframe that I had not crossed in nearly a year, and take in the scene that’s before me. Surprisingly not much has changed, the same hearth lies to the right with the same dust covered rug in front of it. The sparse decorations of the house have not been significantly altered. On the center of the wooden table remained the same vase that those initial flowers had been put into all so long ago. Now a beautiful composition of hibiscus and wisteria stands proudly in the vase, accented by olive branches. With a brief sigh a of joy I walk to my bed and fall into its soft embrace for a short nap. I’m woken later by the soft pattering of rain on the rooftop and revel in the comfort provided by a home. I lay there at peace with myself, enjoying the simple pleasure provided by a cotton filled mattress.
Out of the blue I hear the crash of the front door slamming into the wall and muttered curses. With a slight smile I remember the old man's profound dislike of rain. He stomps down the front hallway with his sopping wet shoes. Still muttering he plops down into one of the wooden chairs surrounding the kitchen table. On the side of the bed I sit waiting, with a grin of pure happiness, a posture of unparalleled glee and composure. With his first boot partially off he hazards a glance upward and sees me. Immediately an enormous grin graces his face and both of us rise from our positions, he falls straight back into his chair however due to a half taken off boot, prompting a heartfelt laugh from me. I run over and give his rain soaked body a hug anyway. Overcome with joy both of us are speechless from emotion and reluctantly release each other only after a minute has gone by. To give him a little bit of time to change into something more acceptable I decide to make herbal tea using a new recipe that I learned while I was away. Glancing outside I see the thickened rain beat down on the grass, while trees are buffeted to one side from a developing wind. Whistling; the tea kettle reminds me that water is indeed boiling so I put two cups on a silver tray along with the kettle and as an afterthought grab my gear with the intent of storing it in my room. As I pass the kitchen table the tip of my quiver brushes up against the vase, knocking it over and spilling olive branches onto the floor. Promising to pick up the mess later I continue on. Halfway up the stairs I brace myself against the walls as the entire house shakes with the roar of thunder. Continuing on I balance the tray on one knee and gently push the door to his bedroom open.
All of the candles in the room are extinguished and the only light source is the faint light pouring through windows, the western window is open and wind and rain pour into the room, likely the cause of the extinguished candles. I begin to take steps toward the window to close it but then freeze as my brain processes the scene before me and realizes something is wrong. Looking to my left I see two figures, one standing facing away from me, toward the master bed, the other is laying on the bed. A wicked flash of lightning illuminates the room for a second, glinting off of the dagger in the hand of a black clothed man and revealing the blood pulsing out of Mo’s body at the throat. The silver platter lands with a resounding crash as I pull both my saxe and throwing knife from their sheaths. Startled the man turns, adopting a defensive stance. The wind picks up further, throwing rain into the room as lighting streaks through the sky, barraging the house with its thunder. I waste no time in throwing my knife, striking the man in his right arm, his knife clatters to the floor, his right hand losing its ability to work for mere moments. Seeing me he makes a dash for the window which is still swinging open, pulling my knife from his shoulder with his left hand as he runs. Realizing that I stand no chance at stopping him I untangle my bow and quiver from my pile of gear and rush towards the window, managing to get a shot off as he leaps through the window. The arrow flies true however he has completely fallen from sight and the arrow flies through the windows threshold unopposed. Standing at the window I see him roll the landing and take off sprinting toward the west side of the clearing. I vault through the window as well, roll the landing and chase after the man, attempting a few shots as I go but the harsh wind sends the arrows awry. The rain has grown thicker yet, striking down at the land causing me to quickly lose sight of the man. I briefly debate chasing after him blind but the rational side of my brain quickly reminds me the foolishness of doing so. Another lightning flash beacons my eyes upward, seeing the grey streak of an arrow I dive to the side into a patch of marigold, barely saving myself from injury.
I stay on the ground as reality catches up to me, the reality that my sole protector is dead, the reality that I am now alone. The emotions overcome me and tears mix with the rain that assaults my face. Looking upwards through a veil of black vines I see a grey pall covering the sky. There I lay until the storm has passed and the sun has risen. Only then do I slowly stand and mournfully make my way back to the house. I do go upstairs to clean up the mess created in Mo’s room. After closing the window I clean up the shards of broken platter and retrieve my gear, never once looking at the body, and then close the door. I proceed to gather a daypack and do the mundane things that need to be done, like choose a perfect whetstone and sharpen my knives, make new arrows and patch up my far overworn cloak and clothes. By the time I am done the sun is just shedding its last few rays on the earth so going to bed is the logical choice. I sleep dreamlessly that night and wake up well rested. After grabbing my pack with calculated amounts of food and draping my cloak across my shoulders, I set off for town to get the other supplies that I need.
Once home I pick several eglantine roses from the garden and after taking a sniff of their lovely scent, gently place them in the vase. Then I head upstairs and, after securing a piece of cloth around my nose, drag Mo’s previously untouched body outside where I spend the rest of the day digging a grave in between the feet of a cypress and chestnut tree. I drag his body into its final resting position and take a seat. Overcome by hurt I stare at his lifeless and bloodied body, wondering why someone would want to take this entirely wholeful person away. Each shovelful of dirt that I throw onto his spread eagle corpse reminds me of the unfairness of this world. The anger within me pours out. Enraged, I throw the shovel at the cypress tree, wishing that the tree were the man that killed my guardian. I take more swings at the tree, chipping through its thin trunk and with each swing release some of my pent up rage. In a final swing the tree topples over. With it my rage goes, its gap filled instead by cold determination. I look at the half filled grave and chestnut tree. Vowing to avenge this injustice I slam the shovel into the mound of dirt and with grace move inside.
With purpose I move through the cabin gathering my cloak, bow and arrows, my knives and my map. Consulting the map I see that there is a largish town to the west in about the same direction that I last saw the man heading, if I recall correctly several of Mo’s friends also live in that area so perhaps I could check up with them and maybe get a place to stay overnight for free. Determined to make town before nightfall I set off westward into the forest.
Not much has changed in the forest since I was last there, but now with this task on my mind everything seems darker and I no longer stop to see the beauty in things. The vines that curl into patterns are now just obstacles to be pushed aside and the pristine flowers that grow on the forest floor are just there to be stepped on. As I travel I slowly realize the hopelessness of my journey. There are millions of people spread across this country and many will have wounds similar to the ones I inflicted. My chances of finding this guy are slim to none. I question the purpose of life as well. There is no one in the world that cares about me anymore. I am the ghost that I created myself to be. The forest is more of a home than any other place ever was and the denizens of this place have shown more kindness to me than any other human ever will. Besides what will enacting revenge even do? Nothing is going to bring Mo back. The startling revelation of the finality of my situation weakens my knees and I brace myself against another cypress tree. The realization that anger can’t bring back anything takes my legs out from under me, I curl up in a patch of rue. Vulnerable as a newborn babe, sobbing to myself and at once feeling the crushing weight of loneliness and the oppressiveness that the lack of being loved brings. I wonder if this is the universe telling me that I’m unwanted; the vast empty universe that doesn’t want me to be a part of it. All around me the forest continues living, ignorant of my sorrow. I question if I even made a difference on the world, if anyone would miss me if I didn’t leave the forest again. I pull out my knife, contemplating its edge, and the entirety of my life. Wondering if there was a purpose for me to continue on. Unable to control myself I scream and cry and moan into the empty world, knife to my chest I slowly drift into a hazy sleep, incapable of dealing with the pain the courses through my soul.
I do wake up from this sleep, to see in front of me a lone snowdrop flowering amidst weeds and grass, capable of standing strong on its own in a forest filled with others not like it. My thoughts drift toward my own situation where I am in the middle of millions of people unlike me. This simple demonstration of strength by a plant encourages me take to my feet, still wobbly I think of what Mo would want me to do. Realize my foolishness in thinking that taking the easy way out was a good idea. It would dishonor both me and him. Taking my knife off the ground I cut away the threatening weeds surrounding the snowdrop, allowing it to stand tall, then sheath my knife and continue westward with a new purpose; to make a difference in this world. Starting with avengement.
I arrive in the town of Westing the morning after when I had planned on arriving. My plan, ask around everywhere for a man with a shoulder wound that had come into town. Starting with the medic ward I ask the head nurse and also several patients if they had seen the man. However none of them respond with anything helpful. So I move on to the inn, the inn keeper doesn’t recall anything although with a little prompting I do jog his memory enough to find out that something suspicious is going on with Amaranth Fade; who happens to have been a friend of my deceased relative. Sheathing my knife I walk out of the inn and make a beeline for Amaranth’s house. The house turns out to be a large mansion although at the moment it seems vacant except for staff. In a few seconds the lock on the front door is sprung and I enter the house, closing and locking the door behind me. In front of me is a grand hall with a spiral staircase leading upwards on the right and several exits spaced around the room. I enter the stairwell and go far enough upwards so that I would not be in view of anyone that enters the house. Drawing an arrow I knock it to my bowstring and settle in for the long wait ahead of me.
Partially dozed off I open my eyes at the sound of someone entering the house. Two someones I find out as I take a peek, one of them being Amaranth and the other being a medium sized male. Amaranth continues straight from the door, heading toward some unknown destination. The strange man however turns toward me and heads straight, moving toward the stairwell that I am hiding in. I quickly yet silently head up the stairwell and am greeted by a long hall hallway with paintings on either side with lit candles at every third painting. The stairs groan as they suffer the weight of a human. I dash down the hallway, blowing out as many candles as I can on my way. At the end of the hallway I find a door leading to the right and one to the left, I go through the one on the right, bow still in hand I peek around the corner to see that the man has just crested the top of the staircase and moves towards the first set of candles in order to relight the ones that I blew out. He is a worker, assuming I can decide from his cloths, which are those worn by a waiter. While he’s distracted I come out from my hiding place and using the uneven light, sneak towards the man, I’m a mere twenty feet away from him when the final candle is relit. Realizing that my time is up I take the easiest shot of my life.
I swiftly retrieve my arrow and make my way down the stairs back into the entryway. Hearing cooking like sounds I follow them to what appears to be a kitchen. A glance in reveals a chef chopping up a fish of some sort. He is so enthralled by his work that he doesn’t notice me sneak behind him to the other side of the kitchen where another room could be seen. I startle a laundry maid as I exit and she lets out a short shriek before I tackle her. Hand over her mouth and knife to her throat I listen for sounds of distress or the stomping of feet. Hearing nothing I knock out the maid and drag her into a nearby closet where I strip her down and put on my newfound disguise. Grabbing the now ownerless laundry basket I stash my gear amid the fortunately clean bedsheets that are inside. Exiting the closet I begin to walk the premise in as methodical a pattern possible, occasionally greeting other staff but for the most part not drawing attention to myself.
It is in the far back of the mansion that I find Amaranth in a room with one other man who must have entered the house during my search. Amaranth is facing away from me, sitting in a well embroidered chair at a desk. Opposite of him the newcomer sits in a significantly more boring chair that looks quite uncomfortable. Under the pretense of gathering laundry I approach a shirt on the floor that looks thoroughly dirtied. Now only several feet from Amaranth I over hear shushes that signal to me that a secret conversation is occurring. With grace I flick my left wrist, sending my throwing knife spiraling through the air where it embeds itself in the newcomers throat. With my other hand I bash the hilt of my saxe knife into Amaranths right temple. He crumples forward, completely out. After closing the door to the room and putting sheets against the cracks to soundproof the room, I use the remaining sheets to imprison Amaranth in his chair and then take a seat on the desk to await his return to consciousness. Impatiently I slap him a few times to expedite his return to the present. He wakes up on the third slap, crying out in pain and at the same time revealing his weakness. A few cuts later he admits to housing the killer that I am searching for although he claims that he knows nothing of Mo’s death. I silence him just the same. Changing back into my regular cloak I spot hydrangea and orange lilies growing by the door. Surprised by their immaculate beauty I stop to smell their overwhelming wrathful scent.
No staff is around when I walk towards the room that my prey reside ins. No one is around to see me pick the lock on his door, nor to hear the click of the lock as I close the door. Inside I see a bland room with a bed in the center and a small bathroom that sprouts off of the right wall. Inside the bathroom I hear sounds indicating that someone is inside. I discard my bow and arrows, they would only hinder me in a melee fight. Drawing my two knives I hold them in front of me in an aggressive stance. My rage for this man fills me with each step I take forward, the horrible scene of my first encounter with this beast fills my mind, the blood that drips off of his dagger seems all too clear. I picture how he must have slaughtered Mo on the bed, “whatever it takes” I whisper to myself although with my adrenaline pumping it sounds more like a battle cry to my hyper aware body. The room shakes with the crash of the door as I charge into the bathroom with the force of an army, stabbing forward towards the assassin. Caught unawares the assassin looks up surprised and weaponless, but quickly shifts his weight and body to the left, taking a cut to his shoulder instead of what should have been a fatal strike. I continue barbarically striking, not hesitating for a second. Caught in my fury of blades he stands no chance although he still lunges at me in a last ditch attempt to disarm me. I step backwards out of his reach and out of the bathroom. Realizing his wounds he makes another desperate lunge for me. I step out of the way and brutally I throw his barely standing body onto the bed behind me and, gathering my rage and strength into one final blow swipe my blade across his throat. The torches in the room flicker off of my blade and illuminate the blood gushing from the man's neck. With my adrenaline fading I fall to my knees. I stay there for many minutes, crying, laughing, screaming. All at once I release my emotions, then I stand, turning my back on the gory scene.
Regaining my composure I sling my bow over my shoulder and re-equip my quiver. Then triumphantly I walk out of the room and toward the entrance of the house. Maids and chefs scatter at the sight of my bloodstained cloths and threatening knives. Only at the entrance to the house do I sheathe my weapons. Simply out of practicality, not necessity. Taking a deep breath I open the door and disappear into the shadows. Reappearing only at the the forest for a brief moment to gaze at the city and wonder if the deaths of those four people will be noticed. I travel through the forest, once again reveling in the elegance and grace that nature possesses. Avoiding the celandine that grows in the path and hearing the the harmonious tunes of the birds.
Arriving at the wood cabin I walk briefly around to see if anything has changed. Everything is as I left it, except the grave, which has been filled in by the elements. My shovel is also nowhere to be found. Smiling at the the ease with which Mo was received back to nature I head inside and stock the vase with a new type of flower, plumeria; which I had never seen before my quest. Spotting the olive branch still on the floor from where it was knocked all so long ago I pick it up, with a sudden idea I head back to the unmarked grave and lay the olive branch at its foot. With some final words I finally come to peace with his death and look towards the horizon.
*Mimic Sentences
the mountains, facing the greenery of the forest, that could have been sentinels that guard a fortress.
“The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge”(AOAOCB)
He was a worker, assuming I can decide from his cloths, which are those worn by a waiter.
“He was a civilian, if one might judge from his dress, which was that of a player”(AOAOCB)
On the side of the bed I sit waiting, with a grin of pure happiness, a posture of unparalleled glee and composure.
“At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity”(AOAOCB)
*Author's Note: I’ll be separating everything in this author’s note by the paragraphs in the story mostly because it makes the most sense to me.
Par 1: In the first paragraph I use a lot of personification and very relaxing words in order to give the reader a sense of calmness. I also use some alliteration such as “fish flow” and “aster and azalea”. Talking a lot about nature to give this paragraph a very natural and happy feel. In the first sentence I also give the sun’s light personification mostly because I thought it just fit and sound cool. I begin the flower motif that persists throughout the story, starting with aster and azalea, which respectively represent the characters trusting and fragility. I also take care to make sure that the man and cabin seem welcoming and open.
Par 2: Here I contrast the happiness of the previous paragraph with a very sad moment, I use parallel structure to emphasize the point that the character does not go home ever again. However I quickly have the character move on to the next thing like most little children tend to do. Afterwords I do a lot of set-up for the rest of the story, I explain the skills that she learns and also give a little bit of detail into her combat style.
Par 3: Here I take an opportunity to develop Mo a little more as a character and give him a slightly suspicious background. While also showing the reader that the main character is a very antsy outdoors person that doesn’t enjoy being constrained to a building. I also show that the character has no qualms about taking care of herself, which sort of gives her a standoffish personality.
Par 4: I jarringly bring the story back to the present which should put the reader on edge and build suspense. I point out various details about how the character best attempts to get ready for an attack, and then diffuse the situation with a random and kinda funny occurrence. I also include some show don’t tell things.
Par 5: I set the stage for a grand journey where I can mature my main character. I also reveal that the character isn’t one for planning when I mention that she is mapping the forest in the least methodical way possible. I use my mimic sentence here.
Par 6: Just a little more plot.
Par 7: Note the flowers and olive branches.
Par 8: The main character seems to have matured from her journey although at heart she still is a child shown by her first reactions to Mo. Mimic sentence, also note the weather build up and the spilling of the olive branches.
Par 9: The way that the character reacts to Mo dying is very practical showing that she is indeed an adult and proving herself capable of protecting herself. In this paragraph I use very aggressive descriptions for the weather because I intended for the weather to mirror the action that is happening. I also wrote the fight with deliberate punctuation in such a way that it seems to happen in flashes, as if the reader could only understand what is happening half of the time. Also there is a brief id/superego moment when the character debates whether to pursue the man. The patch of marigold is also symbolic of pain and grief to come.
Par 10: I start off the paragraph with parallel structure to emphasize the emotions that the character is feeling and then parody a funeral scene with the “veil of black vines” and “grey pall”. However I quickly end the scene and show two defense mechanisms. The obvious one being denial with “never once looking at the body” and also intellectualization which is shown by the character taking the time to pick out a perfect whetstone and also making the “logical choice” of going to bed and having calculated amounts of food. Denial also happens to be the first stage of grief/
Par 11: The eglantine roses that are picked in the first sentence are meant to show that the character still has a wound that needs healing, even though she stops denying that Mo has died. The location of Mo’s grave features a cypress and a chestnut tree which respectively represent the characters sorrow and desire for revenge. However, while acting out the character cuts down the cypress tree, showing that; at least for the moment, that she is burying her sorrow. Also, acting out is a defense mechanism that is used and the second of the five stages of grief. Another thing that can be inferred is that the character believes that through revenge she can bring Mo back, which fills the third stage of grief, bargaining.
Par 12: Other than plot, the only thing of note here is that the character now has a purpose.
Par 13: Here the character falls into the fourth stage of grief, which is depression. She feels that the universe doesn’t care about her and the forest seems to agree as I note “All around me the forest continues living, ignorant of my sorrow”.
Par 14: In this paragraph the snowdrop represents hope and a will to live. The character also cuts away the weeds around the snowdrop, which is symbolic of her shedding the last of her fears and depression.
Par 15: If you were paying attention you would notice that the town is to the west of the cabin, and the town name is Westing… It was as funny as I thought it was when I was writing the story but still, I had to at least add a little humor to the story. To add a little bit of flavor to the questioning I have the character in a seemingly normal questionnaire with an innkeeper. I then mention that the character sheaths her knife, causing the reader to realize that it was actually more of a casual interrogation.
Par 16: My third mimic sentence is here. Also, the main character kills her first human being, and seems to cope with it through denial. Easily noted by how there is no mention that anyone died except for there being a mention that she took “the easiest shot of her life”.
Par 17: Here it is revealed that whenever possible the character avoids death which shows that she is not insane, just very pissed off.
Par 18: The orange lilies and hydrangea represent the character's current heartless quest seek revenge. I emphasize this by describing the flowers scent as wrathful.
Par 19: So before I analyze this paragraph might I just say that writing fight scenes is stupidly difficult. I literally wrote and rewrote this paragraph a good six or seven times before I got it to this quality and I still think it could be improved. The issue is that for some reason fights scenes just turn out boring if you right a play by play and they’re far too short if you don’t. In order to improve this scene I tried to focus on the thoughts and the state of the two combatants, not their actual moves. Anyways, the way that I wrote this scene was in parallel to Mo’s death, noted by the torches flickering off of the main characters blade and the lighting that glinted off of the assassin's blade, and the way that both people died; on a bed, blood gushing from their throats, illuminated briefly by a light source. By doing this I bring the story full circle, and also resolve the main characters wish for revenge.
Par 20: Note how the main character now is now confident and seems to have regained her connection with nature.
Par 21: Here the plumeria symbolises how the main character has grown from the journey and is also beginning a new stage of her life. I also use the olive branch to symbolise that she has come to peace with Mo’s death and with that she comes to the fifth stage of grief which is acceptance.
Throughout the story the main character also used sublimation to fuel her drive to get revenge however I couldn’t pinpoint an exact point where this occurs so I’m just going to throw it right here. The ID desires and superego morals are also scattered throughout the story, ID desires in particular can be found in the main characters want for revenge, the superego is in this story suppressed by the sheer emotions that are caused by Mo’s death, and the ego allows the main character to merge reality with her wants and allows her to formulate a plan instead of just charging into everything, a good example of this is when the character wanted to chase after the fleeing assassin in the storm.
Well, I hope you enjoyed reading my story and found it entertaining and emotional.
