Creative Writing Wizard

Greetings fellow creatives for this special mid-month update! There’s two major points to discuss, lets get right into it!

Launch of Creative Reading Wizard

As some of you may have heard, I have stepped into the world of narration and voice acting with the launch of Creative Reading Wizard 🎉

As I continue to discover new and creative ways to support my fellow authors, I have come to see the potential of using my voice to help shine a light on some of the amazing indie stories I’ve had the opportunity to read.

In the last 3 weeks alone since launching this new effort, these snippets have had over 25,000 views! WOW! But what’s extra cool is hearing how many people are adding these books to their TBRs and seeing the number of shares/saves, which shows that people are gaining interest in these books!

Follow along on socials and listen to the latest snippets on Instagram and TikTok! And consider re-posting these or sharing to your stories, so that we can reach even more people with these super cool books!

• Instagram
• TikTok

A Reading Wizard’s First

The second item of note is to share the first fully recorded short story, as a part of the StarPath Creatives Writing contest!

B.C. Johnson nailed it and placed in the top three of the contest. It was a pleasure to read his story, but even more so when he opted for my prize option to narrate his piece!

You can check out his other works here: https://www.bc-johnson.com/

With all that being said, sit back, relax, and enjoy this narrated short, “Dollhoused”.

Dollhoused

by B.C. Johnson

The tall amber grass slow-danced in the breeze. The lake beyond the tiny town lent the wind a pleasant, cold bite. Newander stripped off his shirt. The chilly air played over his sore, hot muscles, and swept away the sweat clinging to his body. It had been a long journey.

He took his time down the long slope toward the town, making certain that someone would have time to see him and report his presence. Stealth wasn’t necessary, and he didn’t expect danger. He’d even tucked his pair of ornate axes, the tools of his trade, into the large travel pack on his back.

The buildings of the little town huddled together, and Newander thought of a herd spotting a wolf.

A hundred yards out from the town’s low stone wall, a voice drifted over the swaying grass. Newander searched for the source.

“Ho, the traveler!”

Newander stopped, bowed, and held both open hands above his head. After three solid beats, he dropped them again. His pack went into the dust beside him, and he yanked his shirt back over his chest.

“Ho, the town!” he shouted. And waited.

“What brings you to Thistleglen?” the voice returned.

Ah, so he was in the right place.

“Passing through!” he shouted back. A lie.

“Are you a beggarman?”

Newander shook his head. “I want for nothing, and I can pay my way. Though I would not turn down a bath!”

Laughter trickled over the grass. A stout balding man stepped out from the shadow of a grain silo. He wore peasant’s cheapspun and a leather apron.

“Come on then,” the smith said. He waved, turned, and disappeared into the cluster of buildings.

Newander scooped up his pack and followed.

The Smith led him through the short tangle of lanes that made up the entire village of Thistleglen. Other than a large number of bonnets, the only thing of note was a powerful smell of scorched wood that hung over the entire village. As if every chimney in the entire town was burning at once.

The Smith introduced himself as Buckley, and Newander told the man his real name. Newander saw a dozen more villagers in the street, most of them wearing faces of dismay. The Smith, by contrast, couldn’t be more relaxed.

Newander accepted the Smith’s offer of a bed for the night. Newander made no overtures to turn down the offer (“Oh, no, I couldn’t”) and the Smith clearly didn’t expect them. When Newander left five shillings on the hutch, the Smith did not refuse them. 

Newander bathed in a nearby stream before dinner and ate a delicious roast with the Smith’s wife and young daughter. When he was finished, he explained that he enjoyed a long walk after dinner and bowed out. The Smith nodded, not believing a word but saying nothing, and so Newander left to stroll through the village. He realized that the roast had done nothing to fill him up—perhaps his duty might nourish him more.

He knew the girl’s location—his master had provided him with as much. And he knew the girl had power, though of an uncertain nature. Whatever she was conjuring here in this tiny village, she was doing it constantly and powerfully enough to warrant his master’s attention. Which, to say, was a double-edged blade on the best of days.

And so Newander strolled down the main thoroughfare, bearing fewer stares then he would have imagined: past suppertime, Thisleglen shut down. All businesses shuttered, and the town didn’t sport a single bar or pub. Newander made a face when he made the realization. It was places like Thistleglen—lonely crossroads in the long stretch of the frontier—that needed the distraction of ale the most.

He turned down a dirt lane on the edge of the village and headed for a tiny thatched cottage. A lashed wooden fence surrounded the property, and so Newander headed for the gate. He open and closed the gate three times, loud enough for the occupants to hear it.

Nothing moved, and no sound broke the stillness. A rising tension stretched across the silence, made his neck-hair stand on end. He wished now he had brought his axes. He opened the gate and strided with a confidence he didn’t feel up to the front door of the cottage.

After almost nineteen knocks, the door swung open with alarming speed. Newander didn’t flinch—years of training and war had numbed the reflex—but his first urge had been to reach for a weapon. He settled his hands on his belt buckle instead. 

“Can I help you?” the women in the door asked. As his eyes adjusted, Newander realized she was quite a lovely woman. Far beyond youth, but nowhere close to dotage. She wasn’t much older than Newander.

Newander smiled and nodded. “I was hoping that you could. Do you know a Lariah Asura?”

The woman stiffened. In the dying light, he watched the expression on her face twist toward annoyance. Newander did not move or speak, and after a long moment she let out a slow sigh.

“Who wants to know, I wonder?”

“I do,” he said, and introduced himself. “And I would like to speak to her, if you’ll entertain the notion. Are you her mother?”

The woman crossed her arms over her chest. She shifted, dropped her hands on her hips. It was as if she couldn’t decide which angry-mother pose to adopt. Newander made his best effort not to smile at the thought.

“I am,” the woman said. “And my daughter is very fragile—“

“She is no such thing,” Newander said, maintaining his even tone and pleasant smile. “I reckon I couldn’t harm her if I tried.”

Newander held out his hand. She glanced down at it. After a moment, Newander dropped his hand, his face unchanging despite the—albeit mild—sting of rejection.

“Sir,” she said, and her voice tightened like a bowstring, “I would ask you to leave.”

Oddly formal, Newander thought.

“I would not go, if you did.”

A man appeared behind her. Largely built, but nowhere near Newander’s massive frame. Black hair hung low in the man’s eyes, and his glare promised bodily harm. 

Newander greatly preferred the look of the mother.

“My wife asked you to leave, Rhysian,” the man growled.

Newander started, and for the first time his face betrayed shock. He snatched the feeling and tucked it away.

“How did you know that?” Newander asked. “How did you know my home?”

“Rhys is no great secret, stranger,” the man said. 

The wife shuffled from what foot to another.

“No,” Newander said, and forced a stiff-sounding laugh, “I meant how did you know it was my home?”

The man’s eyes rounded, and he shook his head like a dog trying to dry off. Newander raised an eyebrow. He wondered briefly if they hadn’t done something horrible to Lariah—they radiated guilt.

Newander took a step into the house. The woman and man took a corresponding step back.

“Let me speak to her,” Newander said, summoning his most authoritative voice and relying more than a little on the effect his massive frame could create, “and I will darken your doorstep no longer.”

The women shook her head, turned, and disappeared into the house. The big man, the father no doubt, looked Newander up and down. After a long moment—which Newander spent stiffening two of his fingers—the man let out a loud grunt and shook his head.

“Fine,” he said, “Come in. Go to the table. I’ll fetch her.”
Newander relaxed his fingers, held out his hand, and told the man his name. The man harrumphed, turned, and lumbered down the hallway.

The inside of the cottage suffered no shortage of decoration. Beautifully gleaming wooden furniture, almost wet looking, crowded every corner. The windows were thrown open, bringing in the melange of lake breeze and ash in soft gusts. 

Newander found the sitting table, managed to squeeze himself onto a tiny, intricately carved wooden chair. He steepled his fingers and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. The big man came down the hallway, his black eyes working hard to bore two holes in Newander’s forehead. The man turned, and behind him, hidden by his bulk, was Lariah. A tiny blonde darling, ethereal in a white dressing gown, her thin graceful limbs moving in slow circles. The gestures seemed odd, at first, until Newander stared into her eyes. They were screwed up at the ceiling. Daydreaming. Pretending to dance, but showing only half of it in her movements.

“Lariah?” Newander asked. Her father harrumphed again and disappeared down the hallway, pausing only to shoot another scathing look his way.

The girl hummed softly to herself, and took a few more dancing steps forward. Her eyes stayed on the ceiling.

“Lariah, baby, are you alright?”

His chest tightened. He hadn’t meant to let that bit of affection slip out. Something about her triggered long dormant memories of his own daughter, who hadn’t felt wind or rain or sun for almost ten years now.

“Lariah,” he said, loudly, letting his voice drop an octave.

Her drifting eyes slipped down from the ceiling, coming to rest about a foot to the right of Newander’s face. An improvement, he thought.

“Lariah, did you know I was coming?”

The girl nodded and kept half-dancing and humming. She inched, little by little, closer to Newander. Newander held out a hand to her, and she touched it lightly. Her fingers felt rough. He glanced down at her smooth, alabaster hand and frowned.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

She shrugged and then spun a stunningly perfect pirouette. Newander sat up in his chair. The hair on the back of his neck was dancing with electricity. Nothing here was right.

“I know a man, a nice man,” he said, lying again. “He is special, like you.”

Lariah shook her head, her long cascade of golden hair falling over one shoulder. She couldn’t be over ten, Newander thought.

“He’s special? He can make things change?”

Newander mused on her choice of words. 

“Yes, in a matter of speaking.”

“You don’t think he’s nice,” the little girl said, and Newander took a slow, deep breath. He touched the loops on his belts, where his axes weren’t.

“That’s true,” Newander said, “You’re very smart.”

“Yup yup. What do you want from me?”

“I want to offer you a future. A place to learn, and belong. Somewhere you can live and be safe.”

“I’m safe here,” Lariah said. 

Newander didn’t doubt that for a second.

Newander examined the room again. The walls had changed color. When he’d entered, they had been blue. Now, they were a deep, chocolate brown. Newander pursed his lips. Could it be?

“Well,” Newander said, and stood up. Lariah’s eyes focused, and she turned to look up at him for the first time. “If you do not wish to come with me, I can go.”

“Wait, what?”

Newander began to move around the room, sliding his hands along the walls. They did not match their appearance. Instead of old paint, he felt rough, raw wood. When he pulled his hands away, they were stained black.

Finally, he found a place where his hand slipped through the wall, up to his elbow in what appeared to be solid wood. His submersed hand tingled, and he turned to see Lariah’s reaction.

She was dancing. Full on, without the half-formed gestures she had been using. Her movements unearthly, her grace impossible, she twirled and dipped, her form perfect, as far as Newander could judge such things. The sight filled him with an uncanny mixture of cold fear and admiration.

Newander turned back to his submersed hand, took a deep breath, and walked through the wall. The top of the hole was lower than he thought—his head slammed into a crossbeam, his vision went white. The taste of blood shot into his mouth, and the world dipped and spun. He went to his knees in the tall grass outside the cottage, clutching his wound.

He didn’t bother turning around—he knew he would see only solid wall. Newander clambered to his feet, one hand pressed tight to his forehead. The gash on his brow dripped blood into his eyes, so he staggered, half-blind, through Thistleglen.

As he stumbled down an empty, darkened lane, the stench of burning wood grew stronger, stinging his eyes, drying his mouth. 

In front of the Smith’s house, Newander fell to one knee. His head throbbed, and the world swayed around him.

“Newander?”

Newander looked over his shoulder. 

Lariah, ghostly white, swayed in the middle of the street. Her dressing gown no longer appeared immaculate and gauzy. It was stained black in parts, riddled with scorched holes.

“How did you know? No one ever knows.”

Newander pivoted as well as he could to face her. He closed one eye: it was filling rapidly with blood, painting the world in half-shades of crimson.

“I ate about six pounds of roast, and I didn’t feel full,” Newander said. “No one but you has touched me, either. Not to mention the smell.”

Lariah bowed her head and smiled at the dirt.

“You are very clever,” Lariah said.

Newander nodded. “And you are in very deep agony.”

“The burns aren’t so bad,” she said, softly, at the ground. “Not anymore.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Newander said.

Lariah spent a long while contemplating her feet. Newander waited—speaking in the moment of her teetering would only damage his cause. 

“Do you want to see?”

He didn’t. There were few things in the world he wanted to see less than what she planned on showing him.

“Yes I do.”

She showed him. She dropped the veil long enough for him to see the blackened, burned out husks of the buildings around them. The scorched skeletons, half-leaning out of windows, screaming their last screams. The burnt grass ringing the village, a blackened border.

He looked to her, finally. To see the ruined mess of the Lariah that had been, or rather, the Lariah that was. Her flesh now was stiff and shiny where it wasn’t pocket with terrible scars. Her jaw had partially melted to her neck, crooking her head at a painful-looking angle. Newander closed his eyes and looked down at the dirt.

Lariah spoke again, and her voice lost its airy quality. It growled, her windpipe scorched in the fire. She sounded older than any ten-year-old ever should, and it wasn’t all burns. 

“You are disgusted,” she spat.

“I am,” he said. “But for the god that would do this to you.”

Lariah flashed a lipless variant of what had to be a wry smile. Newander felt his chest squeeze again, and he fought to get to his feet. The world shifted beneath him.

“It wasn’t Euun who did this,” Lariah said. She surveyed the shattered remnants of her home.

Newander closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Lariah whispered, “I thought you might be.”

“How long ago?”

“How long ago did I burn down my entire town and kill everyone in it? Except for me? What day was it that I scorched my family alive?”

“If you come with me,” Newander said, “you’ll never have to be scared of losing control ever again.”

Lariah laughed bitterly, and Newander felt his heart break.

“Does it look like I have problems with control anymore?”

Newander, on his feet now, said nothing.

She cocked her head. It seemed painful to do so. Newander noticed she still had tufts of hair growing out of the unburned parts of her head. She looked filthy. She wasn’t bathing enough. 

She needed help. 

“Are there people like me with your master?”

“Many.”

Lariah nodded and took another look around the grave of her old life. She made a soft humming noise and twirled slowly, achingly, that impossible grace gone. The world shifted, and Newander’s eyes went blurry. When they came back into focus, the illusory town was back. The faces of false citizens stared out at them from darkened windows. He did note, however, that she hadn’t changed back to that dream girl.

“Do you want to take anything?” Newander asked.

Lariah laughed. They were on the road within minutes. She didn’t speak often, but whenever Newander spared a glance in her direction, he hoped beyond hope that the little twitches he saw in her face meant hope. Meant that, despite everything, maybe she could find some version of her old self one day. In spirit, if nothing else.

Newander made it five miles before he turned and, with a sad little laugh, tried to grab her wrist. His hand slid right through it. With a cry of anguish he sat down in the dirt. The Not-Lariah looked down at him and smiled.

“Not so clever,” she whispered.

Newander nodded.

“Don’t come looking again,” Lariah said, “You won’t find me.”

Newander believed her. But after she faded away, he stood up. 

He spent the next week looking for that town, looking for that girl.

He found neither.