It is quite a well-known fact that I am really not one for blog tags - but also, I think exceptions can always be made for the best ones. (What is a rule without a few good exceptions, after all? ;)) So I must thank the endlessly lovely Alyssa of The Devil Orders Takeout and Jean of Miz Writer Lady for tagging me in the 777 Challenge (and on that note, please do take a look at their challenges + blogs in general - I promise, you will not be disappointed).
The rules are simple: lines 7-14 of page 7 from our current WIPs, here on the blog for all to see. And of course, the obvious choice for this would be Frozen Hearts - but alas, after having scrolled down to page 7, I have come to the conclusion that it's sort of overflowing with spoilers, so it would perhaps not be the wisest decision to share it with you.
So instead, I'm putting forth a different WIP - one that I have not talked about much on the blog, mainly because it is still a very (very, very) rough draft. (Not even a draft. More like the half-formed beginnings of one.)
The title is Fragments of Aurora, and it is a Sleeping Beauty retelling - oh, how I love my fairytale retellings! - centred around darkness and light, brambles and smoke, a forest with a mind of its own, a moon that howls back at wolves too proud to answer, and a girl whose deepest scars have been inflicted by her own claws. (More on the Pinterest board, if your interest is piqued.)
As for tagging, I will go with Christina of Fairy Skeletons, Samantha of Her Inklings, Beth of The Quiet People, Ana of Butterflies of the Imagination, and Chiara Sullivan. I would be so delighted to read your lovely work, but of course, only if you want to do it - no pressure at all!
And without further ado - here we are, a small excerpt of Fragments of Aurora. (End of a chapter, actually, because I am a badass like that. ;)) Enjoy, lovelies!
“But perhaps,” said the boy, eyes alight with something far more potent than magic, “perhaps – perhaps the princess truly is alive. It’s possible, isn’t it? You always said –”
“Nonsense,” his mother snapped in a tone that implied the end of a discussion. “Fairy stories are going to your head again. Isn’t it getting past your bedtime?”
Long after the boy had trudged up to sleep, a howl echoed outside the window – soft and low and melancholy, as if in afterthought or in reply.
The woman looked up.
“Oh, hush,” she said to the empty air. “No one asked for your opinion.”
She shook her head at what looked like nothing, and all around her, the night let out a sigh too weary for all of the secrets it cradled.