BLOG — Sherrill Nilson

Falling Chapter One Version 1.2

I wish writing a book was maybe a little more straight forward. I seem to do a lot of back and forthing, and that’s what happened to my beginning Chapter. The major struggle in this third and final book is between Daryl and his brother Readen, so the book has to start with Daryl. So I scrambled the fist two chapters and finally ended up here. I’ll post Chapter Two in a couple of weeks.

I hope you enjoy this. It’s still a work in progress, so comments and corrections are more than welcome.

AND—Ta Da—Click read more to see the cover for Book 3 by Kurt Nilson.—and the rest of the chapter.

Chapter One

Fifteen riders on magnificent hawk-headed flying horses circled the landing field outside the small town of Flat Rock. Enormous monstrous dog-like creatures, half metal-half flesh, with scales of armor, swarmed over the walls into the village. Their stubby metallic wings beat with a ringing Daryl Me’Vere, astride his Karda, could hear from high in the air. A sound he hated. He forced down the pressure building from his chest into his throat––hatred, anger, fear for his riders and for his people below.

At his signal, Karda and riders swooped across the field, snatching unwary monsters, the urbat, in their wicked talons, carrying them high above and dropping them to their deaths in the middle of the throng attacking the gates. Other riders aimed arrows at the urbat tearing through the streets after townspeople, most of whom fought with swords, spears, axes––whatever was to hand and sharp.

Daryl and Abala dropped down to about twelve meters, twice as high as the urbat could reach with their stubby wings and massive bodies. They crossed the walls, circling the village. Screams and cries and urbat snarls and howls rose, and he heard the clang of swords and hoes and scythes against the urbat armor. The savage brutes swarmed through the small town, and Daryl shoved down his anger. He needed to fight urbat, not his emotions.

Below him, a terrified unarmed villager stumbled to his knees, an urbat half flying, half falling directly at him. A second villager ran to shove his short-bladed spear overhead at its belly and impaled the creature. The impact knocked him down, but he scrambled to his feet, put his foot against the urbat, pulled his weapon free and slashed it across the throat. Thick, yellow ichor ran in runnels between the cobblestones.

Daryl flew on, drew on his talent and fire bolts, long, narrow bursts of flame from his spread fingers, incinerated every urbat he caught in the open, careful of the villagers and the buildings. He fired and fired until Abala peeled away to beat his way up into the air and beyond the walls.

~What are you doing, Abala? They’re still fighting.~ He spoke telepathically.

~And you have depleted your talent. You are so tired I can feel you sway in the saddle. We have other work to do. Another kind of monster to find.~

Daryl scrubbed his hands through his hair, wishing Abala didn’t know him so well. When frustration tried to clamp down on his chest again, he shoved it away to take long, deep breaths, pulling strength from the air, the clouds, the sky. Restoring his power through elemental Air was difficult--impossible for most--but Daryl was a formidable Talent and there wasn’t time to land to draw power from deep in Adalta.

Last week my daughter, Jeri Fleming, gave a talk to the Locust Grove Chamber of Commerce about their problems with the creek that goes all the way through town. That’s where I lived before I ran away from home, about five miles outside town, and raised horses, cows, and kids. So I went with her.

To Wonder City Coffee. What an amazing place. I think it’s my favorite coffee shop ever. It’s not just a place for coffee and tea, but a meeting place for the community, a place to sit and read, a place to sit and gossip and tell stories.

Every table had some kind of game—chess, checkers, dominos and more, like a copy of the latest town newspaper. (This one had a feature about Jeri. She’s Assistant Director and Education and Outreach Coordinator at the Oklahoma Water Survey.) There’s a foosball table for kids of all ages. Sometimes they have tournaments.

You can see by the pictures the decor is practical nostalgia. The owner, Kelly Perkins Palmer, had a shop that sold old things, and the furnishings and

decorations came from there when her shop closed. 1950’s Formica tables, 1940’s and 60’s wood tables, old cabinets, an antique stove. A sofa and comfy chairs right in the front window where you can watch your friends and neighbors go by on the street—“Look who has a new truck!”—all kinds of wonderful old things like cabinets and pictures and wall decorations.

And best of all—a back room full of books to sit and read in comfortable sofas and chairs under a giant “crystal” chandelier. (I left my two books there if you want to go, have a cappuccino, and read.)

There were people of all ages there—teenagers playing foosball, the mayor, the Chamber members, little kids. And yet there was room for people who just wanted to come in for a think and a quiet pick-me-up of coffee or tea—iced or hot. And I saw a lot of I-Must-Resist drinks piled high with whipped cream go by. I also saw people I hadn’t seen in years. They didn’t look a day older, but then, neither do I, right?

I’m happy with my life now—I left Locust Grove a number of years ago—and I have grandkids who live there so I still visit. There is a part of me that wants to be able to go in to Wonder City Coffee (and books) every day to sit by myself and write or to talk to old friends and neighbors. The manager, Kelly’s sister Shaun Perkins, makes a great cappuccino.

Shaun is also grant coordinator of the Locust Grove Arts Alliance and director of the Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry (ROMP) with a grant from the National Foundation for the Arts. That is how I got a free copy of Joy Harjo’s poetry book, How We Became Human, which I am enjoying. Shaun is a poet, free-lance writer, barista, and a Teaching Artist with the Oklahoma Arts Council.

Next to the poetry museum is a small AirBnB “Poets Retreat” house, with a replica of Emily Dickenson’s bedroom which Kelly designed. A place to reflect and relax and write.

The LG Arts Alliance has a Big Read grant from the National Endowment of the Arts. During National Poetry Month (April) they will focus on Joy’s book, and she will be in Locust Grove on April 26 and 27. She’s not only a poet, but a musician, a professor, and a performer. The culmination of her visit will be a performance in the LG Pirate Arena.

For such a small town nestled in the eastern Oklahoma foothills of the Ozarks, Locust Grove has a long and interesting history of artists and writers.

Check out the Poetry Museum and the writer’s retreat at ROMPoetry.com

Here’s one of my favorite quotes from Joy Harjo’s book, How We Became Human, so far (I’m still reading):

I take myself back, fear.
You are not my shadow any longer.
I won’t hold you in my hands.
You can’t live in my eyes, my ears, my voice,
my belly, or in my heart my heart
my heart my heart.

But come here, fear
I am alive and you are so afraid
of dying.