Scene One

It seems appropriate for my first blog on writing that I use the opening paragraphs of Austringer, the book I am currently writing. I’d actually like your input. Some like it, some think I should start with the actual fight scene. I did write one, actually two. But after getting input from my sister, the best writing partner ever, I think I like this best. (They are good fight scenes. I may use them later. I really like writing fight scenes. Latent aggression, I guess.)

Tessa stood, shaking. The sounds of the battle outside her door receded. Her vision darkened around the edges. She stumbled to the spindly chair beside the table littered with the remains of her breakfast and sat, resting her head on her knees. Her hand gripped the sword like it was glued. Gradually her breathing slowed and her head cleared. She forced her fingers away from the sword and laid it on the table. The blood stained the white cloth blending into the red juice from the spilled cherry apple preserves. Horrified she stared at it for a moment and then, refusing to look toward the man sprawled by the small fireplace, she stumbled toward the bath and splashed cold water on her face. She leaned over the water bowl for a long time, trying to control her shaking.

She’d watched people die. Her mother…

Her mind veered away from that. Urgent need sent her whirling to the commode and she retched until her stomach muscles could force nothing more out and she sank to the floor. The cold stone soothed her face. She wanted to lie there forever, not thinking.

From Oklahoma to New Mexico and back again.

I loved living in New Mexico. Loved with a visceral kind of love that let me know, even when flying in, that I had crossed the border into the state. Maybe it was because my father was likely conceived there and there is a genetic connection. Because, being raised in Oklahoma’s Green Country, and loving the tall trees, the gravel bottomed rivers and creeks, the dogwoods and redbuds that paint Spring with pink and white veils, it would seem unlikely that I would love the high desert so.

Her name was Abbie, and when she was about eighteen she, her father, and some of her brothers, took a wagon, mules, seed, and farm equipment, and walked to Elida, New Mexico to homestead. That’s where she met my grandfather. He was living with one of his twin sisters in a dugout, teaching school. Abbie and Charles married there.

She told stories about being alone in the dugout when Indians, displaced and often starving, would come by. She would give them what she could. Bacon, she said. Terrified, I’m sure. But not hiding. She was a remarkable woman. Not always nice, but remarkable.

She always had time to play with us children. Endless hours of canasta, Chinese checkers, laughter. There was a covered glass dish on her coffee table filled with lemon drops. I still have it and I filled it with lemon drops this morning for my own grandchildren. Grandmas should always have lemon drops.