Have you ever read a story where everything is happy and bubbly and nothing ever goes wrong? Sprinkle in a little fairy dust, add a unicorn and some glitter and you'll have the perfect book...for a five year old girl. Fortunately, my book isn't made for five year olds. That's right, my book has conflict, bad guys and all around chaos!
Are you intrigued yet?
Skyla has many enemies. Here below I've given you a glimpse of one of her first encounters with a sect.
Fresh bread is a huge weakness of mine: the crisp outer layer, still warm from the oven’s touch, the soft insides that pull and separate into a delectable treat and the taste of butter and yeast on my tongue. Fortunately for me, the baker is about as smart as the bread she makes. She doesn’t even notice the missing loaf I’ve taken, which is now warm against my side. I spare a quick glance into my satchel, the smell of yeast rising to meet me. My stomach growls and complains, pressing me to hurry back home so my hunger can be satisfied. I cut through an alley, taking the short way home.
I race around the corner and smack into something hard. A shoulder, I think.
“Hey,” a rough voice cries out.
Staggering backwards, my arms flail about as I try to right myself. My body freezes when I look up. A group of boys, all wearing black hoodies, line the alleyway. I suck in a deep, painful breath as I realize the seriousness of the situation. These aren’t street vendors, this is a Sect.
In the orphanage, we all heard of the mysterious Sects that control the outer Edges of Cerulea. Up till this very moment, I thought it was a myth, something fabricated by bored little orphan girls with nothing better to do. Swallowing hard, I pray that everything else I’ve heard isn’t true.
Slowly, one by one, they turn towards me, prompted by their comrade’s cry of distress.
My palms start to sweat.
Their faces hover alarmingly beneath their hoods. It’s hard to see anything but a few inky tattoos snaking their way into view. Backing away slowly, I hope they’ll let me go. They aren’t interested in a small child, right?
I am not that lucky.
As they move closer, following me in my retreat, I can just make out their cold eyes. They probe me, searching for weakness, looking for any vulnerability. I feel exposed, naked, underneath their gaze. My feet fidget nervously, stirring up a cloud of dust beneath me. The urge to turn and bolt stirs within, but would that be worse? All I know is what their eyes are telling me. I have just interrupted whatever it is they are doing and it’s not okay.
A thin boy, tall and gangly, with a scar rippling down his right cheek, steps forward. A cigarette teeters loosely from his pierced lips. His dark brown eyes narrow till they are small slits beneath his hood. I know that look. I’d seen the same look in the Head Mistress’ eyes many times. He’s trying to decide if I’m worth the effort or not.
“What do we have here?” He walks toward me, the grit on the street crunching underneath his shoes.
My body freezes as he closes in, the small bubble of my personal space suddenly violated. Blowing out a stream of smoke, he aims straight into my face, making me gag on the ashy air. An evil smirk slides across his face.
His eyes run the length of my body, touching every part of me without ever lifting a finger. Slowly, he reaches forward, running his hand freely through my black hair, tasting it with his fingers. My body stiffens at the contact. He moves down to my shoulder, fingering the strap of my satchel lightly. With a gentle tug he slides the strap off my shoulder, relieving me of my newly acquired bread.
I'm so glad I'm not Skyla right now!! I hope you enjoyed your trip to the dark side! Goodbye until next week!
A
Skyla has many enemies. Here below I've given you a glimpse of one of her first encounters with a sect.
Fresh bread is a huge weakness of mine: the crisp outer layer, still warm from the oven’s touch, the soft insides that pull and separate into a delectable treat and the taste of butter and yeast on my tongue. Fortunately for me, the baker is about as smart as the bread she makes. She doesn’t even notice the missing loaf I’ve taken, which is now warm against my side. I spare a quick glance into my satchel, the smell of yeast rising to meet me. My stomach growls and complains, pressing me to hurry back home so my hunger can be satisfied. I cut through an alley, taking the short way home.
I race around the corner and smack into something hard. A shoulder, I think.
“Hey,” a rough voice cries out.
Staggering backwards, my arms flail about as I try to right myself. My body freezes when I look up. A group of boys, all wearing black hoodies, line the alleyway. I suck in a deep, painful breath as I realize the seriousness of the situation. These aren’t street vendors, this is a Sect.
In the orphanage, we all heard of the mysterious Sects that control the outer Edges of Cerulea. Up till this very moment, I thought it was a myth, something fabricated by bored little orphan girls with nothing better to do. Swallowing hard, I pray that everything else I’ve heard isn’t true.
Slowly, one by one, they turn towards me, prompted by their comrade’s cry of distress.
My palms start to sweat.
Their faces hover alarmingly beneath their hoods. It’s hard to see anything but a few inky tattoos snaking their way into view. Backing away slowly, I hope they’ll let me go. They aren’t interested in a small child, right?
I am not that lucky.
As they move closer, following me in my retreat, I can just make out their cold eyes. They probe me, searching for weakness, looking for any vulnerability. I feel exposed, naked, underneath their gaze. My feet fidget nervously, stirring up a cloud of dust beneath me. The urge to turn and bolt stirs within, but would that be worse? All I know is what their eyes are telling me. I have just interrupted whatever it is they are doing and it’s not okay.
A thin boy, tall and gangly, with a scar rippling down his right cheek, steps forward. A cigarette teeters loosely from his pierced lips. His dark brown eyes narrow till they are small slits beneath his hood. I know that look. I’d seen the same look in the Head Mistress’ eyes many times. He’s trying to decide if I’m worth the effort or not.
“What do we have here?” He walks toward me, the grit on the street crunching underneath his shoes.
My body freezes as he closes in, the small bubble of my personal space suddenly violated. Blowing out a stream of smoke, he aims straight into my face, making me gag on the ashy air. An evil smirk slides across his face.
His eyes run the length of my body, touching every part of me without ever lifting a finger. Slowly, he reaches forward, running his hand freely through my black hair, tasting it with his fingers. My body stiffens at the contact. He moves down to my shoulder, fingering the strap of my satchel lightly. With a gentle tug he slides the strap off my shoulder, relieving me of my newly acquired bread.
I'm so glad I'm not Skyla right now!! I hope you enjoyed your trip to the dark side! Goodbye until next week!
A
Can't wait to get the book!
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