Short Story: Owner of the Bank of Souls

Meg is dying–fast. There’s only one way for her boyfriend to save her. The Bank of Souls.

“Tomorrow it’ll come and tomorrow she’ll be dead!” Danner stood over my cot, all dark and shadowy, though the fireplace crackling behind him did cast light on one thing—his shining green eyes. Or I guess that’s two things technically. To the right of the fireplace, Birdie hunched, sunken and gray like the armchair he sat in.

“Well darn, Danny,” I coughed, “quite the inspiration.” 

He leaned over and softened some. “Shh, Meg, please, just rest.” 

“Well, according to you, I’m about to have plenty of that in eight hours—give or take.” 

His glistening eyes laid on me and though the darkness in my cabin’s living room obscured it, he curved his lips in a smirk—the same smirk he gave me at the prison courtyard before introducing himself as my future husband. But like my health over the last forty-eight hours, it quickly vanished. 

“All we can do is pray for dayligh’,” Birdie said, his voice hoarse.

“I’m sick of praying, Birdie!” Danner rose. “We’ve got to do something!” 

“You willin’ to go out there durin’ curfew and risk meetin’ the courier halfway?”

“I think my odds at taking a bullet are better than hers right now.”

“That so?” Now Birdie rose, wrinkled and still hunched, he managed to meet brawny Danner eye-to-one-eye. Like it did for Danner, the flames shined off Birdie’s single iris and only deepened the shadow in his crater of the other. “I know the odds, kid, and they ain’t good. You’re better off sittin’ your stubborn butt down and waitin’ for her medicine to come.”

 “Dad, please—” I shut my mouth. Birdie’s singular stare darted to me. Despite the warmth, a shiver tore through my bones. 

Birdie walked around Danner and slowly approached. “What did you call me?”

“Dad,” I said it lower, but stronger somehow. Of all the eighteen years he’d raised me, never once had I called him Dad. He never taught me to. 

A tear welled and he knelt beside me and laid his heavy, thumbless hand on my whole one—another friendly reminder from the dictatorship not to ever buy cow meat from the black market again. “Darnit, Meg. I told you what to call me.”

“God forbid, right? Even on my death bed.”

“You’re not gonna die, Meg.” 

“Just like Mom wasn’t going to?”

A tear escaped and he quickly turned away. My own eyes remained dry. I didn’t have the luxury of thirty years of memories. Not even a full twenty-four hours. I only had the reminder of the curse, the plague I was from birth. 

Danner returned to my side, soft again. “Do you want me to stay?”

Sweat dripped from my temples; heat, pain, and love will do that to you. “Kinda.”

He chuckled. “But I’ve got to do something, Meg.”

“Then kiss me.”

He grabbed my hand in his and whispered, “With this audience? I’ll really die before you do.”

“Romeo didn’t care.”

“Yeah, and look how that ended up.”

I sighed. “But unlike Juliet…I am really dying, Danner.” 

His head bowed and he kissed my hand. Hot tears landed on my skin. He peered up again. After what felt like eons, he slowly leaned in and pressed his soft lips to mine. Bitter sweet, like black coffee and milk. Another luxury we’d been deprived of for years. My aching muscles eased. My eyelids grew heavy. My breathing hastened. 

Danner recoiled. “Meg? Meg!”

“Meg!” Birdie cried out. Their loud voices drifted as my head throbbed. Burning stabs cut through my heart. I gasped and grabbed my chest. But I couldn’t feel my hand. Only my heart. The rapid slicing. From every angle. Cutting through my veins. Ripping at my arteries. My lungs squeezed in. A million pounds. I dropped back. This. Was. It. My odds. Maybe I’d meet. Mom.

 Finally. Say hi. Or sorry.

Blackness reigned.


“Meg!” Danner shouted, her lifeless, thin body like the weight of a child in his arms. He held her tightly. “Please, don’t do this. I need you.” Tears soaked his face. And rage consumed his heart. They did this to her. To her mother. To his grandparents. Their neighbors. Scraps and shackles. Crap hospitals. Criminalizing private anything. 

Birdie dropped to his knees and sobbed. “Meg, my Megan. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Danner shut his eyes. Meg’s face that day in the prison courtyard filled his mind. Still thin, but fuller. Her skin glowing with sweat and her dark eyes plain yet penetrating. Makeup was for rich girls. Not that she needed it. 

She sat against the iron gate, writing on a torn piece of bed sheet with a pen she’d stolen from an officer. She had wrapped the flashy pen in some bed sheet, too. Danner was the only one who saw her do it. 

The meat-head sat in his cozy desk chair, writing in the new prisoners on his clipboard with an old, red-feathered ink pen. He prided his penmanship—refusing to use the government provided tablet. Meg had been eyeing the pen the whole time she waited in line. By the time she was third, she feigned the most believable sneeze attack you’d ever seen. Everyone panicked—not wanting to catch the latest pestilence—even Meat-Head. He sprang from his comfy chair like someone jammed a dagger through his cheeks, dropping his pen and notepad. Meanwhile, Meg stumbled forward, still sneezing, and slapped her hands onto the table. As she turned around, she swiped the pen and slipped it into the back of her pants, her sneeze explosion finally ceasing. 

Meat-Head was so disturbed he’d called in backup and took an abrupt break from his post. 

And that’s when the thought hit Danner and he just knew it. He knew one day he’d marry that crazy girl. And he had to tell her. 

“I saw what you did.” Danner opened with.

She stopped writing and looked up at him with those eyes. “And?”

He smirked. “And I’m your future husband.” 

Meg huffed, but then smiled, too.

Danner opened his eyes. And gently pulled Meg away from his chest. Her mouth hung open slightly. But now she was dead.

A knock rattled the front door.

 Birdie continued sobbing as Danner carefully laid Meg on the cot and then rushed to the door. He opened it. Night masked the surrounding woods up to the porch, but a ray of moonlight snuck through the trees and onto a brown paper box on the doorstep. Danner glanced around. The courier couldn’t of disappeared that fast. Danner grabbed the box, slowly, before shutting the door and locking it.

Birdie looked up, his face wet with tears and snot. He frowned at the odd package as Danner scanned it. Not the Black Market’s usual white, imitation government box with realistic insignias and a fake return address.

“Who’s it from?” Birdie finally spoke.

“Doesn’t say.”

“Then don’t open it. Could be a bomb or something from the Regime.”

Danner clutched the box, his eyes traveling to Meg, her skin paler than ever. He strode from the room and into the half kitchen. He snatched a knife from a drawer, set the box on the counter, and then sliced the tape that sealed it. 

As Danner opened the box, Birdie stepped into the kitchen. A clipboard with a paper lay at the bottom. 

“What the hell is it?”

Danner slowly removed the clipboard and read the crimson printed words:

I, Danner Adam Mitchel, on this sixth day of September, year 2033, hereby choose to pledge that in the place of Megan Marie Blackwell, I shall offer my life in exchange for hers. 

Danner’s heart pounded. Beneath a line with an empty space, cursive writing spelled: Anticus Mordem, Owner of the Bank of Souls.

Danner looked inside the box again. A red-feathered pen lay in the center. 

Birdie rushed to his side and grabbed the clipboard. As he read it, he shook his head. “What kinda sick bast—”

Danner clasped the pen and snatched the clipboard back, then walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Meg still lay there. Her skin now yellowing. Danner approached her. He suddenly remembered what he’d stowed in his left pocket. A ring he’d traded five batteries and a week’s worth of flour for. A six month’s wage. He had the proposal all planned. 

He’d built a small table from two of his dining chairs and set it in his backyard beneath the best looking tree he could find and then sprinkled it with purple flowers—her favorite color. He was going to cook wheat pasta for her and then ask the big question. But before he could, she got food poisoning from spoiled berries and now here they were, two days later. 

Danner reached in his pocket and removed the ring. Rose gold. Plain but beautiful, like Meg. Lifting her limp hand, he slid the ring onto her ring finger. “If this works, I’ll see you on the other side, Juliet.” He gave her one more kiss before pressing the red-feathered pen on the empty line and filling it with his name. 

A pang thrust through his chest. He staggered before hitting the floor. 

“Danner!” Birdie dropped beside him and began compressing his chest. “No, you ain’t goin’, too, kid! C’mon!” He pushed down hard. Over and over.

“Dad?” Meg’s voice. 

Danner’s chest seared at the sound and he forced himself to look at her. Her skin shone its normal pale, kissed with red. Her dark eyes alive—and terrified. 

As she jumped out of the cot, Birdie stopped compressing. “Megan? But…”

Megan took over. She pumped and pumped. Pressed her lips to Danner’s. Breathed out. Pumped some more. Breathed out…

“No, no, Danner, don’t you dare!” She cried as she pressed harder. 

The pain spread until it swallowed. And Danner gave his life.


“No!” I cupped Danner’s cheeks. His eyes were open. But distant. I touched his neck. Nothing. I slowly scooted away. What kind of nightmare am I living? I died only to wake up to this? No. It isn’t real. I’m still dead. Maybe this is hell. My punishment for killing Mom during labor. 

“Meg.” Birdie smashed my dark hopes. He held out a clipboard, his hand trembling. 

I took it. Read the words. And Danner’s signature. 

I shook my head. “This isn’t possible.”

“You…” Birdie’s voice quaked, his blue eye wide. “You died. I—I saw it. And then Danner signed. Dropped to the ground.” His body shaking, he muttered the rest. 

My heart raced. Beside Danner lay a red-feathered pen—exactly like the one I swiped from that tool at the prison. I snatched it and then noticed a rose-gold ring on my wedding finger. Oh my God.

I clasped my mouth. My head thrashed as my mind swirled. This is hell. A living hell. 

I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe. To think. What would Mom do? Dumb question. I’d never know. Birdie forbade asking about her. And he never brought her up. She could’ve been a dream this whole time. A good dream. Not like this. I took another deep breath. And opened my eyes. 

I looked at Danner. Gone. Somewhere else. But I wasn’t ready to let him go. 

I ripped the paper from the clipboard and shoved the feathered pen in my back pocket. As I stood to my feet, Birdie did, too.

“What are you doin’?”

“I’m going to find this Anticus Mordem guy. And make him bring Danner back.”

Just Finish the Darn Novel Already

I am preaching to myself–I, who have been slogging through completing my second novel for three friggin’ years. Yes, I do have four children six and under, with the youngest being 14-months-old, BUT surely, in three years I could’ve made more time to write–I just didn’t.

It is soooo much easier to just find an entertaining escape; watching YouTube videos, binging a on a streaming site, doing another artistic hobby that takes a lot less brain power and time (for me it was designing mugs and t-shirts). Writing. Is. Grueling. ESPECIALLY when it means so much to you and you gotta be all freaking superhero with it–wanting your book to do more than just entertain. You know, when you would rather your book be significant in impacting readers more than you’d like it to just be successful in a popularity/fiscal sense. Because I want my book to be powerful and used by God I laid this pressure on myself that makes my novel daunting.

I can’t shake the desire for my book to be more than just an exciting and wonderfully written tale so my only other option is to force myself to keep writing despite the weight of it. The annoying yet freeing thing about this dilemma is that when I finally do get to writing, I just flow. It’s getting myself to that point that’s been my struggle.

I feel like Moses. And no, my book won’t be as impactful as his calling from God was, but I mean the sentiment and the hesitancy the man struggled with to just go and do what he was told. He did it, but it wasn’t an easy task. Sometimes, no one can get you to write your book. You’ve gotta just choose to stop making excuses and do it. This is a long-haul passion/career. I’ve invested in the craft for over eight years and spent thousands of dollars on it. I cannot give up.

What about you? What is your biggest roadblock to writing?

All right, off to homeschool and then, dare I say it, I will write for a second day in a row! Off to the races!

Make Life Really Freaking Hard For Your Hero

There comes a point in your hero’s journey where stuff has got to become very, very difficult. In the beginning, we’re meeting her for the first time, and life doesn’t have to be so super duper hard right now. But something’s gotta go wrong shortly. Once we’ve got a taste of her “ordinary world” what life is like normally for her, that’s when we throw something at her: the inciting incident–and then just keep pounding her with bigger and bigger problems–consistent resistance, obstacle after obstacle, one step forward, two steps back. BUT, don’t forget that leading up to this incident and its problematic cousins there must be tension. Nope, we don’t need an action packed fight scene showing off her nifty moves. We don’t need a bunch of interior monologue info-dumping her life to the reader, but we do need that sense of tension, of something brewing, or something off, or something looming.

Then, when that inciting incident happens, life suddenly becomes harder and harder for the hero. Beat her up. Let her go through the ringer. She’s gotta feel the pain so your audience feels it with her and is itching for justice, for relief, for the answer, for things to finally work out for her.

The death alarm sounded, that phantom punch in the gut I always dreaded. I touched the metallic gateway valve embedded in my chest at the top of my sternum–warm but not yet hot. The alarm was real. Someone in my territory would die tonight, and I had to find the poor soul. -Reapers, Bryan Davis

BAM, the inciting incident hits you immediately, wonderfully, and then every sentence is dripping with tension, dread is oozing from every word. I think this is one of the best examples of a not-so-ordinary world with a very quick, in fact, and instant inciting incident that gets the story rolling and this snowball only grows larger and larger–things begin to get harder and harder soon, but first we get to know Phoenix a bit more. We see him in his dingy apartment, gathering important items for his mission; we get insight into his dystopian, supernatural Chicago life by the environment not only inside his apartment, but outside of his window where a ghost who doesn’t know it wanders by a street corner and then the interaction Phoenix has with a fellow “reaper” who lives in the apartment building directly across from his.

The next scene arrives and it’s one difficulty that leads to another and then another, and all the while the tension is like a hissing tea kettle and, in my opinion, is actually more gripping than a wild battle.

He crosses a dangerous park where baddies lurk, you sense this whole area, this whole walk to find who is dying is ominous, but then he arrives safely to find it’s a little girl on the brink, and he’s only got one pill to offer her. First, she struggles to take it. The family is dripping with desperation and the tension is rising as this little girl just can’t swallow the darn pill. But then, a DEO shows up, a death enforcement officer who isn’t here to try and save little Molly from death–she’s here to enforce it. Now Phoenix has a very difficult problem because she also isn’t just any old DEO, she’s also an Owl–she’s got supernatural abilities and a high government position. But there’s more. She finds the pill and oh snapping turtle–it’s illegal to smuggle medicine so now Phoenix’s problems are really piling up. And THEN someone–I hope by now you’ve got the point so I can stop spoiling this amazing novel for you.

In fact, reading and studying how Bryan Davis wrote Reapers would benefit you more than this blog can–and leave you flipping pages into the wee hours of the night even though you’re a sleep-deprived Momma who’s bound to be woken up early the next morning by her other kiddos.

Happy writing!

Update! Where I’ve been and What’s Next

Hello, my creative preciouses. It’s been quite some time. Do forgive me. Sleep deprivation hasn’t fled from me for over a year now. This is mostly my ten-month-old’s fault, but my four-year-old has also been waking in the wee hours as well, causing this momma to awaken four or so times nightly. Three espresso shots barely help, but it’s just a season. I hope. (That was a lot of numbers and I loathe math.)

So yep, that makes four kiddos now, all five and under, two of which I homeschool.

Me. Plus one.

We also bought and sold a home after a year of living in it, then moved to another state, and it took seven months to finally close on a new home to which we finally moved into five months ago.

In writing news, I revised the first book I’ve ever written, turning the over 100K manuscript into three novellas. WANTED: A Boyfriend Who Doesn’t Suck drives you into the drama that began with my first love at seventeen, onto my second, and then my third and last. It’s my true, supernatural love story. I am looking for readers/reviewers so if you’re interested, do leave me a comment with your email and I’ll shoot it over to ya.

Excerpt from The Phantom Lover

What about you? What have you been up to? Feel free to leave a comment regarding your happenings.

At the end of the day, I’m thankful to God for the life He gave me. Mostly, for giving me Himself, because without Him, I don’t know where I’d be.

Happy reading!

Get the New Edition of My YA Fantasy for FREE!

Copy of FREE-2

My goodness, it has been quite a while. I have FOUR wee ones now–all five and under, and one is three months old, we sold our house, moved to another state, and still haven’t closed on a property–five months later. In other words, please have grace for my extended absence.

This sleep-deprived Momma had an epiphany a few days ago, a desire that I wanted to give my book away to 100 people. However, the more the merrier! So until July 4th, you can snag this new edition of my YA fantasy for FREE. If you’ve read it before, you’re in for a treat because there’s more story, more character background, more world building, just more in general! I hope to write more on here, perhaps even release sneak reads from book two: Pandemic Princess (a title hubby came up with BEFORE the Corona craze).

What’s new with you all? What are you working on or reading? How are you holding up in the 2020 chaos? Much love!

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Coryn of Bellsferry: Blood Thieves -Chapter 5: Unexpected Guests

Hunter aesthetic! 

Brown Plain Collages Facebook Post

Coryn Aesthetic!

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Chapter 5 of Coryn of Bellsferry: Blood Thieves is here! Check it out on Wattpad!

“I shivered, despite the summer heat. What if something happened to me? What if the Blood Thieves got to me? What would that do to my daughter, losing the person closest to her? She barely knew Gunner and Dixie. She’d be devastated and scared, and the security and joy of her childhood bubble would burst and she’d be thrown into the dark, confusing maze of this dangerous world. Death was banging on all of our doors, especially mine and Krista’s, and who knew when it’d break through and seize its loot. It could happen tonight…”-from chapter 5

Chapter vibes:




Coryn Aesthetic!

Brown Plain Collages Facebook Post (2)


“With long snaking roads enshrouded by dense woodland and only smatters of clarity along the rolling hills, the beautiful countryside of Bellsferry was the perfect place for predators to stalk.” Coryn knows fate when she’s pricked by it–she thinks.

In a world where American law has been overthrown, and wanna-be supernatural, self-made vampires exist–who by the way, are really creepy and demented and have started preying on the small town of Bellsferry–there also exists Coryn, a twenty-three-year-old single mother who’s just trying to survive through life–and give her daughter a somewhat decent one. But when Coryn is taken under her gunslinging neighbors’ wings and something…otherworldly happens, forget decent; she and her daughter’s lives are now even more dangerous than before. Sigh. That’s what happens when you accidentally become the only real nemesis to the deranged psychopaths who have iron-gripped your hometown.

Since before the demolition of law, Coryn grew up surviving through life, but now she has to protect not only herself and her seven-year-old daughter, but their entire town–doesn’t she?


Have you been following along? If so, what are your thoughts so far? Got a WIP you’re working on? Are you on Wattpad? Let me know! Happy reading! -Natasha

Do you make image quotes from your stories?

Pinterest got me starting to make quote images from my books and stories. I also make some for Instagram from time to time. I use quotes I really liked and I think they’ve generated some interest. What about you? Have you made image quotes for your stories? Feel free to share your Pinterest links with them or Instagram account with them. Here’s some of mine from my latest WIP (available on Wattpad), a New Adult urban fantasy, Coryn of Bellsferry: Blood Thieves:

Hunter2 copy





Happy discussing!


You can read ALL of Prodigy Prince on Wattpad – Limited time only!

Prodigy-Prince-Web-Medium NEW THIS

That’s right, folks.

You can read all of Prodigy Prince on Wattpad for a limited time.

Check it out. And if you’re diggin’ it, don’t forget to vote (click the little star icon). And PLEASE DO divulge on me, let me have it, share those blazing thoughts of yours as I do take to heart, mind, and keyboard, what you think. Feedback has helped loads in my writing journey, and I’m excited to share this novel with all of you. Happy reading!

Prodigy Prince Spoiler Free Review

Woot! The latest: a 4.5 star review! Glad you enjoyed it, Raven!

Rebecca's Book Blog


Prodigy Prince (The Seven Covenant) (Volume 1) - Natasha Sapienza

Prodigy Prince is the first book in a new YA Fantasy series,the Seven Covenant,by Natasha Sapienza.

Rating: 4.5 Stars

Zephoris is a place of peace and harmony? or at least it was. Prince Nuelle discovers not all is as it seems when his entire life is turned upside down in one day. Traveling to the knight academy our young hero has his destiny thrust upon him: it?s up to him and his six prodigies to defeat the evil Antikai.

Reading Prodigy Prince is quite literally stepping into another world. Sapienza?s worldbuilding is epic and unique complete with magic, monsters and evil henchmen. Like any story with a new world, stepping into it takes some getting used to. However, the Tribe Guide and the Creature Guide provide ample knowledge whenever something new is introduced into the story.

It was quite easy falling in love with the array of…

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The Swordsmith on the Mountain Edit

All of my edits are in bold. An overview of this piece will be found at the bottom of this post.


Once upon a time, which is the way all good stories should start and most of them do, Rupert the Fearless was pulling his sword out of a dragon’s foot. (Great hook!) Unfortunately, the foot is not a vital organ, and his sword was stuck. The huge red dragon had made a mistake and tried to crush Rupert with his claws, and Rupert had jumped out of the way just in time. He had (notice all the “hads?” in order to diminish some, restructure the sentences, or simply remove a few unnecessary ones. “Made” is already past-tense, so you don’t need the had before it) spun around and sunk his strong sword through its foot, into the hard ground. Now he was pulling at the sword, while the beast was roaring (I hate “was” and “were” words. They’re easily done away with, for example: “Now he pulled at the sword while the beast roared.” It reads more smoothly without the unnecessary was’s, doesn’t it?) Rupert knew what was coming next. (Again: “Rupert knew what would come next.”)

The dragon sucked in a large breath and exhaled fire and smoke and death. Rupert scampered up and ran. He was Rupert the Fearless, not Rupert the Stupid. He had fire and sparks on his heels when he got to the trees. (Shorter sentences make for a cleaner read and intensify the action: Fire sparked at his heels when he got to the trees) The fire blasted a tree right behind him, while he dove behind a fallen log. With a terrible smell (maybe throw in an adjective or something to better describe the smell, maybe rancid, or smokey???), the fire stopped and Rupert looked up (also, this sentence has the same structure as the previous one. Just sayin’). The slit in his helmet showed him a couple burning trees and beyond that, a very angry dragon. The dragon roared again, and with a sword still stuck in his foot, wrenched it free from the ground and expanded its wings (you went from “his” to “it” for the dragon). Rupert ran out of the trees, without a real plan except to retrieve his sword. Too late. The dragon took off and flew to the East Mountain and to the safety of its lair. Rupert stayed there standing for quite a while, realizing that he didn’t have a sword and he failed to defeat the dragon. Bummer. After a few minutes of silence, Rupert the Fearless took off his helmet and whistled. His horse came from the forest. “Well, Horse,” he said, “that wasn’t really successful.”

Horse snorted.

“Yeah. Well, I need a new sword and we’ll try this again.” Horse (since you didn’t do a sentence break, this could appear as if Horse is saying this) started trotting in the direction of the village. “Good idea. Let’s go to the village. I need a bath anyway.”

At the village, everyone was about as helpful as a hole in the head (what was he needing help for? I thought he was just going to get a bath). Rupert decided to go to the tavern and think. He dropped Horse off at the stable and got some food. While he was (you can remove “he was”) there, he overheard a group of old men. One was with (replace “was with” for “had”) a long white beard, skinny muscles and a scratchy voice.

“I told ye, I saw the swordsman! Last week a’chasing mah stubborn sheep up thar!” (love this) The man pointed out the window to the west where there was a huge towering mountain (to remove “was” try “where a huge mountain towered”). Another man with worn clothes and a bald head piped up in a gruff tone. “I saw ‘im too! He ain’t no legend to me. I’m tellin’ ye, that man is out there turnin’ a sword like none other.”

Rupert’s ears perked up and he leaned back to listen.

“That a’ true,” the skinny man grunted. “But don’ nobody talk to ‘im.” His eyes narrowed and he whispered, “if a man dare’n to go up there to the West Mount’n, he’ll fin’ the world of danger that man can be.” The bald man grunted (lots of grunts going on. Can you try something else? also, do a sentence break right after the skinny man’s last word, so it doesn’t look like the other man said this) and nodded.

Rupert got up from his chair and left the tavern. He walked across the road and to the stable. Horse woke up when Rupert arrived in the stable (Motivation reaction unit aka MRU error: Rupert walked in first, THEN Horse woke up because of it). “Come on Horse, the bath’s going to wait. We’re going (to avoid repeating going, maybe try “heading” instead) to the West Mountain.” Horse jumped up, shook his head and whinnied.

As they approached the misty foothills of the mountain, Rupert reined up on Horse and they trotted up (ehh, two up’s–yes I’m picky) to a sheer face of the mountain. It was straight up (yikes, and now a third). “How the devil did that man chase his sheep up this bloody cliff?” Horse didn’t comment. Rupert shouts (hmm, you’re jumping around from past to present tense. Choose one and stick with it. I personally prefer past, since present doesn’t really make sense, but that’ll be for another post) “Hello!” No answers except ghostly echoes came from the fog around them. Horse gave a sudden shake.

Rupert dismounted and climbed the face of the cliff until he sat on a ledge, looking down at Horse. “Hello!” There was no answer as the wind blew through his thick black hair (you technically don’t need to report that there wasn’t an answer. Try not to report what doesn’t happen, aka inaction. Just show that it didn’t, which you do by mentioning the wind blowing.)

Rupert stood up and kept climbing. He climbed so high, it became difficult to see Horse through the fog below. Rupert was exhausted, breathing heavily. He sat on the small ledge of the cliff with his feet dangling above the tops of trees. “Gasp…gasp (this is awkward) …Ughh…what kind of mess have I gotten myself into? There is no swordsmith up here…gasp…I’m a fool for listening to crazy stories from drinking old men!” Rupert slammed his fist against the rock behind him. Then he stood up and faced it.

“I’m an idiot!” Smack! “Aaaa! I need a sword!” Whack! “What kind of Fearless knight doesn’t have a sword?” Bam! At the third strike, the ground began to shake. The whole mountain moving reminded Rupert of Horse shivering beneath him. Rupert braced himself against the rocks. “Aaaa! What is going on?!” The rocks turned and some fell. The ledge Rupert was standing (stood) on started to slide underneath his feet, and the boulders gathered together around Rupert. They wrapped around his waist like fat fingers and twisted him around and pulled him up into the air, up past the clouds. He was brought before a massive pair of stone eyes, as if carved out of the mountain. Then they moved suddenly, sizing up the little knight before them.

A heavy, deep voice growled from beneath the beard of clouds. “Before the time of men, I have slept here.” The eyes darted up and down again, as if wondering how such a little thing like Rupert could have woken him. “My wakening is for a reason.”

Rupert was weak in the knees (Rupert’s knees weakened) before such an awesome sight.  A massive face talking to him from an invisible mouth made him glad that a strong fist was keeping (kept) him up. Finally, he managed to choke out something like, “umm…I am Rupert the Fearless. Can you help me find the mysterious swordsmith?”

“I am…the swordsmith.”

“Woa.” The mountain WAS the swordsmith! So Rupert told him all about the evil dragon plaguing the land and how he had lost his sword in mighty battle. The mountain listened and when Rupert had finished speaking, the mountain nodded slowly and Rupert found himself zooming down to the ground, carried by the great hand of the mountain.

“UMPH!” Rupert was set down with a plop. Then the hand vanished up into the clouds. Rupert looked at horse when loud grinding and crushing noises came from the mountain. Lightning and fire seemed to set the fog alight. Late in the evening the giant hand returned, closed around something (“closed around something” this is kinda hard to picture.) Rupert and Horse approached it slowly and it opened to reveal a stunning sword. Silver blade and black handle. Razor sharp on double edges with a large red jewel in the pommel. The mountain spoke. “Its name is Tagasi. Your voice will call it to you. It will never be dulled in battle or lose its luster.”

Rupert approached and took the sword. It seemed to sing when he picked it up. Then he knelt down. “This is the most amazing sword I’ve ever seen. Thank you, great swordsmith in the mountain.” As the hand left, the mountain groaned. (Don’t know why you keep missing periods) “…and you need a bath” and was silent (I think this “and was silent” can be removed). Rupert looked down at the sword, then up at Horse. “Horse, let’s go dragon hunting.” (Don’t forget those sentence breaks, to break up the dialogue between characters to avoid confusion).

In front of the dragon’s lair, Rupert heard it moaning. He had all his armor on, with Tagasi at his side. He bent his head around the opening and saw (you can change this as well to remove the was: He bent his head around the opening. The large red dragon belched black smoke at his foot…) the large red dragon belching black smoke at his foot still oozing green blood, eyes glowing in the darkness (I think a sentence in between will add drama and read smoother: oozing green blood. His eyes glowed in the darkness). Rupert pulled away.

“What did he mean that I can call it to me? Oh well, if it never gets dull that’s good enough for me.” Rupert turned back around to plan out his attack and there, staring him in the face, was a giant yellow eye.

“GAA!” Rupert jumped back and drew Tagasi. The dragon snapped and missed when Rupert jumped (Restructure: The dragon snapped. Rupert jumped, dodging the jaws of death). Its (see, bouncing still between its and his. Stick with “it”) long red tongue whipped out and around Rupert’s foot, and then back to pull Rupert off balance. Rupert fell on his back, losing his grip on Tagasi. It spun in the dirt, a few feet from his grasp. “No!” The dragon snatched up Rupert‘s sword, and with a smooth motion, swallowed it. “Gaa! No! My new swoooord!” Then he thought. He wondered. He looked up slowly and as the dragon was ready (poised) to strike again, Rupert glared at it through the opening of his helmet and softly whispered, “Tagasi.”

A strange gurgling sounds (sound) came from the dragon’s throat. The dragon grabbed its neck and backed up, shaking his head. Then with a tearing and slicing noise, Tagasi blew out the insides of the dragon, green slime and goo covering Rupert (restructure: …insides of the dragon. Green slime and goo covered Rupert). The dragon fell with a THUD! Tagasi flew into Rupert’s hand, and he stood there, stunned and dripping.

“Wow.” He said after a long time. “I think…I need a bath.”




I think it’s a cute story for wee ones. I think it’s lacking some originality, but the prose really helps this area. However, can you think of ways to make this piece more original?


I ended up loving the fact that Rupert affectionately named his horse, Horse. Rupert’s a funny guy, that the kidlets will like, as I’m sure you know, given your littles ones probably like him, right? I’m wondering, does anyone know he’s trying to slay the dragon? Might be a nice little punch to have the old skinny man make a crack at Rupert such as, “Hey Ruppie boy, still failing to kill that dragon?” And the whole tavern can laugh at him. Speaking of, I loved the men’s accents; it really added flavor.


Not much to say here. You only had a few minor grammar issues here and there, and my picky self prefers to have a story without “was” and “were” splattered all over the place. Watch for consistency, again, referring to the dragon as, “it” and then “him.”


Not gonna complain. Nice job.

Bravo, Peter! I hope my edits and overview helped! If you want your the first 1500 words of your spec piece filmed and edited, send it to my email: NatashaSapienza(at)gmail(dot)com, along with the title and genre.

Happy helping!

What did you think about Peter’s story? Feel free to share your thoughts in a comment.