Post by Deleted on Mar 12, 2014 17:00:42 GMT -5
Hey, everyone.
I need some help.
I need some feedback.
I know a few of you are writers, and so am I. 
Can you please just read the following things and let me know what you think?
~
Prologue
The moon was a waxing crescent, a smooth sliver of gray in a star-dotted sky. The oak and birch trees that circled the meadow rustled under the playful wind, and the underbrush waved. The plants looked like bones of the dead stretching towards the indigo canvas above their branches.
A little burst of color popped like a beacon before a beautiful woman stood in the meadow. Her silver white hair flew around her face in elegant curls. Her startling amethyst eyes flashed over the meadow, searching for figures that had not yet appeared. Her dress, a royal purple with white stars, swished around her bare feet as she turned to gaze at the woman who appeared next. Her round belly bulged under the fabric and her hands twitched from their folded position over the curve.
A woman appeared at the northern point of the meadow. Her pale skin glinted in the moonlight as she blinked at the woman in the center of the meadow. Her face was angular, angular, her elegant eyebrows pulling down as her lips tilted in a slight frown. Her eyes, a pale gold, swept around the meadow, searching for other women. Her wheat-colored dress lifted in the wind and her body was trembling. “Roho, where are the others?” Her voice was lightly accented with a British tint.
Roho smiled. Her lips, dark pink and full, tilted up sweetly. “They are coming. They are coming.”
Hewa, the woman in the North, shrugged lightly. Her dress rustled against her skin, creating friction. “Very well.”
At that moment, a woman popped into the meadow. She looked ruffled, curly dark brown hair floating around her and her emerald green dress falling to the ground. Her soft chestnut eyes flashed from face to face. “Sorry! I know, I know, I’m late. I’m sorry.” Her accent was Scottish, filling the air around the three women with the strength of her magic.
The woman in the center smiled again. “You are fine. Moto and Maji have not yet arrived.”
Dunia blew out a breath, her darkly tanned skin glittering like gold under the pale moon of the light. “Thank you. I appreciate you.”
Roho – shrugged. “You are welcome.”
A woman in a dark crimson dress floated down from the sky and landed with a soft thud in the southern point of the meadow. “I am here!” She announced. Her voice was softly Russian, and her slender red eyebrows lifted as she peered at the three other women. Her hair, untamed and spiraling around her face in curly wisps, settled on her shoulders. Her eyes, which were a dark gold, flickered from the face of Moho to Hewa, resting on Dunia’s face. She was restless, never still, always moving.
Roho laughed, the sound echoing in the meadow. “We noticed, Moto.”
The final woman came from the West, pale blue dress floating over the ground as she walked. Her hair, a fine gossamer color, was done in spiraling curls and her tattoos stuck against her pale skin like a river would stick out against the thickness of this forest. Her sapphire eyes were soft, tinkling and winking like the stars above as she looked at her sisters. “I have joined the circle.”
Roho looked amused again. “Thank you, Maji. Now that everyone is here… We must get to the matters at hand.”
Hewa spoke up from her position in the North. “What matters?”
Roho sighed softly, lowering her head and closing her eyes. She murmured to herself quietly before lifting her head and staring around the pentacle of women in front of her. “My vision.”
Dunia’s voice was gentle. “What vision, Roho?”
Roho looked sad. Her hands caressed her belly, the child within. “That I will die. We will all die.”
Maji’s lips pursed. “I’ve had the same vision, Roho. But we return, do we not?”
Roho nodded. “We do, yes. Thousands of years from now.”
~
Chapter One
The cottage in the meadow was a peaceful place to the eye. Within the walls, music was pulsing, throbbing, contained though struggling to break free to flow over the trees and underbrush and bathe the forest in noise and words strung together to create a beautiful melody.
A woman stood in front of an easel, legs spread and arms crossed over her chest, a paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other. The floor around her was stained with paint that had dripped, dried and faded to make a mosaic of colors that told a thousand stories. The woman had long, curly pale hair, her skin a gentle contrast with her lightly golden complexion. Her eyes were wide, tilted, and a natural dark blue color, indigo like the night sky.
Her cheekbones were high and announced themselves boldly on her face, while her thick, pink lips tilted in a dedicated frown of annoyance and mild anger. Her nose was a soft slope in the off-center of her face. A spatter of freckles spread under her eyes, crossing over her nose. She was beautiful, but in a classic, timeless way.
She sighed, a look crossing her face as the song lilted over her body and came to a sweet halt. She started the playlist over, choosing a new song. She turned back to the painting in front of her, the half-done design of a horse across the once-white paper.
This woman’s name was Tia Frank. She had Cherokee heritage, hence her lips and cheekbones as well as her skin, but the stark contrast of her British father made for her hair and eyes. She owned numerable horses and loved them all to pieces. She was an accomplished woman who was aware of her worth and had retreated from the real world to contemplate just who and what she was.
Tia was quiet for a long moment for a long string of British cusswords fell from her lips, the paintbrush falling to the wooden board under the canvas and her palette being tossed carelessly aside. She was dressed in gray sweatpants and a light blue tank-top. They fit her well. Her hair flew around her face, settling on her shoulders before she turned and padded to the kitchen.
She was annoyed. That much was obvious. This woman was failing – absolutely failing – at creating the picture of her horse, Nzuri Alfajiri, who was named in the language was Swahili for Beautiful Dawn. The mare had a classic grace to her, a grace that Tia echoed in her dancer-like movements across the kitchen floor.
A knock at her door made Tia startle, but she turned down her music and opened the little block of wood with a polished knob. “Yes?” Tia had her fathers accent. It flowed through the people on opposite sides of the door.
A woman stood in front of Tia. She looked young, around nineteen, and her hair was a dark, dark brown.
~
Thank you so much for this, guys! <3
