Previous: An Unadorned End

 

A chill settled in the room—wintery, just like the silence that accompanied it. Hazel didn’t know what to say, and so she said nothing, standing stiff and unyielding like a frozen tree.

Holly fell to her knees and into tears. Hazel told herself to go to her, to comfort her, yet she couldn’t bring herself to move. Instead, Hawthorn walked over and gave Holly a handkerchief, put an arm around her, whispered words that Hazel couldn’t hear. They must have been comforting, for Holly nodded and gulped down gasps of air as her sobs lessened. She rested her head on his shoulder, so Hazel turned her attention to Hemlock.


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HazelHolly_FC_FNL_BNGTime flies, eh? It’s been almost two years since I started serializing Hazel and Holly here on the blog, with the first post going up early September, 2015. How was I supposed to know that what started out as a flash-fiction story for the 2015 A to Z Challenge would end up being an epic novel of about 150k words? It was, essentially, an experiment. To see if I could do it. To see what would happen.

It’s been interesting, to say the least. I managed to keep my schedule of posting every Friday, with the exception of one month-long lapse last Spring. It’s a story I let myself have fun with. It was an indulgence–at first, anyway. And then, later, one of the hardest things I’ve managed to wrap up and wrangle into a story since, well, I started writing. At the end of it all, it feels, to me, like a story worthy of having been told. And I really can’t ask for more than that.


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Herbs-Pablo

Zhi Zi

Love, Peace, Healing, Spirituality


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Herbs-Pablo

Yarrow

Courage, Love, Psychic Powers, Exorcism


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Previous: A Return to Light

 

Hazel moved as if within a dark and disturbing dream. It was like she had become trapped in a net of iron-bound mist. And she wasn’t alone. There were others here with her, whispering against her skin, drawing long, shadowed fingers across her mind.

They desired things of her, wordless pleas that pulled on her thoughts and crawled over her skin. The men in black robes needed to die—they told her this. And they gave her a soulless dragon as her vessel.

Yet, at the height of her fury, a light shone in the distance. It permeated the cloying whispers like sunlight spilling over a strawberry strewn hill. She reached towards it, but then the warmth gathered around her hand, as if she held the sun itself and it had refused to burn her.


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