"The Lost Prince" -- Excerpt from "The Ascent of Avedis"

The moment the stars appeared before him Kelson knew the dream was not a normal one. The flickering lights in the sky were too bright, alive as if they were jumping about in some crazed ritual. He recognized constellations; Aihnk with his great jaws open, clawing at the heaven’s in triumph of his return home, and cloudy Sael’s Path, southwest of the moons who were half full, just as they were when he’d gone to sleep. 

No one familiar was near. Not Marinus, Inahra, Caridan, nor Gho or Vohrie or the other thirty people that had joined them over the past week. When he stood, he felt unsteady, as if the ground was tipping underneath his feet. 

There was one presence, though. The night was so dark he couldn’t see anyone among the hard shadows of the trees at first, but he could sense them, in the back of his mind, in the hairs of his neck standing on end. 

“You look afraid. You should be.”

Kelson whipped around at the voice to find his own face staring back at him. No, not his own; the same in shape, feature, and color, yet a different person. Avedis. His hair was longer by a forearm’s length, braided away from his face. His clothes were ones Kelson could not possibly have imagined himself in,  rich and finely made, with intricate details his eyes could hardly follow. “Why should I be? This is a dream.”

“It’s not just dream,” Avedis shook his head, stepping closer.

“What do you want?”

“Hear me out, that’s all I ask. It might save your life.”

Kelson didn’t want to hear much of anything Avedis had to say. What kind of person would so readily invade someone else’s mind, hinting at threats and anger? He took a step backwards, feeling for his sword, though the weight on his hip was missing. Avedis only followed, uncrossing his arms.

“Turn around, and go back to Charisia, or wherever it is you came from. It’s where you belong. There is nothing for you in Ilaquoi except pain and death, I will make sure of that.” 

“I’m just trying to find the truth,” Kelson said, his heart pulsing hard in his chest, “I want to know who my family is, if what Monelly told me is true.”

“The two of us speaking here is proof enough that it is. There is nothing for you in the city. Our father is an evil man, you will get no love from him; our mother is a broken woman, sickly and resigned.” He paused, one of his fists unclenching at his side, tensing as if he were waiting for something to happen. “And I already hate you. I have waited to become king for nine years, and if you think I'm going to step aside and let you have it…"

"I don't want to be your enemy.”

"You already are." 

Kelson’s mind reached for words that wouldn't form. Before he could utter a sound, the trees around them and the stars shivered, and disappeared, and so did Avedis, all of it falling into blackness at once.

He woke with a start, feeling feverish and shaky. His mouth watered as if he were about to be sick. A dull ache rose in his head as he propped himself up on one arm, and looked about the dark camp with panic, trying to separate the visions from reality. 

Through the treetops he could just see the moons beginning their descent, drowning in the predawn glare. There were mounds scattered all around him, his traveling companions still in the throes of peaceful sleep. Dark brown trunks rose up, narrow and high, topped by rounded, ovular caps of fluffy green leaves. A few days before, they had picked up mounts in Shillian. One of the hyuruks grunted loudly when it saw Kelson move and the sound startled him. He pushed away his sleeping roll and approached the hobbled animals. Their earless heads were raised, their eyes sharp, tails flicking away the insects that were rising with the sun.

“Shh, its all right,” he cooed, rubbing the sleek, muscled hide, combing through the thick mane hanging from the animal’s neck. He glanced nervously around the camp, but everything seemed in order.

Even as the dream began to fade from his mind, Kelson felt a darkness pressing in on him, a sense of dread and foreboding more powerful than when he had left Charisia. Was the nightmare just a product of his fears? Had pictures of Avedis’ face created such a potent image of his in his mind for him to see something like that? He pressed his lips to sleek, comforting fur, and felt as though he never wanted to sleep again.

International Women (Warriors) Day

All women are warriors, whether they know it or not.

We see more blood in our lifetimes. We are under attack from the moment we wake in the morning, until we go to sleep at night. We walk into battle every day no matter what uniform we are wearing.

And the women who step out of femininity and speak out for their fellow females, they are the cavalry. The women who leave men behind and focus on their love for other women, they are the black ops. The ones who write about oppression and feminism, they're the journalists, the warriors of words.

Yesterday, I read this inspiring article that affirms an important point I have been advocating for the past two years. Women are capable of doing anything that a man can do, and then some.

Arguments in favor of patriarchy almost always return to the same exact point--that males are physically stronger and therefore superior to females. While it might be true in a biological sense, what exactly does it mean to be 'stronger?' What political, social, or economic gain does it give a man to be able to benchpress 430lbs vs 225lbs? How does being physically stronger help this world achieve more peace, more humanity, help fight environmental degradation, which in itself is a reflection of the way women are exploited and ravaged all over the world? What does it matter that men are physically stronger when we use guns and bombs to go to war?

This argument has always frustrated me deeply, because the concept of physical strength is relative. There are female body builders who can lift just as much as any male body builder. And again, just what is so significant about being able to lift? Have women been historically tagged as 'the weaker sex' because they are truly physically weaker, or because they have been groomed for passivity and discouraged from physical activity?

The truth is in the latter of that statement. Men don't want women to be strong, because they don't want women to be able to defend themselves.

As a writer and reader with a feminist mind, media that I can bear to consume is a constant struggle, and I know this is true for many women, lesbian and bisexual, who crave stories about the true physical and emotional strength that exist within and between women. This is why I feel that The 100, despite being written by a man, Jason Rothenberg, is such a massively important television show.

The women characters in this show (which often predominate the male characters--amazing!) are just as likely to get beaten up, scraped up, dirtied, and fight back as the men in the show. They are shown with so much dirt and blood covering their face that you can barely recognize them, which is practically unheard of in modern television. Have you ever noticed how female characters tend to keep their clean face and perfect makeup whether they are running through underground caves or waking up in a mucky, dirty cell? The women of The 100 yell out, speak out, rage out, fight, claw, and bite their way to survival and success.

This is what I want my own characters to do, and these are the female characters I want to read about. This is how I want to see women in stories--battling and scraping by for their life as a metaphor for the battle we do every day just to achieve a little autonomy separate from men.

To every woman out there, happy International Women's Day. I stand with you, as we stand together.

Women need not be afraid to fight, because they are already warriors, whether they know it or not.

(Octavia, one of the main characters of the CW's "The 100.")

"The Wolfena" Novella Excerpt

“Jimian. Jimian. Jim, wake up.”

“Hmm? Janessa?”

“N-no. Who’s Janessa? Jimian, it’s me Lariette. I hear something. Wake up.”

She snapped into consciousness immediately, forgetting the images still circling through her minds eye, and the strange feeling surrounding her throat. She found one of her necklaces had fallen back over her shoulder, and was pressing into her neck. They were both silent as she listened, and sure enough, a strange sound was hissing from the dark space that had been a dead end last time they’d checked. 

Silently, the two of them stood, and Jimian drew both her sword and knife. The strange hissing sound was rhythmic and raspy. As it grew closer, it was accompanied by soft plodding footsteps—not animal; human, though the breathing sounded anything but human.

One of Carriero’s men stepped into the glow of the mushrooms. Jimian felt dainty fingers grip onto her arm, squeezing tight enough to cause a hint of pain in her muscle. 

“Jimian. Jimian what is wrong with him.”

Jimian didn’t know. The man stopped walking. His arms hung limp at his sides. He had no spear, no gun, no bow, no knife. At first, she thought he was all spattered in blood, until she realized that his eyes were black as an overcast night sky, like the way Vilk’s had flashed when Dusti possessed him, only permanent. She concluded that the liquid smeared all about his nose and mouth was not blood, but that residue created by powerful magic. His breathing sounded wrong, hollow, yet full of fluid. And he only stood there, watching.

“I don’t know. I honestly, do not know.”

“We should run.”

“No. Just hold on.” Jimian took a step forward. Was there the slightest chance someone had put together a possession spell in order to find them? “Hey. That you, Nax? Or Baltio? Aesdana?”

No response, just more hissing breath. And then he took a step forward. And another. Jimian felt as if cool water were dripping down her back, and she met Lariette’s eyes for half a heartbeat. “Now we run.”

They took off in the opposite direction, the puddles exploding and fungi squashing underneath their feet. Lariette’s breathing came in terrified gasps, and the man let out a horrible cry, something between the screech of a dying animal and a predator snarling to defend its kill. They ran harder, but when Jimian turned to see how close he was, his footsteps grew impossibly fast, and he toppled upon her with another awful scream. Her sword went flying from her hand when her wrist collided with a sharp rock, and the wind was knocked from her upon impact. 

“Jimian!” 

She lashed upwards with her knife while trying to fight off the onslaught of fingernails which had turned to claws. A hand wrangled itself in her hair, and all it took was one hit against the rocks to make the adrenaline in her veins surge, and pure survival instinct kick in. Jimian roared almost as terribly as the sick man, and warm blood rained down upon her as his knife caught the skin of his neck and tore him open. Though her wrist was throbbing, she snatched up a loose rock and wailed him so hard in the ear that she heard the crunch of skull. 

He fell, rolling to the side, but still snarling and flailing. Jimian drove her blade into his chest once, twice, and then sliced off one of his hands. Her shoulder ached anew, and she ignored it as she cut his neck once again, and still, he kept fighting. He caught sight of Lariette with his dead eyes, seeming to notice her for the first time, and he lunged.

It was just the opportunity Jimian needed. She retrieved her sword in a motion so fast it was hardly human, and a sickening, wet thud filled the cave when the man’s head was severed and dropped to the floor. In an instant, his body collapsed, blood running from the stump like a spring river. 

____________

All writing found at Ajdodgecreations is © AJ Dodge/Ariel Durkee 2016

Lesbian Warriors and Priestesses.

A few years ago, a writer came to my school to talk to us about her work. At this point in time I had finished the second draft of my first novel, which features two brothers who are at war, Kelson and Avedis, as the main characters.

This author, whose name I shamefully cannot recall, seemed to be a radical-leaning feminist, though she did not name herself as such. I was lucky enough to have a studio session with her, but it was one that left me feeling confused and a little patronized. There wasn't time for her to actually read any of my writing, so I could only give her a quick synopsis of what the book is about. After the conversation with her, I remember feeling rebellious but also a bit disillusioned. 

She asked me why my main characters weren't female. I couldn't give a good answer. Back then, I was so far in the closet I couldn't even coax myself out, and I had this sort of fascination with male characters. I thought they were deeper by nature, more interesting in the contrast that the men I knew in daily life often hid their emotions. Women were too soft, delicate, accessories to characters rather than characters themselves. I liked to write male characters who laid themselves bare on the page, and thought I was getting at something with that.

As it turns out, a character's 'maleness' isn't something that should be glorified, in my opinion. 

The second point that this writer brought up to me was that slavery is little-addressed in modern fiction, despite the fact that slavery is still a global issue which is practically invisible to us living in the "first world." She asked why I didn't address slavery in my writing, and in my head, all I could think was 'oh I'm not interested in that.' Again, I couldn't give a good answer.

Shame on me, twice.

Years later, this conversation lingers in my mind, and I feel a sort of guilty haze about it. The next year, I discovered radical feminism for myself, and came out of the closet. I don't define myself as a radical feminist, but I am radical leaning in that I don't believe our modern systems of patriarchy and capitalism should be rectified, but rather destroyed. New systems need to be built from the ground up, and this is the idea that inspired my most recent series, "Anthology of the Cold Night." 

This series, as it stands, features 5 short stories and a novella which I am still writing. This series has almost exclusively female characters, and addresses the issue of slavery and trafficking, especially that of sex-trafficking. I am aware that authors should not be preachers, and that is not what I am aiming for in this story of lesbian warriors and priestesses. Although both women and men are victims of sex-trafficking, it is statistical fact that women suffer more for their sex/gender than men do. Any strides taken to give women more freedom will inherently benefit men, too. That is what I want to show in my stories. Almost every woman I know has been raped or sexually assaulted/aggravated by a man in their life. That is something that NEEDS to be addressed in current media. 

A lot of writers are afraid to brand themselves as feminist or gay writers. I strive to brand myself as a lesbian feminist writer, because I know how desperate I feel when I pick up a book that seems to have a strong female lead in it, and the heartbreak that comes over me when she loses every sense of autonomy and sleeps with and then bows down to the men in the story. (I would like to iterate here that gay, and trans men and women are not included in this generalization). 

So while I don't want to rewrite my first novel, I have drafted it not only include more female characters, but to expand on the ones who were there already. My future endeavors go forth with feminism and slavery at the forefront of my mind, and I encourage any female/lgbt+ defined writers to embrace these ideas. 

As always, I am open for discussion and thoughts about this. Stay tuned for a small excerpt of the Wolfena novella, and thank you to anyone who has read this.