Official Writer

Good news, everybody! As you might have picked up on through my Wednesday post, my short story was accepted for my college's anthology of creative writing! I had been told it was rejected, so it was a pleasant surprise when I was told on Tuesday that my complimentary copy was ready. I've posted the story here before, so I'm not going to post it again. If you want to read it, just go to the writing tag at the side of the page. It should be near the end.

Anyway, I'm almost done with my school year, so that means I just have a few more assignments to finish up. That's revising one essay, two children's literature short stories, one speculative fiction short story and all my poems, then I have to final exams, and I think that's it. So close! But I should get onto those revisions now.

The Facebook Community

While on Facebook, I generally post status updates that are meant to amuse people. I hate when people post statuses about being sad, or angry, so I like to kind of counteract them. So, here is a brief overview of my status updates and the amount of likes I've gotten for each.

March 26th, 8:00 pm

I find it rather entertaining that I got 9 likes for my status update about my exercise while getting cookies, then only five likes for my announcement about being published in Pearls.Got your priorities straight, I see.

Six likes

March 26th, 7:00 pm

Brain, what are you doing? You still have several more weeks before you're allowed to turn off!
Well, so much for writing an essay today.

Three likes

March 26th, 4:00 pm

So... Apparently I actually was published in Pearls 32... Surprise!

Six likes (Amount of likes for this post went up after posting the above status at 8:00 pm)

March 25th, 10:20 pm

It's probably not a good idea for me to be doing homework after 10:30.

It took me several seconds just to remember the word Thesaurus so that I could look up a different word I needed.

Four likes

March 22nd

Note to self: Never write an essay on something you're actually interested in. It will become less and less interesting the more books you read on it.

Four likes

March 21st

Everyone keeps posting about their workouts, and I'm just like, "I walked all the way down stairs to get myself two cookies, then walked all the way back up the stairs."

Nine likes

March 18th

When I came home from school I noticed a key hanging on the back of the door. On it is a tag that says 'Mens Washroom'. This is the key to the Mens' Washroom at my dad's work.

He is gone until Friday...Well shit.

Three likes

March 14th

So according to Brittney, rams go boom.

Two likes

March 11th

Renewing my passport and it asks for my hair colour.

It's really sad when you can't really pinpoint the colour of your own hair...

Three likes

February 9th

First day of working in Starbucks and I didn't break anything.

Success!

Ten likes

January 30th

Teaching myself the Hylian alphabet.

It's pretty damn hard. =/ A and M look like an H, F looks like a pregnant lady, G, P and Q look like a Cyclops, K looks like an L, L looks like a J, N looks like a lower case H, R looks like either a D or a fat P, Z looks like a lower case D and the exclamation point looks like a J.
I'm having fun. =]

Six likes

Some of my status updates also included pictures or links, which I'm too lazy to include at the moment. Maybe for another blog post later on. I should also mention that I only have 76 friends, because I prune my friends list twice a year, so I consider I'm doing fairly well with my likes. 

The Hero of Time is Failing

We need help! Go here and vote for Link! As of 10:00 am on Monday, March 25th, he's barely in the lead. Voting ends at 2:00 pm this afternoon. And you're able to flood the vote, so vote as many times as you can until it tells you to cool off and locks you out of that one poll. And if you really want to help, vote for Bilbo Baggins so that Link doesn't have to go up against Harry Potter. Bilbo still needs about 1,000 votes before he can beat Harry though, so spam spam spam!

I'm also voting for Rand Al'Thor (although I like Aragorn better. The Wheel of Time is my favourite book series however, so Rand is getting my vote), Gandalf, Eowyn, Arya Stark (I REALLY want her to beat Hermione), Mulan, and Daenerys. Unfortunately, Mulan and Daenerys have no chance, and Arya is barely hanging in there.

Rain and Snow and Sun

I don't have much time to post anything too fancy, since I'm busy working on two essays that are both due next week. For now I just wanted to say that the weather where I am is crazy. Ever since yesterday it's been alternating between rain, snow and completely clear skies. At the moment we are stuck under a huge grey cloud, but to the south you can see nothing but blue skies. In fact, just a ten minute rive from here it's perfectly sunny. You can actually see people wearing sunglasses while walking in a cloudy area because the change is so sudden.

And now, back to school stuff.

Matrix Magazine Review

Today I have a presentation for my Advanced Poetry class on Matrix Magazine, and since I have no stories or poems to give you, I figured I'll tell you my opinion on the magazine.

First off, you should know that they print 'different' and 'quirky' works, which can include poetry, short stories, drawings, photographs, or even reviews. Anything that can be put into print, they will print. However, to get your piece into the magazine, you need to either have been published before, or catch the attention of one of the editors, since publication is all by invitation. I'm not really sure if I like this, a it really limits the submitted work. I know there are plenty of very talented poets and writers out there that remain obscured. They may be published, but there is a very slim chance that Matrix would ever find them. However, it would also limit the submissions that the editors have to go through, not to mention I'm sure they are meticulous about who they do invite.

No matter how one gets published, the work that's printed is amazing. I was reading it last night, and unfortunately my brain was not functioning at 100%, and I was fairly tired, so I only got half way through. I can say that I was especially impressed with John K. Samson's work. Many of his poems published in this magazine are strictly structured, something that I find difficult to do, and I know many people in my poetry class struggle with. An although I have not gotten to this part in the magazine, while flipping through I found an amusing section called "What Rappers Are Saying" by Jonathan Ball. As the title suggests, it's about songs preformed by rappers and what they are saying. I'm not particularly fond of rap music, but this looks interesting, so I'll skim it later.

Now the art work in my edition (edition 94) is both beautiful and kind of disturbing. The cover is amazing. It feel like it's supposed to be an optical illusion, but everything looks normal... The details are very impressive, down to the minute figures standing in the windows. On the inside, however, there are little illustrations that kind of remind me of Tim Burton. They're so jumbled up you can stare at them all day and still not be too sure what they're supposed to be. From the looks of them, they're all drawn using one line, without lifting the pen off the paper, except for the occasional small detail. Unfortunately I cannot find any of the drawings on the internet, and I don't want to take a picture, so you'll just have to take my work for it that they're impressive. I will, however, post a picture of the cover art.

Sorry for how blurry it is. If you look up Matrix Magazine on Google Images, a bunch of half nude women come up, and I didn't want to sift through them to find a better quality picture...

Cold Neck

After many months of growing my hair out, I finally got it cut today. I normally give my hairdresser a vague description of the length I want, then let her go to town on my hair. Since I take my glasses off while she cut it, I can't see a thing. Actually, the blurs that I see make it look like I have very little hair. So it's always fun when I can put my glasses back on and see what she has gone. I feel like the person in What Not To Wear after they get their hair styled. Anyway, this is what I got this time. I think it's my favourite short hair style so far.

I apologize for the terrible quality, and my nearly-glowing skin. I'm facing the window and I'm too lazy to close the blinds. It's actually a bit longer near the bangs, but the tips got a little washed out from the light...

Passport... Almost

Today I woke up really early (7:30) to go to the passport office to try and get it renewed. Apparently I needed my birth certificate, which I thought I had lost a few years ago. Ends up I've had it in my room the whole time. But now I need to go back on Friday.

And that's how I started my day.

Other than that, I have nothing of interest to report on. I don't have any new poems or short stories, since now I'm just working on essays and projects for my classes. Next Wednesday, or maybe even Monday, I should have a fairly long poem, which will also be my last piece of school related work for this semester.

Anyway, I'll leave you with a picture I had made a couple years ago for my photography class. I posted it on r/books on Reddit, but they didn't seem to like it all that much...

Poison Song Part 2

((On Friday I posted the first chapter of Poison Song, so here is the second chapter. After this, I might not have any more writing or poetry until next week, since I have to work on essays and boring stuff like that.))

“Arica! How many times do I have to have you called for breakfast?” Annette’s voice was followed by a rapid knocking on her door.

                Arica groaned and sat up, her mind still fuzzy from lack of sleep. For the past three nights since she had arrived here, she had had the same dream. Every time the figure with her mother’s face would appear and give her cryptic messages. This past night it had sounded urgent, and when Arica begged for more information, it had gotten angry and flew right through Arica before vanishing. It left a chill in her that didn’t go away even after waking up and pulling more blankets on.

                “I will be right out,” she called to her aunt as she climbed out of bed and grabbed a change of clothes from the closet. Tired of seeing her wearing old dresses, Annette had given here several new dresses, along with a couple pairs of breeches and some plain white shirts. Although the woman disapproved of females wearing pants, she had agreed that it was almost impossible to ride a horse in skirts. Arica shed her night gown and pulled on a pair of breeches, followed by a shirt, then bound her hair back with a ribbon and left the room.

                “About time. It is disrespectful to leave anyone waiting,” Annette said when Arica entered the dining room.

                She looked at her aunt and pursed her lips. She had gotten used to seeing the strange white figure hovering near the woman’s side. It had not taken her long to realize that Annette was the one who she had to keep the ‘thing’ away from, but had yet to figure what exactly the ‘thing’ was. She sat down and silently loaded up her plate with bacon and fruit.

                “After breakfast, can I take one of the horses out for a ride?” she asked before picking a piece of bacon up with her fingers and biting into it.

                Annette’s eyes widened at the blatant disregard for manners. “You may take one of the older horses out.”

                “Thank you!” Arica finished off the piece of bacon and grabbed a few strawberries before bounding to her feed and heading for the door, leaving her aunt sputtering in shock.

                The groom in the stable gave her a horse so old it didn’t look like it would survive a long ride.

                “Don’t you have anything better?” Arica asked as she looked around the barn. Most of the horses were out in the field, but there were a few younger looking ones inside.

                “Sorry, the master has made it very clear that no one is allowed to ride the good horses unless they’re properly trained.”

                “That doesn’t seem like something my uncle would say.”

                “Uncle? Oh no, it’s your aunt. To tell the truth,” he paused and looked around, then leaned down to speak more privately, “she rules over him. He barely makes any choices around here.”

                “She has him on a shorter rein than a willful filly,” Arica muttered in agreement, then pulled herself up onto the back of the old horse. “I’m going West. If I don’t come back before sundown, come looking for me.” She kicked the horse into a trot and headed for the surrounding forests.

                After several hours of riding, the horse plodded listlessly and Arica let it go where it wanted. It felt like she had ridden through the whole forest, but every time she started to turn back home, a new path would catch her attention. They were riding along the main trail now, and a small break in the trees up ahead promised another new path. It was barely more than a game trail, and looked like it had not been ridden in years. Still, she nudged the horse forward, pushing aside branches and the occasional spider web until the path opened up to a clearing. On the other side it dropped down in a cliff, with the rest of the forest stretched out below. Arica dismounted and cautiously stepped up to the cliff to look down. A sense of vertigo overtook her and she stumbled back.

                “Fear of heights,” a soft voice chuckled. “How ironic.”

                Arica spun around to find the source of the voice, but couldn’t see anyone. “I’m not going to learn anything if you don’t tell me!” she shouted. A flash of light behind her made her turn again, and to her amazement, the sky had taken on the same fire-like aspect as in her dreams. In the distance a bird flew, a bird much bigger than any she had seen before. It wheeled in the air and started flying toward her. As it got closer she could see the colour of it; a metallic blue. Before it could get close enough for her to make out any more details, though, the sky returned to normal and the bird vanished.

                “Is that the best hint you can give me?” Arica muttered as she remounted and turned the horse back to the main trail to return home.

               

                She entered the house as the sun was beginning to set. From the study she could hear her aunt and uncle talking, but it cut off when they noticed her.

                “You’re dirty,” Annette mentioned, causing Arica to look down at herself.

                “Yes, there were some mud puddles on the trail.”

                “Well go clean up. Dinner will be served soon.” Annette waved her off and returned to her conversation with her husband.

                Arica nodded and climbed the stairs to get changed. As she passed by what she assumed to be a closet, she heard a fluttering sound, like a bird was stuck behind the door, followed closely by a faint blue glow. She hesitated, but compared to all the other odd visions she had seen, a fluttering and a blue glow seemed fairly harmless. She opened the door to find not a closet, but a hallway. It was dark, with no light fixtures except for the glow.

                Down the hallway she found a small room, cluttered with tables, crates and a bed in the corner. On one table she found a strange chemistry set, and although most of the organic material had rotted away, there was still an algae growing in one of the test tubes. But it wasn’t from this that the glowing came. It radiated from an alcove in the wall not far from the bed. Arica had to move a couple crates out of the way to see an old chest sitting in the corner. A rusty lock barely kept it closed, and the lid remained a jar from the base. It was through this crack that the light came, splashing the wall like paint.

                “I think I’ve found it,” Arica murmured as she bent down next to the chest.

                “Be careful. She wants it,” the voice whispered.

                She had to grab the metal base of one of the chemistry sets to break the lock off the chest. It came off with a flying of sparks and a shower of rust. The lid groaned in protest as she lifted it off, and one of the hinges broke. Inside rested the ivory bones of a human skeleton. Arica grimaced, but it was long dead and any hair or skin had long rotted away. It curled around the source of the glowing. As Arica reached in, it started to pulse like a heartbeat, but when she touched it the light faded to barely a glow. She pulled it out, making the skeleton fall into a heap at the bottom of the chest.

                “It’s an… egg,” Arica muttered as she turned it over in her hands. “A massive egg…” She lifted it up for a closer look and the pulsing started again. The pattern reminded her of a song her mother had sung to her when she was a child. She smiled at the memory and tried to remember the words.

        “Close your eyes, when the darkness comes.” The egg quivered in her hands. “The Sun will not rise when the world hums and the earth dies.” She could feel fractures forming under her fingers. “Listen for the drums when the dragon flies, for we will not succumb.” The shell cracked as her voice trailed off, and the light vanished all together, casting the room into complete darkness.

               

((And please bear in mind that I wrote pretty much all of this while sick, so it's not my best work.))

Poison Song

((I posted this same story about a month ago, maybe longer, but I've re-written the first couple chapters for my Writing Children's Literature class. The chapters are very short, as it's meant for young adults on the younger side. For now I'll just post the first chapter, since both together make eight pages on Word, and I don't want to post that much.))

Her parents were dead and she had never met her new family. He aunt and uncle had reluctantly accepted to take her in upon hearing she had been orphaned, but her mother had not talked to her sister and brother-in-law for many years. Arica had heard stories of them, how they had made their fortune breeding and raising horses, while her own family had struggled to make a living in the muddy soil of their farm.

                “Annette,” her mother would say with revulsion, “never cared much for others. She probably keeps her husband on a shorter rein than a willful filly. Don’t expect her to help us out when we need it most.”

                And yet, Arica now found herself depending on them for more help than she had ever expected. They sent a carriage to fetch her from the train station early that morning, and she had been travelling for half the day. As the sky started to darken, she shifted in the seat, trying to get comfortable with the gentle rocking of the carriage.

                Arica opened her eyes to find herself in a wide clearing, standing upon an old stump slimy with age. Movement caught her attention and she looked up. The sky appeared to be boiling with fire, the flames sluggishly twisting and rolling around each other. As she watched, the flames died down and began to retreat to one side of the sky, until they had set like the sun. With them went the light, until a new one sprang up to her left. It revealed a pale face, devoid of all details except two black eyes that seemed to move separately from the swaying of the figure. Arica screamed and stepped back, making her foot slip off the edge of the stump. She hit the ground hard, then scrambled back until her back hit the wood. Another light appeared across the clearing, with the same hauntingly empty face. More and more lights blinked into existence until Arica was surrounded by the ghostly creatures. They swayed as if in a breeze, but otherwise didn’t move, until one of them stepped forward and bent down to look closer at Arica. She shivered and started to close her eyes, because she noticed this one was different. It had long silvery hair, and raised a hand to pull at its face. It came off like a mask, and underneath was the face of her mother, swollen with death and with the same black eyes as all the others. She opened her blue lips, and a low wail came out. The mask dropped from her hands as she raised her arm to point behind her, into the darkness of the surrounding forest.

                Arica woke up with the image still in mind and a sheen of sweat on her brow. She could almost see his mother pointing in the direction the carriage was taking her now. From the widow she could see her new home.

                The carriage stopped outside the house just as the sun disappeared behind it. Upon the front steps stood a couple; a bird-like woman and a pudgy man, both dressed as if preparing to attend a formal event. As she climbed from the carriage, Arica looked down at her simple blue dress. It was stained with mud from working on the farm only days ago, and the fabric was fraying around the hem and elbows. Even her golden hair dimmed in comparison to the necklace of gold and diamonds her aunt wore around her thin neck.

                “So, you are my niece.” The woman even sounded like a bird with her shrill voice.

                Arica politely nodded as she approached the couple. “Yes, I’m Claire’s daughter.”

                “I can see her in you. You both have that… naive look.” Annette scowled before turning to lead the way into the house, with Arica tailing after. Behind them a couple servants grabbed Arica’s belongings to haul it up to her room.

                Inside the house, a grand marble staircase curved up toward the second floor. The servants brushed past her to bring the trunks up them, but Arica paused to admire the luxury. A crystal chandelier hung almost low enough for one to be able to reach out and touch it from the stairs.

                “Stop ogling the light fixture, girl,” Annette snapped.

                When Arica turned to face her, she thought she saw a white figure standing to her side for just a moment. The figure vanished so quickly that Arica was convinced it was just a play of lights, but more movement in the doorway behind her aunt made her doubt. She was told it was an old house; perhaps it could be true what people said about ghosts.

                “I’m sorry, I’m just, uh… tired,” Arica replied distractedly as she tilted her head slightly, trying to see into the room where the figure had appeared. A disapproving look from Annette brought Arica’s attention back to the woman. “Can I go to my room now?”

                “May I,” Annette corrected her. “It’s the second door to the right of the landing.” She gestured toward the stairs as she turned to enter the room where the figure had been.

               

                That night Arica found herself in the same clearing as before, this time standing at the edge. Upon the stump sat the figure with her mother’s face, the mask in her hand. When she saw Arica, she placed the mask back on and stood up.

                “Arica.” Its voice sounded like the wind. “You must find it. Do not let her have it.”

                “Ma? What do you mean? Who are you talking about?” Arica stepped forward, but the figure glided back, keeping the same distance between them.

                “She has forsaken half her bloodline. Only you can find it. Do not let her have it,” it continued as it drifted farther away

                “Ma! What do I have to find?” Arica cried and began to run after it. As soon as she was within reach, it vanished. “Why are you leaving me alone again?” she whispered.

[Insert Title Here]

((Here is about half of my third Speculative Fiction story. It's more of a fantasy historical fiction, so it's a little different, as it required knowing some detailed about Rome. So here you are, enjoy!

P.S. I also really need some help with the title. I wanted to do it in Latin, but nothing has really caught my eye yet.))

                It seemed like the roar of the crowd could be heard from even the distant corners of the capital city of the Roman Empire. Not that anyone would have been in those distant corners. Even the beggars had found their way to the coliseum, where a huge crowd had gathered around the massive structure. On the outside the common people and the poor listened to the lucky few that had gotten a seat inside the arena, cheering when they heard cheering, booing when they heard booing. Among them stalked pick pockets and beggars, though no one seemed to notice. All they cared for was being part of this new attraction.

                Lamia had been found lurking in the shadows, mainly in the poorer sections of the town, though a few had been discovered living among the upper class. They blended in just as well with the humans as the others did with the darkness. They were only found because of the small signs the hunters had come to notice: aversion to silver finery, and rarely leaving their house during the day. At night they would keep fires and candles to a minimum, and often kept dim-witted or unobservant friends, anyone who would not easily notice their odd mannerisms. But when it came to being hunted down, it was the ones that lived with the scum that proved the better fighters, and the noble Lamia were quickly killed off.

                Any Lamia caught was sent to the Coliseum, where they were starved for several days and kept in a cramped cell to wear them out before they were even allowed to start fighting. Many had only faced helpless women or men beaten down by life, and had never held a sword before. The Gladiators, on the other hand, were trained from a young age, and the Emperor had spent a good portion of the city’s funds to equip them with silver-edged swords. A cut from one of those swords would not let a Lamia heal in the same way they would with any other wound. It would fester and burn, and on most occasions the Lamia would not have time to let it heal before that same sword ended their life.

               

                The crowd booed as the Lamia was forced into the sandy arena from one of the secret lifts underground. He blinked rapidly from the harsh sun and quickly retreated into the shadows cast by cloth roof. The gladiator entered through a gate, followed by a roar of cheering. He raised his arms and laughed loudly as he faced the crowd, then turned to search for the Lamia. His gaze rested on the creature, and with an animalistic grin, he strode across the field toward it.

                “I hear they call you Blight. You’ve killed so many of my brothers.” the gladiator shouted above the drone of the crowd. “I’ve been practising on your kin, until I had my chance to face you.”

                Blight shifted his grip on his sword, but didn’t move out of the shadows. No Lamia would last long while being beaten by the sun and a gladiator. “They call me Blight for a reason.” he replied and stretched his dry lips into a smile. The teeth that showed were yellow and crooked, but each one was long and ended in a deadly point. “I think I will call you Balatro.”

                The gladiator scowled as he picked up his pace and began running toward Blight. He raised his sword, and when he was close enough he brought it around in a vicious arc. He showed none of the skill or prowess he would have needed against an opponent trained with a sword.

                Blight jumped back, the blade barely missing his stomach. Another couple steps brought his back against the wall. He feigned terror and crouched down low, his sword up to protect from any strikes from above. Upon seeing this, the gladiator casually raised his sword for a powerful uppercut, but as the weapon began to descend, Blight leaped forward, tackling the man around the waist and bringing them both to the ground, mere inches away from the edge of the shadows. Balatro cursed and flailed with his sword. The edge dug far into Blight’s arm. He echoed Balatro’s curses, then bit deep into the flesh of the gladiator’s neck. The warrior’s words turned into gurgles as he drowned in his own blood, and eventually fell still.

                Blight licked his lips and grinned down at the corpse. “You taste like a week-dead animal.” He spat out a gob of blood before turning to retreat further into the shadows, where he listened to the screaming of the crowd. A couple human slaves appeared to drag the body out of the arena, while several more gladiators arrived to herd him back underground to the cells. He went willingly enough; as long as he didn’t fight, they didn’t kill him. That would be left to the lucky man who bested him in the arena.

                He was locked back in his cell to wait until his next fight. The wooden door was laced with silver, making it impossible for any Lamia to break it down, and the four walls were so cramped that any sudden movements risked burning himself. Blight sat down in the corner to inspect the cut on his arm. It looked like he had been sliced with a hot knife, and although it was red, it didn’t bleed. Despite looking like it had been cauterized, he could already see it growing puffy with infection, and a gentle prodding brought the pain that proved it. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain that radiated from the cut.

                The sound of the door being unlocked woke Blight up. Although he could not see the sky to judge how much time had passed since his last fight, he doubted it had been more than a few hours. His exhausted mind certainly seemed to think it had only been a few minutes since he had fallen asleep. He climbed to his feet, the muscles in his legs protesting; he had been sitting in the same position for too long. 

Headache

I have a new poem! Unfortunately, it's a complete mess, and I don't know how well it'll work here. But I'll try. It's a concrete poem, so that means that half the meaning of the poem, if not more, comes from the shape or the image of it. Since it requires manipulating words in ways that Word does not do, I had to do my poem on Paint. It's rather sad... I don't have any fancy programs for things like this. Anyway, here it is!

                                                                                               Shut up

I didn't add the last two words to the Paint picture, so on Word it looks fine, but I'm not sure how it'll turn out on a blog. Either way, the 'Shut Up' is part of the poem.

Protected

So, I finally went on Reddit and asked some people there how I can protect my work. Someone directed me to a creative commons licence. It's completely free, and it's just a little message that says that the work is protected by the Creative Commons stuff (it sounds more technical), and that all distributions, changes, remakes and all that jazz must be attributed back to me. So that means people are free to use my work, and even change it, as long as it's always credited to me, or more specifically, my blog, since I'm not using my name for this work. Cool, eh? Alright, onto the interesting stuff.

A while back I posted the beginning of a story that I had been working on years ago. I never edited to updted it, so that readers could see how my writing was back then compared to now. However, I'm going to use that same story for the first chapter or two of my Young Adult novel for my Writing Children's Literature class. At the moment I don't have anything written, but I do have a snippet of dialogue that I had to do for an assignment. It's not much, but hey, it might be of some interest.

“So, you are my niece.” the bird-faced woman said as she circled around Arica.

“Yes. Your sister’s daughter.” Arica replied wearily and craned her neck around to follow her aunt’s movements.

“You said your name is Arica? Such a commoner’s name.” she scoffed. “And look at you. You look like you just climbed out of a pig sty.”

Arica looked down at her plain blue dress and slumped her shoulders. “I have not had time to wash up yet.”

“Oh, do not do that.” her aunt tapped Arica on the shoulder and the girl straightened back up. “You are not living on your parents’ farm anymore. You will have to learn to be a lady.”

Arica nodded and shifted uncomfortably as her aunt stepped back to inspect her.

“You are very tall.” the woman commented. “No man wants to marry a woman who is taller than him. It will be hard to find you a husband.”

“Husband?” Arica squawked. “I don’t want to get married. I’m only fif-“

“Quiet. Your voice irritates me.”

Although she looked insulted, Arica shut her mouth.