The Weekly LitWit Challenge 8.0: And now a word from the villain is EXTENDED.
Until Friday, 23 December 2011 to give you time to recover from your office party and the 5 hours of sitting in traffic going to and from the party.
* * * * *
How different would The Lord of the Rings, Othello, The Once and Future King, Sherlock Holmes, Superman, Noli me tangere and Pride and Prejudice be if they were told from the point of view of Sauron, Iago, Mordred, Professor Moriarty, Lex Luthor, Padre Damaso or that bitch Caroline Bingley?
How would the villain view the situation?
Kirill Yeskov retold the epic of Middle Earth from the perspective of the Orcs of Mordor, and George R.R. Martin keeps his fantasy series interesting by having it narrated by both heroes and villains. John Gardner’s Grendel is a retelling of Beowulf from the POV of the monster.
Your assignment this week, should you choose to accept it, is to sum up a novel or play from the point of view of its villain. How would Dr. Valentina Vrandakapoor, Ph.D. in Reptilian Zoology from the University of New Delhi, characterize Darna? What would Karla have to say about the Circus in the Smiley novels?
1,000 words or less, due at 12 noon on Saturday, 17 December 2011. The prize is this huge reference book on Mythology, which is also useful as a coffee table.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
December 12th, 2011 at 10:28
Where can one buy this massive book and for how much?
December 14th, 2011 at 08:22
I will maim for that book, but I can’t think of a villain that I like. Fu Manchu is eenteresting, but I’ve never read him.
@ attorney, used copies of this prize go for around $6. Amazon.
December 14th, 2011 at 13:20
It was a tumultuos 9 years. It was an auspicious beginning and it ended in humility. My decisions were based on circumstances at that time. It was not done out of spite or anger. Those actions were needed to be done – no – had to be done to save my ….
As I sit in my room contemplating on the actions that had led me to my present circumstances, I am only aware that fate is cruel to history changers. My anger and resentment towards those that I have helped in the past have subsided. I fully understand why they have turned their backs on me in my time of despair.
The Chinese astrologers believe that one’s life goes in cycles of 12 seasons. Within these cycles, one’s luck will go up and down. This cycle is necessary so that everyone will have a chance to improve on one’s life and those that depended on him. This is my low cycle period. This too will come to pass.
History has made me a villain. History has made me a decrepit woman made fun by those who are in their high cycle. Even the person who is persecuting me has had his low path in the past. I think he was nearly killed by a bullet. Nearly…
So many things are now dug up and turned around using every word of the law to make it seem logical. People say that Filipinos are easy to forget. Yes I agree. They have a penchant for drama played on the political stage. They are easily swayed by rhetoric that are spoken by persons gifted with the golden tongue.
You see I had to do the things that they are now accusing me. I really have no choice in the matter. When fate puts you in a situation wherein you have no other choice except the path in front of you, you have to take that step.
I have always meditated in those difficult times. No prayed is a better word. And in those trying times a voice from a higher being have always guided me. I don’t want to call him or her God for I really have no proof on that matter. But like all religions of the world, they have always believed in a superior being that is on the side of righteousness. Yes it was the voice of righteousness. Who else could it have been?
It was a choice between doing what I did as against having that pompous dumb ass with all of his charisma leading leading those blind countrymen of mine into sure destruction.
People need to be lead with a stern hand. Leave them on their own and they will go down the road of doom. The ignorant masses do not know what is good for them. I do not want this country of mine to be pulled down a quagmire like those African states that change names & leaders as often as the sun sets.
Yes it had to be done. I am sure of it now. There was really no choice.
As I sit here today, alone, in this small locked room, I am wishing that this burden was not entrusted on my head. Like everyone else I have always wished for a simple life. A farm, yes, a farm. That has always been my wish. A small creek with clear water running through it. Yes, I am seeing it now. Cool clear water on my feet as I sit on its grassy banks. Yes, I wish for that simple life. A cloistered life. Yes that would have been peaceful. Maybe if I did not marry. If only it were that simple…
December 15th, 2011 at 09:17
Snow White, now happily married to Prince Charming but unfortunately an orphan, returns for a visit to the home she grew up in. Her first stop is her stepmother’s chamber. In her heart is a deep yearning to understand why this woman, the closest she had to a mother, hated her so much she wanted to kill her.
In her stepmother’s chamber she finds an old woman, weeping and hugging her stepmother’s beautifully decorated mirror. Snow White recognizes as the long-time cook. She steps forward, meaning to invite the old woman to work for her in Prince Charming’s castle, when she makes a second, more startling discovery.
“You are my stepmother’s mother.”
“You have keen eyesight, my dear. Most people couldn’t tell.”
“I come here hoping to find anything that could explain why she hated me so much. Perhaps you could tell me.”
“Let it go, my dear. You don’t need to know. It’s all in the past.”
“I’m afraid I must insist. If you know, please tell me.”
Exhausted by old age and unhappy life, the woman relents. “Very well then.” She sits on the bed.
“Her father and I were very young when we fell in love. He was the son of the landowner and I was the daughter of the cook in her house. His father would not have approved of me but he was willing to marry me, fight for me if necessary. One day, his father informed him that he was arranging for him to marry another landowner’s daughter, and that to do otherwise would spell financial ruin for the family.
“Your stepmother was born and, like me, grew up without a father. Unlike me, she insisted I told her who her father was, and that I introduced her to him. That would have been impossible. If I had, the family would have banished my mother from the kitchen. It was not easy for women to get jobs nowadays; it was more difficult back then.
“I gave her the name of her father and a mirror. I told her it was a gift from her father. In truth, the family discarded that old mirror. I found it in the bin, cleaned it in the kitchen and brought it home.
“This is that mirror. She had the wooden frame added later. This mirror made her very happy. She thought it was a magic mirror. She said the mirror spoke with her and told her the truth. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was nothing in the mirror but her own reflection. She was talking to herself.
“She saw her father for the first time when your grandfather issued an invitation to all the young women in the kingdom to present themselves in the ball. He was looking for a bride for your father.
“From discarded pieces of cloths, I fashioned a dress for her. She was the prettiest among them, and, I hope you don’t mind me saying, prettier than even your own mother.
“She saw her father present his daughter to your father. Before the end of the ball, the king announced your father had chosen your mother as his bride. Your stepmother was prettier, but she has no royal title attached to her name.
“Twice in the same night, she was rejected, first by her own father then by your father. It was particularly devastating because her father and your father chose her half-sister over her.”
Snow White could barely believe her ears. “Are you telling me my stepmother is my aunt?”
“She is. She never forgave your family, I’m afraid. She had other suitors, some of them from very well-respected families. She rejected all of them. She told them she was betrothed. In her heart she was betrothed to your father.
“When your parents were married, your mother’s family suggested I worked here. The new husband and wife would need a good cook. That was how I came to work here. When your stepmother learned this, she offered to help me in the kitchen. She wore a head scarf and worked quietly. The other cooks paid her no attention. That was why when she married your father, nobody realized she and my daughter were the same person.
“One of your stepmother’s duty was to bring food to your mother, who was then recovering from birth. She might have added some wild herb to your mother’s food.”
Snow suppresses her tears. “Did she poison my mother?”
“I don’t know. I suspect but I don’t know for a fact.
“When your mother died, your stepmother paid a visit to your father to offer his condolences. She was dressed in fine clothes, and presented herself as a childhood friend of your mother. Nobody could have guessed she was lying.
“She had asked me for money for that dress. I refused. She stole the money from me. I didn’t learn about the theft until later.
“Your father asked if he could visit her. She offered to visit him instead, as frequently as he wanted. Not long after they were married.
“I don’t know how and from whom she learned witchcraft. Most probably from my own mother, who dabbled in witchcraft. She continued speaking to this mirror, and in her mind, the mirror spoke back.
Snow White hugs the old woman. “If my aunt is your daughter, that makes us relatives. I want you to live in my castle. I’ve always loved the meals you cook for us, and I’d like to keep eating them.
“Thank you, my dear.”
December 17th, 2011 at 10:39
All I ever wanted was to rule the world of wizards and muggles, together with my faithful minions. To eliminate all mudbloods whose species brought shame to pure-blooded ones; whose bloods are of the very essence and only proof of a true and powerful dark magic.
I loathed my father’s desecrated blood. If not for his lineage, I can simply fulfill my purpose without crossing paths with the boy who lived. The boy who lived, tainted the honor and pureness of being a wizard. His parents were foolish enough to defend him until their last breaths. That Potter boy who is better off buried with his parents’ carcasses. The sight of him makes my blood seethe and my body cringe. I curse the day when I first laid my wand on that frothy boy, who thinks he is better than me, when all he has is my power. His arrogance is like the putrid remains of a doe left to be eaten by maggots. He is nothing but a trying hard copy-cat. Nobody is more powerful than me. That includes his friends, the ginger-haired boy who always wears hand-me-down robes, the so-called brightest witch of her age, muggle-born, little miss mudblood! The Order of the Phoenix who still keeps on making themselves look good despite the fact that they have Sirius Black who was castrated in Azkaban for killing muggles. The old man, Dumbledore who believes that he can snare me using Severus. How absurd! Severus is one of my most trusted minions, but due to his inadequacy and deceitful tongue, I let Nagini feast on his flesh. He lay at the mercy of my darling serpent’s fangs. Pathetic.
Alas, world domination is at hand. No daft-minded creature would dare stop me, for I, Lord Voldemort, Lord of the Dark Arts, am the only viable solution to this troubled worldly existence between muggles and wizards. The co-habitation of two species will be forever my endeavor. My deepest gratitude to my dearest Death Eaters who have been with me throughout the entire process. Lastly, to my seven tickets to immortality, my horcruxes, to which I offered my soul in order to create them, which includes the Potter boy! Shameful indeed but I cannot do something about that unfortunate event until I rip out that boy’s heart from his chest. For when that grim hour comes, justice will be on our side.
Die Potter! Die you filthy mudbloods!
Avada Kedavra!
December 19th, 2011 at 01:27
“An offer you cannot refuse.” I find those words so very cinematic, so very amusing.
But what did you offer me that was not already mine? My own daughter, broken in mind and spirit? You offered the promise of her — not whole, perhaps, but better. She was the ghost at that bridge, hovering over the crossing, the pale cracked shell of a human being that I hollowed out myself, with these hands.
And I took that offer, as you knew I would. We know each other so well. Better than anyone else knows us, better sometimes than we know ourselves.
You and I, dancing cold, breathless, endless loops around each other for years, across countries and continents. Moving our pawns and knights and rooks across a vast imaginary chessboard, watching them fall one by one. If I ever held the advantage, I never had it for long. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s underestimating you. You were always somehow catching up, always somehow sprinting ahead, holding that lead until I wrested it away yet again. Back and forth and forth and back like a two-handed saw. Two old men playing tag, not with the gleeful abandon of little children, but with heavy hands and feet and leaden hearts. Tethered to ideals that time has proven hollow and false: I to my glorious Communist state, you to your shining vision of democracy.
Yet here we are, even older than when we began, and we began already so old. I know you and you know me, but we still can’t read each other. Is it strange that after all those visions, all those secret plans and grand strategies, all those lives traded and lost, we’ve slipped back into our old roles? Me the prisoner, you the interrogator. It’s not Delhi anymore, no damp heat nor stench of curry settling over our clothes and skin. It’s West Berlin, and it’s cold, and we’re surrounded by the smell of that illusion you call freedom. Have you noticed, George? It smells like sausage: all the cast-off bits and white gristle and rancid fat, ground to a pulp and stuffed into a casing. “Vsyak kulik svoyo boloto khvalit” — every sandpiper praises his own swamp. We like to imagine that our ideologies are new, but really it’s the same old steaming pile of rot, the dreck and dregs of history.
But you and I know what it’s all about, don’t we, George? We’ve danced this dance and played this game, and we both know that in the end, it’s the little things that defeat us, our weaknesses and follies. Allelline’s ambition. Haydon’s vanity. Your faithless wife. My broken Tatiana. We have ferreted out these soft spots and used them like knives to slice each other off at the knees.
And yet you have won, my old friend. But of course you have. I’m here, aren’t I? In the end, someone has to bend, and as it turns out, it must be me. I cannot uncross that bridge, unsee my daughter’s ghost. I cannot unsmell the sausage, even if I cannot partake of it.
The guard gave me a gauloise, George. But I don’t suppose you have a light?
December 22nd, 2011 at 23:07
Kinuha ng Intsik ang kargang sanggol ng yaya at inutusan ang yayang ikandado nang maigi ang rehas na pinto sa ibaba. Pinagmasdan nya ang sanggol. Kamukha ni Ligaya maliban sa mga singkit na mata. Namana nito ang kanyang mga mata. Nagtiim-bagang ang Intsik at pilit na pinipigilang tumulo ang mga namumuong luha sa kanyang mga mata. Nag-iisa na naman sya. Bakit ba muhing-muhi at gusto syang takasan ni Ligaya? Di ba nito nadama ang kanyang pagmamahal? Kahit na diring-diri at parang yelo ito sa kanilang pag-niniig, di ba’t ibayong lambing at init ang kanyang isinukli? Kulang pa ba ang mga binili nyang mga alahas, damit at sapatos? Kapag humingi ng pera para sa mga magulang sa probinsya, di ba’t nagbibigay naman sya? Masamang tao raw sya sabi ni Ligaya. Masama ba ang ginawa nyang pagbili kay Ligaya sa may-ari ng kasa at ibahay sya upang magkaroon ng disenteng buhay? Hindi ba si Mrs. Cruz naman ang nanloko at nagbenta sa kanya sa kasa ng mga puta? Bakit sya ang sinisisi Ni Ligaya sa pagkapariwara ng mga nabiktimang probisyana? Ayaw daw sa kanya nito dahil sya’y isang Intsik beho, isang Limahong! Ang sabi nya noon, matutuhan din syang mahalin ni Ligaya. Pero hindi dumating ang panahong yon, bagkos ay napadalas pa ang pagtangka nitong takasan sya. Kaya’t napagbubuhatan nya ng kamay si Ligaya dahil sa bugso ng galit.
Nang magkaroon sila ng anak, akala nya’y magbabago na si Ligaya dahil may anak nang magbubklod sa kanila. Pero lalo lang yatang nasuklam ito sa kanya. Tulad ng suklam na nakita nya sa mga mata ng lalaking tumulong sa pagbuhat ng kabaong sa libing ni Ligaya. Nangilabot sya sa tindi ng galit ng mga matang yon na tila ba sya ang tinuturong pumatay kay Ligaya. Ngunit sanay na sya sa galit na madalas ipukol sa kanya. Sa paningin ng maraming Pilipino, siya’y Intsik na nagsasamantala’t umaagaw sa negosyo ng mga Pilipino. Na tila ba ang sipag at tiyaga, ang pagpupunyagi’t pagsisikap ng mga kapwa nya Intsik ay hindi sapat na batayan upang sila’y magtagumpay. Sila’y mga Intsik na tuso’t mandaraya. Na para bang ang kaawa-awang kalagayan ng mga aping manggagawa ay sila ang may kagagawan. Na ang kabulukan ng lipunan at masamang sistema ng gobyerno’y sila ang may pakana. Sa edad nyang apatnapu’t lima, sanay na sya sa ganitong uri ng diskriminasyon na nag-uugat lamang sa singkit nyang mga mata at kulay-luyang balat. Hindi raw sya kayang mahalin ni Ligaya dahil sya’y isang Intsik! Hindi ba’t sya’y tao ring may karapatang magmahal at mahalin? Magkahalong lungkot at galit ang naghari sa Intsik. Sya’y tuliro at hindi na alam kung ano ang talagang nangyari kay Ligaya. Sinaktan at sinakal nya ba ito nang mahuli nyang tumakas tangay-tangay ang kanilang apat na buwang sanggol? Aksidente bang nahulog sa hagdanan si Ligaya o ito’y kanyang sinakal at inihulog sa hagdanan? Parang nablangko ang isip ni Ah Tek at sya’y litung-lito. Isang bagay lang ang may katiyakan….wala na ang pinakamamahal nyang si Ligaya!
December 23rd, 2011 at 12:10
Maraming salamat, Ligayaparaiso. Matagal na naming pinagtatakhan: Bakit masamang tao ang turing nila kay Ah Tek? Dahil siya ay isang Tsino? Racist kaya ang pelikula ni Brocka?
December 23rd, 2011 at 15:44
My name is Nurse Ratched. I did not always have this constipated look on my face. Once upon a time, I was actually a beguiling woman. Patients and doctors alike swooned over me. There goes that charming nurse, they all said. I know they said that because I know everything that goes on in my hospital. My husband said that too about me, until one of the patients in the psychiatric ward stabbed him in the heart with a spoon. I don’t know what happened to that patient after that. That is the only remaining mystery to me.
When I saw Randle Mc Murphy, I was reminded of the man that killed my husband. They have the same wild-eyed look and the same sausage fingers. I am not frightened of Randle McMurphy, but I do wish he would stop talking. When he does not, I simply send him to the electroshock therapy room. It is a very efficient procedure, electroshock therapy. Or, being the angel of mercy that I am, sometimes I just feed him pills. Pills are your friend, I tell my wards. Look at poor Billy Bibbit, the stuttering boy. He used to wet his pants but he is not so naughty anymore when I come around.
I suppose I will just have to remain stern. I am, after all, their mother here. Don’t mothers know best for their children? Sure Randle may have strangled me, but don’t all children strangle their mothers once in a while? I know my Uncle Tom laced his mother’s coffee with arsenic, but he said he was just joking. Anyhow, if all else fails, there’s always lobotomy.
December 23rd, 2011 at 15:47
So, yes, I’m still alive. I never did trust Montag with the flame thrower, the fool had always been wishy-washy and careless. He thinks he’s disposed of me that easily, I think not. Ten years and the poor chap still can’t remember the difference between singe and char in our handy-dandy igniters. Come to think of it, why do our igniters even have a singe option, when we’re supposed to burn without any doubts? Well, we like to tease a little, that’s why.
I might have shrieked and flailed that blazing night in front of his house, but that was just purely for effect. Even the curling up like a spider. We all wore fireproof suits, hello, and in my case, a mask too. Nowhere did it say we were supposed to have a mask. I’d often wondered why the bureau made such a big deal out of our 451-emblazoned helmets, but never did provide us a lousy mask.
Anyway, Montag, for all his apparent fiery hard work and loyalty, was never the bright boy I could count on. I was getting fed up with his wait-my-conscience-tells-me-something routine, him hesitating on the front steps, going rigid like a lollipop, pause-freeze-about-face, oooh, that just grates my nerves. He always had this Oh-Captain,-I-think-I’m-gonna-go-soft-again-like-last-time-can-we-at-least-spare-this-one-here? look about him, though, of course, he never let me in on his thoughts. As it is, the wobbling train would just meekly set his path aright in its appointed tracks, scorch this and that, no questions asked, the shmuck.
If Montag had only said something, anything, then quite possibly I would have gladly connived. What are friends for, if not for that? Then maybe we’d even have a grand time dropping quotes at each other like breadcrumbs, let’s see you chomp on this!, that sort of thing. Not surprisingly, Montag never caught on, nor even suspected, never gasped Why, Isn’t our beloved Beatty just a tad too flowery-mouthed for a Fire-Captain. That kind of thing never occurred to my men, or Montag for that matter, what with their endless poker. And yet he claims he’s had several life-changing epiphanies in the span of a week. Epiphany my ass.
Hell! We weren’t really supposed to burn everything in sight. Number 3 was a typo. The damn rulebook was laminated, and we were just too lazy to scratch or tape the all-consuming clause over. But in retrospect, it should have read, Burn everything that has cleavaged women and muscled men in all sorts of embrace and pretzels of entanglement while in period costumes on the front cover. Also Anything Chick Lit.
As you can see, Number 3 was quite a mouthful, and there was no way we could fit that on a Scotch Tape without eclipsing Number 4, (Reporting back to the firehouse) which is inarguably more important and stress-free. Number 6, by the way, is Encourage the crowd to swarm and rubberneck closer, which we can safely afford to do so without fear of the public getting addicted to the whiff since we’re burning books here not confiscated marijuana. (Chief Wiggum and his men over at Springfield serve as a fine example of this accidental public drug abuse.)
So, why Chick Lit and Romance Novels, you ask? Oh I don’t know, I’ve never been the postmodern kind. I know we’re supposed to be so tolerant these days, be gentle and understanding, make no self-righteous distinctions between Literature with a capital L and a small l because hell!, variety makes the world go round, but I just can’t turn a blind eye. My guilty little stubborn head just won’t let me accept that trees are getting killed for that kind of trash, with a capital T.
Why the other day, I met a man who I suspected was yet another human-repository of a novel. A hit one, in his poor sad case. He was solemnly mouthing the sentences to get it in his head (and here I turned on my recorder): For several years, my biggest personality trait was going to be thirsty. It would take some time before I could be me again. And even when I was in control of myself, I would never feel exactly the way I felt now. Human…and passionately in love. I wanted the complete experience before I traded in my warm, breakable, pheromone-riddled body for something beautiful, strong…and unknown. I wanted a real honeymoon with Edward. And, despite the danger he feared this would put me in, he’d agreed to try. Beautiful, strong, and… unknown. Ha!
Imagine if your fate was to memorize this novel because the good ones had all been taken? So the only remedy, in the kindly words of the Cigarette Smoking Man, Burn it!
One more thing, this janitorial work of ours obviously is for the OC, seeing that fire is quick, efficient, antiseptic, dust to dust, etcetera. But if we’re going to be real troopers in the OC department, then we might as well go for something less smoky and more environment-friendly, since we’re in the act of sparing trees from badly-written novels anyway. Fire is so overrated these days. So shred the books first, then add to compost. The compost is self-heating, and temperatures can go as high as 135?F, (not as high as 451 evidently) but you still get the dust-to-dust aspect afterwards.
But Montag can’t even work his igniter properly, so I doubt if he’ll get his Nitrogen to Carbon ratio right.
December 23rd, 2011 at 16:55
As a child I had one goal: Find the truth about my parents.
In a world where honor is measured by wealth, it is difficult growing up without a father to teach you how to acquire it and a mother to teach you how to sustain it.
While all the kids are hunting, selling and acquiring gold, I was at home poking sticks at animal carcass pretending a game of hunt.
I grew up with an uncle who cared very little about me and was keen on keeping my parent’s whereabouts a secret.
My first information about my parents came from giants who shun me for reasons I did not understand but what I heard was enough to send me scurrying back to my uncle.
Is it true that they are dead? I asked. He pretended not to hear and that was the end of it.
That night I had a dream. It was a house that I have not seen but somehow I knew I had been there. There was a woman’s voice and I knew it was my mother: Inside this house all your questions will be answered.
How will I get there? I asked.
I’ll show you…
The house stood alone on a hill. I hesitantly opened the door and went inside. It didn’t take long for me to find what I should be looking for. In the center of the room is a book lying on the floor among dirt, cobwebs and broken furniture. I opened it and on the first page I got acquainted with a human named Jack.
*****
Jack stumbled to our house and Tyrene suspected that there’s a human somewhere. He thought I cooked a human for his dinner tonight. I never lied to him before but I sort of like this human. He is a good boy from what I gather from his stories and I’m sure he will not cause any trouble. I know that’s Tyrene’s favorite but surely I can get another human some other time.
I kept looking at where I hid him while Tyrene was eating. I was nervous and sweating a lot.
I led him to bed when he fell asleep counting money. I gave Jack the signal. He knew what to do, he seems smart.
—-
Tyrene and I had a fight. He lost some gold coins and I said surely you can earn some more. He looked at me angrily and complained that it is not easy to earn at these times. The number of hunters is growing every year and competition is tougher.
We exchanged a few harsh words but after a while he calmed down and said he just wants our baby to have a good future.
That night I thought about the gold coins. It must have been a coincidence; maybe Tyrene had lost it somewhere or had counted it wrong. But still I can’t help but wonder if Jack had stolen it on his way out.
—-
Tyrene came home very excited. He captured a hen. A hen? What’s so exciting about that? Then he said: Lay!
—-
Jack came back. I almost threw him in the pan. But he said he never stole anything from us. He was a sweet talker and in the end he got me convinced. Same as before, I was entranced by his stories and I was able to hide him the last minute before Tyrene arrived. He smelled Jack again but I was able to distract him by serving him his food. After eating he brought out the hen.
I got nervous immediately and I glanced at Jack’s hiding place and I saw his eyes flicker with interest.
When Tyrene fell asleep I pretended to go to our room. I just had to know. I hid behind a cabinet and saw with disappointment Jack stealing the hen. I should have captured him. I could have captured him if I only I wasn’t so distressed.
—-
There’s no one else to blame but myself. I trusted him too much and I was too emotional to do anything when I had the chance. And now Tyrene is dead. That Jack is very cunning and I hate that I fell for his tricks. Now I am left with nothing. My baby will be due in a few months.
—-
News of Tyrene’s death had spread. They were laughing instead of mourning. They learned that a human had killed him — a single human. We had been branded as weak. My poor baby scorned before being born.
—-
I had no choice but to seek Tylese’s help. I know he still hates me for loving his brother instead of him but my only concern now is this baby’s future. I do not have the means to give my baby a good future. He accepted but with a price.
—-
Jack is back
******
I got back at night and waited for my uncle to fall asleep. And then I killed him. I hang his body in front of his house for everyone to see the next morning. It was my declaration that I am not weak and I deserve a place among the other hunters.
*****
I found my mother’s journal 30 years ago. It answered some questions but still left some unanswered: Where is she now? Is she even still alive? If her last entry is any indication, then Jack knows something about it. Alas he is dead. My only hope is his son Jack. I need to think of something to lure him here. But first I need some beans…
******
My darling princess Isabelle, don’t worry your Jack will be coming here to save you.
Both of us will be waiting