A Dreadful Beauty Excerpt One moment, she had been enjoying the security and comfort of her family home. The next, she was left helpless in a deserted square. An oil lamp rested in Neria's hand. A clay container, filled with a greenish-yellow liquid. A wick, coiled within its heart, snaked up to the groove that guided it into the open air. A flame danced on its tip, a paltry defense against the darkness of that night, one of those gentle nights that often follow the heat of the day. The moon watched her with a wry smile. Neria suddenly felt she was going to collapse, crumpling like a sheet that had fallen to the ground. Without the warmth of the hand curled inside hers, she would have indeed done so. She remembered the last time she had seen Arhel's hand, crimson and reaching out of the covers. Who knew what the disease would do to her? But before she succumbed to it, she would save Anaëlle. She breathed in, then out, and took a step forward. Her aching limbs strained at first, but after a few minutes, she was walking briskly, her head bowed like a servant, the child in tow. First, she had to find the secret passage her mother had told her about and cross the wall of the High District without going through the ever-guarded gates. She came to a dead-end and saw the dried-up well and a withered pistachio tree lined with shrubs of rosemary leaning against the perimeter wall. It concealed a narrow, low opening. She went in first, crawled into a tunnel bereft of cobwebs and emerged behind an olive tree, also surrounded by shrubbery. Crouching down, she peeked between the branches. No one was there. She called to Anaëlle in a hushed voice, the child joining her. They emerged from their cover and arrived on the street. Before long, they had made their way to an impoverished part of town they had never been to before. The hovels were huddled together, separated here and there by narrow, randomly arranged passageways. The first on the left... The second on the right... “Hey there, little lady! Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Three guards had concealed themselves in a nook to drink to their hearts’ content. “Lady Yarine’s sent me on an urgent errand.” She hoped they would be too drunk to do anything and turned away. She tried to maintain her composure, a technique that had worked for her that morning. Yet heavy footsteps came ever closer behind her before her arm was seized by a coarse grip. “You’ve got more than enough time to come give us a little cuddle.” One of the guards looked at her, a yellow smile spread across his brown beard. He reeked of alcohol and nauseating filth. She tried to pull away from him, but his grip tightened. “Stay still or we'll give you a good hiding. It’ll go better for you if you don’t put up a fight, believe me. Leave the kid here and come on.” The two others approached. The lamp fell and shattered. Neria took out her knife and stuck it in the arm restraining her. The guard howled in pain and let go of her. “You’re going to regret that you whore.” The guards now surrounded her. She threatened them with her bloodied weapon. She couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid not to have stabbed him in the stomach. Her assailant barely seemed bothered. She spun around, Anaëlle clinging to her clothes. The girl was sobbing. One of the men drew his sword, “Drop the knife or I kill the kid.” Neria’s hand trembled. The knife fell on the dusty ground with a dull thud. “Run, Anaëlle, get out of here!” The wounded guard threw himself on her, seized her elbow, slipped behind her, and choked her with his good arm. The child, small and spirited, ran away. Just as Neria thought she was going to make it, the man with the sword grabbed her mid-flight. Neria struggled, hitting the arm that choked her. His hold tightened. Her mouth gasped but the air would not come, and her movements weakened. Suddenly, the guard holding her let out a yowl of pain and released her. She collapsed, heavily panting gulps of air on all fours. Her assailant lay there with his throat slit. The coarse, black-nailed hand that moments before had clamped down on her arm now clawed at the earth. The corpse's glassy eyes stared up into the starry sky. His red tongue in his gaping mouth, his fleshy lips, his fat cheeks swallowed by his beard... like a giant sea urchin washed up from the sea, his insides hanging open. A shrill cry rang out and she covered her ears. A monster, half-man, half-beast, had ripped open another guard and had now set its sights on the third. The remaining guard was still holding Anaëlle hostage and keeping the beast at bay with his sword. While the tiger and guard danced their macabre dance, Neria, still on all fours, fumbled for her knife. She grasped its hilt, ran towards the soldier, raising her weapon, a wild howling in her throat. The monster took advantage of the diversion to pounce on its adversary. Neria sheathed her knife, picked up the child who had fallen to the ground, and fled, pursued by screams of agony. A Dream Come True I loved reading and writing from a very early age. In elementary school, I remember writing a poem in which I described, in rhyme, the sunlight shining on the snow… My family complimented me, but I soon realized that writing stories or poetry wasn’t what was expected of me. My aim in school and university was to get a diploma, so I would be able to have a good job and earn a decent living. So, I stopped all my efforts to develop my writing skills, though I did continue on reading. In fact, I never left home without a book. Even now, since I read on my phone, I carry my library with me everywhere I go. It’s amazing and it gives me an inexplicable level of serenity. But this thought of becoming a writer was still sitting on the back of my head and I decided to check back in with my abilities. While I was a student, on a long train ride from Toulouse to Bordeaux, I took out a sheet of paper and a pen to brainstorm an idea worthy of exploration. Nothing came to mind. At least, nothing that warranted delving deeper and eventually morphing into a novel. So, I reached the conclusion that I had no talent as a writer and that I would never be skillful enough to pursue this profession. Years have now passed, I’ve lived in other countries, and have had several jobs. I spent some time painting. This discipline, like any discipline practiced seriously, taught me precision and the search for a harmonious balance. To promote my painting, I kept a blog. At a certain point, I wished, a bit like a classical pianist learning to play jazz, to free myself from constraints. Abandoning methods and technical means, armed with a pencil or a ballpoint pen, I started to scribble on scraps of paper. Monsters appeared for the first time. Unlike humans, who always try to smile in pictures, and showcase ourselves at our best to hide weaknesses and negative emotions, my monsters don’t smile if they don’t feel like it. I decided to write their stories, a short one for each of the paintings. And slowly but surely I began imagining a young heroine growing up in a family of supremacists until the day a disease turns her into one of these persecuted creatures. With just a storyline and a few characters in mind, how did the ideas come to me when I thought I had none? Well, I sat down at my computer for more than five minutes. Even now I dread that floating sensation, that emptiness, that time of latency during which I look at the screen without knowing if the miracle will happen again. The brain spins, searches, weighs, then the inspiration arrives. And if it doesn’t, I scribble what comes to mind. Anything and everything. Truncated, wobbly and unintelligible phrases… But it doesn’t matter. I have to keep the flow moving and I’ll get it right later. For three years, I worked alone. I read essays, tried to learn, and went through some typical steps: first the doubt, then the wonder at a short story or a few well-turned sentences I had just written. After a while, I began to realize that I didn’t understand anything. We imagine artists as isolated, and while it’s true that most of the creative process is accomplished in solitude, everyone needs community and support. After three years, determined to find answers, I was fortunate enough to discover an excellent literary consultant on the Internet. He guided me to rework the story, make it denser and improve my style. He often quotes a phrase from Proust: “The main quality of a writer is courage.” The courage to persevere despite difficulties, to admit mistakes and to ask for help when necessary. The rewriting took a year. Today, I can hold my dream in my hand and I would like to motivate you to pursue yours, not for the money or potential fame, but for the unspeakable joy of seeing it come true.
Author Bio:
L.M. Rapp has lived in different countries and practiced several professions: dentist, web developer, artist, aikido teacher, farmer. Eager to learn and discover, she uses her experiences to enrich her stories. She has also written a thriller, Of Flesh and Tears.
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