Epic Thursday...

It's Epic Thursday again, and this week I'm hosting another of my CP's Angela Parkhurst!


Her Bio:   Angela is a young adult writer, of both fantasy and contemporary . Before dedicating herself to writing, Angela spent her days on stage.  She performed in over thirty theatrical productions, as well as touring in a Broadway theatre group. Italian to the core, Angela loves God, pink (the color), music, Sister Hazel, Disney World, theatre, caffeine and dachshunds. Angela is happily married to the lead guitarist of Particle Blue. Angela is also currently seeking literary representation for her YA Fantasy, CINDERELLA'S GLASS STILETTO.  

Visit Angela at http://angelafrancis.wordpress.com/ and follow her on Twitter at @angela_francis

This weeks excerpt comes from CINDERELLA'S GLASS STILETTO:  When nomad teenager Norah and her suicidal half-sister are sent to a boarding school in Germany, they’re shocked to learn that their classmates are characters from storybooks.

So without further ado, Angela's Epic Quill Scene,

After a day and a half in story book hell, I learned one thing. Princesses were total bitches.

“She doesn’t look like one of us.” Jen’s heavily lined eyes narrowed in on me like a bug she insisted on squashing. She crossed one tan leg over the other, the bright chandelier in the throne room glistened against her gold stilettos. Seriously, what’s with the stilettos? Flats were much more comfortable.

I was way too tired to deal with princess drama. To top off my fabulous morning of being woken up by a gong—yep, a gong, because alarm clocks are old news—I ran into April on my way to class and she blew me off. No hello, nothing.

“I agree.” Claire’s glare matched Jen’s. Lime seemed to be Claire’s color choice and her bracelet said, BELIEVE, over and over again in fancy script. Danielle told me this morning that Claire wasn’t a princess but a fairy. Figuring out “who” wasn’t hard—blonde hair, green clothes, bad attitude. Still, I didn’t know why the hell her mini-self was here and not daycare.

“She’s not pretty enough.” Claire added with a tiny smirk to Jen.

I blanched and opened my mouth to tell her off, but Danielle placed her hands on her hips, not letting their doubts falter her unyielding confidence in me. “Norah is plenty pretty enough, which is why I assumed she’d be a princess. She has the cheekbones.”

“And hair,” Pearl added.

“And lips.”

Jen sneered, refusing to buy their compliments. “Not the fashion sense.”

“Ankle boots are so last season.” Claire’s eyes bore into my Steve Madden boots, which were totally this season. I bought them before coming here. “So is paisley.”

The dress I wore wasn’t couture, but it wasn’t cheap! Man, I wanted to smack the stupid pixie in her tiny face. Black eyes suited blondes so well.

“Ladies,” Danielle drew their attention back to her. “Let’s waste no more time.”

As if this school wasn’t insane enough, now they—people considered to be my peers—were going to figure out where I fit in? Score.

Danielle sat on the throne in the middle of the girls and motioned for me to sit on the lone chair in front of them.

They’d yanked me out of two classes—Transforming Princes into Frogs & Other Nonhuman Forms and Being Evil 101: How to Eliminate Moral Tendencies—classes I’d rather be in because…well, they actually sounded amusing.

A book no thicker than two inches sat on the glass table beside Danielle. The spine cracked opened and Danielle retrieved a quill. The thick, black feather drooped down, showing its age.

“This quill dates back to the beginning of all fairy tales and was passed down from generation to generation to the authors of our lives.” Danielle and the girls stared at the pen as if it were a god to be worshipped, when really, it probably should’ve been tossed out. Who kept quills for so long…better yet, who even used a quill anymore? They were ancient.

“These are our seven ancestors. The ones who started it all.” Danielle motioned to the mural behind them.

To me, there was nothing different. It was like every other painting hung around the school. The girls murmured in a language I didn’t understand, bowing their heads to the seven men and women painted above.

Danielle lifted the quill in the air and their murmurs grew louder. A layer of sweat coated my palm and my leg began to jitter. Without anyone touching it, the quill floated to Beth. She sucked in a breath as the tip pressed into her skin. The scent of burning flesh rose into the air, as did smoke…from her. Ohmigosh. The quill was carving words into her skin.

It didn’t take long. Less than a minute later, Beth held her arm out and spelled in blood was the name, BEAUTY. Shut.The.Front.Door.

The quill danced from arm to arm, spelling out their identities—Cinderella, Jasmine, Tinkerbell, Ariel, Beauty. Each girl took the pain as if they deserved it, as if it marked them as the person they’d soon become. Afterward, pride washed over their tired, pained eyes.

“We suffer unpleasantries to show our creators love and appreciation. And now, you will, as they are the author of your life too, Norah. Today, you’ll learn your true identity. This identity will be your new life. Today, you become reborn.”

Reborn? This sounded like some freaky cult religion BS.

Danielle stepped off the pedestal and walked toward me, the quill laying flat over her palms. No way. No way I’d let her get close to me with that thing.

Before I had the chance to move, the two guards near the door advanced toward me. Their strong hands forced me down in the seat. My throat tensed, like a large golf ball was lodged inside. This wasn’t happening.

“It’ll only hurt for a second, Norah.” A devious grin wiped over Danielle’s withered lips. “We own the blood to our creators.”

“Yeah, but I don’t do blood well…or pain, so we need to…”

The quill leapt from her hand, taking on a life of its own. Unable to register its speed, the tip punctured my skin. I yelped and thrashed up, but the guards were stronger, holding me firm in the seat. Tears seeped from my eyes. The needle tore through my flesh, burning me like a fiery branding iron. The tip traveled, tracing different letters into my skin. A shriek soared from my mouth, a sound so unfamiliar to me, but so was blood darker than I’d seen in my life, pouring from the trail left behind.

The quill left, but the writing didn’t stop. The letters came and went, changing like the symbols of a slot machine. The faster they changed the more the pain increased. My teeth gritted together, a string of curse words flowed from my lips. Panting, I tried to grasp for air, but I couldn’t. The left side of my face numbed. The rusty taste of blood seeped into my mouth when I chewed on my bottom lip, praying for the pain to end.

And it did, like a clock striking twelve, everything froze. My vision blurred, swaying back and forth. Voices hummed like a train far, far away. The people who once held me back were gone. I gasped for a breath and stared at my arm. Nothing. No name, no words, zilch.

And don't forget, it's never too late to volunteer some of your own Epic writings.  Contact me at amclites@gmail.com.