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The Writer’s Voice Blog Contest Entry

  Posted by MarcyKate , 03 May 2012 · 511 views

http://1.bp.blogspot...00/The WriterSo there’s this thing going on called The Writer’s Voice (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, read all about it here) and not surprisingly, I’ve entered Posted Image The First part is to post your query and first 250 words on your blog for public feedback and preliminary judging. So, please help me out and let me know what you think of MONSTROUS!
Most people remember their first crush, first kiss, and first day of school. Kymera remembers none of that.
But she’ll never forget her first breath.
When Father recreates her from the parts of her broken body, the wings of a raven, the tail of serpent, and a cat’s razor-sharp vision, he gives her life without memories or pain.
But not without a mission.
Kymera knows who murdered her. A wizard in the city of Bryre who’s sacrificing the girls of the countryside one by one. He’s monstrous and now Father has created a monster to stop him.
Kymera sneaks into Bryre each night, rescuing the captive girls and doing her best to avoid the city’s human inhabitants. Then one night she meets Ren, the king’s page boy, and her resolve weakens. Her nightly missions take on a dual purpose—save the other girls and steal a few moments with the boy who has yet to see her without her cloak.
As she lingers each night, Kymera begins to overhear things: a snide remark about Father, rumors of a hideous beast, and whisperings of a black market dealing solely in live, human goods. Ever since that first breath, she’s known exactly who she is, but now she’s forced to ask who’s the real monster here—the wizard, her father, or worse, herself?


I will never forget my first breath. Gasping. Heaving. Delicious.
When I opened my eyes, the colors of the world swarmed me, filling up all space with hues and objects for which I had no name.
Three seconds later, I passed out from sensory overload, or at least that is what Father says. He fixed me up and when I woke the second time, the world became a more comprehensible place. The object hovering over me was a face, the circles within it were eyes, and the warm, wet drips leaking from them were tears.
The crease across the bottom that widened under my gaze was a smile.
“You’re alive,” Father said.
Even now, hours later, he mutters it still.


I lean back against the willow and hold out my arms, studying them under the waning sunlight. The thin red lines marking the sections of my body have faded to nearly nothing. All that remains are the many shades of my flesh and the tiny metal bolts fastening joint to wing, tail to spine, and neck to shoulder.
Father, his silver hair flapping in the summer breeze, lays out logs and strange metal pipes in the field. They will be used for my training. He has not told me what I am training for, only that he will when I am ready. He waves when he notices me watching.
I am sure I will be ready soon. Father is astonished at my progress.


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