Hello everyone!

It’s week 5 of Writer In Motion and time for another revision. A few days ago I dissected partner critiques to help set a navigational guide to this story’s stronger path. Each of my lovely critique partners had such a different perspective that it was tough to get all the elements in sync. What finally popped out of 2D space is a little different than the original draft, but the hope is that Khalon’s purpose on Ketoshé 12 is a much stronger tale.

FIRE & WHISKEY

Captain Khalon Riyath held a hand to his gut’s ripped flesh, hankering for a shot of whiskey. Blood leaked against his palm. He ignored the pain and stumbled across a wasteland of rock and broken machinery. Shit, he might die today.

His fault, of course. He’d picked a fight with the wrong bastard, one of his award-winning traits. “I just had to open my mouth.”

If he couldn’t finish this mission, his ship would hit the scrapheap. Khalon and his crew would be grounded on this hunk of rock with only a small scout craft that couldn’t carry enough fuel to make the next station.

The guard’s red skin pulsed and spluttered as he limped faster. Clawed hands clutched Khalon’s gun with fingers too fat to pull the trigger.

Khalon gripped the Adaran, a silver dagger engineered with the prison planet’s atmospheric shield code. The dragons bound to this would could never leave, and he needed their technology to fix his ship.

Hopefully without them noticing.

But even their tech wouldn’t work until he shoved the encoded dagger into the Tahira, a large orb of decayed bone with the taint of rotten flesh clouding the air.

“Captain,” the strained voice blared through his wrist comm. “We’ve got vultures on our ass. Hang tight.”

“Damn salvagers.” Mercenary drift crews who’d slice apart a starship with its occupants still on-board. No wonder his team was late.

A hundred more yards would see his part of the job done, but cold already settled into his skin. This walk might well be the last time he ever stood.

Claws scraped the ground behind him as the guard drew closer.

He clenched his jaw and shuffled faster. Nothing stood between him and the Tahira but harsh brown rock. “Gotta earn that bottle of whiskey.”

Crack!

Pain sliced through his leg. Fuck, the bastard must have nicked the trigger. Khalon sank to his knees, blood pouring from his thigh.

He’d never make it now.

The guard squealed like a pig in heat.

Khalon cursed under his breath. “I ain’t dead yet.”

The cries cut to silence, only the sterile wind blowing across the landscape. Khalon glanced over his shoulder.

A giant shadow clutched the guard in its jaws and tossed the red-skinned bastard against a rocky column. Leathery scales glistened from onyx to indigo to deep wine along the length of its neck. It stretched its wings, stirring up a cloud of sand.

Khalon choked on the grit. He wanted his damn gun back, but it lay somewhere beneath the dead guard.

The dragon’s mouth opened to rows of long, razored fangs.

“Ah fuck.”

The thing couldn’t wait five minutes to make him dinner. Khalon gripped the Adaran and stood once more, the creature’s vivid blue eyes reflecting the same glow as the jewel in the Adaran’s hilt.

“At least I’ll die on my feet.”

With the speed of a viper, the dragon bit Khalon and yanked him into the air.

Pain ripped through his body as he roared into the slimy gullet. Khalon slammed the Adaran’s sharpest edge into the dragon’s gravelly tongue.

Muscular flesh pulsated, pulling him deeper into the creature’s throat. Khalon clutched the knife, but ooze slithered between his fingers and he lost his grip.

He dropped into the stomach.

Cold rippled through the pain faster than he could form a coherent thought. Pinpricks of indigo bioluminescence sparked along a meaty fold, creating swirled fissures with each soft hiss.

Khalon pressed against the thick flesh, searching for an escape. Indigo flames licked along his arm toward his wound, shifting to a deep whiskey color.

Fuck, could he use a drink right about now.

Heat seared into his gut, stitching flesh with stinging pain. He curled into a ball and clawed at the creature’s stomach, gasping for breath.

“On our way, captain.” His pilot’s voice sharpened through the comm. “Those trash buckets won’t bother us again.”

“Too late,” he muttered. Not like anyone heard him. Khalon couldn’t reach the comm to respond. Half-gutted, shot, and eaten, the pain fled his body as his clothing burned to ash.

In his mind’s deepest shadow, something alien stirred—fear and heartfelt resignation.

Muscles contracted.

He pounded against the insides, his feet rising higher. Khalon dropped to the ground. Gritty sand covered his cheek as he gasped for air.

The dragon backed away, its wings spread as if to strike again.

Khalon had never wanted to shoot anything so bad, but he spied the Adaran a few feet away. Its jewel pulsed with blue light.

Cold air blew over naked skin, chilling him to the bone. He grasped the device and pushed to his feet, a thousand questions about why renewed strength flowed through his veins.

Khalon glanced at his gut, healed as if he’d never been injured. Black tattoo-like symbols trailed down his chest.

Time to find answers later as he had a mission: return the Adaran to the Tahira. Free these winged bastards and scour the planet’s surface for the parts he needed.

His leg healed from the gunshot wound, Khalon brushed away the last of the whiskey-colored flames and strode across the sand.

The bone-carved orb lay derelict on a craggy rock. He traced his fingers over a small slot on its flat surface.

Light blasted through gaseous orange clouds near the horizon. His ship.

About fucking time.

He slammed the Adaran into the slot. Blue light zipped from the dagger in a dozen directions, illuminating symbols around the bony orb. Fissures opened along the sand.

The dragon roared and launched into the air, a whisper of alien deference prickling Khalon’s head.

Crashed starships and broken machines began to glow in the distance and Khalon pressed the button on his comm, flames sparking where his fingers touched metal. “Twenty minutes ago would have been a great time to land.”

Now for repairs and a bottle of whiskey, once he slipped into a fresh pair of pants.

Afterthoughts

This week I struggled a lot to pull all the components of this tale together. Part of the reason is I fell a little under the weather so my focus was about a hundred miles away. The other part is that every time I’d pull a few lines together it always sounded wrong. Off-beat. Pinpointing the trouble spots led to more wonky lines until I was so close to the words I couldn’t see the story anymore.

It’s the same thing that happens when I’m editing a novel to send off to critique partners . . . I want it to be perfect. This story doesn’t feel that way yet, and I’m starting to hate it a little bit. Again, all part of my process. Soon I will love this story again . . . it just needs one more little shove.

Thankfully, I don’t have to look at it for a day or two as I wrap this story up in a pretty floral bonnet, shoot it off to my editor, Carly Hayward of Book Light Editorial, and let it misbehave on her laptop. Shiny!

Keep following the journey

Keep your eyes on my blog as I continue my journey in the coming weeks. And don’t forget Melissa and I are also giving away prizes. Don’t forget to sign up and follow this blog for your chance to let us dig into your work.

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K.J. Harrowick is a freelance web developer and graphic designer with more than a decade of industry experience on a diverse range of projects. As a child, she fell in love with fantasy worlds like those found in the books of Andre Norton and Mercedes Lackey, which continued well into adulthood with the worlds of Ivan Cat, Rand & Robin Miller, Terry Brooks, Orson Scott Card, and E. R. Mason. She began to world build and create fantasy languages in 2004, and in 2014 it became a full-blown passion to write and publish her own books. Currently she resides in the rainy Pacific Northwest where she works with a broad range of client projects, plots how to destroy her characters’ lives, and occasionally falls down rabbit holes.

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