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Beauty in the Beast
by Emily-Jane Hills Orford
GENRE: fantasy/science fiction
BLURB:
Priya, a name that suggests beautiful. Amell, a name that suggests all powerful. One is a beautiful young lady; the other a beast. Their paths have crossed before, only Priya doesn’t remember Amell from her past. Or does she? And what does it all mean? The Amell she meets is part beast. So are the others at Castle Mutasim. Is she one of them, too? How can this be? What manner of creature would experiment on other living creatures, to mutate them into something bizarre and, sometimes, downright dangerous? Priya has to know. She wants to know. And she wants to make things right.
Amazon buy link:
https://www.amazon.com/Beauty-Beast-Emily-Jane-Hills-Orford-ebook/dp/B09TH1T6J6/
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Excerpt:
“Wait!” she called out in vain, but it was too late. Her escorts had vanished. She was alone. In the forest. With a strange creature trekking ever closer. She could hear the crunching of underbrush. Was it Roderick? Wayne? Or the unknown? D’Sonoqua? “Wait!” She stood frozen in place. Unable to move. Her weeks of training useless, for here, in the moment of urgency, she couldn’t think of what to do. Mind freeze! Lifting her head slowly, she let out a wail of frustration, the volume of her voice matching the creature in pursuit. The crashing was mere feet away and yet, still, she saw nothing but the forest. The trees. The shrubs. The annoying vines and fallen branches which threatened, and did, trip her. Again.
And, finally, she knew what to do. She ran. There wasn’t room enough to spread her wings and fly. At least, she didn’t think so. Jumping to the lowest tree branch, she used her chimpanzee prowess to grab hold and swing. She gained momentum in the swaying motion and swung herself to the next branch. A little higher this time. A little lower the next. Until she found herself facing a long stretch of sand and gravel and the wide, open waters beyond.
The beach. They had been headed toward the beach. The ancient village had stood along this stretch. Nothing remained. Only sand. Gravel. And the flapping waves lapping against the shoreline.
She swung once more and landed in a thick, soft patch of sand. The crunching was still close. Behind her. All around her. It echoed in the open spaces. Was this a test? Had Roderick and Wayne been set up to abandon her here? To test her abilities? She didn’t have time to ponder the possibility. An ear-piercing shriek, mere feet behind, made her jump and set off in a burst of momentum. She ran toward the water and splashed in the incoming tide, leaving a sloshing sound in her wake as she plundered ever forward.
But the creature, whatever it was, continued its pursuit. She was the prize. The victim. And, before the beach ended, she felt something grab her firmly, swinging her body in a circular motion as a parent might spin a child for pleasure. Only this wasn’t pleasure. And she was being swung much higher, much faster, until with a single toss she landed wrapped around a furry set of shoulders, hands and feet firmly gripped. She tried to resist. No use. The grip was too tight. She tried to scream, but only earned a mouthful of rancid, fowl-smelling fur which made her gag.
The creature roared. Shrieked. Roared some more. And ran. The motion was jolting. Jarring. Priya bounced relentlessly, her body repeatedly bruised with each new contact it made with the creature as the two plunged back into the forest. As branches chortled against the two, Priya sought refuge by burying her head in the furry shoulder, breathing gently so as not to gag further at the stench. It was either that or have her head scraped to shreds by resisting tree appendages.
They tore deeper into the forest, up and down inclines until finally the creature stopped. Abruptly. Dropping Priya roughly to the ground.
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Author Bio:
Emily-Jane Hills Orford is a country writer, living just outside the tiny community of North Gower, Ontario, near the nation’s capital. With degrees in art history, music and Canadian studies, the retired music teacher enjoys the quiet nature of her country home and the inspiration of working at her antique Jane Austen-style spinet desk, feeling quite complete as she writes and stares out the large picture window at the birds and the forest. She writes in several genres, including creative nonfiction, memoir, fantasy, and historical fiction. http://emilyjanebooks.ca
Author Links:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/realpeoplestories
Twitter: @ejhomusic
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Author Interview:
Does your love of gardening or music ever make it into your stories? Having been a creative writing instructor, do you find it helps in your writing or does it make you more critical?
I write about gardening for various gardening publications: blogs (like https://insteading.com) and print magazines. I weave stories into these nonfiction articles. Other than that, gardening really hasn’t played a role in my fiction. Perhaps it will in the future.Music plays a dominant role in all my stories, both fiction and nonfiction. As a retired music teacher, music is a big part of who I am. My first novels, “The Four Seasons” series, music was the main theme. Whilst music doesn’t play a dominant role in my recent book, “Beauty in the Beast,” it’s there, it’s part of what defines Bel and her inner beauty, it’s what soothes her soul and makes her a stronger person:
“She dropped her gaze to the piano keys. Music. It always soothed her.
“Amell understood. “Play. Play your heart out, Priya. It’ll help you think more clearly. It always did in the past.”
Music will always be an important part of my writing, my stories. I don’t write with music playing the background; I don’t have to. Music is always playing inside my head; it’s part of my inner beauty, I guess.
As for my creative writing students? Where would I be now without them? The younger ones, especially, were very inspirational. They had no qualms about trying something new, about writing a new story in a new genre, about letting their ideas take flight. I think “Beauty in the Beast” owes a lot of thanks to these young writers who, through their creative energies, proved to me that I could write about anything (well, just about).
I don’t think teaching writing makes me more critical. Quite the opposite, really, it makes me more creative.
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