Character – “My father” through Raeyn’s eyes

My father’s eyes had always been hard and cold. But right now I finally understood the fear he inflicted on people whenever he looked at them like he looked at me now. Those eyes, blank amethysts, constricted to narrow slits as they focused on me kneeling in front of him. He looked like a snake ready to strike, his lips set to a think angry line and I knew his hands, though spotted and gnarled with age were still strong as his long fingers clenched the arms of his throne. Something warm trickled down my cheek. I knew his heavy ring had left a deep imprint of his sigil where he had hit me, the left side of my face was throbbing, my eye slowly swelling shut. But I wouldn’t look down.

People used to tell me I looked like a younger copy of my father, with the same white hair and dark lilac eyes that ran in the family and had nothing to do with age. Back then I was young and gullible enough to consider that a compliment to be compared to him.

Now I couldn’t help but shudder at seeing myself become like him, that lean, almost skeletal figure sitting on the throne of Illyria, governing with an ‘iron fist’ as they called it, his whole demeanor an image of professionalism. The way he looked at me, with a face that would have made marble feel warm and alive in comparison, told me more than words that he would do whatever was necessary in the blink of an eye. His thin white eyebrows drew together, his white beard quivering with rage as he addressed me in that deep, resonating voice that I used to call his ‘state voice’.

“Now, have you forgotten what happens to those who betray me, son?”



Yes, I know, I know! It seems that I haven’t been doing any writing at all lately with all that stress and real life drama going on, but I think I’m getting back into the swing of things, now that a lot has happened and I have gotten some things sorted out. Right now I’m being eaten alive by homework, but I’m actually hoping to get some writing on Six done this week (keep your fingers crossed for me, people). Anyway, to make up for the sheer among of writing and blogging slackage recently committed, I thought to maybe post some things I’ve written for my creative writing class lately.

Since the final project here will be a short story, I’ve been tinkering with a few ideas revolving around Raeyn’s character who I really want to write some more for. We have little fiction assignments every two weeks (since we alternate between poetry and prose) and so far I’ve written some things on setting and characterization that I think aren’t all that bad, though I’d say they really aren’t what I’d call my best. Ah well, blame the stress and whatnot, but at least things are moving again and I’m surprised how much fun I’m having to write for Raeyn and his rather cynical attitudes (blame a good deal of that on my own cynicism lately 😉 ).

Anyway, here’s a piece about the setting of Light and what I’m calling “Raeyn’s Story” for now, seen from Raeyn’s PoV mainly focusing on description (which I suck at). Let me know what you think.

Stephanie Lee – ENGL 2250


I remember the day when my father first showed me the city outside of the Palace. It had been on a bright spring day, the sunlight reflected by the white marble of the Palace, making it look like one giant beacon of light. It looked beautiful. Rays of sunlight mirrored in the glass dome of the Temple of Light, giving it the semblance of a multifaceted crystal. Back then, I was young enough to believe it when the priests told me it was a sign; a divine favor of some sort.

Standing almost at the very same spot as I had so many years ago, I spot one of them now, bald and white-robed making his way to through the buzzing streets. I cannot help but realize how gullible people are. The priest’s slow gait halts from time to time to mutter some meaningless blessing to a woman or child, randomly selected from the faceless masses bustling around him. Just as every other Sun Day, the streets of the City of Helos are packed with people, flocking to the white, marble structure of the Temple like sheep, every bit as ignorant.

Here in the Core, even the air smells clean, free of the stink of rusty engines, stuttering through the streets of the Lower City.  Here, life runs its course along neatly-paved roads, clear of any of the trash or human scum that litter the streets elsewhere.  Merchants are hawking their wares from a cluster of wooden booths, painted in bright colors.

The streets of the inner city of Helos are never quiet, its population lulled by a sense of safety and prosperity. Above it all looms the Finger of Light, a cylindrical tower, higher than even the Palace itself, its glass façade, imaging the smooth and modern style of the Palace and the Temple of Light. Just as anything built by the Empire, it is nothing but a symbol for the public, stark and unforgiving, impossible to overlook.

In the end, the Core is nothing but a white and shiny public image. Visible to anyone and absolutely immaculate. Absolutely fake.  And yet its people believe whatever they are told. Like sheep indeed.