KWhipkey

It's been awhile since I've updated my journal--nearly a year to be exact, eek!--so I thought it was high time I announced something new.

First, I'd like to thank those of you who are patiently waiting for me to update my gallery. I promise, it really is going to happen soon. It's been a long process of refining images, learning how to present them properly and setting up various websites that I lovingly like to call my Online Empire. **Evil Laugh** But in all seriousness, I'm super close to finally being able to regularly release new images, writing and other awesomeness. So please be patient just a little longer. Your support really means a lot to me.

Now, on to the main point of this update: the announcement of my new blog, Nightwolf's Corner. After several weeks of an intensive crash course in Wordpress, and all the code wrangling that entails, I'm happy to say that my blog is finally live. Complete with the first post. It will be a look into my particular type of storytelling, offering tidbits of wisdom learned from my experiences as a writer, artist and martial artist, along with commiserating rants over the frustrations we all face in the creative industries, and probably some snarky tirades on whatever irritates me that week. In reference to the three main topics, of course.

The site will also be the second best place to find out more information about me. It will include a lot of what can be found here--an art gallery of my work, excerpts of my writing, etc. But it will be more regularly updated and allow those interested in really getting to know me a better chance at interaction.

I've never ventured into the blog world, so this is a new experiment for me as well. And as usual, the site is still under construction. The main aspects are live, and will be updated every Friday--life allowing--but there are still a few more pages that need work. I hope some of you will come check it out, and maybe even continue to follow me there as well.

I have a limited number of copies for each of my published short stories that I am making available as Autographed Editions. Each Shelter of Daylight issue has a limited production run, and once Sam's Dot Publishing sells all of their stock, they are no longer in print. Of the three issues I've been lucky enough to be featured in, one has already sold out completely, making the copies I have for sale here even more rare.

If you are interested in purchasing an Autographed Edition, please contact me via kisa.whipkey@gmail.com. I only accept Paypal and US Currency at this time. All prices include shipping within the United States--International shipping will be extra.

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The following excerpt is from my third published short story, "Confessions." Released in October of 2010, "Confessions" graced the cover of Sam's Dot Publishing's Shelter of Daylight Magazine, Issue 4, under my maiden name of Kisa Rupp. Told in an unconventional format more frequently seen in film, "Confessions" is a story about losing faith. The action-oriented format and pacing of this piece was one of the more challenging ones I've done, and I'm proud of the outcome. I hope you enjoy the dynamic opening to Constia's struggle. Thank you for reading!

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She was trapped; pinned between justice and an impossible fall. The sky was red as the blood she'd left pooling on the tiles of the cathedral floor, silhouetting her as she stood with her back to us, contemplating her choice. Tall stucco buildings glared from hollow eyes, disapproving of our pursuit. I agreed with them as I pushed my way to the front of the guards, closer to her.

I know what I had witnessed, but even so, no one deserved this. Either way, she would die. And I wasn't entirely convinced she was wrong, that we weren't the ones inflicting a corrupt sense of justice. I wasn't sure why I had followed her, or what I hoped to accomplish, but some small voice urged me to try and talk her away from her fate--to try and save her.

As if hearing my doubts, she turned to face the guards splayed out in cautious defense. She smiled at the spears trained on her, the look a cobra gets before it strikes. Her dark eyes locked on mine.  In that instant I could see she wasn't repentant. She believed in her mission; she knew she was right. Her certainty made mine waver even more, but before I could step forward to intervene, she spoke.

"Forgive me my sins," she said calmly, as if she and I were the only two people on the low rooftop. I froze, knowing in my soul what she was about to do. I could have stopped her. But instead, I watched as her smile widened and she stepped backward off the roof, falling gracefully with arms outstretched, welcoming oblivion.



"Stop, wait…go back. Let me start over, this time at the beginning."  

The bored Inquisitor across from me merely nodded assent, his eyes glazed as he idly carved a repetition of swirls into the wooden desk. He didn't care what I had to say, none of them did. They knew the fate of the criminal. I was simply a formality. One of the wronged, but only marginally since I had survived. I knew if I wore anything other than a priest's robe, they wouldn't have bothered to hear my tale. It didn't matter though. My mission was to impart the truth, even if they didn't want to listen.

Taking a deep breath, I started over, determined to make him understand, or at least to question.  

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The following excerpt is from my second published work, "Spinning." Featured in Sam's Dot Publishing's Shelter of Daylight Magazine, Issue 3, under my maiden name of Kisa Rupp, "Spinning" is my personal favorite of the three pieces I've finished to date. A tragic tale of love cut short, "Spinning" introduces readers to Taylor and the world of the Spinners--an elite group of bards with the ability to morph time. The excerpt below details Taylor's first encounter with his new ability and marks the day his life changes forever. Thank you for reading!

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As I finished the melody, I opened my eyes. One of the women was staring at me intently. It unnerved me to have one of them finally look at me. And not just look in feigned appreciation at the end of the song; she was really seeing me.

I waited the obligatory few minutes between songs, allowing the crowd to drift into new conversations and different locations. The dark-haired woman glided my way. She moved so subtly at first that I wasn't sure what she was doing; she paused to speak with several other women before her intentions were finally clear. Could she really have liked the previous song that much? She hadn't looked particularly moved by the melancholy notes. And why was she so intent that no one saw she wanted to speak to me?

Her blue eyes narrowed as she approached. I gazed up at her warily, sure I was either going to get a nasty critique or a vague request for some song she'd heard once that resembled what I'd just played.

"What's your name?" she demanded. Her voice was low, musical and authoritative.

"Taylor," I answered, waiting for the berating to begin.

"Hmmm. You're very talented, Taylor. More so than you realize I think." One delicate eyebrow arched appraisingly as her gaze traveled over my frame. I squirmed uncomfortably and internally laughed at myself. Since when did the appreciative gaze of a beautiful woman make me uncomfortable?

"I'm sorry, milady, I don't understand what you mean by that."

She smiled, her lips curving in an expression devoid of humor but full of knowledge. "You will soon," she replied and turned away. "Play something fast for me, will you Taylor?" she called over her shoulder as she floated back to the other women, leaving me staring like a smitten fool.

Thoroughly confused and more than a little unnerved, I tried to focus my thoughts. Play something fast, eh? That was an easy request to fill, albeit not one I had been expecting. But then, nothing about that exchange had been what I expected. I looked up to find the strange woman among the others and met her icy blue gaze. I offered a weak smile and lifted the violin in her direction, the age-old acknowledgement of a request or dedication. Then, swallowing nervously, I brought the instrument to rest on my shoulder again.

I didn't close my eyes as I began to play an up-tempo jig I hoped she would like.

Suddenly, everything changed. I nearly fell off the stool, the strings squealing in protest at the sudden jerk of my hand. The room was spinning, and not the way it does after over-indulgence in spirits. This was a strange blurring of the action around me. The farthest walls seemed to become a circle of colored stripes colliding, like someone had trapped a rainbow in a bucket and stirred furiously.

I could still clearly see the people around me, but they were moving at speeds that shouldn't have been possible. No one was dancing, no one was running, they were simply continuing their day--accelerated. I sat frozen, watching the jerky blur of people meandering throughout the room, talking for the blink of an eye and moving on to the next conversation.

And then abruptly, it was over. Everything returned to normal. Almost.  

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The following is an excerpt from my short story, "The Bardach."  Published in the April 2009 (Issue 1) edition of Sam's Dot Publishing's Shelter of Daylight Magazine, it was featured on the cover under my maiden name of Kisa Rupp and represents my first foray into the world of professional writing. What started as an assignment for a humanities class soon became the foundational tale for many of my more common characters, including my logo, the Nightwolf. So, without further ado, I give you a brief look at the world of the Storytellers...

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Smoke swirled through the air like poisonous snakes. She stumbled, choking and coughing, toward the cool safety promised by the nearby woods. Her vision blurred from the pain nearly as much as the smoke. Blindly she lurched through the underbrush. Branches raked through her skin in an almost welcome distraction. She barely acknowledged the myriad scratches--her focus was entirely on her need to escape and the pulsating agony of the sword wound in her side. Blood was seeping through the fingers she kept futilely pressed against the gash, draining her strength as surely as her life with every drop. Still she pushed on; if she stopped, she would die. Of that, she was sure.

Her ankle wrenched as her foot caught against a protruding root and she tumbled head first onto the hard ground. She cried out as fresh pain flared from her side, overwhelming the throbbing in her ankle. She rolled slightly to ease the pressure on her wounds. With the last of her strength she tried to rise, but her body failed her and she collapsed, the ragged gasps of exertion mingling with sobs as the coolness of the forest duff seeped rapidly to her core, bringing with it the harshness of reality. She was going to die here.

Acceptance came hand in hand with numbness and she felt her will to fight flow out through the gaping hole in her side, pooling with her blood somewhere she couldn't reclaim it from. With an odd, disconnected feeling, she remained on the forest floor looking mildly at the dancing flames rising above the tree-tops; the beautiful oranges and reds ate hungrily at the only home she had ever known, consuming the citadel, the mutilated bodies of her family and friends, and her own life in their greedy appetite.

But somehow, the raging fire no longer seemed dangerous. Instead, it flickered lazily above her, the glow undulating against the night sky like the Aurora. She was growing cold and could no longer feel the ground beneath her, only a slick wetness that seemed to be spreading. It was her own blood she was feeling, but she noted it without actual comprehension. She was tired and her vision had begun to darken.

"Stay."

Was that a voice? Or her own mind rebelling against its fate? She wasn't sure, and wearily, she managed to open her eyes once more. Through sheer force of will, she peered into the darkness above her, inhaling sharply when she realized that what she was looking for was the darkness itself. A shape loomed over her, blocking the garish glow from the fire. She could feel the warmth of breath on her skin, but couldn't quite distinguish the silhouette of the creature above her. Then, two glowing yellow eyes appeared. They were an intense shade of yellow that equaled that of the fire's heart, and she wondered if her vision was somehow transposing the one on the other. Was it all just a hallucination?

"You are safe now." The voice was a deep rumble that echoed through her mind, and she couldn't tell if she had heard it audibly or only within the confines of her thoughts. But she was certain this time that it was a voice not of her own creation. It was comforting; the rich tones washed over her and seemed to dispel some of the icy numbness that gripped her.

"Sleep and forget."

As she gave in to the command, a single thought surfaced from the fog of her mind, but her world grew dark and she was captive in the void of dream. The image of two yellow eyes remained imprinted on the darkness and a single question echoed through her prison, "Who are you?"   

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