Pubbles vs Plebes: Round 2 (YA Urban Fantasy)

For our second PvP match, we've got Chapter 1 (non-beginning) sections from two YAUF books. Can you spot the pubble(s)?

Entry 1:

Apinya reached toward the cold pile of deadwood and asked the fire to
come, her breath misting in the mountain air. Warmth spread from her
heart to her shoulder, her arm, her wrist… until Aunt Nit viciously
slapped her hand.

“I’m cold,” said Apinya, rubbing her reddened skin.

Nit frowned. “Use matches. Or better yet, pound some rice.”

Apinya had hoped to avoid that, but she knew better than to disobey
Aunt Nit directly. Picking up her schoolbag, she walked the dirt road
between homes of woven bamboo. At least Aunt Nit didn’t lecture her
on the importance of staying hidden or pretending she was someone she
wasn’t.

Pounding rice was hard, but it wasn’t the work that bothered her, nor
the occasional mocking she received from the other students. It was
the isolation, the reminder that in a village of hundreds – even
working alongside each other – she was different. And there was
nothing she could do about it.

The rhythmic pounding of the rice pestles could be heard over a kilo
away. It took days to husk the rice from a single field, so the whole
village helped in turns. Children who were old enough worked before
school, pushing the pestles up and down with their feet for over an
hour sometimes, then again in the evening when their homework was
finished.

Entry 2:

Mark traced his fingertips over the strange runes, and a twinge of excitement rippled through his body. Eager to continue the adventure, he stepped through the trees.

Upon emerging from the archway, he heard the noises. He was unable to make out distinctive voices, but there were many of them, and it sounded like hearty, joyous singing.

Creeping as silently as he could, he approached the chorus of voices, moving deeper into the undergrowth, pressing aside outreaching tree limbs that sought to block his path and protect the denizens of the forest.

Deeper into the woods he traveled, his way lit by a mass of fireflies signaling their mates. Trying desperately to be silent, twigs cracked and leaves crunched under his weight. Perhaps the creatures of the forest would teach him to move silently as they did.

His house far away now, little more than a memory, he began to feel as if he had been birthed here, living his young life among the trees and the earth, cradled within the leafy arms of the forest. How he longed to make this dream real, to banish his true life to some nether-region, replace it with one free of school and homework and all the complications grown-ups seemed to accumulate as they grew older. None of that would be found here, he knew.








We will be back tomorrow to reveal the Pubble(s), whilst the brave and willing plebe shall remain anonymous. Feel free to make comments about our experiment or the two pieces, but, as always, be respectful and courteous of your fellow writers.

Pubbles vs Plebes: Round 1 (Fantasy)

For our very first match, we've got the opening paragraphs from two fantasy books. One or both are published. Can you spot the pubble(s)?

Entry 1:

Yan Faren dropped his silver pieces, one coin at a time, onto the decaying wooden table in front of Ol’ Bran Taber the Lodge Master. The small dusty shack he stood in was no different than any of the other piles of wood and sod that cluttered the city streets except that inside was where the Lodge conducted their business with the outside world. Yan did not like debts to settle any more than he liked dealing with unlawful men but some things could not be helped. He had needed the money when the taxes were levied and now it had to be repaid. It had taken him over three weeks in the market to sell enough barley.

The moneylender’s long gnarled fingers counted the silver with surprising speed for a man with such creaky bones. When he had sorted the last piece of silver into neat little stacks in front of him he looked up and his mouth spread into a grin, showing the yellow of his teeth. “You’re eight pieces short.”

“Come now.” Yan said “I don’t owe ye but twenty.” He may have been no master with numbers, but he was no fool either. “Count again. You’ll find it’s all there.”

“There’s twenty here. You owe me twenty-eight.” Ol’ Bran’s eyes gleamed the same grey color as the grease in his hair, daring Yan to disagree.

Entry 2:

The attic cubicle was dark and stuffy, two conditions the tiny window under the eaves did little to alleviate. Luna reached up to the shelf over her pallet for her fiddle case, and froze with her hand less than an inch away. Her mother's nasal whine echoed up the stairs from the tavern sleeping rooms below.

"Luna? Luna!"

Luna sighed, and her hand dropped to her side. "Yes, Mother?" she called over her shoulder. She'd hoped to get a little practice in before the evening customers began to file in.

"Have you swept the tavern and scrubbed the tables?" When Shara said "the tavern," she meant the common room. The kitchen was not in Luna's purview. The cook, Camille, who was also the stableman's wife, reigned supreme there, and permitted no one within her little kingdom but herself and her aged helper, known only as Granny.

"No, Mother," Luna called down, resignedly, "I thought Bev—"

"Bev's doing the rooms. Get your behind down there. The sooner you can get it over with, the sooner you can get on with that foolish scraping of yours." Then, as an afterthought, as Luna reached the top step, "And don't call me 'Mother.'"

"Yes M—Shara." Stifling another sigh, Luna plodded down the steep, dark attic stairs, hardly more than a ladder down the back wall.

We will be back tomorrow to reveal the Pubble(s), whilst the brave and willing plebe shall remain anonymous. Feel free to make comments about our experiment or the two pieces, but, as always, be respectful and courteous of your fellow writers.