M.C. Hutton's Profile
M.C. Hutton
M.C. is dedicated to bringing you no-spice, full-length novels where the line between good and evil is clearly drawn, a redemption are is just around the corner, and faith, loyalty, and love can change the tide of war. She is passionate about writing complex worlds full of dynamic characters and engaging plots. M.C. currently lives in Montana with her cats, books, and too many hobbies with too little time to be very good at any of them.
Trophy Case
Seeds of Success
Wrote at least 1667 words on November 1st.
M.C. Hutton's Novels
The Way of the Double-edged Blade
Blurb:
"My name is Caylle Blaanch and the first thing I remember is a weapon in my hand and blood on my face." He was raised underground to be the perfect killer; pride of the House of Schatten and the Black Cross. But he would become something much, much more...
Excerpt:
THE FIRST THING I remember is the feel of metal in my hand. Rough, textured for grip. It’s a collapsible nightstick, extended to its full three feet. Nearly as long as I am tall. The shaft isn’t smooth, but shaped like a decagon with each point sharpened to a cutting edge. I think I’m five, or maybe six. Towering walls of different heights and crevices surround me. Hollows and tunnels create texture and shape. Flat walls full of handholds, platforms, and random things to jump over. The lights are set into the ceiling high overhead but I still squint. A block of windows overlook the whole room and sometimes a voice comes out of it to tell me what to do. I stare blankly at the stick in my hand, unsure what I’m supposed to do with it. It’s cold and I’m tired. I don’t think I’ve slept in a while, but I don’t know why. “Caylle, formation six. Go.” Before I even think about it, my body is moving quite independently of my brain. The deadly cylinder feels awkward in my hand, and I vaguely remember wondering where my nightstick is and why I have to use one that’s too big for me. But it’s far away, deep in my head where I barely notice it. “Caylle, freeze.” I stop mid-swing, most of my weight on my front foot, back foot poised to take a step. The voice echoes out of the window box. Blanchaard, my technician, is watching me from behind mirrored glass and I can’t see him. “Formation two. Go.” I reverse my swing and slide my back foot sideways. Contorting into a different position I start over. Thinking back on it, there must have been countless hours of training before this or I wouldn’t know formation six or two. There must have been conditioning sessions to make my young mind so quiet and focused, so dispassionately obedient. But I remember none of it. Before this memory there is only a void of darkness. Vague shapes and sensations that occasionally surface through the dark puddles of my subconscious that amount to barely anything.