I'm traveling this weekend, so without the time to pimp a #FridayFlash post or read other people's work, I'm skipping a flash fiction post.
So, instead, I'm leaving you with a video. Last week, I introduced you to Ever, the heroine of my upcoming novella, Badlands. This song was one of many on my playlist for the story, and is one that fits the characters in the story in many ways. Plus, a little Winchester-brother-time is never a bad thing ;-)
Thanks to MillerQueen72 for the fabulous video :)
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Friend or Follow?
.There is a nifty thing (called Friend or Follow) where you can put in your Twitter handle in and it will tell you which of the people you follow don’t follow you back. But…that isn’t what this post is about.
I have been on Twitter in one form or another for about two years now. In that time, I’ve “met” a lot of people I consider friends. Some of them I’ve physically met, others I only know online. I don’t really differentiate between the two unless someone asks.
However, on one account I have over five hundred followers and close to two hundred fifty on the other. While I appreciate every one of those people and talk to many of them, I don’t consider them all friends. This isn’t a judgment on any of them. Given the opportunity, we might become besties for life, but it just hasn’t happened yet.
You see I don’t consider people friends unless I would confide in them to some degree. This doesn’t have to be deeply personal stuff, just stuff I wouldn’t post publicly on Twitter for all the world to see. These are the people I can text or call or instant message or email when I get bad news or awesome news or just need someone to talk to.
It’s come to my attention recently that other people don’t look at it that way. They see all their Twitter followers as friends. I’ll admit I’m tremendously confused by this. I’ve been told in the past that I’m very open on Twitter. That’s true. I figure if people are using Twitter to get to know me, they may as well get to know the real deal. However, I’m just not comfortable with the idea of treating Twitter like a conference call with a group of my girlfriends. There are just some things that don’t get aired publicly.
But the people I know who refer to all their followers as friends don’t do that. Their Twitteraction might be playful, but it isn’t an in-depth look into their life. It’s more like a tiny surface sample of their personality.
So is it me? Am I the one who has a skewed view of friendship? Are all your Twitter followers friends? Or do you differentiate between those you share more with and those who just get the “surface you” (however deep that surface goes)?
But hey, Nathan Fillion, if we’re friends, let’s get together for drinks when I’m in LA this April…
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Acceptance: Just a Man
This week marks the last in my series on grief. The timing on this is perfect for me, and oddly enough, the character I chose (weeks ago) for this installment is one whose general attitude about life is one I aspire to. She’s Ever, the heroine of my upcoming steampunk/alt-history romance novella Badlands.
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Acceptance: Just a Man
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Ever paced the length of her mother’s rooms, a faint cloud of dust from her clothes following in her wake. Her eyes flicked to the window, judging the length of the shadows outside, and she clenched her jaw. She had work to do. Whatever this was about, it had better be important.
At last, her mother swept into the room in a swirl of sheer skirts, her face a stoic mask. “Everette, your clothes. Could you not--"
“I was on duty, Mother.”
A sigh shuddered from her mother’s mouth and she laid her palms on her dresser and leaned against it. “Close the door, please.”
Ever sucked in a deep breath to hold back the irritated retort threatening to escape her lips as she strode over and sealed the room. “All right, Mother, what is it that requires such secrecy?”
“Not secrecy, dear,” she said, her voice tired and quiet. “Privacy.” She squared her shoulders and crossed the room to take Ever’s hands.
Ever stared at their entwined fingers, hers rough and callused from years hunting on the borders, her mothers soft…beautiful.
“It’s about your father.”
Jerking her hands back, Ever narrowed her eyes as rage bubbled up inside her. “He’s back?”
“Do not make that face. Your father is…was a good man.” Her mother raised a trembling hand to brush Ever’s long waves back from her face. “He’s dead.”
“Tell me what information we have on his murderer.” She strode toward the door. This at least made sense. She hunted criminals every day. One more would be no different. “I’ll get one of my squads on it immediately.”
Gentle pressure on her shoulder stopped her before she opened the heavy door. “Child, he was not murdered. His horse threw him. He hit his head on a rock and…” The words were strangled by a sob.
Ever shook her head, confused. “And you wish me to…kill the horse?”
Her mother stepped in front of her, blue eyes searching hers. For what, Ever didn’t know. “He died, Everette. I want you to stay with me. To mourn with me.”
“Men die in the Badlands every day, Mother. Many of them by my hand. Why should I mourn this one?”
“He was your father!”
“And still just a man. One I barely knew. He was never part of my life.” Not a complaint, merely a statement of fact. Like other men not residing within the confines of prison cells, her father had worked in the fields or the mines, or…somewhere. Ever didn’t care. She hadn’t wanted anything from him since he left.
Her mother’s hand caressed her cheek. “But he is part of you. Isn’t that reason enough to mourn his passing?”
Pain rose in Ever’s skull as she frowned and stepped toward the door. “You may do what you wish with his memory, Mother, but I am still here and whole. I have lost nothing with his passing.” Wood scraped on wood, protesting as she yanked the door open. “I have work to do.”
As she rode her horse over the rough, desert terrain, Ever’s mind drifted back to her childhood.
She was playing with a pair of wooden horses when a shadow darkened the doorway and drew her gaze. “Papa!
Her father opened his arms wide, and Ever raced to him, throwing herself against his broad chest. His arms wrapped around her, warm and strong as he kissed her hair. “I cannot stay anymore, child.”
Ever’s face scrunched. “What do you mean?”
His voice whispered like a breeze through her hair. “I told you one day I would have to leave, that I couldn’t stay with you and your mother forever. It is not the way things are done.”
Balling her hands into fists, Ever shoved against him. “No”
“I am sorry, Ever. I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye.” He leaned down to kiss her again.
“No!” She raced back into the room, certain if she didn’t say goodbye, he wouldn’t leave.
Sadness darkened his face as he backed out of the doorway.
Ever tried to shake off the memory, but her head began to throb. She pressed the heel of one hand against it; she needed her wits about her. One of the criminals sent across the border had been terrorizing a group of settlements. Her troops had been searching for him for two days, and he was far more likely to kill her than surrender. At last, a familiar shape caught her attention and she swung from the horse, urging it toward the others with a swat on its hindquarters.
The curvy brunette she had spotted stepped from between the boulders and strode forward. “Commander.”
Ever nodded at Catherine, her second-in-command. “Has he been captured?”
Catherine shook her head, tendrils of hair catching in the desert breeze. “No, but we are closing in on him. The women should have him flushed out of hiding by nightfall.”
“Good. We have wasted too much time on this one already.”
Before the last word had left her mouth, Ever caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Bulk, moving fast, with something raised overhead. Without thought, she pulled her pistol, whipped around and fired.
The man’s eyes were wide as the axe tumbled from his fingers and he fell backward, blood pouring from the hole in his face.
Ever crossed the ground between them and kicked at the fallen man’s body. “This is him?”
From the other side of the dead man, Catherine said, “He matches the description. I will fetch someone to confirm.” With that, the brunette was lost in a swirl of dust.
Her head throbbing, Ever examined the man. Perhaps fifty, with hair graying at the temples, tall, muscular build—much like her father would have had by now. He stared back at her with pale green eyes that mocked her darker ones.
Hands pressed to her temples, she backed away as something wet formed a path down her cheek. She glanced at the bright, clear sky, blinking against the sunshine.
Another wet trail blazed down her skin and she wiped the teardrop away, staring as it evaporated in the heat. The pain in her skull abated slightly as another tear fell. She glanced at the body lying in front of her, seeing not a criminal…just a man.
She squared her shoulders, the ache in her head abating. “Goodbye, Father.”
Then she turned to await Catherine’s return. Her heart at peace.
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Acceptance: Just a Man
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Ever paced the length of her mother’s rooms, a faint cloud of dust from her clothes following in her wake. Her eyes flicked to the window, judging the length of the shadows outside, and she clenched her jaw. She had work to do. Whatever this was about, it had better be important.
At last, her mother swept into the room in a swirl of sheer skirts, her face a stoic mask. “Everette, your clothes. Could you not--"
“I was on duty, Mother.”
A sigh shuddered from her mother’s mouth and she laid her palms on her dresser and leaned against it. “Close the door, please.”
Ever sucked in a deep breath to hold back the irritated retort threatening to escape her lips as she strode over and sealed the room. “All right, Mother, what is it that requires such secrecy?”
“Not secrecy, dear,” she said, her voice tired and quiet. “Privacy.” She squared her shoulders and crossed the room to take Ever’s hands.
Ever stared at their entwined fingers, hers rough and callused from years hunting on the borders, her mothers soft…beautiful.
“It’s about your father.”
Jerking her hands back, Ever narrowed her eyes as rage bubbled up inside her. “He’s back?”
“Do not make that face. Your father is…was a good man.” Her mother raised a trembling hand to brush Ever’s long waves back from her face. “He’s dead.”
“Tell me what information we have on his murderer.” She strode toward the door. This at least made sense. She hunted criminals every day. One more would be no different. “I’ll get one of my squads on it immediately.”
Gentle pressure on her shoulder stopped her before she opened the heavy door. “Child, he was not murdered. His horse threw him. He hit his head on a rock and…” The words were strangled by a sob.
Ever shook her head, confused. “And you wish me to…kill the horse?”
Her mother stepped in front of her, blue eyes searching hers. For what, Ever didn’t know. “He died, Everette. I want you to stay with me. To mourn with me.”
“Men die in the Badlands every day, Mother. Many of them by my hand. Why should I mourn this one?”
“He was your father!”
“And still just a man. One I barely knew. He was never part of my life.” Not a complaint, merely a statement of fact. Like other men not residing within the confines of prison cells, her father had worked in the fields or the mines, or…somewhere. Ever didn’t care. She hadn’t wanted anything from him since he left.
Her mother’s hand caressed her cheek. “But he is part of you. Isn’t that reason enough to mourn his passing?”
Pain rose in Ever’s skull as she frowned and stepped toward the door. “You may do what you wish with his memory, Mother, but I am still here and whole. I have lost nothing with his passing.” Wood scraped on wood, protesting as she yanked the door open. “I have work to do.”
As she rode her horse over the rough, desert terrain, Ever’s mind drifted back to her childhood.
She was playing with a pair of wooden horses when a shadow darkened the doorway and drew her gaze. “Papa!
Her father opened his arms wide, and Ever raced to him, throwing herself against his broad chest. His arms wrapped around her, warm and strong as he kissed her hair. “I cannot stay anymore, child.”
Ever’s face scrunched. “What do you mean?”
His voice whispered like a breeze through her hair. “I told you one day I would have to leave, that I couldn’t stay with you and your mother forever. It is not the way things are done.”
Balling her hands into fists, Ever shoved against him. “No”
“I am sorry, Ever. I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye.” He leaned down to kiss her again.
“No!” She raced back into the room, certain if she didn’t say goodbye, he wouldn’t leave.
Sadness darkened his face as he backed out of the doorway.
Ever tried to shake off the memory, but her head began to throb. She pressed the heel of one hand against it; she needed her wits about her. One of the criminals sent across the border had been terrorizing a group of settlements. Her troops had been searching for him for two days, and he was far more likely to kill her than surrender. At last, a familiar shape caught her attention and she swung from the horse, urging it toward the others with a swat on its hindquarters.
The curvy brunette she had spotted stepped from between the boulders and strode forward. “Commander.”
Ever nodded at Catherine, her second-in-command. “Has he been captured?”
Catherine shook her head, tendrils of hair catching in the desert breeze. “No, but we are closing in on him. The women should have him flushed out of hiding by nightfall.”
“Good. We have wasted too much time on this one already.”
Before the last word had left her mouth, Ever caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Bulk, moving fast, with something raised overhead. Without thought, she pulled her pistol, whipped around and fired.
The man’s eyes were wide as the axe tumbled from his fingers and he fell backward, blood pouring from the hole in his face.
Ever crossed the ground between them and kicked at the fallen man’s body. “This is him?”
From the other side of the dead man, Catherine said, “He matches the description. I will fetch someone to confirm.” With that, the brunette was lost in a swirl of dust.
Her head throbbing, Ever examined the man. Perhaps fifty, with hair graying at the temples, tall, muscular build—much like her father would have had by now. He stared back at her with pale green eyes that mocked her darker ones.
Hands pressed to her temples, she backed away as something wet formed a path down her cheek. She glanced at the bright, clear sky, blinking against the sunshine.
Another wet trail blazed down her skin and she wiped the teardrop away, staring as it evaporated in the heat. The pain in her skull abated slightly as another tear fell. She glanced at the body lying in front of her, seeing not a criminal…just a man.
She squared her shoulders, the ache in her head abating. “Goodbye, Father.”
Then she turned to await Catherine’s return. Her heart at peace.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Book Sex Versus Real Sex
Advance warning that I'm going to talk about sex in this post. Should have been evident by the title, but in case you didn't get it...there will be sex. And at points there may be TMI involved. Feel free to read this paragraph, cover your eyes and go running for the hills (ie hit your back button or close the window or whatever). I promise not to be offended.
If you stick around, I hope you won't be offended.
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Good, now that we've got that cleared up we can get down to business. Here's the thing. I've decided I need to write a contemporary romantic comedy.
I can see some of my friends staring at the screen and blinking really slowly before they scroll up to make sure they're at the right place. Yeah, it's still me, and I know both contemporary and rom com are totally outside my comfort zone for writing. Hear me out though. The sex I write in my spec fic? It isn't real. I'm not sure I've ever had sex like that. You know, the kind that goes perfectly right. No awkward embraces, every touch sets something on fire (and not in a bad way), everyone has a rock-my-world orgasm.
Yeah. Not that those things don't happen, but I can't say I've ever had them all happen at the same time. Where everything was perfect.
Real sex just isn't like that. Real sex involves things like leg cramps and dryness and too much saliva and one person being done way before the other one. Occasionally, real sex even involves accidentally kicking your partner in the head*, leaving you both laughing so much it's hard to get back to what you were trying to do in the first place. Real, honest to goodness sex is often funny. Someone tries to say something sexy and it comes out sounding ridiculous, or worse, they belch in the middle of it.
But that doesn't make for a sexy love scene.
So I've decided, just once, I want to write a story about real people and real sex.
You know...just to see if I can.
The real question is this: would you read it?
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*No spouses were harmed in the making of this blog post**
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**At least not permanently.
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Addendum at the request of my husband: Just to clarify, I have actually had wonderful, mind-blowing sex. In fact, I was having some recently...until my mother-in-law knocked on the door. Yep. That's real sex.
If you stick around, I hope you won't be offended.
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.
.
.
.
Good, now that we've got that cleared up we can get down to business. Here's the thing. I've decided I need to write a contemporary romantic comedy.
I can see some of my friends staring at the screen and blinking really slowly before they scroll up to make sure they're at the right place. Yeah, it's still me, and I know both contemporary and rom com are totally outside my comfort zone for writing. Hear me out though. The sex I write in my spec fic? It isn't real. I'm not sure I've ever had sex like that. You know, the kind that goes perfectly right. No awkward embraces, every touch sets something on fire (and not in a bad way), everyone has a rock-my-world orgasm.
Yeah. Not that those things don't happen, but I can't say I've ever had them all happen at the same time. Where everything was perfect.
Real sex just isn't like that. Real sex involves things like leg cramps and dryness and too much saliva and one person being done way before the other one. Occasionally, real sex even involves accidentally kicking your partner in the head*, leaving you both laughing so much it's hard to get back to what you were trying to do in the first place. Real, honest to goodness sex is often funny. Someone tries to say something sexy and it comes out sounding ridiculous, or worse, they belch in the middle of it.
But that doesn't make for a sexy love scene.
So I've decided, just once, I want to write a story about real people and real sex.
You know...just to see if I can.
The real question is this: would you read it?
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.
.
*No spouses were harmed in the making of this blog post**
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**At least not permanently.
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Addendum at the request of my husband: Just to clarify, I have actually had wonderful, mind-blowing sex. In fact, I was having some recently...until my mother-in-law knocked on the door. Yep. That's real sex.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Anger: Over You
Hi everyone! I'm back to my series on the stages of grief. This one passed with one of my awesome OWG Rebel friends, so I figured I should post it before I started second-guessing myself. Unlike the rest of the pieces, this one comes from a character in the YA urban fantasy novel (Pretty Souls) I have coming out soon under my other name. This story actually takes place right around the beginning of what would be book 4 in that series (and might even end up included in the manuscript when I get that far). I had to be really careful not to include stuff that would be spoilery for the novel. I hope you enjoy this taste of Elle, my favorite teenage werewolf :)
Anger: Over You
I clicked the phone off and threw it on my bed hard enough it bounced twice before landing.
“Still no answer?” my foster sister Cass asked from the desk as she poked at keys on the laptop.
“No. He isn’t picking up. Isn’t responding to texts. It’s been two weeks.” I stalked across the room, wanting to throw something else.
Cass lobbed a stuffed rabbit at me, and I snatched it out of the air. “I get that you miss him, Elle, but he warned you he’d be off the grid for a while.”
I wanted to rip the damn bunny’s ears off. Instead I chucked it at the wall with all my strength. It hit our striped wallpaper with an unsatisfying thump and slid to the floor, still grinning. Mocking me. “He’s been gone for almost two months, Cass. Two months! All that time I got vague phone calls and texts that said nothing. He’s fine. He’ll be back soon. Of course he misses me. Maybe it’d be different if we’d been in a great spot when he left, but he wasn’t exactly all here then either.”
“Stop it.” She shoved the chair back, legs rubbing against the carpet, like nails on a chalkboard to my werewolf hearing. The next thing I knew, five-foot-nothing of platinum blonde cheerleader was right in my face. “He’s loves you. He just needs time to deal with—”
Still wanting to lash out, I balled my hands into fists to keep from shoving her out of my way. “I gave him time, Cass. I gave him three months. And then he left. He walked out.”
She laughed and her lips twisted into a sneer. “His grandmother was dying. Of course he left. You need to stop this. You’re being stupid. He loves you.” Like it would do any good, she reached out and ran her hand up and down my arm.
My voice came out tight and quiet. “Then why doesn’t he say it?”
“What?”
I bit my lip, trying to keep from crying. I didn’t want to cry over him anymore. I was done with that. “In all this time he’s been gone, not once, Cass. Not in a call, or a text, or an email. Hugs and kisses maybe. If I’m lucky. But love? I think he stopped loving me a long time ago. I’ve just been too blind to see it and holding onto him anyway.”
Cass dropped her hand and took a step back, tipping her head up like she needed to see me clearer. “Elle, what did you do?”
As I stared at the phone on my bed, all I could think was that people who said breaking up long-distance was easy were full of shit. Unless they’d never cared at all. Then maybe it wouldn’t hurt. “I decided to see again.”
Her fingers brushed my arm as I turned and headed out the door of our bedroom, but she didn’t try to stop me.
The beast inside me howled a mournful song as she guided me out of our neighborhood. I didn’t fight her; I was still too hurt to see straight. All this time I’d believed in him, believed in us. That we were strong enough to move past the stupid roadblock thrown our way. But he didn’t want to. He’d made that abundantly clear by taking off. For all I knew, he’d already moved on to someone else out west and was just waiting to come back and break it to me. Maybe making plans to go to college out there. I squeezed my eyes shut against the image of his face and crooked smile.
When I opened them, I found the beast had led me to the park. With a sigh, I sat down on one of the swings. The chains creaked overhead, the sound an angry screeching in the calm spring air.
“Need a push?”
I almost jumped at the voice behind me. Neither the beast nor I had heard him approach, but the guy I’d seen pounding up the court during basketball season stood right there, all sandy brown hair and green eyes. Cass had introduced us once, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember his name. Kane. Lane…
“Hello? Earth to Elle. We met after regionals? I’m Zane.”
That was it. “Hi, Zane. Sorry, you just spooked me.” I twisted the swing around to see him better, tugging long strands of hair from my face. Like me, he wore only a t-shirt and jeans, even though it was definitely chilly enough for a jacket, his muscles long and lean as they held the chains over my head. For some reason that made me shiver.
He smiled and it lit up his face. “Don’t get spooked often, do you?”
A laugh bubbled up inside me. “No, I don’t.” Then the wind shifted, and his scent hit the beast and me full force. My nostrils flared and eyes went wide as I met his unblinking gaze.
Rosemary. Grass. Trees. Dirt.
Werewolf.
He leaned down, his face hovering an inch away from mine. “Got you again.”
And he had too. I was frozen under the weight of his twinkling eyes and the headiness of his scent.
I gave my now ex-boyfriend a fleeting thought but clenched my jaw tight against it. If he was moving on, then damn it so could I. Screw him. And screw the tears the tried to spring up in my eyes.
With the beast already straining toward his scent, I closed the distance separating me from Zane.
Anger: Over You
I clicked the phone off and threw it on my bed hard enough it bounced twice before landing.
“Still no answer?” my foster sister Cass asked from the desk as she poked at keys on the laptop.
“No. He isn’t picking up. Isn’t responding to texts. It’s been two weeks.” I stalked across the room, wanting to throw something else.
Cass lobbed a stuffed rabbit at me, and I snatched it out of the air. “I get that you miss him, Elle, but he warned you he’d be off the grid for a while.”
I wanted to rip the damn bunny’s ears off. Instead I chucked it at the wall with all my strength. It hit our striped wallpaper with an unsatisfying thump and slid to the floor, still grinning. Mocking me. “He’s been gone for almost two months, Cass. Two months! All that time I got vague phone calls and texts that said nothing. He’s fine. He’ll be back soon. Of course he misses me. Maybe it’d be different if we’d been in a great spot when he left, but he wasn’t exactly all here then either.”
“Stop it.” She shoved the chair back, legs rubbing against the carpet, like nails on a chalkboard to my werewolf hearing. The next thing I knew, five-foot-nothing of platinum blonde cheerleader was right in my face. “He’s loves you. He just needs time to deal with—”
Still wanting to lash out, I balled my hands into fists to keep from shoving her out of my way. “I gave him time, Cass. I gave him three months. And then he left. He walked out.”
She laughed and her lips twisted into a sneer. “His grandmother was dying. Of course he left. You need to stop this. You’re being stupid. He loves you.” Like it would do any good, she reached out and ran her hand up and down my arm.
My voice came out tight and quiet. “Then why doesn’t he say it?”
“What?”
I bit my lip, trying to keep from crying. I didn’t want to cry over him anymore. I was done with that. “In all this time he’s been gone, not once, Cass. Not in a call, or a text, or an email. Hugs and kisses maybe. If I’m lucky. But love? I think he stopped loving me a long time ago. I’ve just been too blind to see it and holding onto him anyway.”
Cass dropped her hand and took a step back, tipping her head up like she needed to see me clearer. “Elle, what did you do?”
As I stared at the phone on my bed, all I could think was that people who said breaking up long-distance was easy were full of shit. Unless they’d never cared at all. Then maybe it wouldn’t hurt. “I decided to see again.”
Her fingers brushed my arm as I turned and headed out the door of our bedroom, but she didn’t try to stop me.
The beast inside me howled a mournful song as she guided me out of our neighborhood. I didn’t fight her; I was still too hurt to see straight. All this time I’d believed in him, believed in us. That we were strong enough to move past the stupid roadblock thrown our way. But he didn’t want to. He’d made that abundantly clear by taking off. For all I knew, he’d already moved on to someone else out west and was just waiting to come back and break it to me. Maybe making plans to go to college out there. I squeezed my eyes shut against the image of his face and crooked smile.
When I opened them, I found the beast had led me to the park. With a sigh, I sat down on one of the swings. The chains creaked overhead, the sound an angry screeching in the calm spring air.
“Need a push?”
I almost jumped at the voice behind me. Neither the beast nor I had heard him approach, but the guy I’d seen pounding up the court during basketball season stood right there, all sandy brown hair and green eyes. Cass had introduced us once, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember his name. Kane. Lane…
“Hello? Earth to Elle. We met after regionals? I’m Zane.”
That was it. “Hi, Zane. Sorry, you just spooked me.” I twisted the swing around to see him better, tugging long strands of hair from my face. Like me, he wore only a t-shirt and jeans, even though it was definitely chilly enough for a jacket, his muscles long and lean as they held the chains over my head. For some reason that made me shiver.
He smiled and it lit up his face. “Don’t get spooked often, do you?”
A laugh bubbled up inside me. “No, I don’t.” Then the wind shifted, and his scent hit the beast and me full force. My nostrils flared and eyes went wide as I met his unblinking gaze.
Rosemary. Grass. Trees. Dirt.
Werewolf.
He leaned down, his face hovering an inch away from mine. “Got you again.”
And he had too. I was frozen under the weight of his twinkling eyes and the headiness of his scent.
I gave my now ex-boyfriend a fleeting thought but clenched my jaw tight against it. If he was moving on, then damn it so could I. Screw him. And screw the tears the tried to spring up in my eyes.
With the beast already straining toward his scent, I closed the distance separating me from Zane.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Worse Than Death
My attempts at the next part of my series were...not working, so I decided to step away and do something different. Thanks to @Fictdoodles for the prompt! (Oddly enough, this is going to prove useful in my other writing too :) )
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~*~*~*~
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Worse Than Death
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After digging out the last shard of glass from my heel, I stalked through the kitchen and into the living room. Bloody footprints trailing behind me like morbid breadcrumbs. More blood dripped onto the off-white carpet from the knife in my hand.
The stains didn’t matter. Odds were no one was in the house to care—most houses were empty now. The only ones interested in the blood were those who followed me. Fresh blood drew them like flies to honey.
If I’d had shoes left, I could have gone farther without drawing them in. Too bad my last altercation had forced me to choose between my shoes and my life. I’d kicked the sneakers off without a second thought. Anymore, pieces of glass outnumbered blades of grass, even in suburbia—my feet never stood a chance.
Time was something I couldn’t afford to waste, and I prayed luck had brought me to a house with bandages, shoes near my size, and bullets. Bullets would be good. The gun tucked into my jeans didn’t weigh nearly enough for my taste. Filling the clip or finding a new weapon tied in importance with my need for something to cover my bloody feet.
The first door in the hall opened to a bathroom. The peach towels and bright yellow tile screamed of happy times. Times too far in the past to remember without pain.
Then a flash of joy so profound I wanted to kiss someone hit when I found salve and gauze wrap in the medicine cabinet. My feet were covered as quick as I could manage. The bindings weren’t pretty, but they’d hold for a while. I tucked the rest of the salve into my pocket.
A low moaning met my ears through the window I’d cracked open. It might have just been the wind, but as fortunate as I’d been with the bandages, I knew my luck wasn’t that good. There’d been too much blood.
“Move. Find the shoes.” I stood, wincing—the pain somehow more intense now that the blood wasn’t an immediate issue.
I poked my head out of the bathroom, looking both ways and sniffing. Nothing yet. Maybe I had enough time to get out of here. Hell, maybe there was a car in the garage with gas left. No. I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of that much hope.
The next door opened to an office…with a gun safe. I staggered to it and jerked on the handle. It swung open, not latched the last time someone went into it. Too many times, I found them like that. As well as how I found this one inside—empty. Grabbing the guns as a last hope, and maybe never even having the chance to fire them before…
I shook my head hard. There were no guns or ammo. Time to move on.
Opening the third door in my search for shoes, I found something else. The missing shotgun—pointed right at me.
“What are you doing here?” The old man’s voice was steady and strong…and human.
“Oh shit. I didn’t know anyone was here. You have to get out. They’re coming—“
“Get out of my house! I won’t let you lead them to me!” Fire and fever blazed in his eyes and his hands shook, sickness and panic making him jumpy.
He needed my help even more than I needed his. When they came, he wouldn’t stand a chance. “We need to go…” I reached for the gun, and he jerked back, pulling the trigger.
My ears rang with echoes of the gunshot as I stumbled, hand pressed to the hole in my stomach. Blood gushed from the wound with other, more solid pieces of me as I fell. The stench of rotting flesh hit me as I lay in the doorway. Liquid burbled up in my throat as I tried to tell the man to shut the door and hide, but no sound came out.
Eyes wide and clear for a moment, he knelt next to me, his ear close to my face. “What’d you say?”
And then it was too late. The zombies didn’t run, but they didn’t shamble either. The man must have finally smelled them because he tried to move, but with my body in the doorway, they were on him before he even raised the shotgun again.
The screams couldn’t drown out the growls and squelching of their teeth rending his flesh. Then one of them turned and noticed me lying there. Its one remaining eye locked on me, and I knew they wouldn’t pass me over as dead. Like the old man, I’d feel them eating me.
As the zombie stood, I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. With blood filling my mouth, I raised the knife, and slid the blade across my throat.
.
~*~*~*~
.
Worse Than Death
.
After digging out the last shard of glass from my heel, I stalked through the kitchen and into the living room. Bloody footprints trailing behind me like morbid breadcrumbs. More blood dripped onto the off-white carpet from the knife in my hand.
The stains didn’t matter. Odds were no one was in the house to care—most houses were empty now. The only ones interested in the blood were those who followed me. Fresh blood drew them like flies to honey.
If I’d had shoes left, I could have gone farther without drawing them in. Too bad my last altercation had forced me to choose between my shoes and my life. I’d kicked the sneakers off without a second thought. Anymore, pieces of glass outnumbered blades of grass, even in suburbia—my feet never stood a chance.
Time was something I couldn’t afford to waste, and I prayed luck had brought me to a house with bandages, shoes near my size, and bullets. Bullets would be good. The gun tucked into my jeans didn’t weigh nearly enough for my taste. Filling the clip or finding a new weapon tied in importance with my need for something to cover my bloody feet.
The first door in the hall opened to a bathroom. The peach towels and bright yellow tile screamed of happy times. Times too far in the past to remember without pain.
Then a flash of joy so profound I wanted to kiss someone hit when I found salve and gauze wrap in the medicine cabinet. My feet were covered as quick as I could manage. The bindings weren’t pretty, but they’d hold for a while. I tucked the rest of the salve into my pocket.
A low moaning met my ears through the window I’d cracked open. It might have just been the wind, but as fortunate as I’d been with the bandages, I knew my luck wasn’t that good. There’d been too much blood.
“Move. Find the shoes.” I stood, wincing—the pain somehow more intense now that the blood wasn’t an immediate issue.
I poked my head out of the bathroom, looking both ways and sniffing. Nothing yet. Maybe I had enough time to get out of here. Hell, maybe there was a car in the garage with gas left. No. I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of that much hope.
The next door opened to an office…with a gun safe. I staggered to it and jerked on the handle. It swung open, not latched the last time someone went into it. Too many times, I found them like that. As well as how I found this one inside—empty. Grabbing the guns as a last hope, and maybe never even having the chance to fire them before…
I shook my head hard. There were no guns or ammo. Time to move on.
Opening the third door in my search for shoes, I found something else. The missing shotgun—pointed right at me.
“What are you doing here?” The old man’s voice was steady and strong…and human.
“Oh shit. I didn’t know anyone was here. You have to get out. They’re coming—“
“Get out of my house! I won’t let you lead them to me!” Fire and fever blazed in his eyes and his hands shook, sickness and panic making him jumpy.
He needed my help even more than I needed his. When they came, he wouldn’t stand a chance. “We need to go…” I reached for the gun, and he jerked back, pulling the trigger.
My ears rang with echoes of the gunshot as I stumbled, hand pressed to the hole in my stomach. Blood gushed from the wound with other, more solid pieces of me as I fell. The stench of rotting flesh hit me as I lay in the doorway. Liquid burbled up in my throat as I tried to tell the man to shut the door and hide, but no sound came out.
Eyes wide and clear for a moment, he knelt next to me, his ear close to my face. “What’d you say?”
And then it was too late. The zombies didn’t run, but they didn’t shamble either. The man must have finally smelled them because he tried to move, but with my body in the doorway, they were on him before he even raised the shotgun again.
The screams couldn’t drown out the growls and squelching of their teeth rending his flesh. Then one of them turned and noticed me lying there. Its one remaining eye locked on me, and I knew they wouldn’t pass me over as dead. Like the old man, I’d feel them eating me.
As the zombie stood, I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. With blood filling my mouth, I raised the knife, and slid the blade across my throat.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Bargaining: Devil's Bargain
Welcome back to my #FridayFlash posts and thanks for coming.
If you're new to my stuff or you didn't remember, I'm doing a series for five weeks showing the five stages of grief, each one from the perspective of a different character.
The third stage is bargaining. Only two characters came immediately to mind for this stage. Both characters come from my Blood Kissed series (Of Course I Try, The Ghost of Vampire Present, and future tales), but one of their stories would have greatly spoiled the end game of the series, so the decision was easy. We're sharing another visit with Max, but for this one, we're traveling back in time about a hundred years.
.
.
There are certain things they don’t tell you about the military when you sign up. For instance, when you’re in battle, you follow your commanding officer’s orders, even if he’s sending you to your death.
The hardest part about that is simply the knowing.
The machine gun fire ripping through your body follows as a close second.
Lying in a pile of corpses praying for death to take you isn’t too far behind either.
.
.
When darkness fell the first night and I still had some strength left, I tried to drag myself back toward the allied lines. My staunch refusal to accept that I was dying lasted until I passed out from the pain, blood filling my mouth from how hard I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.
I woke the next day to more gunfire. Always more.
Only now I’d ground dirt through my shredded uniform and into the wounds that oozed a constant stream of blood. Had I pulled myself into the damnable Somme, at least the blood would’ve run clean again. And I probably would have drowned rather than lying there, waiting for infection or blood loss to take me.
Soon, the smoke and dirt and blood blurred in my sight and images of Lily took over. My wife—standing in the kitchen over a sink full of soap bubbles, sunlight glinting her blond hair as she sloshed water all over her apron and burst into laughter.
That was the moment I realized I couldn’t die. I had to get back to her. Back to the life I’d promised when we’d said “I do.”
As the sounds of fighting quieted a bit and darkness descended again, I began whispering prayers. “God, just let me get home to Lily—let me tell her I love her one more time—and I promise to be a better man. Just let me live.” I didn’t know how long I lay there saying the same things over and over, begging for another chance at life.
Then a lightly accented voice came from right next to me where only the dead had been a moment before. “Will you really do anything to go on living?”
I opened my eyes to a night lit by the glow of the moon and the flash of gunfire. There wasn’t much to see on the ground besides shadows, but a man with long hair completely at odds with current fashion knelt beside me, utterly calm in the madness of the battlefield. “Are you an angel?”
He shifted, and I swore I could hear him smile. “Something like that. What is your name, soldier?”
“Shaw. Sergeant Maxmillian Shaw.”
“A pleasure, and you may call me Remus.” He settled on the ground next to me. “So would you truly do anything to live again? Because I must tell you, you have about five excruciating hours left otherwise.”
I didn’t bother to ponder how he’d come up with the number. “Yes! I want to go home to my wife,” I cried, my voice so weak I didn’t think he could possibly have heard me.
“It is somewhat complicated. I can save you, but you’ll have to spend some time with me before I can send you home.” He leaned closer, the soft blackness of his hair tickling my neck.
“As long as I can see her again. Make her happy.”
Remus laughed and the sound danced in the night like fireflies. “I’m afraid it won’t be quite as simple as you want. You’ll get back to her, but you will never have the life you lived before again. You will have to hide things from her, from everyone you know. Everything will change. Are you certain it’s a sacrifice you can make?”
An icy chill started to seep into my veins, burning its way through my body, and shivers wracked my frame, making every pain flare to life again. And I said what he demanded, even though I knew I’d never lie to her. “I love Lily. Of course, I’ll sacrifice whatever I have to for her.”
“I’ll say this much for you Americans, you have strange ideas about what love means. But so be it—I will save your life.” Fire lit the sky as he threw his head back. And though he may have had the face of an angel—long black hair framing sparkling, intelligent blue eyes—I found myself staring down a demon. His fangs flashed in the light, and before I could say anything, he was on me.
His teeth pierced my flesh, and for a moment new pain blossomed there, and I felt certain it had all been a trick. Some test to get into heaven that I was sure I’d failed. Then, even as I felt my heart slowing, a rich fluid filled my mouth, salty, but sweeter than anything I’d ever tasted. The moment it hit my tongue, the darkness of death retreated, leaving only hunger behind. I latched onto the thing pressed against my lips and drank and drank.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, but with every swallow, the pain lessened, and my strength returned. When at last I opened my eyes once more, I found myself not on the battlefield, but in a cave, the sun casting a circle of light near the entrance. He’d done what he promised—I was whole again. Pushing to my feet, I reached toward the light. Before the glow even touched my skin, the flesh on my fingers erupted in flames. I yanked my hand back, batting the fire away.
“Lesson number one—“ the melodic voice said from behind me, “—daylight is no longer your friend.”
Turning, I found the demon, Remus, in the recesses of the cave. His fangs gone, but the gleam in his eyes the same as I’d seen as I lay dying. And in that moment, I knew I had indeed failed the test, because I’d wakened in hell.
If you're new to my stuff or you didn't remember, I'm doing a series for five weeks showing the five stages of grief, each one from the perspective of a different character.
The third stage is bargaining. Only two characters came immediately to mind for this stage. Both characters come from my Blood Kissed series (Of Course I Try, The Ghost of Vampire Present, and future tales), but one of their stories would have greatly spoiled the end game of the series, so the decision was easy. We're sharing another visit with Max, but for this one, we're traveling back in time about a hundred years.
.
*****
.
There are certain things they don’t tell you about the military when you sign up. For instance, when you’re in battle, you follow your commanding officer’s orders, even if he’s sending you to your death.
The hardest part about that is simply the knowing.
The machine gun fire ripping through your body follows as a close second.
Lying in a pile of corpses praying for death to take you isn’t too far behind either.
.
.
When darkness fell the first night and I still had some strength left, I tried to drag myself back toward the allied lines. My staunch refusal to accept that I was dying lasted until I passed out from the pain, blood filling my mouth from how hard I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.
I woke the next day to more gunfire. Always more.
Only now I’d ground dirt through my shredded uniform and into the wounds that oozed a constant stream of blood. Had I pulled myself into the damnable Somme, at least the blood would’ve run clean again. And I probably would have drowned rather than lying there, waiting for infection or blood loss to take me.
Soon, the smoke and dirt and blood blurred in my sight and images of Lily took over. My wife—standing in the kitchen over a sink full of soap bubbles, sunlight glinting her blond hair as she sloshed water all over her apron and burst into laughter.
That was the moment I realized I couldn’t die. I had to get back to her. Back to the life I’d promised when we’d said “I do.”
As the sounds of fighting quieted a bit and darkness descended again, I began whispering prayers. “God, just let me get home to Lily—let me tell her I love her one more time—and I promise to be a better man. Just let me live.” I didn’t know how long I lay there saying the same things over and over, begging for another chance at life.
Then a lightly accented voice came from right next to me where only the dead had been a moment before. “Will you really do anything to go on living?”
I opened my eyes to a night lit by the glow of the moon and the flash of gunfire. There wasn’t much to see on the ground besides shadows, but a man with long hair completely at odds with current fashion knelt beside me, utterly calm in the madness of the battlefield. “Are you an angel?”
He shifted, and I swore I could hear him smile. “Something like that. What is your name, soldier?”
“Shaw. Sergeant Maxmillian Shaw.”
“A pleasure, and you may call me Remus.” He settled on the ground next to me. “So would you truly do anything to live again? Because I must tell you, you have about five excruciating hours left otherwise.”
I didn’t bother to ponder how he’d come up with the number. “Yes! I want to go home to my wife,” I cried, my voice so weak I didn’t think he could possibly have heard me.
“It is somewhat complicated. I can save you, but you’ll have to spend some time with me before I can send you home.” He leaned closer, the soft blackness of his hair tickling my neck.
“As long as I can see her again. Make her happy.”
Remus laughed and the sound danced in the night like fireflies. “I’m afraid it won’t be quite as simple as you want. You’ll get back to her, but you will never have the life you lived before again. You will have to hide things from her, from everyone you know. Everything will change. Are you certain it’s a sacrifice you can make?”
An icy chill started to seep into my veins, burning its way through my body, and shivers wracked my frame, making every pain flare to life again. And I said what he demanded, even though I knew I’d never lie to her. “I love Lily. Of course, I’ll sacrifice whatever I have to for her.”
“I’ll say this much for you Americans, you have strange ideas about what love means. But so be it—I will save your life.” Fire lit the sky as he threw his head back. And though he may have had the face of an angel—long black hair framing sparkling, intelligent blue eyes—I found myself staring down a demon. His fangs flashed in the light, and before I could say anything, he was on me.
His teeth pierced my flesh, and for a moment new pain blossomed there, and I felt certain it had all been a trick. Some test to get into heaven that I was sure I’d failed. Then, even as I felt my heart slowing, a rich fluid filled my mouth, salty, but sweeter than anything I’d ever tasted. The moment it hit my tongue, the darkness of death retreated, leaving only hunger behind. I latched onto the thing pressed against my lips and drank and drank.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, but with every swallow, the pain lessened, and my strength returned. When at last I opened my eyes once more, I found myself not on the battlefield, but in a cave, the sun casting a circle of light near the entrance. He’d done what he promised—I was whole again. Pushing to my feet, I reached toward the light. Before the glow even touched my skin, the flesh on my fingers erupted in flames. I yanked my hand back, batting the fire away.
“Lesson number one—“ the melodic voice said from behind me, “—daylight is no longer your friend.”
Turning, I found the demon, Remus, in the recesses of the cave. His fangs gone, but the gleam in his eyes the same as I’d seen as I lay dying. And in that moment, I knew I had indeed failed the test, because I’d wakened in hell.
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