Today is the day that Tessa over at Tessa’s Blurb is hosting her Blogfest of Death. There are a whole bunch of fantastic writers signed up, so after you finish here click here and go check them out. My entry is the scene immediately following the one I did for Mary McDonald’s Terror Tuesday Blogfest about a month ago. You can click here if you want to read that scene. If not, just read below.
He staggers out of the barracks into the first cold, grey light of dawn, bumping off bodies skeletal and empty-eyed stumbling into strained lines in the center of the yard.
Eyes tearing with cold lock forward. Face still, he stands and stares, watches a dull sun arc along a thin, tight horizon.
Nothing moves across the raw, barren, black terrain beyond the watchtowers; scorched earth, all that’s left of a long ago burn.
Down the line, somewhere to his right, someone’s hacking up the latest plague. Spine straight, head unbowed, his fingers curl into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
The wind shifts; carries the smell of burning from the remains of a wild fire dancing along the serrated slopes just past the dead fields.
The sound of the shot explodes in his head. All-too-familiar rage and fear and shame churn in his gut; tighten his chest.
Wet, grey flakes of snow and ash fall through the raw, cold daylight; filter through the dead trees, the charred, lifeless trunks still standing sightless watch on the other side of the fence line.
Ash and ice, cold and wind stretch and move across the waste like a living thing, breathe harsh and jagged along the grey, serpentine river that snakes past the camp, cleaving the cauterized landscape.
He doesn’t think he’ll survive another winter.
The jolt from the stun stick slides down his spine; buckles his knees. Hard hands shove; send him staggering across the yard.
He doesn’t look at the body or the spreading spill of bright crimson against grey on his way to the pit.
Showing posts with label blogfest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogfest. Show all posts
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Terror Tuesday Blogfest
Mary over at Mary McDonald Has the Write Stuff is hosting the Terror Tuesday Blogfest today. Click here to go read the other wonderful entries. My entry is part of a short story I wrote a while ago. Another section of that story will be posted next month for Tessa’s Blogfest of Death. You still have plenty of time to sign up for that one. Go ahead. You know you want to.
When he wakes, he opens his eyes to nothing. It’s cold and dark. The pitch black gives way to a dull, gun-metal grey at the edges of his peripheral vision.
He curls in tighter to himself; pulls the filthy, threadbare blanket closer and listens to the harsh exhale of his breath. There’s a weight against his back, heavy, pressing close.
Brain still slow with sleep, scrambled from the remains of the dream, he throws back an elbow, rolls, and shoves hard against the stiff, formless shape. His hand falls, palm down, onto a sharp-boned, unmoving chest.
He rolls out of the blanket, rolls to his knees. Bright, dead eyes lock him in their line of sight.
He quits breathing; listens hard in the silence and the dark. There’s nothing beyond the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Fingers thick with cold and clumsy in the dark search blindly for a sign of heartbeat or breath.
There’s nothing. The body is cold and hard and silent.
He shifts on his knees, grabs the bottom of the thin, torn shirt, wrestles it up and off its unresisting owner and over his head.
Ignoring the stench that makes his stomach roll, he drives his arms quickly through the sleeves, pulls it down.
He slides down the body, yanks off worn boots; shoves bare feet into the rotting leather and freezes.
Still as stone, he flicks his eyes around the dark.
It’s quiet.
He moves again; pulls rancid pants two sizes too big off the corpse, rolls them up in the blanket.
He buries the rank bundle in the bag that’s filled with everything else in his life; crawls into the corner.
He huddles there, wrapped up in himself, listening for the sound of boot steps. As the stillness and dark congeal over him, he slips into faded memory from a long ago sometime that floats like ash on a cold wind.
He dreams in grey.
When he was small and hurt she would hold him. Soft, cool hands, satin-smooth and small, would cradle and caress him, and she would sing to him.
His eyes snap open, his head snaps up.
He can remember everything about her; the feel of her hands, the scent of her hair, the sound of her voice. Everything except her face.
Shrouded in the blanket and the rags he still feels the cold coming up off the stone, sees two burning eyes staring at him in the dark. A leaden cold that has nothing to do with hunger claws at the hollow in his gut.
It’s been a long time since she’s come to him.
He can’t remember how long.
He’d thought he’d stopped dreaming.
He should remember.
He pulls his bag and the blanket closer, his knees up to his chest, wonders if he’ll see her again.
He tries to pull breath deep into his lungs; can’t find any to spare.
The corpse watches him from the shadows. Once he took pity on the dead; now he wishes they would take pity on him.
He wraps his arms around his knees and waits.
When he wakes, he opens his eyes to nothing. It’s cold and dark. The pitch black gives way to a dull, gun-metal grey at the edges of his peripheral vision.
He curls in tighter to himself; pulls the filthy, threadbare blanket closer and listens to the harsh exhale of his breath. There’s a weight against his back, heavy, pressing close.
Brain still slow with sleep, scrambled from the remains of the dream, he throws back an elbow, rolls, and shoves hard against the stiff, formless shape. His hand falls, palm down, onto a sharp-boned, unmoving chest.
He rolls out of the blanket, rolls to his knees. Bright, dead eyes lock him in their line of sight.
He quits breathing; listens hard in the silence and the dark. There’s nothing beyond the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Fingers thick with cold and clumsy in the dark search blindly for a sign of heartbeat or breath.
There’s nothing. The body is cold and hard and silent.
He shifts on his knees, grabs the bottom of the thin, torn shirt, wrestles it up and off its unresisting owner and over his head.
Ignoring the stench that makes his stomach roll, he drives his arms quickly through the sleeves, pulls it down.
He slides down the body, yanks off worn boots; shoves bare feet into the rotting leather and freezes.
Still as stone, he flicks his eyes around the dark.
It’s quiet.
He moves again; pulls rancid pants two sizes too big off the corpse, rolls them up in the blanket.
He buries the rank bundle in the bag that’s filled with everything else in his life; crawls into the corner.
He huddles there, wrapped up in himself, listening for the sound of boot steps. As the stillness and dark congeal over him, he slips into faded memory from a long ago sometime that floats like ash on a cold wind.
He dreams in grey.
When he was small and hurt she would hold him. Soft, cool hands, satin-smooth and small, would cradle and caress him, and she would sing to him.
His eyes snap open, his head snaps up.
He can remember everything about her; the feel of her hands, the scent of her hair, the sound of her voice. Everything except her face.
Shrouded in the blanket and the rags he still feels the cold coming up off the stone, sees two burning eyes staring at him in the dark. A leaden cold that has nothing to do with hunger claws at the hollow in his gut.
It’s been a long time since she’s come to him.
He can’t remember how long.
He’d thought he’d stopped dreaming.
He should remember.
He pulls his bag and the blanket closer, his knees up to his chest, wonders if he’ll see her again.
He tries to pull breath deep into his lungs; can’t find any to spare.
The corpse watches him from the shadows. Once he took pity on the dead; now he wishes they would take pity on him.
He wraps his arms around his knees and waits.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Happy Saturday and a Blogfest
So I’ve got this rare Saturday post up courtesy of the lovely Rachel Bateman and her Beach Scene Blogfest. Click here to read the other beach entries by some really great writers.
But before reading mine, I have to remind you that I suck at naming characters. So in the interest of saving my own sanity, I simply picked some names. These names have in no way any relation to anyone living or dead. Anyway, that’s my story and here’s my entry.
A Night at the Beach
“Hey, guys.” Jack dropped another armload of wood next to the campfire. “A little help?”
“No, tanks.” Donnie V plunked the just shuffled deck down on the blanket in front of Sam. “We’re good.”
“Yeah.” Sam tapped the knuckles of his loosely curled fist on top of it. “We’re good.”
“No.” Carefully feeding branches into the fire, Jack glared at the group on the blanket. “I mean I could use a little help.”
Joe rearranged his chips. “We’re busy.”
“You’re playing cards.”
Fanning her cards out, Lola began reordering her hand. “Strip poker, baby.”
“Hey.” Jack threw up his hands, palms out. “There’ll be no stripping. My wife is here. And so’s my kid.”
“Ah, no worries, mate.” Em wagged her eyebrows at him. “I’m sure it’s nothing Annie’s never seen before.”
“And TJ?” Shannon waved a hand in the general direction of over there as she fished in the ice chest for another beer. “He’s over there poking Ray.”
Jack’s head snapped to the right. “Yo, TJ. Stop poking the nice man.”
Snagging the beer from Shannon, Annie slid up to Jack’s side. “For god’s sake Jack, give it a rest.”
“But babe, it’s already dark and time’s wasting.”
“Fine. We’re all here.” Dropping gracefully on the blanket, she folded herself comfortably, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. “Go ahead.”
Jack dropped down next to her. “It was a dark and stormy night...”
Nanse pulled her marshmallow out of the fire. “Why is it always a dark and stormy night?”
“Who’s telling the story here?”
“She’s right you know.” Courtney speared a marshmallow and poked it carefully into the flame. “All your stories start out like that.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face. “That’s because spooky campfire stories are supposed to start like that.” Chewing on his thumb, he ran his eyes around the group. “I suppose you think you can do better?”
Tara snorted. “Well, duh.”
“Fine. Go ahead. You tell the story.”
DL stepped out of the shadows. “Anybody seen my S’Mores?”
Annie lifted a hip and slid a cautious hand underneath it. “I think I found it.”
“That’s all right, you can have it.” DL waved a magnanimous hand before rummaging in the marshmallow bag. “I don’t want it anymore.”
Jack’s arms shot out and banded around her as he breathed low and harsh in her ear. “Not now, babe. Too many witnesses.”
She stilled in his grasp and settled for leveling a double-barreled glare at DL who was already happily toasting another marshmallow in the fire.
“I’ll start.” JP knocked back the last of his beer and tossed the can onto the pile at the edge of the blanket. “Many years ago, two warriors from rival villages got into a terrible fight. Knives pulled, they battled back and forth with the ferocity of hungry hounds, each tearing at the other with their knives…”
“Knives?” Reaching over, Tara thwapped DL in the head as he tried to steal her beer. “Please.”
DL made a sound somewhere between a croak and a quack as his head snapped. “What?”
“They always say knife in these things when it’s really not.” Tara held up a thumb and forefinger spaced closely together. “And then it’s some little bitty Swiss Army knife.”
She snagged a marshmallow from the bag, flicked her matte black Tanto open with one hand. “Now this?” She skewered her marshmallow. “This is a knife.”
“Who are you?” Em asked. “Crocodile Dundee?”
“Now that’s what I’m talking ’bout.” Tara held her hands up, about shoulder width apart. “He had a knife.”
“TJ.” Annie’s sharp voice split the air as she flowed to her feet in one fluid motion. “Quit poking Ray. He’s…sleeping.”
Standing and stretching, JP reached over, plucked the stick out of TJ’s tiny hands, and poked at the body with it. “I think he’s dead.”
Annie pulled the stick out of his hand and pointed to the mountain of beer cans just off to the side of the body. “He. Is. Not. Dead.”
“I’m just sayin’.” JP’s words floated back as he turned and wandered off toward the cooler.
Annie poked at the body again. Picking TJ up, she settled him on her hip, looked at Jack and shrugged her free shoulder.
Jack blew out his breath through clenched teeth. “Could we get back to the story, please?”
“Ooh. Ooh.” Courtney’s hand shot up. “I’ve got one.”
JP glared. “But I wasn’t finished.”
Courtney patted him on the back. “That’s ok.”
Jack threw up his hands in disgust as Annie settled back down next to him.
Putting her finger to her lips, Courtney shushed the group and started her story. “She lived deep in the forest in a tiny cottage and sold herbal remedies for a living.”
“Sounds like Nanse,” Portia mumbled around the marshmallow in her mouth.
Annie’s head snapped around to target Jack in her line-of-sight. Jack bumped his forehead repeatedly into her shoulder.
“Did she have a third eye?” DL asked.
Courtney’s voice rose with her eyebrows. “How do I know?”
Upending her bottle, Portia drained the last of her beer. “You’re telling the story.”
“It’s not Nanse.” Courtney threw up her hands, palms out. “Anyway, folks in the nearby town called her Bloody Mary and said she was a witch.”
“See?” Portia nodded. “Coulda been Nanse.”
“Amateurs.” Lola shook her finger around the circle on the blanket. “You’re all amateurs. Sit back and let a professional handle this.”
“But I wasn’t finished.”
“Yes, you were.” Lola flipped the flashlight up and held it just under her chin, giving her face an eerie glow. “The reports had been on the news all day, though she hadn’t been paying attention to them. Something about a crazy man who’d escaped from an upstate asylum. They were calling him Hook Man since he’d lost his right arm and had it replaced with a hook.”
“Ooh, ooh.” Summer bounced up and down on the blanket. “I know this one. I’ve seen the movie.”
Tara threw the bag of marshmallows at her. “We’ve all seen the movie. We’ve all seen all the movies.”
Shannon grabbed another beer. “Hey. I like those movies.”
“Could we get a little focus here people?” Jack leaned over and rested his head on Annie’s shoulders, lips close to her ear. “Tell me again why I thought this would be a good idea?”
“Because you always think your ideas are good ideas?” She bounced TJ on her knee.
“You’re a rock, babe.”
“I love you, too. Now hand me a beer.”
“Hand me one, too.” DL held out his hand. “I’m still shaking sand out…”
“…of your ass?” Annie snickered as she tossed him a beer.
“Very funny.” DL caught it one handed. “Why anyone would play in this sandbox...”
“Hey.” Susan thwapped him upside his head. “We play in the sandbox all the time.”
“What?” Jack’s head came off Annie’s shoulder.
“Sarahjayne and me.” Susan’s finger wagged back and forth. “You know our blog? The Sandbox Challenges.” She pointed a forefinger. “You must have heard of it. We write stories.”
“Hell, yeah.” Sarahjayne stabbed a marshmallow and waved it at Jack. “She writes romance. I’m literary angst.” She jabbed it into the fire. “Except when she’s literary angst and I’m romance.”
“Literary?” Annie rolled her eyes. “Angst?”
“I do not do angst.” Susan glared at Sarahjayne. “And I do not do dark.”
“Dude, you killed blind Jack’s dog.”
“I was blind?” Jack looked at Annie.
Annie looked at Jack. “We have a dog?”
“I was in pain.” Susan shook her finger at Sarahjayne. “You kill babies.”
“Well, duh.” Sarahjayne knocked back her beer. “And planets and…”
A huge smile split Susan’s face. “I love our sandbox.”
“I do too.” A low-rolling evil laugh erupted from Sarahjayne. “What are we gonna do next?”
“Listen to the next story?” Lola’s voice floated between them, an order not a suggestion. “Has anyone checked on Ray?”
Summer popped her marshmallow in her mouth and then reached over to poke the body. “He’s still dead.”
“He. Is.” Annie handed her squirming son to her husband and reached for another beer. “Not. Dead.”
Summer just shrugged. “Whatever.”
Shannon raised her hand. “I’ve got one.”
Sarahjayne reached for another beer. “Does it have a dead dog?”
Susan threw a stick at her sandbox partner in crime.
Shannon began her story in a voice low and slow. “A young woman lay suffering on her deathbed, her still born baby lying against her chest.
Sarahjayne jabbed Susan with the stick. “Dead baby.”
Susan rolled her eyes.
Shannon ignored them. “Her young husband crouched close, stricken with grief as his beautiful wife hummed a lullaby to her dead baby, her voice getting fainter as her own death drew near.”
“Ooh, ooh.” Summer bounced up and down where she sat. “Romance and angst.”
Jack and Annie looked at each other and scooted back a little further on the blanket.
Portia’s scream split the air as a shadow fell over the group.
“I don’t feel so good.” With those words to remember, Ray planted his face in the blanket.
TJ poked him with a stick.
“For god’s sake, Jack.” Annie grabbed her child and disarmed him.
“This is the last time I am ever doing this.” Jack winced, raised both hands and rubbed hard against his temples. “Why can’t it ever be easy?”
But before reading mine, I have to remind you that I suck at naming characters. So in the interest of saving my own sanity, I simply picked some names. These names have in no way any relation to anyone living or dead. Anyway, that’s my story and here’s my entry.
A Night at the Beach
“Hey, guys.” Jack dropped another armload of wood next to the campfire. “A little help?”
“No, tanks.” Donnie V plunked the just shuffled deck down on the blanket in front of Sam. “We’re good.”
“Yeah.” Sam tapped the knuckles of his loosely curled fist on top of it. “We’re good.”
“No.” Carefully feeding branches into the fire, Jack glared at the group on the blanket. “I mean I could use a little help.”
Joe rearranged his chips. “We’re busy.”
“You’re playing cards.”
Fanning her cards out, Lola began reordering her hand. “Strip poker, baby.”
“Hey.” Jack threw up his hands, palms out. “There’ll be no stripping. My wife is here. And so’s my kid.”
“Ah, no worries, mate.” Em wagged her eyebrows at him. “I’m sure it’s nothing Annie’s never seen before.”
“And TJ?” Shannon waved a hand in the general direction of over there as she fished in the ice chest for another beer. “He’s over there poking Ray.”
Jack’s head snapped to the right. “Yo, TJ. Stop poking the nice man.”
Snagging the beer from Shannon, Annie slid up to Jack’s side. “For god’s sake Jack, give it a rest.”
“But babe, it’s already dark and time’s wasting.”
“Fine. We’re all here.” Dropping gracefully on the blanket, she folded herself comfortably, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. “Go ahead.”
Jack dropped down next to her. “It was a dark and stormy night...”
Nanse pulled her marshmallow out of the fire. “Why is it always a dark and stormy night?”
“Who’s telling the story here?”
“She’s right you know.” Courtney speared a marshmallow and poked it carefully into the flame. “All your stories start out like that.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face. “That’s because spooky campfire stories are supposed to start like that.” Chewing on his thumb, he ran his eyes around the group. “I suppose you think you can do better?”
Tara snorted. “Well, duh.”
“Fine. Go ahead. You tell the story.”
DL stepped out of the shadows. “Anybody seen my S’Mores?”
Annie lifted a hip and slid a cautious hand underneath it. “I think I found it.”
“That’s all right, you can have it.” DL waved a magnanimous hand before rummaging in the marshmallow bag. “I don’t want it anymore.”
Jack’s arms shot out and banded around her as he breathed low and harsh in her ear. “Not now, babe. Too many witnesses.”
She stilled in his grasp and settled for leveling a double-barreled glare at DL who was already happily toasting another marshmallow in the fire.
“I’ll start.” JP knocked back the last of his beer and tossed the can onto the pile at the edge of the blanket. “Many years ago, two warriors from rival villages got into a terrible fight. Knives pulled, they battled back and forth with the ferocity of hungry hounds, each tearing at the other with their knives…”
“Knives?” Reaching over, Tara thwapped DL in the head as he tried to steal her beer. “Please.”
DL made a sound somewhere between a croak and a quack as his head snapped. “What?”
“They always say knife in these things when it’s really not.” Tara held up a thumb and forefinger spaced closely together. “And then it’s some little bitty Swiss Army knife.”
She snagged a marshmallow from the bag, flicked her matte black Tanto open with one hand. “Now this?” She skewered her marshmallow. “This is a knife.”
“Who are you?” Em asked. “Crocodile Dundee?”
“Now that’s what I’m talking ’bout.” Tara held her hands up, about shoulder width apart. “He had a knife.”
“TJ.” Annie’s sharp voice split the air as she flowed to her feet in one fluid motion. “Quit poking Ray. He’s…sleeping.”
Standing and stretching, JP reached over, plucked the stick out of TJ’s tiny hands, and poked at the body with it. “I think he’s dead.”
Annie pulled the stick out of his hand and pointed to the mountain of beer cans just off to the side of the body. “He. Is. Not. Dead.”
“I’m just sayin’.” JP’s words floated back as he turned and wandered off toward the cooler.
Annie poked at the body again. Picking TJ up, she settled him on her hip, looked at Jack and shrugged her free shoulder.
Jack blew out his breath through clenched teeth. “Could we get back to the story, please?”
“Ooh. Ooh.” Courtney’s hand shot up. “I’ve got one.”
JP glared. “But I wasn’t finished.”
Courtney patted him on the back. “That’s ok.”
Jack threw up his hands in disgust as Annie settled back down next to him.
Putting her finger to her lips, Courtney shushed the group and started her story. “She lived deep in the forest in a tiny cottage and sold herbal remedies for a living.”
“Sounds like Nanse,” Portia mumbled around the marshmallow in her mouth.
Annie’s head snapped around to target Jack in her line-of-sight. Jack bumped his forehead repeatedly into her shoulder.
“Did she have a third eye?” DL asked.
Courtney’s voice rose with her eyebrows. “How do I know?”
Upending her bottle, Portia drained the last of her beer. “You’re telling the story.”
“It’s not Nanse.” Courtney threw up her hands, palms out. “Anyway, folks in the nearby town called her Bloody Mary and said she was a witch.”
“See?” Portia nodded. “Coulda been Nanse.”
“Amateurs.” Lola shook her finger around the circle on the blanket. “You’re all amateurs. Sit back and let a professional handle this.”
“But I wasn’t finished.”
“Yes, you were.” Lola flipped the flashlight up and held it just under her chin, giving her face an eerie glow. “The reports had been on the news all day, though she hadn’t been paying attention to them. Something about a crazy man who’d escaped from an upstate asylum. They were calling him Hook Man since he’d lost his right arm and had it replaced with a hook.”
“Ooh, ooh.” Summer bounced up and down on the blanket. “I know this one. I’ve seen the movie.”
Tara threw the bag of marshmallows at her. “We’ve all seen the movie. We’ve all seen all the movies.”
Shannon grabbed another beer. “Hey. I like those movies.”
“Could we get a little focus here people?” Jack leaned over and rested his head on Annie’s shoulders, lips close to her ear. “Tell me again why I thought this would be a good idea?”
“Because you always think your ideas are good ideas?” She bounced TJ on her knee.
“You’re a rock, babe.”
“I love you, too. Now hand me a beer.”
“Hand me one, too.” DL held out his hand. “I’m still shaking sand out…”
“…of your ass?” Annie snickered as she tossed him a beer.
“Very funny.” DL caught it one handed. “Why anyone would play in this sandbox...”
“Hey.” Susan thwapped him upside his head. “We play in the sandbox all the time.”
“What?” Jack’s head came off Annie’s shoulder.
“Sarahjayne and me.” Susan’s finger wagged back and forth. “You know our blog? The Sandbox Challenges.” She pointed a forefinger. “You must have heard of it. We write stories.”
“Hell, yeah.” Sarahjayne stabbed a marshmallow and waved it at Jack. “She writes romance. I’m literary angst.” She jabbed it into the fire. “Except when she’s literary angst and I’m romance.”
“Literary?” Annie rolled her eyes. “Angst?”
“I do not do angst.” Susan glared at Sarahjayne. “And I do not do dark.”
“Dude, you killed blind Jack’s dog.”
“I was blind?” Jack looked at Annie.
Annie looked at Jack. “We have a dog?”
“I was in pain.” Susan shook her finger at Sarahjayne. “You kill babies.”
“Well, duh.” Sarahjayne knocked back her beer. “And planets and…”
A huge smile split Susan’s face. “I love our sandbox.”
“I do too.” A low-rolling evil laugh erupted from Sarahjayne. “What are we gonna do next?”
“Listen to the next story?” Lola’s voice floated between them, an order not a suggestion. “Has anyone checked on Ray?”
Summer popped her marshmallow in her mouth and then reached over to poke the body. “He’s still dead.”
“He. Is.” Annie handed her squirming son to her husband and reached for another beer. “Not. Dead.”
Summer just shrugged. “Whatever.”
Shannon raised her hand. “I’ve got one.”
Sarahjayne reached for another beer. “Does it have a dead dog?”
Susan threw a stick at her sandbox partner in crime.
Shannon began her story in a voice low and slow. “A young woman lay suffering on her deathbed, her still born baby lying against her chest.
Sarahjayne jabbed Susan with the stick. “Dead baby.”
Susan rolled her eyes.
Shannon ignored them. “Her young husband crouched close, stricken with grief as his beautiful wife hummed a lullaby to her dead baby, her voice getting fainter as her own death drew near.”
“Ooh, ooh.” Summer bounced up and down where she sat. “Romance and angst.”
Jack and Annie looked at each other and scooted back a little further on the blanket.
Portia’s scream split the air as a shadow fell over the group.
“I don’t feel so good.” With those words to remember, Ray planted his face in the blanket.
TJ poked him with a stick.
“For god’s sake, Jack.” Annie grabbed her child and disarmed him.
“This is the last time I am ever doing this.” Jack winced, raised both hands and rubbed hard against his temples. “Why can’t it ever be easy?”
Friday, June 4, 2010
TGIF! and a Blogfest
The lovely Amalia T. is hosting her Dream Sequence Blogfest today. Click here to read the other wonderful entries by some really great writers. As for mine? It's part of a bigger something written a while ago. Anyway, happy Friday. Enjoy the blogfest and your weekend.
Your hand wraps the gearshift and your foot flexes against the accelerator as you slip through the sleeping city.
“John, John, John…”
Green lights stretch out in front of you, beacons in the pitch black that presses in on you. Dark, dull buildings stand silent sentry, and a line of parking meters and naked trees mark your passing.
“What’s the matter Harve? You don’t like the ride?”
“On the contrary, John, I love the ride and I love riding shotgun.” A long arm reaches out and a forefinger stabs random buttons, surfing late night FM stations again. “It’s such a beautiful night.” He settles back against the leather seat and sighs. “The sky is as black as Zoë’s hair. You should really…”
“No, no, no, no, no.” You force your fingers to relax, give up their death grip on the steering wheel. “You do not get to talk to me about Zoë.”
His slow, Southern drawl hangs in the space between you. “She walks in beauty like the night…”
“Give it up, freak.” You bank your irritation, let it ride. “You have no idea…”
“Which way, John? Right or left?”
“What?”
“There’s a fork in the road up ahead.” Harvey waves a dismissive hand. “Which way? Right or left?
You pull the car gently to the right as he opens the glovebox and begins going through the contents.
“Someone has to make you see.”
“Let me guess.” You keep your eyes on the road, your voice flat. “That someone would be you?”
“You really should pay more attention to her, John. And to what you’re doing.” He shifts in his seat, cocks a thumb and forefinger at you. “I’m not your enemy.”
“Tell me the truth, Harve.” You slide a sideways glance at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“You know I’m only here to protect you.” Mirror-flat eyes lock you in their line of sight. “Among other things.”
“Don’t worry about me, Harve.” You flick your eyes forward and stare hard, navigating by the spill of light from streetlamps. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Right or left, John?”
“What?”
“Right or left?”
Another turn off and the car drifts to the left. Suddenly you’re on the parkway.
“All roads lead to Zoë.”
“I’ve told you before.” You turn and give him your best double-barreled glare. “You do not get to talk to me about Zoë.”
“Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right…” He drums a back beat on the dashboard. “And there she is, stuck in the middle with you.”
“I know what you’re doing.” The cold in the pit of your stomach claws its way up and out, sets up camp in your chest. “It’s not going to work.”
“You know that I’m only trying to protect you.” He jabs a long, strong finger into your shoulder. “Among other things.”
“Haven’t you learned? You…are mistaken.” You roll tight shoulders, crack your neck, and blow out a harsh, jagged breath. “I don’t need your protection. Or your help.”
“Yes, John. I do learn from my mistakes.” The unpleasant smile curving his lips doesn’t reach his eyes. “Unlike you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“So much you misunderstand about me.” The observation is friendly, almost. “As if I didn’t know what Zoë is to you. If I wanted to…”
“You stay away from her, you freakazoid son-of-a-bitch.” You think the growl you hear is you, your self-control slipping.
“Right or left?” Harvey points forward at the orange barrels almost immediately in front of you.
“Shit.” The sibilant hiss hangs in the sudden silence as you pull the car hard to the right, pissed because the freak next to you is settled comfortably riding shotgun while you’re sweating bullets and lost on an endless looping freeway.
“Champagne dreams, John. Reality escapes you.”
“I’m sorry you’re so disappointed.” You dig deep and find some control again. “What did you expect of me?”
“You to see reason. To be reasonable and to see the truth.”
“What truth would that be?”
“You can’t protect her, you know. You can’t be her savior.”
You wait a beat, try to breathe. “Fuck you.”
“Right or left?” Harvey shrugs and points again, forcing your attention forward.
The concrete divider is coming up fast.
The car veers sharply to the left and suddenly your heart is in your throat and your stomach is in knots as you hear and feel the sickening crunch of the body meeting the front end.
You see it launch in the headlights and come to rest as your foot tries to go through the floorboard on top of the brake and your arms lock in a wrestling match with the steering wheel.
The car fishtails and spins wildly to a halt at the side of the road and you are out of it and moving before conscious thought has returned.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
You skid to your knees at the side of the mangled body, unaware of the blood pooling beneath it and staining your pants. Shaking with adrenaline and fear, brushing the long twisted hair from the join of neck and shoulders you reach out gently place two fingers at what should be the pulse point.
There is nothing.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. The refrain runs like a freight train through your head.
“John, John, John.” Harvey’s voice cuts through the white noise and screaming in your head. “You only see the curve, not the road ahead.”
“What?”
“You can’t protect her. You can’t be her savior.”
Your gut is sending a message your brain won’t accept as you reach trembling hands out to gather the broken and bloody body to you. Cradling the twisted and bent form against your chest, you reach up to gently brush the eerily familiar hair from an obscured face.
You wake drenched in sweat, cold and clammy, pulse roaring in your ears as you jackknife to a sitting position.
Zoë.
Your hand wraps the gearshift and your foot flexes against the accelerator as you slip through the sleeping city.
“John, John, John…”
Green lights stretch out in front of you, beacons in the pitch black that presses in on you. Dark, dull buildings stand silent sentry, and a line of parking meters and naked trees mark your passing.
“What’s the matter Harve? You don’t like the ride?”
“On the contrary, John, I love the ride and I love riding shotgun.” A long arm reaches out and a forefinger stabs random buttons, surfing late night FM stations again. “It’s such a beautiful night.” He settles back against the leather seat and sighs. “The sky is as black as Zoë’s hair. You should really…”
“No, no, no, no, no.” You force your fingers to relax, give up their death grip on the steering wheel. “You do not get to talk to me about Zoë.”
His slow, Southern drawl hangs in the space between you. “She walks in beauty like the night…”
“Give it up, freak.” You bank your irritation, let it ride. “You have no idea…”
“Which way, John? Right or left?”
“What?”
“There’s a fork in the road up ahead.” Harvey waves a dismissive hand. “Which way? Right or left?
You pull the car gently to the right as he opens the glovebox and begins going through the contents.
“Someone has to make you see.”
“Let me guess.” You keep your eyes on the road, your voice flat. “That someone would be you?”
“You really should pay more attention to her, John. And to what you’re doing.” He shifts in his seat, cocks a thumb and forefinger at you. “I’m not your enemy.”
“Tell me the truth, Harve.” You slide a sideways glance at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“You know I’m only here to protect you.” Mirror-flat eyes lock you in their line of sight. “Among other things.”
“Don’t worry about me, Harve.” You flick your eyes forward and stare hard, navigating by the spill of light from streetlamps. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Right or left, John?”
“What?”
“Right or left?”
Another turn off and the car drifts to the left. Suddenly you’re on the parkway.
“All roads lead to Zoë.”
“I’ve told you before.” You turn and give him your best double-barreled glare. “You do not get to talk to me about Zoë.”
“Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right…” He drums a back beat on the dashboard. “And there she is, stuck in the middle with you.”
“I know what you’re doing.” The cold in the pit of your stomach claws its way up and out, sets up camp in your chest. “It’s not going to work.”
“You know that I’m only trying to protect you.” He jabs a long, strong finger into your shoulder. “Among other things.”
“Haven’t you learned? You…are mistaken.” You roll tight shoulders, crack your neck, and blow out a harsh, jagged breath. “I don’t need your protection. Or your help.”
“Yes, John. I do learn from my mistakes.” The unpleasant smile curving his lips doesn’t reach his eyes. “Unlike you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“So much you misunderstand about me.” The observation is friendly, almost. “As if I didn’t know what Zoë is to you. If I wanted to…”
“You stay away from her, you freakazoid son-of-a-bitch.” You think the growl you hear is you, your self-control slipping.
“Right or left?” Harvey points forward at the orange barrels almost immediately in front of you.
“Shit.” The sibilant hiss hangs in the sudden silence as you pull the car hard to the right, pissed because the freak next to you is settled comfortably riding shotgun while you’re sweating bullets and lost on an endless looping freeway.
“Champagne dreams, John. Reality escapes you.”
“I’m sorry you’re so disappointed.” You dig deep and find some control again. “What did you expect of me?”
“You to see reason. To be reasonable and to see the truth.”
“What truth would that be?”
“You can’t protect her, you know. You can’t be her savior.”
You wait a beat, try to breathe. “Fuck you.”
“Right or left?” Harvey shrugs and points again, forcing your attention forward.
The concrete divider is coming up fast.
The car veers sharply to the left and suddenly your heart is in your throat and your stomach is in knots as you hear and feel the sickening crunch of the body meeting the front end.
You see it launch in the headlights and come to rest as your foot tries to go through the floorboard on top of the brake and your arms lock in a wrestling match with the steering wheel.
The car fishtails and spins wildly to a halt at the side of the road and you are out of it and moving before conscious thought has returned.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
You skid to your knees at the side of the mangled body, unaware of the blood pooling beneath it and staining your pants. Shaking with adrenaline and fear, brushing the long twisted hair from the join of neck and shoulders you reach out gently place two fingers at what should be the pulse point.
There is nothing.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. The refrain runs like a freight train through your head.
“John, John, John.” Harvey’s voice cuts through the white noise and screaming in your head. “You only see the curve, not the road ahead.”
“What?”
“You can’t protect her. You can’t be her savior.”
Your gut is sending a message your brain won’t accept as you reach trembling hands out to gather the broken and bloody body to you. Cradling the twisted and bent form against your chest, you reach up to gently brush the eerily familiar hair from an obscured face.
You wake drenched in sweat, cold and clammy, pulse roaring in your ears as you jackknife to a sitting position.
Zoë.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Oy.
I’ve done a fair number of blogfests lately, and I have to admit that I’m beginning to wonder. I thought for sure after this last one I was pretty much blogfested out. But, no. I found not one, not two, but three other upcoming blogfests I’ll probably enter. Seriously, I might be addicted. And that’s not counting the short story contest I still plan on entering if I can get myself together.
Now I like blogfests and contests because they force me to write. Maybe not write in my WIP, but write something. And that’s taking more than a little bit of effort lately. Plot Whisperer has a great post here about your relationship with your writing.
Do you participate in blogfests? Think they are good for you and your skills? Or not? And how’s your relationship with your writing?
Now I like blogfests and contests because they force me to write. Maybe not write in my WIP, but write something. And that’s taking more than a little bit of effort lately. Plot Whisperer has a great post here about your relationship with your writing.
Do you participate in blogfests? Think they are good for you and your skills? Or not? And how’s your relationship with your writing?
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Blog fests, blog fests everywhere
It’s apparently time once again for me to indulge myself and revisit my experiment with second person. The Alliterative Allomorph is hosting the Internal Conflict Blog Fest, and this seems to be what called to me. Don’t forget to check out the other entries for some great midweek reading.
You know it’s your fault. You know it when you look at her. When you watch her, knowing that she doesn’t know you’re there.
You remember kissing her, promising her things that you couldn’t possibly ever give her.
Life. Love. Hope. Happiness.
A promise that everything would be all right.
You lied.
You remember kissing her, the familiar tingle of electricity shooting from the tips of your hair straight down your spine to curl your toes.
Almost.
You remember holding her on your lap, pressed tightly to you, arms and legs and lips tangled. Feeling her under your hand as her body collapsed against yours.
It’s been five years.
Life went on.
You remember promising her love, kissing her with all the passion, hope, truth you still had left to offer her to seal your covenant, putting your mother’s ring on her finger.
Love endured.
She is yours and you are hers. Finally. Always. It’s as simple and as honest as that.
But there are ghosts here. Her. You. Your unborn child who lingers in the walls, whispers in the silence and the shadows, echoes in the heartbeat you listen to every night.
You step into your room. Not quietly like you used to, when she used to hear you. You don’t have to be quiet anymore.
She doesn’t hear you.
You wonder what she thinks. What she sees when she searches that blank void with dead eyes.
Can she see him? There in the cobweb of memory? Your eyes, her hair, your wits, her skills?
Everything that isn’t. Wasn’t. Wouldn’t ever be.
You see untold stories, a fairy tale with a happily ever after, and laughter.
You remember laughter. With her.
You don’t think she does.
You come to stand behind her, rest your hands on her shoulders and she shifts away, tries to hide something.
You know what it is. A possibility. Taken a life time ago. The image black and white and grainy. A small thing, really. No bigger than your thumbprint.
Something beautiful you both still remember.
You take the picture from her gently; lay it reverently on the table next to her brush.
You turn her in your arms, skim your fingertips lightly down her arms, and entwine your hands.
She’d loved you, given you your future, and a happiness you’d only dreamed of.
You let your fingers move to circle her waist, brushing lightly against satin skin as you lift the hem of her shirt. She puts her arms up obediently and you slide it off, toss it into the corner.
You’ll get it tomorrow.
You broke her. You’d tried to fix her, but she was never the same. She’s your dead girl walking.
But you’d grinned your half-assed grin at her, pressed your lips to her scars, and watched her paint on her porcelain smile, shroud her bruised eyes.
And then you broke her some more.
It’s what you did.
What you couldn’t fix, you broke. And every day with you, you watched her die a little more, killing yourself.
Tears like rain, flowing like wine, like the sky bleeding.
Your fingertips slide down the silky trail of her spine, under the waistband of her pants and around. You undo the fastener and zipper as you gently kiss her mouth, rest your forehead against hers, and breathe the same air.
You slide the pants over her hips to pool on the floor at her feet; take her hands again as she steps out of them. Long, pale legs and still graceful, she stands before you. You still think she is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
The more you wanted to fix her, the more you broke her.
It’s what you were good at.
She’s the only thing you’ve ever been afraid of losing. You’re here. She’s here. You’ll go down with your ship.
You sit her down in the chair and begin your nightly ritual.
You breathe deep as you run the brush through the waterfall of ebony that cascades down her back. You’ve always loved running your fingers through that river of silk, the scent and feel of it.
She hasn’t brushed her own hair in five years.
It’s all kinds of wrong, on all kinds of levels. But it’s everything you always wanted. Everything you’d ever dreamed.
Your perfect circle.
You want to live with her. Want to give her what she needs. You want her to know that.
Touch. Warmth. Strength. Connection.
You’ll never let anything ever come between you again.
You put the brush down, pull her up close and wrap her in your arms. She nuzzles at your chest. It’s almost like she’s searching for your heart, where it should be but isn’t.
She’d taken that the first time you’d laid eyes on her.
Beautiful. It’s what she is. What she’s always been. What she always will be to you.
You lead her to bed, lay yourself down beside her. She nestles in your arms, scoots herself back. You spoon yourself around her, hand tangled in her hair, her back to your chest, your legs tangled in hers.
“We’re gonna be okay.”
Hope.
It’s not a lie, just a necessary untruth. She believes you because she trusts you fully.
Happiness.
You whisper a kiss into her hair and close your eyes.
You know it’s your fault. You know it when you look at her. When you watch her, knowing that she doesn’t know you’re there.
You remember kissing her, promising her things that you couldn’t possibly ever give her.
Life. Love. Hope. Happiness.
A promise that everything would be all right.
You lied.
You remember kissing her, the familiar tingle of electricity shooting from the tips of your hair straight down your spine to curl your toes.
Almost.
You remember holding her on your lap, pressed tightly to you, arms and legs and lips tangled. Feeling her under your hand as her body collapsed against yours.
It’s been five years.
Life went on.
You remember promising her love, kissing her with all the passion, hope, truth you still had left to offer her to seal your covenant, putting your mother’s ring on her finger.
Love endured.
She is yours and you are hers. Finally. Always. It’s as simple and as honest as that.
But there are ghosts here. Her. You. Your unborn child who lingers in the walls, whispers in the silence and the shadows, echoes in the heartbeat you listen to every night.
You step into your room. Not quietly like you used to, when she used to hear you. You don’t have to be quiet anymore.
She doesn’t hear you.
You wonder what she thinks. What she sees when she searches that blank void with dead eyes.
Can she see him? There in the cobweb of memory? Your eyes, her hair, your wits, her skills?
Everything that isn’t. Wasn’t. Wouldn’t ever be.
You see untold stories, a fairy tale with a happily ever after, and laughter.
You remember laughter. With her.
You don’t think she does.
You come to stand behind her, rest your hands on her shoulders and she shifts away, tries to hide something.
You know what it is. A possibility. Taken a life time ago. The image black and white and grainy. A small thing, really. No bigger than your thumbprint.
Something beautiful you both still remember.
You take the picture from her gently; lay it reverently on the table next to her brush.
You turn her in your arms, skim your fingertips lightly down her arms, and entwine your hands.
She’d loved you, given you your future, and a happiness you’d only dreamed of.
You let your fingers move to circle her waist, brushing lightly against satin skin as you lift the hem of her shirt. She puts her arms up obediently and you slide it off, toss it into the corner.
You’ll get it tomorrow.
You broke her. You’d tried to fix her, but she was never the same. She’s your dead girl walking.
But you’d grinned your half-assed grin at her, pressed your lips to her scars, and watched her paint on her porcelain smile, shroud her bruised eyes.
And then you broke her some more.
It’s what you did.
What you couldn’t fix, you broke. And every day with you, you watched her die a little more, killing yourself.
Tears like rain, flowing like wine, like the sky bleeding.
Your fingertips slide down the silky trail of her spine, under the waistband of her pants and around. You undo the fastener and zipper as you gently kiss her mouth, rest your forehead against hers, and breathe the same air.
You slide the pants over her hips to pool on the floor at her feet; take her hands again as she steps out of them. Long, pale legs and still graceful, she stands before you. You still think she is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
The more you wanted to fix her, the more you broke her.
It’s what you were good at.
She’s the only thing you’ve ever been afraid of losing. You’re here. She’s here. You’ll go down with your ship.
You sit her down in the chair and begin your nightly ritual.
You breathe deep as you run the brush through the waterfall of ebony that cascades down her back. You’ve always loved running your fingers through that river of silk, the scent and feel of it.
She hasn’t brushed her own hair in five years.
It’s all kinds of wrong, on all kinds of levels. But it’s everything you always wanted. Everything you’d ever dreamed.
Your perfect circle.
You want to live with her. Want to give her what she needs. You want her to know that.
Touch. Warmth. Strength. Connection.
You’ll never let anything ever come between you again.
You put the brush down, pull her up close and wrap her in your arms. She nuzzles at your chest. It’s almost like she’s searching for your heart, where it should be but isn’t.
She’d taken that the first time you’d laid eyes on her.
Beautiful. It’s what she is. What she’s always been. What she always will be to you.
You lead her to bed, lay yourself down beside her. She nestles in your arms, scoots herself back. You spoon yourself around her, hand tangled in her hair, her back to your chest, your legs tangled in hers.
“We’re gonna be okay.”
Hope.
It’s not a lie, just a necessary untruth. She believes you because she trusts you fully.
Happiness.
You whisper a kiss into her hair and close your eyes.
Friday, May 7, 2010
TGIF! and a Blogfest
Today after school I'm headed back to Chicago for a quick weekend trip. But I'm leaving you with a little something. Andrew over at The WriteRunner is hosting a Bad Girl Blogfest. So here's my entry. I'll see you all on Monday, and I hope you have a great weekend.
She’s been here a week, stalking her prey, before she finally decides on the killing ground. She knows the when, the how, and now the where.
She also knows the why; she just doesn’t care.
Objective.
She’s trailed him four times now, marked his route. He’s always in early and out late; straight shot, no stops. And he always uses the stairs to enter and exit the skyway that connects the parking garage with the high-rise tower that houses his small, low-level government office.
Mission.
At this point of convergence, she times it perfectly.
She knows the lower levels are empty, and smiles up at the shriveled little man hurrying down as she climbs.
The landing is narrow where they meet, and she nods as he angles slightly to give her room to pass. She steps and pivots as her right hand pulls up her pistol and fires into the back of the little man’s head from a distance of less than six inches.
The suppressor is more than worth its cost. There isn’t a sound except the snick of the trigger as the man’s thin hair puffs out in a sudden splash of pale pink and crimson.
The body crumples and begins to fall. She follows it down, fires a second shot into the head as legs and arms splay on the ground.
Execution.
Stepping over and away from the body, she heads back down the stairs and out into the quiet of a dark, empty street.
In less than an hour the sun will rise and she will be gone.
She’s been here a week, stalking her prey, before she finally decides on the killing ground. She knows the when, the how, and now the where.
She also knows the why; she just doesn’t care.
Objective.
She’s trailed him four times now, marked his route. He’s always in early and out late; straight shot, no stops. And he always uses the stairs to enter and exit the skyway that connects the parking garage with the high-rise tower that houses his small, low-level government office.
Mission.
At this point of convergence, she times it perfectly.
She knows the lower levels are empty, and smiles up at the shriveled little man hurrying down as she climbs.
The landing is narrow where they meet, and she nods as he angles slightly to give her room to pass. She steps and pivots as her right hand pulls up her pistol and fires into the back of the little man’s head from a distance of less than six inches.
The suppressor is more than worth its cost. There isn’t a sound except the snick of the trigger as the man’s thin hair puffs out in a sudden splash of pale pink and crimson.
The body crumples and begins to fall. She follows it down, fires a second shot into the head as legs and arms splay on the ground.
Execution.
Stepping over and away from the body, she heads back down the stairs and out into the quiet of a dark, empty street.
In less than an hour the sun will rise and she will be gone.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
One Hundred Posts and the Primal Scream Blogfest
On New Year’s Day I began this blog as part of a resolution. Today I am posting my one hundredth post. I’d like to thank all of you who have welcomed me and made this possible.
And what better way to celebrate the big one hundred than with a blogfest entry? This one is for Raquel Byrnes’ Primal Scream Blogfest.
They met no resistance as the swarm of black copters entered hostile air space. Following a tight vector, they moved fast and low over the breakers between a littered, white sand beach and the sunlit blue vista of ocean and sky.
Curled into his seat, long legs pulled up close against his chest, O’Neill felt the anxious anticipation that seemed to have become a part of him simmer just beneath his skin. Felt that edginess and tension spark between the others like an electrical current arcing within the confines of the ship.
The pilot’s voice sounded in his ear. “Two minutes.”
He pushed to his feet and watched the squad do their weapons check. Fifty pounds of gear and ammo. Grenades and grenade launchers. Shaped explosive charges. M-16s all around.
“Hang on.” The warning came harsh over the comms as the pilot wrestled with the controls and the helicopter bucked hard in the turbulence of a sky that was on fire.
O’Neill braced and watched Afram and Diallo go through their silent personal rituals of preparation and last minute mental checklists.
The ship slowed just as he finished his own brief final run through.
Hit the ground. Find the hatch. Blow the hatch. Cover their asses.
Pulling on his gloves, he flexed his fingers, triple checked his weapon, and rehearsed his choreographed moves.
Hit the ventilation ducts. Cover their asses.
“One minute.”
Find the elevator. Hit the down button. Cover their asses.
He stood and moved carefully with the rest of the team to stand next to the door as the ship moved down over the city and approached their target site.
Search the tiers. Cover their asses.
He braced again against the sudden change in pitch as the helicopter hovered over the brown storm of swirling dust kicked up by the rotating blades.
Find Zoë. Cover her ass.
Under his flack jacket, his heart pounded in his chest and over the sound of the rotor and engines, his pulse roared in his ears.
Out the way you came in.
“Fifty seconds.”
Don’t fuck this up.
Everything sharpened into vivid relief. Looking around, he saw Afram tap his helmet with two fingers. O’Neill reached up and lowered his faceplate as the copter hovered and silently began counting down.
Going to get Zoë. Gonna bring her home.
Then they were through the worst of it and pilot flared the ship, settled it gracefully, and screamed his final instructions over the comms as the hatch dropped open.
“Go. Go. Go.”
O’Neill followed Diallo out the door, in position, weapon ready. He barely registered the hazy heat shimmering like a wave, the trails of smoke that hung in the heavy air, or the plumes of ash rising in the burning orange distance as he scanned for targets and threats.
Afram took point, moving quickly toward the ventilation shaft. Reaching the hatch that led inside, he put a shaped charge in place before retreating a safe distance. When it blew, they followed the blast, diving inside.
Ninety seconds later, moving in formation, they had worked their way to a grille. Afram braced and kicked it out. Diallo tossed a high velocity shaped charge down the hole. The blast came almost immediately and then they were moving forward, dropping down through the hole and firing on guards as they landed in the main control center.
Weapons fire lit up the room as O’Neill rolled to cover under a console, counted, then came up to spray continuous fire in his target window.
“Elevator,” Diallo hissed over the comms when it was over.
Afram stood and pointed to the far wall. Stepping over bodies, the tall male commando led the way to the door and hit the call control as they flattened themselves against the wall and waited.
It was empty when the doors opened and the ride down wasn’t long.
Coming out, Afram was back on point and they were moving in formation down the tunnel, scanning for resistance in their target windows. Fifteen seconds later, an explosion and shots from a side tunnel indicated they had finally found it.
Gun fire jumped across the junction. As he hunkered down against the wall, a second explosion came from O’Neill’s left.
RPG?
He rolled across the junction, popped up to lay down suppression fire as Afram and Diallo took up position and began firing at their targets. Two explosions in quick succession had his ears ringing, but even so he could still hear the sound of someone screaming instructions.
He looked across at Afram, who nodded and snugged his rifle to his shoulder and began laying down cover fire that lit its way down the tunnel as O’Neill pulled a grenade.
Squeeze. Throw. Dive.
The shock of the wave sent him into the wall and O’Neill heard more missiles go off as he rolled again and took out one guard in his target window. Shots to his right alerted him to a missed target. He popped up from cover and squeezed off five shots. In his peripheral vision he saw Diallo off to his right, taking out another guard while scanning for other threats.
The next explosion, when it came, deafened them all.
And what better way to celebrate the big one hundred than with a blogfest entry? This one is for Raquel Byrnes’ Primal Scream Blogfest.
They met no resistance as the swarm of black copters entered hostile air space. Following a tight vector, they moved fast and low over the breakers between a littered, white sand beach and the sunlit blue vista of ocean and sky.
Curled into his seat, long legs pulled up close against his chest, O’Neill felt the anxious anticipation that seemed to have become a part of him simmer just beneath his skin. Felt that edginess and tension spark between the others like an electrical current arcing within the confines of the ship.
The pilot’s voice sounded in his ear. “Two minutes.”
He pushed to his feet and watched the squad do their weapons check. Fifty pounds of gear and ammo. Grenades and grenade launchers. Shaped explosive charges. M-16s all around.
“Hang on.” The warning came harsh over the comms as the pilot wrestled with the controls and the helicopter bucked hard in the turbulence of a sky that was on fire.
O’Neill braced and watched Afram and Diallo go through their silent personal rituals of preparation and last minute mental checklists.
The ship slowed just as he finished his own brief final run through.
Hit the ground. Find the hatch. Blow the hatch. Cover their asses.
Pulling on his gloves, he flexed his fingers, triple checked his weapon, and rehearsed his choreographed moves.
Hit the ventilation ducts. Cover their asses.
“One minute.”
Find the elevator. Hit the down button. Cover their asses.
He stood and moved carefully with the rest of the team to stand next to the door as the ship moved down over the city and approached their target site.
Search the tiers. Cover their asses.
He braced again against the sudden change in pitch as the helicopter hovered over the brown storm of swirling dust kicked up by the rotating blades.
Find Zoë. Cover her ass.
Under his flack jacket, his heart pounded in his chest and over the sound of the rotor and engines, his pulse roared in his ears.
Out the way you came in.
“Fifty seconds.”
Don’t fuck this up.
Everything sharpened into vivid relief. Looking around, he saw Afram tap his helmet with two fingers. O’Neill reached up and lowered his faceplate as the copter hovered and silently began counting down.
Going to get Zoë. Gonna bring her home.
Then they were through the worst of it and pilot flared the ship, settled it gracefully, and screamed his final instructions over the comms as the hatch dropped open.
“Go. Go. Go.”
O’Neill followed Diallo out the door, in position, weapon ready. He barely registered the hazy heat shimmering like a wave, the trails of smoke that hung in the heavy air, or the plumes of ash rising in the burning orange distance as he scanned for targets and threats.
Afram took point, moving quickly toward the ventilation shaft. Reaching the hatch that led inside, he put a shaped charge in place before retreating a safe distance. When it blew, they followed the blast, diving inside.
Ninety seconds later, moving in formation, they had worked their way to a grille. Afram braced and kicked it out. Diallo tossed a high velocity shaped charge down the hole. The blast came almost immediately and then they were moving forward, dropping down through the hole and firing on guards as they landed in the main control center.
Weapons fire lit up the room as O’Neill rolled to cover under a console, counted, then came up to spray continuous fire in his target window.
“Elevator,” Diallo hissed over the comms when it was over.
Afram stood and pointed to the far wall. Stepping over bodies, the tall male commando led the way to the door and hit the call control as they flattened themselves against the wall and waited.
It was empty when the doors opened and the ride down wasn’t long.
Coming out, Afram was back on point and they were moving in formation down the tunnel, scanning for resistance in their target windows. Fifteen seconds later, an explosion and shots from a side tunnel indicated they had finally found it.
Gun fire jumped across the junction. As he hunkered down against the wall, a second explosion came from O’Neill’s left.
RPG?
He rolled across the junction, popped up to lay down suppression fire as Afram and Diallo took up position and began firing at their targets. Two explosions in quick succession had his ears ringing, but even so he could still hear the sound of someone screaming instructions.
He looked across at Afram, who nodded and snugged his rifle to his shoulder and began laying down cover fire that lit its way down the tunnel as O’Neill pulled a grenade.
Squeeze. Throw. Dive.
The shock of the wave sent him into the wall and O’Neill heard more missiles go off as he rolled again and took out one guard in his target window. Shots to his right alerted him to a missed target. He popped up from cover and squeezed off five shots. In his peripheral vision he saw Diallo off to his right, taking out another guard while scanning for other threats.
The next explosion, when it came, deafened them all.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Last Lines Blogfest
These are the last lines of a roughly 7000 word short story where I played with switching POVs. It's my entry in Lilah's Last Lines Blogfest. Go here to check out the other entries and have a happy weekend.
You stretch and shift and reach for her in the dark. Your eyes snap open; the sheets are cool beneath your hand. Pushing up on an elbow, you listen hard in the silence.
You leverage yourself upright, swing your legs around. Your feet hit the floor and you push off the bed; long strides march you across the room to the crib.
It’s empty.
Glacial cold crawls out of your gut, climbs up and into in your chest; makes it hard to breathe.
Two silenced clicks split the stillness, and you’re moving before the muted sound of two quick thumps in succession, snagging the Berretta as you edge out of the room and into the hallway.
You almost trip over the first body and your hands come up, palms out as the pistol swings to target you.
“Where’s the baby?” Raw words tear at your throat, explode in the silence.
“Down the hall.” Her voice is low and harsh; a fierce whisper as she drops her weapon, reaches over to check for a pulse on the other body.
You stand in the dark and the silence and look at the woman you love.
And you hope.
“We have to go.”
She looks up at you through the tops of bright, brittle eyes set deep in the shadows of her perfect, pale face.
Biting down on her lip as she flows to her feet and stands, she doesn’t say a word as she pushes past you into the bedroom.
************************
You shrug the flight bag higher on your shoulder as you bounce on the balls of your feet, sharp eyes scanning the length of the dim hallway.
In less than an hour the first red-orange brush strokes of the sun will be rising over the foothills, waking the city, and you want to be gone.
The door snicks open beside you and she slips out, baby on her hip, shadowed figure behind her.
She steps to your side and the old woman’s eyes slide over you as gnarled fingers come up to cup her face.
“Be safe.”
She smiles and turns, shifts the baby more comfortably on her hip as she walks down the hall.
The door snicks closed behind you as you follow, catch up to her.
You slide your arm over her shoulders and she doesn’t pull away.
You stretch and shift and reach for her in the dark. Your eyes snap open; the sheets are cool beneath your hand. Pushing up on an elbow, you listen hard in the silence.
You leverage yourself upright, swing your legs around. Your feet hit the floor and you push off the bed; long strides march you across the room to the crib.
It’s empty.
Glacial cold crawls out of your gut, climbs up and into in your chest; makes it hard to breathe.
Two silenced clicks split the stillness, and you’re moving before the muted sound of two quick thumps in succession, snagging the Berretta as you edge out of the room and into the hallway.
You almost trip over the first body and your hands come up, palms out as the pistol swings to target you.
“Where’s the baby?” Raw words tear at your throat, explode in the silence.
“Down the hall.” Her voice is low and harsh; a fierce whisper as she drops her weapon, reaches over to check for a pulse on the other body.
You stand in the dark and the silence and look at the woman you love.
And you hope.
“We have to go.”
She looks up at you through the tops of bright, brittle eyes set deep in the shadows of her perfect, pale face.
Biting down on her lip as she flows to her feet and stands, she doesn’t say a word as she pushes past you into the bedroom.
************************
You shrug the flight bag higher on your shoulder as you bounce on the balls of your feet, sharp eyes scanning the length of the dim hallway.
In less than an hour the first red-orange brush strokes of the sun will be rising over the foothills, waking the city, and you want to be gone.
The door snicks open beside you and she slips out, baby on her hip, shadowed figure behind her.
She steps to your side and the old woman’s eyes slide over you as gnarled fingers come up to cup her face.
“Be safe.”
She smiles and turns, shifts the baby more comfortably on her hip as she walks down the hall.
The door snicks closed behind you as you follow, catch up to her.
You slide your arm over her shoulders and she doesn’t pull away.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Blogfest Weekend (Part Two)
Happy Sunday and welcome to Blogfest Weekend (Part Two). Today's entry is for the Bar Scene Blogfest hosted by the lovely Tara over at Secret Stories. Go on over after this and check out all the other awesome entries.
I have to admit that choosing an entry for this was harder than I imagined it would be. I have a ton of things set in a bar. I love bars for storytelling. I've got girls' night out and boys' night out scenes. I've got lonely guy in a bar scenes. I've got pick up scenes in bars. And I have this. It's not the obvious choice for a Bar Scene Blogfest, but what the heck. I went with the non-obvious 1520 words here. We'll see how that goes.
Clouds of dark smoke and ash float on the horizon, and the acrid burn of the air from wildfires scorches his nostrils as he moves past the squat, sprawling mills and their bellowing stacks into the central city.
Haze hangs heavy here, thick and pressing in all around him in the meager spill of light that’s lost to the shadows and the corners in the dark, narrow streets and darker, narrower alleys.
His eyes scan the crowd as he bobs and weaves. Sharp elbows and shoulders cleave the roiling sea of bodies, withered, skeletal creatures wrapped in dull shades of grey and dirty brown scurrying under a dark, angry sky.
He finds what he’s looking for; pulls open the almost invisible grey door, steps over the body sprawled in his way, and into a deeper darkness.
The door snicks closed behind him and he stops, long fingers tapping a staccato beat against the pistol on his thigh as his eyes adjust to the thin trail of light lining the length of the corridor.
Five seconds later he’s moving again, long, silent steps sliding down the close confines of the hallway.
He slips through the door into the main room. Sharp eyes run a quick recon.
Off to his left, at the far end of the bar, the serving girl sits, running a drying cloth around a glass. When she finishes, she flips it upside down and stacks it in line along the neat little row she’s started in front of her. The old drunk at the end of the bar sits hunched on his stool, head hung low over his bottle.
The man rinsing glasses behind the bar flicks a sideways glance in his direction as he slides onto a stool. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
The barkeeper barks a laugh and reaches under the counter, plunks a bottle of some local brew in front of him. “Where the hell do you think you are?”
He doesn’t have an answer for that. Just leans forward and watches the girl out of the corner of his eye.
She swivels her head slowly. The tangled spill of hair cascading down her back doesn’t move, but he catches the dark, jagged slash just under her jaw line.
Her lips pull tight in a thin, flat line and hard, hollow-black eyes that are far too old stare out from a face that is far too thin, all angles and sharp planes.
Something he thinks might be shame flutters in his gut as the weight of her gaze forces him to snap his eyes back to his bottle.
“Go on with you, now.” The barkeeper jerks his head toward the back door, holds out his hand. “I need you to finish taking inventory.”
She slides off her stool, ghosts along the length of the bar, stretches out a skeletal arm. A small hand opens and thin, gnarled fingers close on the clipboard he’s holding out as she passes.
He shifts slightly in his seat. His hand wraps his neck and he tilts his head, slides a sidelong glance at the girl disappearing down the back stairs.
The old drunk doubles over and begins trying to hack up a lung.
“One for my friend.” He slides the bartender a ten, chugs half the bottle as he waits for the hacking to end. “Was it something I said?”
The old drunk twists his head a quarter turn, bleary eyes narrowed and trying to focus. “It’s the time of the year.”
The bartender slides a bottle to him, voice sharp in the mid-day silence of the bar. “You talk too much, old man.”
The old man waves a dismissive hand. “You’re not here for the celebration.”
He hands the bartender his empty and reaches up, rubs cool, damp fingers against the beginning of a headache behind his eyes. “What celebration?”
The old man’s head drops and his shoulders curl forward as another fit of coughing takes him.
He reaches over, thumps him hard on the back.
The old man waves him off. “The Great Day of Liberation.”
The bartender ducks beneath the counter; brings up a bottle of JD and three glasses. “Not a lot of reason to celebrate.”
“The Death of Azar.” The old man shrugs a bony shoulder. “The end of the Great War.”
“The end of the last war.” The bartender sets a clean glass in front of him, splashes it half full of whiskey as his eyes slide to the old man. “We just quit numbering them.”
The old man leans forward, hungry eyes on the bottle. “You don’t think that’s reason enough to celebrate?”
The bartender splashes another puddle, slides the glass down the bar. “You talk too much, old man.”
The old man raises his glass. “Azar’s gone.”
The bartender snorts; a harsh explosion of breath, raises his own. “For all the good it’s done.”
He almost laughs, clinks glasses all around. “They say change is good. Peace is new.”
The bartender splashes another round, his voice rough and low. “It’s a long story.”
“Not such a long story.” The old man shrugs again. “Clan warfare. Azar was the most powerful of the warlords. Ruled with an iron fist.”
Eyes closed, he raises the glass to his lips. “Decided who would live and die.”
The bartender’s voice is as dull and flat as his eyes. “Trafficked in slaves and weapons to support his private armies…his personal ambitions.”
The words hang heavy in the stillness. “His personal compound is not too far outside the city. You can tour the barracks and the warehouse and cages as part of the celebration if you’d like.”
He leans forward, hands the bartender his empty. “Cages?”
He shrugs and pours, hands it back.
The old man’s voice, savage and sharp as a blade floats between them. “For holding the merchandise.”
He slides his eyes sideways, sets his glass back down on the bar. “You’ve been there.”
“I was there.” The old man taps a long, bony forefinger against the jagged black symbols scrawled in a line on his neck. “Lot number. I worked in the mine.”
“They would come in the dark; take males, females, children.” The bartender’s lips curve gently up at corners in an angry smile. “We called them The Vanished.”
“A number of Azar’s clients had a predilection for children.” The old man curls forward again; coughs into his chest, waves off a helping hand. “The younger the better.”
“The girl…”
“And her brother.” Hazy eyes stare into the past; focus on a memory, on some point beyond his left shoulder. “The boy was young, small…sickly.”
He tilts his head, chews on a thumb pad. “What happened?
“We were in the middle of a war.” The old man shrugs, wraps his fingers around his glass. “Azar challenged the wrong people. He’d always armed both sides, but when he began trafficking in biological weapons…”
“You talk too much, old man.” Her voice is a quiet, vicious thing slicing the words like a razor. “It’s not your story to tell.”
She slides behind the bar, sharp eyes catching his.
He flicks his eyes away, forces himself to look back. “What’s the rest of the story?”
Her face twists with anger, grief. “Azar’s enemies sent a team of assassins.”
A long forefinger taps against his glass. “They killed him…and liberated you.”
The dead pools of her eyes pin him in place. “They weren’t there to…liberate us.”
His teeth grind loud in his ear. “They left you there?”
“There were too many of us.” Her lips flatline. “And the fighting was close. We could hear…see the city being shelled. The explosions. The fires.”
“Azar’s guards were coming…”
“One of the team, a female…forced them to take…some of us. Only the ones who could move on their own.”
The old man spit his words. “A twelve day forced march to the border.”
“And the others?”
“My brother was sick…weak…he hadn’t been able to eat…”
“You couldn’t take him?”
“She gave me a choice.” Her hands curl into tight fists at her side. “Said it was already too late for him; we couldn’t save him.” Old grief and guilt flavor her words. “There was nothing I could do. There were too many others to take.”
A small shiver ripples through her body. “I said I couldn’t leave him.”
“And?”
She lifts a skeletal shoulder. “She said if I wanted to live I had to go with them.”
“You left him?”
She goes suddenly rigid, eyes sighting over his shoulder and burning in a face frozen in a rictus of rage.
“Are you ready to go?” Cacia’s voice shatters the sudden silence.
He swivels his head in slow motion, sees her standing there, staring past him; eyes tired, face drawn, arms wrapped around her middle like she’s trying to keep herself from spilling out.
The girl’s voice floats soft and low behind him. “She was right.”
Cacia wrenches her gaze from the girl, locks him in her line of sight. “The others are waiting for us.”
She spins on her heel and leaves without looking back to see if he’s following.
I have to admit that choosing an entry for this was harder than I imagined it would be. I have a ton of things set in a bar. I love bars for storytelling. I've got girls' night out and boys' night out scenes. I've got lonely guy in a bar scenes. I've got pick up scenes in bars. And I have this. It's not the obvious choice for a Bar Scene Blogfest, but what the heck. I went with the non-obvious 1520 words here. We'll see how that goes.
Clouds of dark smoke and ash float on the horizon, and the acrid burn of the air from wildfires scorches his nostrils as he moves past the squat, sprawling mills and their bellowing stacks into the central city.
Haze hangs heavy here, thick and pressing in all around him in the meager spill of light that’s lost to the shadows and the corners in the dark, narrow streets and darker, narrower alleys.
His eyes scan the crowd as he bobs and weaves. Sharp elbows and shoulders cleave the roiling sea of bodies, withered, skeletal creatures wrapped in dull shades of grey and dirty brown scurrying under a dark, angry sky.
He finds what he’s looking for; pulls open the almost invisible grey door, steps over the body sprawled in his way, and into a deeper darkness.
The door snicks closed behind him and he stops, long fingers tapping a staccato beat against the pistol on his thigh as his eyes adjust to the thin trail of light lining the length of the corridor.
Five seconds later he’s moving again, long, silent steps sliding down the close confines of the hallway.
He slips through the door into the main room. Sharp eyes run a quick recon.
Off to his left, at the far end of the bar, the serving girl sits, running a drying cloth around a glass. When she finishes, she flips it upside down and stacks it in line along the neat little row she’s started in front of her. The old drunk at the end of the bar sits hunched on his stool, head hung low over his bottle.
The man rinsing glasses behind the bar flicks a sideways glance in his direction as he slides onto a stool. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
The barkeeper barks a laugh and reaches under the counter, plunks a bottle of some local brew in front of him. “Where the hell do you think you are?”
He doesn’t have an answer for that. Just leans forward and watches the girl out of the corner of his eye.
She swivels her head slowly. The tangled spill of hair cascading down her back doesn’t move, but he catches the dark, jagged slash just under her jaw line.
Her lips pull tight in a thin, flat line and hard, hollow-black eyes that are far too old stare out from a face that is far too thin, all angles and sharp planes.
Something he thinks might be shame flutters in his gut as the weight of her gaze forces him to snap his eyes back to his bottle.
“Go on with you, now.” The barkeeper jerks his head toward the back door, holds out his hand. “I need you to finish taking inventory.”
She slides off her stool, ghosts along the length of the bar, stretches out a skeletal arm. A small hand opens and thin, gnarled fingers close on the clipboard he’s holding out as she passes.
He shifts slightly in his seat. His hand wraps his neck and he tilts his head, slides a sidelong glance at the girl disappearing down the back stairs.
The old drunk doubles over and begins trying to hack up a lung.
“One for my friend.” He slides the bartender a ten, chugs half the bottle as he waits for the hacking to end. “Was it something I said?”
The old drunk twists his head a quarter turn, bleary eyes narrowed and trying to focus. “It’s the time of the year.”
The bartender slides a bottle to him, voice sharp in the mid-day silence of the bar. “You talk too much, old man.”
The old man waves a dismissive hand. “You’re not here for the celebration.”
He hands the bartender his empty and reaches up, rubs cool, damp fingers against the beginning of a headache behind his eyes. “What celebration?”
The old man’s head drops and his shoulders curl forward as another fit of coughing takes him.
He reaches over, thumps him hard on the back.
The old man waves him off. “The Great Day of Liberation.”
The bartender ducks beneath the counter; brings up a bottle of JD and three glasses. “Not a lot of reason to celebrate.”
“The Death of Azar.” The old man shrugs a bony shoulder. “The end of the Great War.”
“The end of the last war.” The bartender sets a clean glass in front of him, splashes it half full of whiskey as his eyes slide to the old man. “We just quit numbering them.”
The old man leans forward, hungry eyes on the bottle. “You don’t think that’s reason enough to celebrate?”
The bartender splashes another puddle, slides the glass down the bar. “You talk too much, old man.”
The old man raises his glass. “Azar’s gone.”
The bartender snorts; a harsh explosion of breath, raises his own. “For all the good it’s done.”
He almost laughs, clinks glasses all around. “They say change is good. Peace is new.”
The bartender splashes another round, his voice rough and low. “It’s a long story.”
“Not such a long story.” The old man shrugs again. “Clan warfare. Azar was the most powerful of the warlords. Ruled with an iron fist.”
Eyes closed, he raises the glass to his lips. “Decided who would live and die.”
The bartender’s voice is as dull and flat as his eyes. “Trafficked in slaves and weapons to support his private armies…his personal ambitions.”
The words hang heavy in the stillness. “His personal compound is not too far outside the city. You can tour the barracks and the warehouse and cages as part of the celebration if you’d like.”
He leans forward, hands the bartender his empty. “Cages?”
He shrugs and pours, hands it back.
The old man’s voice, savage and sharp as a blade floats between them. “For holding the merchandise.”
He slides his eyes sideways, sets his glass back down on the bar. “You’ve been there.”
“I was there.” The old man taps a long, bony forefinger against the jagged black symbols scrawled in a line on his neck. “Lot number. I worked in the mine.”
“They would come in the dark; take males, females, children.” The bartender’s lips curve gently up at corners in an angry smile. “We called them The Vanished.”
“A number of Azar’s clients had a predilection for children.” The old man curls forward again; coughs into his chest, waves off a helping hand. “The younger the better.”
“The girl…”
“And her brother.” Hazy eyes stare into the past; focus on a memory, on some point beyond his left shoulder. “The boy was young, small…sickly.”
He tilts his head, chews on a thumb pad. “What happened?
“We were in the middle of a war.” The old man shrugs, wraps his fingers around his glass. “Azar challenged the wrong people. He’d always armed both sides, but when he began trafficking in biological weapons…”
“You talk too much, old man.” Her voice is a quiet, vicious thing slicing the words like a razor. “It’s not your story to tell.”
She slides behind the bar, sharp eyes catching his.
He flicks his eyes away, forces himself to look back. “What’s the rest of the story?”
Her face twists with anger, grief. “Azar’s enemies sent a team of assassins.”
A long forefinger taps against his glass. “They killed him…and liberated you.”
The dead pools of her eyes pin him in place. “They weren’t there to…liberate us.”
His teeth grind loud in his ear. “They left you there?”
“There were too many of us.” Her lips flatline. “And the fighting was close. We could hear…see the city being shelled. The explosions. The fires.”
“Azar’s guards were coming…”
“One of the team, a female…forced them to take…some of us. Only the ones who could move on their own.”
The old man spit his words. “A twelve day forced march to the border.”
“And the others?”
“My brother was sick…weak…he hadn’t been able to eat…”
“You couldn’t take him?”
“She gave me a choice.” Her hands curl into tight fists at her side. “Said it was already too late for him; we couldn’t save him.” Old grief and guilt flavor her words. “There was nothing I could do. There were too many others to take.”
A small shiver ripples through her body. “I said I couldn’t leave him.”
“And?”
She lifts a skeletal shoulder. “She said if I wanted to live I had to go with them.”
“You left him?”
She goes suddenly rigid, eyes sighting over his shoulder and burning in a face frozen in a rictus of rage.
“Are you ready to go?” Cacia’s voice shatters the sudden silence.
He swivels his head in slow motion, sees her standing there, staring past him; eyes tired, face drawn, arms wrapped around her middle like she’s trying to keep herself from spilling out.
The girl’s voice floats soft and low behind him. “She was right.”
Cacia wrenches her gaze from the girl, locks him in her line of sight. “The others are waiting for us.”
She spins on her heel and leaves without looking back to see if he’s following.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Blogfest Weekend (Part One)
Happy Saturday and welcome to the first day of Blogfest Weekend. That's right. Two days of blogfest awesomeness. Here's my humble 700 word entry for the Murder Scene Blogfest hosted by the lovely Anne Riley. Don't forget to head over and check out the rest of these killer entries when you're finished.
Outside, the heavy press of humidity, darkening skies, and a shift in the whisper of wind announced the coming storm.
Inside, the clock in the corner of the screen counted down the time left in the quarter.
Jake dropped boneless onto the couch, tossed a beer without looking across the room. "I call this one right and it's a hundred bucks in the pool."
Eyes on the big screen, Sam shifted in the recliner, snagged the can mid-air.
The ref’s whistle stopped the clock, and a quiet voice floated behind them.
"Who's playing?"
Two heads snapped in unison.
Jake came off the couch. "What the fuck..."
The snarl died before he pulled up short at the sight of the man standing statue-still ten feet away.
"Stop right there.” A huge, steady hand leveled the Berretta; ice blue eyes pinned its target in place. “Sit down."
The matte black silencer twitched toward the big screen. "Thought you wanted to watch the game."
Hands up, palms out, Jake folded himself back into his seat, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun pointed at him. "Who the hell are you?"
"Nobody you know." A spasm rippled across a tight jaw line and bloodless lips pulled back in a feral smile. "Just some guy in from out of town for a little while.” He jerked his head toward the TV. “Who's playing?"
"What?"
Predatory eyes narrowed, targeted the man on the couch. "What's your name?"
"Jake."
The Berretta shifted to target the man in the chair. "You?"
"Sam." He blew out the word on an explosive exhale.
Jake shifted on the couch. "What the hell..."
The Berretta twitched again. Jake's eyes snapped wide open as it pointed right at him.
"Who's playing?" The voice went low and dangerous.
"Who are you?" Sam croaked.
"Green Bay and...Minnesota." Jake brought his hands up, forefingers pointed at the pistol. "You might wanna take it easy with that thing."
"Don't worry, I got it under control." He snorted a laugh. "We're just gonna have a little talk."
Beads of sweat gathered along Sam’s hairline, his upper lip. "Put that thing down and we'll talk."
"I don't think so.” The voice was soft, almost lilting. “Not yet. We have some unfinished business."
Jake inhaled a careful breath, ran a dry tongue around parched lips. "We don't know you."
"No, you don't." Mirror-flat eyes locked Jake in their line of sight. "But you've met a friend of mine."
Sam breathed deep; the smell of his own fear sharp in his nostrils, in his throat, choked him. "Who?"
"Pretty girl, about this tall." The gunman’s free hand up came up close to his left eye. "Thin, beautiful face, beautiful black hair..."
"Last night." Shaking now, Sam closed his eyes, mumbled something that might have been a prayer.
"Yeah, last night." Cold, dead eyes examined their target. "You like to hurt them? Mess them up? That the only way you can get any?"
"Man, I don't know what you're talking about." Jake took one rasping breath and the words came faster, running off his tongue. "Just take it easy. Don't do anything stupid. Put the gun down. We didn't do anything..."
A flatline smile bled across tight lips. "You drugged her and then you raped her."
"No, man, I swear. It wasn't like that." Jake’s hands came up in supplication and his eyes widened, flicked between the pistol and the cold, calm face of the man holding it.
Breathing hard, Sam felt wet warmth pool beneath him. "Don't do this, please."
"And then you left her...lying in a back alley to die." The words hummed with focused fury.
"We didn't know she was so messed up..." Jake tasted copper in his mouth.
Sam strained for air. "Please don't do this."
"Shut the fuck up."
The finger on the trigger tightened. There was a snick almost like an electrical spark.
The body on the couch jerked back and then crumbled as the Berretta slid a quarter turn to the side and fired again. The body on the recliner twitched and then stilled, arms and legs splayed.
He reached for the remote and turned off the game on his way out the back door.
Outside, the heavy press of humidity, darkening skies, and a shift in the whisper of wind announced the coming storm.
Inside, the clock in the corner of the screen counted down the time left in the quarter.
Jake dropped boneless onto the couch, tossed a beer without looking across the room. "I call this one right and it's a hundred bucks in the pool."
Eyes on the big screen, Sam shifted in the recliner, snagged the can mid-air.
The ref’s whistle stopped the clock, and a quiet voice floated behind them.
"Who's playing?"
Two heads snapped in unison.
Jake came off the couch. "What the fuck..."
The snarl died before he pulled up short at the sight of the man standing statue-still ten feet away.
"Stop right there.” A huge, steady hand leveled the Berretta; ice blue eyes pinned its target in place. “Sit down."
The matte black silencer twitched toward the big screen. "Thought you wanted to watch the game."
Hands up, palms out, Jake folded himself back into his seat, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun pointed at him. "Who the hell are you?"
"Nobody you know." A spasm rippled across a tight jaw line and bloodless lips pulled back in a feral smile. "Just some guy in from out of town for a little while.” He jerked his head toward the TV. “Who's playing?"
"What?"
Predatory eyes narrowed, targeted the man on the couch. "What's your name?"
"Jake."
The Berretta shifted to target the man in the chair. "You?"
"Sam." He blew out the word on an explosive exhale.
Jake shifted on the couch. "What the hell..."
The Berretta twitched again. Jake's eyes snapped wide open as it pointed right at him.
"Who's playing?" The voice went low and dangerous.
"Who are you?" Sam croaked.
"Green Bay and...Minnesota." Jake brought his hands up, forefingers pointed at the pistol. "You might wanna take it easy with that thing."
"Don't worry, I got it under control." He snorted a laugh. "We're just gonna have a little talk."
Beads of sweat gathered along Sam’s hairline, his upper lip. "Put that thing down and we'll talk."
"I don't think so.” The voice was soft, almost lilting. “Not yet. We have some unfinished business."
Jake inhaled a careful breath, ran a dry tongue around parched lips. "We don't know you."
"No, you don't." Mirror-flat eyes locked Jake in their line of sight. "But you've met a friend of mine."
Sam breathed deep; the smell of his own fear sharp in his nostrils, in his throat, choked him. "Who?"
"Pretty girl, about this tall." The gunman’s free hand up came up close to his left eye. "Thin, beautiful face, beautiful black hair..."
"Last night." Shaking now, Sam closed his eyes, mumbled something that might have been a prayer.
"Yeah, last night." Cold, dead eyes examined their target. "You like to hurt them? Mess them up? That the only way you can get any?"
"Man, I don't know what you're talking about." Jake took one rasping breath and the words came faster, running off his tongue. "Just take it easy. Don't do anything stupid. Put the gun down. We didn't do anything..."
A flatline smile bled across tight lips. "You drugged her and then you raped her."
"No, man, I swear. It wasn't like that." Jake’s hands came up in supplication and his eyes widened, flicked between the pistol and the cold, calm face of the man holding it.
Breathing hard, Sam felt wet warmth pool beneath him. "Don't do this, please."
"And then you left her...lying in a back alley to die." The words hummed with focused fury.
"We didn't know she was so messed up..." Jake tasted copper in his mouth.
Sam strained for air. "Please don't do this."
"Shut the fuck up."
The finger on the trigger tightened. There was a snick almost like an electrical spark.
The body on the couch jerked back and then crumbled as the Berretta slid a quarter turn to the side and fired again. The body on the recliner twitched and then stilled, arms and legs splayed.
He reached for the remote and turned off the game on his way out the back door.
Friday, April 9, 2010
TGIF!
One of the reasons I love Anne, aka Piedmont Writer, is because she is so incredibly generous and gives the best awards. This time it’s the lovely Awesome Sauce Award that really looks good enough to eat or drink.
It’s my pleasure and privilege to pass this great award on to some really awesome folks. So here they are:
Charity Bradford at My Writing Journey
Amber at musings of amber murphy
Mia at My Literary Toast and Jam
Bossy Betty
Donna Hole
And over on the contest front, Lola at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword is hosting a contest you should check out.
And Shannon is giving away six books to celebrate her signing with her dream agent. Go over and take a look at the fab prizes.
That’s it for this Friday’s post because it’s going to be a busy weekend. Yes, there will be blogfest entries on Saturday and Sunday this week. Saturday, 4/10 sees my entry for Anne Riley’s Murder Scene Blogfest. And Sunday, 4/11 sees my entry for the Bar Scene Blogfest that Tara over at Secret Story is hosting. Lots of good stuff to read this weekend, so make sure you check it out.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Friday and a Blogfest
It’s finally here. Not just Friday, but Kelly’s First Page Blogfest. Make sure you head over and check out the awesome list of writers signed up to share their first pages with you. Here’s mine.
The sky is a blanket, grey and wet, no comfort at all against the wind that blows just enough to send the unseasonable chill bone deep.
December in Florida isn’t supposed to be like this. Nothing is supposed to be like this.
He shivers and shrugs himself deeper into his jacket in the face of the wind, picks up his pace as he turns the corner.
The street is empty and so is the sidewalk as he catches his reflection in a storefront window.
It’s been a while since he’s been here. He’s not even sure it’s still open. But he’d left the base early without much thought to where he was going, just running on empty.
Not because it was Friday, but because his apartment windows had been dark when he'd pulled up to the curb in front of his building and sat watching the first tendrils of fog roll in.
He’s pretty sure it’s better to be empty and cold outside than empty and cold in the front room, the kitchen, the bedroom.
He finds what he’s looking for and pushes through the door.
The bar is empty except for a couple of guys shooting a half-assed game of pool under a big screen. The bartender looks up from washing glasses and gives him a half-nod as he makes his way to a back booth.
“Hi, I’m Theresa.” The waitress materializes at the table, paints on a cut-glass smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”
He settles deeper in his seat, tilts his head. “You got Sam Adams?”
She flicks bored eyes toward the screen at the roar of the crowd. “Bottle or draft?”
“Bottle.”
She spins on her heel and bounces off toward the bar.
The sky is a blanket, grey and wet, no comfort at all against the wind that blows just enough to send the unseasonable chill bone deep.
December in Florida isn’t supposed to be like this. Nothing is supposed to be like this.
He shivers and shrugs himself deeper into his jacket in the face of the wind, picks up his pace as he turns the corner.
The street is empty and so is the sidewalk as he catches his reflection in a storefront window.
It’s been a while since he’s been here. He’s not even sure it’s still open. But he’d left the base early without much thought to where he was going, just running on empty.
Not because it was Friday, but because his apartment windows had been dark when he'd pulled up to the curb in front of his building and sat watching the first tendrils of fog roll in.
He’s pretty sure it’s better to be empty and cold outside than empty and cold in the front room, the kitchen, the bedroom.
He finds what he’s looking for and pushes through the door.
The bar is empty except for a couple of guys shooting a half-assed game of pool under a big screen. The bartender looks up from washing glasses and gives him a half-nod as he makes his way to a back booth.
“Hi, I’m Theresa.” The waitress materializes at the table, paints on a cut-glass smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”
He settles deeper in his seat, tilts his head. “You got Sam Adams?”
She flicks bored eyes toward the screen at the roar of the crowd. “Bottle or draft?”
“Bottle.”
She spins on her heel and bounces off toward the bar.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Monday, Monday and a Whole Lotta Links
Sometimes we get a chance to do something that might make the world a better place. Sarah Ann is giving away beautiful handmade earrings in a contest to help highlight the work that NightLight International is doing to rescue girls from human trafficking in Thailand. Click here to find out more and enter. It will go a long way to making this a better Monday.
And on a lighter note, there’s still time to sign up for the In the Beginning…First Page Blogfest. Entries will be posted on April 2nd, so head over to Kelly’s and put your name in Mr. Linky. Go ahead, you know you want to. Mine's already done.
Laurel is running a contest to celebrate her 100 plus followers. The second half of that celebration is a writing contest. So go over and check it out. You have until Sunday, April 4, at midnight EST to enter. And, yes, mine's already done.
Muse in the Fog is giving away a copy of Cleopatra’s Daughter. The contest ends on March 29, so click here to enter.
And last but not least, Karen over at Naptime for Novels has a cool new contest celebrating her 101 followers. Click here to check out the very neat prizes you can win.
And on a lighter note, there’s still time to sign up for the In the Beginning…First Page Blogfest. Entries will be posted on April 2nd, so head over to Kelly’s and put your name in Mr. Linky. Go ahead, you know you want to. Mine's already done.
Laurel is running a contest to celebrate her 100 plus followers. The second half of that celebration is a writing contest. So go over and check it out. You have until Sunday, April 4, at midnight EST to enter. And, yes, mine's already done.
Muse in the Fog is giving away a copy of Cleopatra’s Daughter. The contest ends on March 29, so click here to enter.
And last but not least, Karen over at Naptime for Novels has a cool new contest celebrating her 101 followers. Click here to check out the very neat prizes you can win.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Happy St. Pat's Day!
Today brings us to the second of two blogfests this week, John Paul's Drunk at First Sight Blogfest. At 1740 words, this one is a lot longer than my last blogfest entry, and it's a lot happier, too.
I slouched deeper in my seat, ran my eyes around the room. It was beer o’clock and the place was full up.
Ok, so it was nine o’clock in the morning, but it was St. Paddy’s Day and all good Irish folk like my self had been busy celebrating the Saint in our own special way for the last couple of hours at least.
A loud belch across the table pulled my attention back to my best friend and drinking buddy sitting across the table from me.
“Yo, D, I gotta tell you man, this is the best fucking idea you ever had.” I had to yell over the noise of the FIFA match on the screen. “You really got this best man thing down.”
I poked at the bowl of nuts on the table, grabbed a handful and chucked them into my mouth.
“I'm married Mikey.” Danny raised his mug and knocked back half his pint of Guinness before letting loose with another burp. “Before my wedding day…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You got blued, screwed, and tattooed.”
I lifted my own mug, threw back my head and chugged, and dragged the back of my free hand across my lips. “Day after tomorrow it’s just gonna be me and Siân lying on a beach on our honeymoon.”
I blew out my breath in a contented sigh. “God, I love that woman.”
“Yeah, Mikey, we know.” Danny grabbed his own handful of nuts. “Annie and I are very happy for you.”
I picked up my mug and stared into the bottom of it. “Don’t know about you, man, but I’m ready for another round.”
I looked around, caught the serving girl’s eyes as she was busy slapping hands off her ass and raised my glass for more as she dropped pints off to the card game at the back table.
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Mikey. Ya might wanna throttle back.”
An uneven grin spread across Danny’s face as he leaned forward and jabbed a warning finger at my chest. “I will not be responsible for anything to do with vomit, and you have to be able to stand tomorrow or Siân will kick both our asses to hell and back.”
“Throttle back?” I ran my tongue around my strangely frozen lips trying to make sure they still worked since I couldn’t seem to feel my face anymore. “I haven’t even got a decent buzz on.”
Fake, plastic smile plastered firmly on her lips, our serving girl dropped our full pints off with a thunk, scooped up the pile of bills off the table without really looking down, and flounced off to another table.
Danny raised his mug. “May the winds of fortune sail you, may you sail a gentle sea. May it always be the other guy who says this drink’s on me.”
I lifted my glass and knocked back my beer.
************************
Adjust. Zip.
I only had a little bit trouble opening the door. Running my hand along the hard, grey wall guided me as I stagger-stepped my way along the dark hallway.
Coming into the main room, I ducked just in time to dodge the dart whizzing past my ear.
“Hey.” I was in Danny’s face before I knew it, jabbing two fingers into his chest. “I thought you knew how to do this.”
Big hands pushed me off. “I do.”
I threw back my arm and pointed. “You put three in the door.”
Narrowed eyes pin me in place. “Are you suggesting that I am uncoordinated?”
I double-tapped him on the chest. “Dude, all I’m saying is that everybody has bad games…well, not me, cuz, ya know, I was never uncoordinated. And I was really good at sports and…stuff. I played football…”
Spinning on his heel, he took two long steps to the nearest empty table and grabbed his glass.
I reached over and pulled the bottle from the table, upended it. “We’re gonna need to resupply.”
I swiveled my head slowly around the room, found our waitress, held up the empty and gave her my best sloppy-stupid grin. She rolled her eyes as she stepped over an unmoving lump on her way her way back to the bar.
I yelled across the room. “We’ll have what that guy on the floor’s having.”
************************
I wasn’t quite sure how much later it is when we stumbled out of the pub and into the dark, stepping over the inert and unconscious bodies blocking the entrance.
My head was spinning and I was listing badly. I stopped and tried to lean back against the nearest wall I could find. But my balance aim, and coordination were off and I ended up flat on my ass on the ground.
“Yo, D.” I squinted hard against the glare of the ever-present flashing lights proclaiming all the wonderfully fun possibilities available to those in search of a good time. “Where’d we park?”
“What happened to the night is young and I haven’t even got a decent buzz on?” Danny grabbed me by the collar of my jacket, yanked me up and set me on my feet. “What kind of a best man would I be if I let you go home now?”
He braced me against the nearest building. “Don’t tell me you’re drunk.”
“I am not drunk,” I slurred. “I just wanna go home to Siân and snuggle.” I swayed just a little. “God I love that woman.”
Danny barked a laugh in my face. “You’re drunk. And don’t even think about vomiting.” He jabbed a finger in my chest. “I’ve already told you I will not deal with anything vomit related.”
“I am not drunk and I am not gonna vomit.” My stomach rolled as I tried to straighten up. “I just need some air to catch my second wind and then I’ll be good to go.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I just gotta walk.”
“Fine. Let’s walk.”
Danny grabbed my arm and pulled it across his shoulder, dragging me away from the building and down the street.
“Look.” He pulled up short before we’d stumbled too far. “Body art.”
“Dude.” I squinted up at the flashing neon. “Siân would kill me.”
“I’ve been thinking about another tattoo for a while now. Maybe something with Annie’s name on it.”
Danny pulled hard on my arm. “I’m going in. Come on.”
“After you, big guy.”
The mountain sitting behind the desk looked up as I followed Danny in through the door. “Yo, guys. Looking for some ink?”
“Not me.” I shook my head, which was a really bad idea, and stumbled toward the reclining chair off to the right.
“Yeah, I’m looking for a tat.” Danny’s voice floated behind me.
“Anything in particular?”
“Something with my wife’s name.”
My head was spinning and my stomach rolling as I planted myself face down on the chair.
A different voice floated in my ears. “Hey, man. What brings you here?”
“In the neighborhood,” I mumbled from my face down position. “Celebrating St. Pat’s and my wedding day." My words faded in and out as I shifted trying to get comfortable. “I’m getting married tomorrow.”
“And you and your partner want tattoos?”
I buried my head and mumbled into my arms. “No, I just wanna go home and go to sleep.”
“Hey, Mikey, look at this.”
I raised my head to look bleary-eyes at the picture Danny was shoving in my face. “That’s lovely, Danny.” I dropped my head back into my arms. “Flowers and hearts. Just perfect.”
“I’m so glad you approve.” Through my haze I could hear the sarcasm.
“And where do you want it?”
I reached back to rub my tailbone which really hurt for some reason. It was the last thing I did before drifting off into the soft black of unconsciousness.
************************
The next thing I felt was a gentle thump as my head bounced off my chest. I shook my head, which was still pounding and tried to get my bearings. I shifted in the seat. My ass still hurt for some reason. I was going to have to ask Siân to check it out. That thought made me smile.
“Yo, Danny. We home?”
“Yeah, Mikey, we’re home.”
I thought Danny’s voice sounded a long way away before I nodded off again.
************************
“I believe this belongs to you.”
That was the next thing I heard as Danny deposited me none too gently on the floor. I struggled to sit up, winced from the pain in my tailbone, and tried to focus on Siân.
I looked up and gave her my best half-assed grin. “Hey, baby.”
“Did you two have fun?” Siân reached out a hand and pulled me up to a standing position next to her.
I leaned over and tried to kiss her lips, but missed and hit her should instead. She blew out a long-suffering breath as she helped me right myself. Danny just waved a dismissive hand as he headed back out the door.
“Yeah, we had fun.” I tried taking a step closer to her, stopped and winced as I reached back to rub my tailbone again. “But I could use a shower.”
“What’s wrong?” Her eyes narrowed as she watched me toe off my shoes.
“Nothing, babe.” I began stripping off my shirt as I stumbled up the stairs.
Siân’s voice followed me as I bounced off the wall at the top of the steps and ricocheted into the bedroom. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened, babe, nothing at all.” I tried to play it off as I dropped my pants and boxers and kicked them in the vicinity of the dirty clothes. “Musta fell down and landed wrong.”
I didn’t want her worrying. Not today of all days.
“Let me see.” She wasn’t buying it and grabbed both shoulders to spin me around.
I felt her freeze as I tried to keep the room from spinning.
“What is it?”
“Is that where it hurts?” A steel finger poked hard.
“Yeah,” I yelped. “That’s where it hurts.”
I twisted around trying to see what she saw. “What is it, babe?”
“I have a better question for you, Michael.” Her voice went low and dangerous. “Is there something you want to tell me? Or do I even want to know why you have flowers and hearts and…” She trailed off and took a deep breath. “Danny’s name tattooed on your ass?”
I slouched deeper in my seat, ran my eyes around the room. It was beer o’clock and the place was full up.
Ok, so it was nine o’clock in the morning, but it was St. Paddy’s Day and all good Irish folk like my self had been busy celebrating the Saint in our own special way for the last couple of hours at least.
A loud belch across the table pulled my attention back to my best friend and drinking buddy sitting across the table from me.
“Yo, D, I gotta tell you man, this is the best fucking idea you ever had.” I had to yell over the noise of the FIFA match on the screen. “You really got this best man thing down.”
I poked at the bowl of nuts on the table, grabbed a handful and chucked them into my mouth.
“I'm married Mikey.” Danny raised his mug and knocked back half his pint of Guinness before letting loose with another burp. “Before my wedding day…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You got blued, screwed, and tattooed.”
I lifted my own mug, threw back my head and chugged, and dragged the back of my free hand across my lips. “Day after tomorrow it’s just gonna be me and Siân lying on a beach on our honeymoon.”
I blew out my breath in a contented sigh. “God, I love that woman.”
“Yeah, Mikey, we know.” Danny grabbed his own handful of nuts. “Annie and I are very happy for you.”
I picked up my mug and stared into the bottom of it. “Don’t know about you, man, but I’m ready for another round.”
I looked around, caught the serving girl’s eyes as she was busy slapping hands off her ass and raised my glass for more as she dropped pints off to the card game at the back table.
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Mikey. Ya might wanna throttle back.”
An uneven grin spread across Danny’s face as he leaned forward and jabbed a warning finger at my chest. “I will not be responsible for anything to do with vomit, and you have to be able to stand tomorrow or Siân will kick both our asses to hell and back.”
“Throttle back?” I ran my tongue around my strangely frozen lips trying to make sure they still worked since I couldn’t seem to feel my face anymore. “I haven’t even got a decent buzz on.”
Fake, plastic smile plastered firmly on her lips, our serving girl dropped our full pints off with a thunk, scooped up the pile of bills off the table without really looking down, and flounced off to another table.
Danny raised his mug. “May the winds of fortune sail you, may you sail a gentle sea. May it always be the other guy who says this drink’s on me.”
I lifted my glass and knocked back my beer.
************************
Adjust. Zip.
I only had a little bit trouble opening the door. Running my hand along the hard, grey wall guided me as I stagger-stepped my way along the dark hallway.
Coming into the main room, I ducked just in time to dodge the dart whizzing past my ear.
“Hey.” I was in Danny’s face before I knew it, jabbing two fingers into his chest. “I thought you knew how to do this.”
Big hands pushed me off. “I do.”
I threw back my arm and pointed. “You put three in the door.”
Narrowed eyes pin me in place. “Are you suggesting that I am uncoordinated?”
I double-tapped him on the chest. “Dude, all I’m saying is that everybody has bad games…well, not me, cuz, ya know, I was never uncoordinated. And I was really good at sports and…stuff. I played football…”
Spinning on his heel, he took two long steps to the nearest empty table and grabbed his glass.
I reached over and pulled the bottle from the table, upended it. “We’re gonna need to resupply.”
I swiveled my head slowly around the room, found our waitress, held up the empty and gave her my best sloppy-stupid grin. She rolled her eyes as she stepped over an unmoving lump on her way her way back to the bar.
I yelled across the room. “We’ll have what that guy on the floor’s having.”
************************
I wasn’t quite sure how much later it is when we stumbled out of the pub and into the dark, stepping over the inert and unconscious bodies blocking the entrance.
My head was spinning and I was listing badly. I stopped and tried to lean back against the nearest wall I could find. But my balance aim, and coordination were off and I ended up flat on my ass on the ground.
“Yo, D.” I squinted hard against the glare of the ever-present flashing lights proclaiming all the wonderfully fun possibilities available to those in search of a good time. “Where’d we park?”
“What happened to the night is young and I haven’t even got a decent buzz on?” Danny grabbed me by the collar of my jacket, yanked me up and set me on my feet. “What kind of a best man would I be if I let you go home now?”
He braced me against the nearest building. “Don’t tell me you’re drunk.”
“I am not drunk,” I slurred. “I just wanna go home to Siân and snuggle.” I swayed just a little. “God I love that woman.”
Danny barked a laugh in my face. “You’re drunk. And don’t even think about vomiting.” He jabbed a finger in my chest. “I’ve already told you I will not deal with anything vomit related.”
“I am not drunk and I am not gonna vomit.” My stomach rolled as I tried to straighten up. “I just need some air to catch my second wind and then I’ll be good to go.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I just gotta walk.”
“Fine. Let’s walk.”
Danny grabbed my arm and pulled it across his shoulder, dragging me away from the building and down the street.
“Look.” He pulled up short before we’d stumbled too far. “Body art.”
“Dude.” I squinted up at the flashing neon. “Siân would kill me.”
“I’ve been thinking about another tattoo for a while now. Maybe something with Annie’s name on it.”
Danny pulled hard on my arm. “I’m going in. Come on.”
“After you, big guy.”
The mountain sitting behind the desk looked up as I followed Danny in through the door. “Yo, guys. Looking for some ink?”
“Not me.” I shook my head, which was a really bad idea, and stumbled toward the reclining chair off to the right.
“Yeah, I’m looking for a tat.” Danny’s voice floated behind me.
“Anything in particular?”
“Something with my wife’s name.”
My head was spinning and my stomach rolling as I planted myself face down on the chair.
A different voice floated in my ears. “Hey, man. What brings you here?”
“In the neighborhood,” I mumbled from my face down position. “Celebrating St. Pat’s and my wedding day." My words faded in and out as I shifted trying to get comfortable. “I’m getting married tomorrow.”
“And you and your partner want tattoos?”
I buried my head and mumbled into my arms. “No, I just wanna go home and go to sleep.”
“Hey, Mikey, look at this.”
I raised my head to look bleary-eyes at the picture Danny was shoving in my face. “That’s lovely, Danny.” I dropped my head back into my arms. “Flowers and hearts. Just perfect.”
“I’m so glad you approve.” Through my haze I could hear the sarcasm.
“And where do you want it?”
I reached back to rub my tailbone which really hurt for some reason. It was the last thing I did before drifting off into the soft black of unconsciousness.
************************
The next thing I felt was a gentle thump as my head bounced off my chest. I shook my head, which was still pounding and tried to get my bearings. I shifted in the seat. My ass still hurt for some reason. I was going to have to ask Siân to check it out. That thought made me smile.
“Yo, Danny. We home?”
“Yeah, Mikey, we’re home.”
I thought Danny’s voice sounded a long way away before I nodded off again.
************************
“I believe this belongs to you.”
That was the next thing I heard as Danny deposited me none too gently on the floor. I struggled to sit up, winced from the pain in my tailbone, and tried to focus on Siân.
I looked up and gave her my best half-assed grin. “Hey, baby.”
“Did you two have fun?” Siân reached out a hand and pulled me up to a standing position next to her.
I leaned over and tried to kiss her lips, but missed and hit her should instead. She blew out a long-suffering breath as she helped me right myself. Danny just waved a dismissive hand as he headed back out the door.
“Yeah, we had fun.” I tried taking a step closer to her, stopped and winced as I reached back to rub my tailbone again. “But I could use a shower.”
“What’s wrong?” Her eyes narrowed as she watched me toe off my shoes.
“Nothing, babe.” I began stripping off my shirt as I stumbled up the stairs.
Siân’s voice followed me as I bounced off the wall at the top of the steps and ricocheted into the bedroom. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened, babe, nothing at all.” I tried to play it off as I dropped my pants and boxers and kicked them in the vicinity of the dirty clothes. “Musta fell down and landed wrong.”
I didn’t want her worrying. Not today of all days.
“Let me see.” She wasn’t buying it and grabbed both shoulders to spin me around.
I felt her freeze as I tried to keep the room from spinning.
“What is it?”
“Is that where it hurts?” A steel finger poked hard.
“Yeah,” I yelped. “That’s where it hurts.”
I twisted around trying to see what she saw. “What is it, babe?”
“I have a better question for you, Michael.” Her voice went low and dangerous. “Is there something you want to tell me? Or do I even want to know why you have flowers and hearts and…” She trailed off and took a deep breath. “Danny’s name tattooed on your ass?”
Monday, March 15, 2010
Simon's PG/MG Love Scene Blogfest
Wow. There are two blogfests this week. First up is Simon’s PG Love Scene Blogfest which is really a challenge to write a PG/MG Sex Scene. So here it is. My entry. All 210 words of it. Which probably explains why I don’t write YA or MG. The results aren’t pretty and my brain just isn’t wired for it.
The buzzer explodes with the start of the second quarter.
Fifteen minutes.
Light spills under the bleachers in the upper gym. Brandon’s breath is hot and heavy in her ear, on her neck.
Stupid Jaycee thinks she’s so cool.
Down below, the buzzer explodes again, and the crowd roars loud in her ears.
Rolling her eyes and putting her makeup on in the bathroom every morning.
Brandon’s hips jerk against hers, push her up against the bleachers. She thinks she’s going to have to have bruises on her back tomorrow.
Ranting about all the fat, ugly, annoying girls and how she blows everyone up on her My Space.
She turns her head to the shadow in the spill of light pooling under the bleachers. Her eyes meet Sam’s wide open ones.
Stupid, dirty girl thinks she’s so hot, putting up her slutty pictures so everyone can tell her how sexiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii and pretty she is.
His face is locked in a rictus of shock. He can’t take his eyes off her. And Brandon.
Making sure the whole school knows how hot Brandon is and how into her he was.
A broken smile bleeds across her lips as Sam backs off and disappears.
Yeah, Jaycee, take that. That’s gonna blow up your My Space.
The buzzer explodes with the start of the second quarter.
Fifteen minutes.
Light spills under the bleachers in the upper gym. Brandon’s breath is hot and heavy in her ear, on her neck.
Stupid Jaycee thinks she’s so cool.
Down below, the buzzer explodes again, and the crowd roars loud in her ears.
Rolling her eyes and putting her makeup on in the bathroom every morning.
Brandon’s hips jerk against hers, push her up against the bleachers. She thinks she’s going to have to have bruises on her back tomorrow.
Ranting about all the fat, ugly, annoying girls and how she blows everyone up on her My Space.
She turns her head to the shadow in the spill of light pooling under the bleachers. Her eyes meet Sam’s wide open ones.
Stupid, dirty girl thinks she’s so hot, putting up her slutty pictures so everyone can tell her how sexiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii and pretty she is.
His face is locked in a rictus of shock. He can’t take his eyes off her. And Brandon.
Making sure the whole school knows how hot Brandon is and how into her he was.
A broken smile bleeds across her lips as Sam backs off and disappears.
Yeah, Jaycee, take that. That’s gonna blow up your My Space.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Happy Whoops! Blogfest Monday
This is my entry for the Whoops! Blogfest Laurel is hosting today. Make sure you go over and check it out.
I’m pretty sure I was born batshit crazy. Not that I haven’t worked at getting better at it over the years, but…
“Where have you been?”
The dulcet tones of my beloved carried across the kitchen as my darling wife glared daggers at me.
Danny squealed happily as he bounced in his chair and announced he was finished with lunch by tossing the last of his of pasta as far as his short, chubby arms could.
“Uhm…hey hon.” Yep. Batshit insane and apparently a bit suicidal. “You got spaghetti in your hair.”
Exhaling harshly, her shoulders slumped as she pushed back in her chair and leveraged herself heavily to her feet. The twins were making life miserable for her.
“Thank you for sharing that bit of information, John. I never would have known that otherwise.”
Swollen ankles, swollen feet, swollen belly, she looked like the lumpy mattress she swore we were sleeping on at night. Her swollen fingers grabbed the bowl, and picking strands of spaghetti from her hair, she waddled her way toward the sink.
She was beautiful pregnant.
Batshit crazy I might be, but apparently my suicidal tendencies had their boundaries. My brain scrambled for some safer ground. Before I could think of anything, my darling wife was growling at me again.
“Where were you? You were due back hours ago.”
Right. I’d told her it was a simple trip to the hardware store for some things I needed for the bathroom. I hadn’t told her the real reason I’d gone.
“Well…”
It had taken me longer than I’d expected to find what I was looking for.
She put her hands on her hips and arched her back. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”
I was gonna have to remember to give her a massage later. “But, honey…”
“There better not be any hearts or flowers or anything else anywhere in this house.”
Well, technically all that stuff wasn’t in the house; it was still in the trunk of my car. And my mom had already taken the puppy my wife was gonna love.
“Honey, I am shocked.” I put my hand, palm down over my heart and flashed my baby blues and best you-love-me grin at her. “You told me you weren’t in the mood for any Valentine’s Day celebration.”
I was just gonna have to remember to remove the rest of the evidence when she was otherwise occupied. She might not be in the mood for romance now, but later, after the kids started sleeping and she did too, that would be a different story.
And that puppy was cute as all get out.
Batshit crazy, remember?
She looked at me with those rabid raccoon eyes, then turned and pulled something out of the refrigerator and shoved it violently into the microwave.
I backpedaled nicely, my anti-suicidal tendencies kicking in strongly as the timer went off. “What’s that?”
“Hot dogs.” She pulled the plate out of the microwave, slid it onto the counter and grabbed a knife.
I watched Danny trail a pudgy finger through the red sauce on his tray. “Are you sure he’s still hungry? You gave him spaghetti.”
“Yes, he’s still hungry.” She waved the knife vaguely in the direction of her hair. “He didn’t eat the spaghetti, John.”
She had a point. My son was wearing as much spaghetti as my wife. Only he seemed a helluva lot happier about it.
“Mamamamamamamamama…” Danny screamed as he pounded on his tray.
We should probably start feeding him in the bathtub and just hose him down afterward.
“Hot dogs?” I’d skipped lunch in my rush to go shopping and obviously hunger was making me stupid. That was my story and I was sticking to it. “Got one for me?”
The raccoon eyes locked on me as she sliced with surgical precision. “Of course I‘ve got one for you.”
Come to think of it, I wasn’t so hungry I couldn’t wait. “I can finish feeding him if you wanna go take a nap.”
She shoved the plate at me, spun inelegantly on her heel, and ruffled her son’s sauce-slicked hair as she waddled past. Her voice floated soft and dangerous behind her on her way out of the center chamber.
“I’m going to take a shower. And I’d better not see any hearts or flowers or anything.”
I smiled hugely at my son as I settled in to share lunch with him. Dried sauce trails crinkled on chubby cheeks as an answering gap-tooth grin split his face.
A tiny hand darted out, snagged a slice of hot dog, and shoved it fist deep into the gaping maw of his mouth. He giggled maniacally as I speared a piece of my own and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially.
“Mommy loves Valentine’s Day.”
I’m pretty sure I was born batshit crazy. Not that I haven’t worked at getting better at it over the years, but…
“Where have you been?”
The dulcet tones of my beloved carried across the kitchen as my darling wife glared daggers at me.
Danny squealed happily as he bounced in his chair and announced he was finished with lunch by tossing the last of his of pasta as far as his short, chubby arms could.
“Uhm…hey hon.” Yep. Batshit insane and apparently a bit suicidal. “You got spaghetti in your hair.”
Exhaling harshly, her shoulders slumped as she pushed back in her chair and leveraged herself heavily to her feet. The twins were making life miserable for her.
“Thank you for sharing that bit of information, John. I never would have known that otherwise.”
Swollen ankles, swollen feet, swollen belly, she looked like the lumpy mattress she swore we were sleeping on at night. Her swollen fingers grabbed the bowl, and picking strands of spaghetti from her hair, she waddled her way toward the sink.
She was beautiful pregnant.
Batshit crazy I might be, but apparently my suicidal tendencies had their boundaries. My brain scrambled for some safer ground. Before I could think of anything, my darling wife was growling at me again.
“Where were you? You were due back hours ago.”
Right. I’d told her it was a simple trip to the hardware store for some things I needed for the bathroom. I hadn’t told her the real reason I’d gone.
“Well…”
It had taken me longer than I’d expected to find what I was looking for.
She put her hands on her hips and arched her back. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”
I was gonna have to remember to give her a massage later. “But, honey…”
“There better not be any hearts or flowers or anything else anywhere in this house.”
Well, technically all that stuff wasn’t in the house; it was still in the trunk of my car. And my mom had already taken the puppy my wife was gonna love.
“Honey, I am shocked.” I put my hand, palm down over my heart and flashed my baby blues and best you-love-me grin at her. “You told me you weren’t in the mood for any Valentine’s Day celebration.”
I was just gonna have to remember to remove the rest of the evidence when she was otherwise occupied. She might not be in the mood for romance now, but later, after the kids started sleeping and she did too, that would be a different story.
And that puppy was cute as all get out.
Batshit crazy, remember?
She looked at me with those rabid raccoon eyes, then turned and pulled something out of the refrigerator and shoved it violently into the microwave.
I backpedaled nicely, my anti-suicidal tendencies kicking in strongly as the timer went off. “What’s that?”
“Hot dogs.” She pulled the plate out of the microwave, slid it onto the counter and grabbed a knife.
I watched Danny trail a pudgy finger through the red sauce on his tray. “Are you sure he’s still hungry? You gave him spaghetti.”
“Yes, he’s still hungry.” She waved the knife vaguely in the direction of her hair. “He didn’t eat the spaghetti, John.”
She had a point. My son was wearing as much spaghetti as my wife. Only he seemed a helluva lot happier about it.
“Mamamamamamamamama…” Danny screamed as he pounded on his tray.
We should probably start feeding him in the bathtub and just hose him down afterward.
“Hot dogs?” I’d skipped lunch in my rush to go shopping and obviously hunger was making me stupid. That was my story and I was sticking to it. “Got one for me?”
The raccoon eyes locked on me as she sliced with surgical precision. “Of course I‘ve got one for you.”
Come to think of it, I wasn’t so hungry I couldn’t wait. “I can finish feeding him if you wanna go take a nap.”
She shoved the plate at me, spun inelegantly on her heel, and ruffled her son’s sauce-slicked hair as she waddled past. Her voice floated soft and dangerous behind her on her way out of the center chamber.
“I’m going to take a shower. And I’d better not see any hearts or flowers or anything.”
I smiled hugely at my son as I settled in to share lunch with him. Dried sauce trails crinkled on chubby cheeks as an answering gap-tooth grin split his face.
A tiny hand darted out, snagged a slice of hot dog, and shoved it fist deep into the gaping maw of his mouth. He giggled maniacally as I speared a piece of my own and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially.
“Mommy loves Valentine’s Day.”
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Hit the Road, Jack
I keep meaning to spare you my spamming of yet more of my snippets, but apparently I have one more left in me this week. It’s something I wrote a while ago that seemed to fit, so this is for the So-Long Blogfest Karen over at Novels During Naptime is hosting.
She stepped through the door and closed it silently behind her. Standing still, she let her eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the hallway.
Moonlight streamed in through the window in the breakfast nook, bathing the white ceramic tiled table top in a silver glow. She toed off her shoes and made her way on soundless feet down the hallway toward the pool of light.
She stepped into the kitchen, headed toward the sink. Running her fingers along the wall, she flipped the switch.
A soft, yellow glow bathed the area.
Grabbing the tea kettle on the stove, she pushed open the spout, slid it under the faucet and opened the tap. When it was full, she put it on the front burner and turned it on.
“Did you have fun tonight?” His drawl, soft and low, hung in the stillness.
“I’m sorry.” She turned to see him leaned up against the door frame, long and lanky, legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed against his chest. “Did I wake you?”
“Nah. I couldn’t sleep.” He cocked his head, dragged his thumb across his lip. “So did you?”
“Did I what?” She opened a cabinet and snagged a cup. “I’m making tea. Would you like some?”
“Sure.” He slid off the door frame and crossed to the counter in three easy steps. “Did you? Have fun?”
She pulled another cup from the cabinet, closed the door, set them on the counter.
Resting her hands on the smooth surface, she leaned forward and locked wide, clear as glass eyes on his. “Yes, I did.”
He leaned back and she reached up to open the overhead cabinet.
“What would you like?” She poked the boxes, read off names. “Chamomile, Earl Grey, Lemon Mist…”
“Chamomile,” he suggested softly. “It makes you sleepy.”
She pulled the box down and set it on the counter next to the cups. “Did you have fun tonight?”
He shrugged, reached for the box and took out two bags. “Ate dinner with dad. Talked to Livvy for a few minutes.”
She tilted her head, arched a doubtful eyebrow. “You talked to Livvy?”
“She was watching Pretty Woman.” He shrugged again. “She likes Julia Roberts. Hates the movie.”
“She prefers The Pelican Brief.”
She snorted softly as her lips curved gently up at the corners. “And Denzel Washington.”
She turned and headed across the kitchen.
His eyes tracked her as she walked and realization hit him again. She was still far too thin. Low rise jeans rode loose on the curve of her hips, and a pale silken expanse of narrow waist was visible beneath the hem of her tee shirt when she opened a cabinet and reached for the cereal.
“You want something to eat?” He pulled two bags from the box, closed it.
“No thanks.”
She pulled the cereal down, opened a drawer and pulled a Ziploc bag out. Shutting the drawer with her hip, she opened the bag and the box.
He pulled the bags apart, put one in each cup. “You should eat.” He closed the box and put it back in the cabinet.
She shrugged a slim shoulder, and poured cereal. “Not hungry.”
Closing the box, she replaced the cereal and closed the cabinet. Grabbing the bag, she ran her fingers over the blue and pink lines to make purple. With a satisfied smile, she came back to the counter and dropped it on the counter.
“I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“It’s for Danny.” She pulled a sippee cup and cover from the dishwasher, poured apple juice. “He likes to feed himself when he wakes up. And I can stay in bed for a little while longer while he plays.”
“You’ve really got the mom thing down.”
“It’s practical.” Her shoulder moved again. “It works.”
“I could always get up with him, if you wanted.”
She stiffened suddenly, shoulders back, spine rigid, head tilted up slightly. “This works.”
The whistle of the kettle split the tension suddenly shimmering in the air.
In carefully choreographed silence, she moved to the stove, shut off the burner, picked up the kettle and came back to the counter, poured steaming water. She didn’t look at him as he picked up the cups, carried them to the table.
She put the kettle back on the stove, picked up the cereal bag and the juice, and joined him at the table.
Still not looking at him, she settled herself in her seat, raised the cup to her lips and blew gently.
“So.” He tried to catch her eyes from the corner of his. “What did you do tonight?”
She blew softly on her tea. “Went for a ride.”
“Damn it, Maddy, I’m trying here…”
She was on her feet and moving toward the hallway before he could stop her.
He was out of his own chair and starting after her. “Madelyn…”
She stopped at the sound, spine suddenly rigid, shoulders drawn back in a hard, tight line. “Like I tried?”
“Talk to me.”
He felt her tension hit him like a shock wave, a kick to the head that stopped him in his tracks a step behind her as she turned to face him.
“Why? Because you’re ready?” She slipped forward slowly, backing him up a step, surreal, sleek, and serene, as quiet as death. “Because you want to?”
Coiled tight, she was wrapped in a raw, bitter chill; a living, physical thing that stretched out between them with a killing cold. “Because you’re wondering if I’ve been busy…figuring things out?”
Heavy-lidded eyes locked on his and a cut glass smile sliced her lips as she stood face to face with him.
“Was it good for you?”
He reeled from the kick to his gut.
Her voice, whiskey smooth, flowed through him.
Stopped his breathing.
Caught in the crosshairs of her cold, contained rage and his own shame flashing hot and bright in his gut, he shut his eyes as the world turned over.
“Were her lips soft and warm?” She traced his with a soft fingertip, slid the finger gently between his lips. “When you mapped the terrain?”
His head jerked and a spasm rippled against a clenched jaw as she trailed her finger over and down the corded tendons of his neck, along his collar bone, over his shoulder, across his neck. Slash and burn, he felt the trail of heat from her fingers ignite the shame into a firestorm as she slowly circled him.
“Did you tell her how to touch you? Where?” She pushed tight up against him; leaned in close, let her lips and warm breath brush the join of his neck and jaw. “Did you call her baby and breathe hot in her ear when she was under you? Over you?”
She trailed her finger over his shoulder as she came full circle, pressed her palms against his chest and let her hands drift downward. “Did she run her hands all over you?”
Taut as a tripwire, he breathed hard, a harsh, jagged gasp for air. The first spike of real fear shot up his spine, blazed into his brain, blood pounding in his head making his face burn. He shivered as her fingers found his waist, slipped lower to rest on his hips.
“Did she make you moan and arch against her when she took you in? Was it more? Was it better?” She pulled him in hard against her. “Did you find what you were looking for? What you wanted? What you needed?”
He exploded, his hands moving to grab hers. Hard fingers snapped shut, wrapped her small wrists like a steel band as he pulled her even closer to him, spinning them around and driving her back, pinning her against the wall with his greater mass.
“It wasn’t like that,” he rasped, forehead to forehead breathing her in. “It was…figuring things out.”
Her words were as warm and soft as her breath, surgically precise as they sliced through him like a razor. “And was that the only time you needed to…figure things out?”
There was a crack of thunder as light and heat exploded in a conflagration behind his eyes. A shudder worked its way through him as he struggled to suck enough air into his lungs to breathe. “No.”
She moved slightly beneath him and he felt soft breasts and sharp hipbones, radiant heat fusing them along their shared border.
“How many?”
He slid his cheek against hers, whispered hotly in her ear. “One.”
He pushed harder against her, growled harsh and low into her face. “It was a fuck.”
She laughed suddenly, brittle and high pitched, shattering the thin veneer of civility stretched beyond its limits between them. “You still think this is about fucking?”
Despite everything she was still quick. She pushed him off and around, backed him up against the wall. “I’ve told you before, Logan.”
He exhaled harshly on a groan as a long, slender finger traced his lips and her husky, smoke-filled voice floated over him.
“It’s not about the fucking.”
He growled low and fierce deep in his throat. “Madelyn…”
“I’m not stupid.” She was strong and had survived. She had learned a lot. “I understand love.”
He dragged in a jagged breath, his heart pounded deep in his chest. “Don’t do this.”
“Honesty. Trust. Your words.” She pulled back; turned, started moving away from the torched free-fire zone between them.
He exploded, hands moving to grab hers as he stepped to her, invaded her space. His hands wrapped her wrists as he pinned her arms and used his hips and shoulders to chivvy her back up against the wall.
He leaned in, eyes dark with rage, voice low and dangerous. “Trust?”
White-hot rage boiled up and out, spread like wild fire in his veins.
He buried his face in her hair, his lips close to the delicate shell of her ear as he breathed harsh and hot and heavy. “You couldn’t trust me enough to tell me where you’d been.”
Roiling torrents of grief, guilt, shame, and joined the rage and suddenly became a riptide that threatened to drag him under as she stilled completely under him.
He couldn’t even feel her breathing.
He pulled back, blinked hot tears from his eyes as he felt her shift beneath him. “Hell, you couldn’t even tell me about the kid.”
He didn’t feel her move, didn’t see the slap coming. His head snapped and she shoved hard, sent him staggering.
Words sharp as razor-wire carved him to the bone. “I’m not doing this anymore.”
She quietly lobbed the flash-bang grenade into the still smoldering carnage. “It’s too late.”
The shock wave rocked him back as she disappeared in the incandescent glare behind his eyes.
“No, no, no, no, no, no.” He couldn’t tell if the chant was only in his head, but he knew he had to make her hear.
“Because you were right.” Her voice floated down from far away, words char and ash that covered him. “What do we have now?”
She stepped through the door and closed it silently behind her. Standing still, she let her eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the hallway.
Moonlight streamed in through the window in the breakfast nook, bathing the white ceramic tiled table top in a silver glow. She toed off her shoes and made her way on soundless feet down the hallway toward the pool of light.
She stepped into the kitchen, headed toward the sink. Running her fingers along the wall, she flipped the switch.
A soft, yellow glow bathed the area.
Grabbing the tea kettle on the stove, she pushed open the spout, slid it under the faucet and opened the tap. When it was full, she put it on the front burner and turned it on.
“Did you have fun tonight?” His drawl, soft and low, hung in the stillness.
“I’m sorry.” She turned to see him leaned up against the door frame, long and lanky, legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed against his chest. “Did I wake you?”
“Nah. I couldn’t sleep.” He cocked his head, dragged his thumb across his lip. “So did you?”
“Did I what?” She opened a cabinet and snagged a cup. “I’m making tea. Would you like some?”
“Sure.” He slid off the door frame and crossed to the counter in three easy steps. “Did you? Have fun?”
She pulled another cup from the cabinet, closed the door, set them on the counter.
Resting her hands on the smooth surface, she leaned forward and locked wide, clear as glass eyes on his. “Yes, I did.”
He leaned back and she reached up to open the overhead cabinet.
“What would you like?” She poked the boxes, read off names. “Chamomile, Earl Grey, Lemon Mist…”
“Chamomile,” he suggested softly. “It makes you sleepy.”
She pulled the box down and set it on the counter next to the cups. “Did you have fun tonight?”
He shrugged, reached for the box and took out two bags. “Ate dinner with dad. Talked to Livvy for a few minutes.”
She tilted her head, arched a doubtful eyebrow. “You talked to Livvy?”
“She was watching Pretty Woman.” He shrugged again. “She likes Julia Roberts. Hates the movie.”
“She prefers The Pelican Brief.”
She snorted softly as her lips curved gently up at the corners. “And Denzel Washington.”
She turned and headed across the kitchen.
His eyes tracked her as she walked and realization hit him again. She was still far too thin. Low rise jeans rode loose on the curve of her hips, and a pale silken expanse of narrow waist was visible beneath the hem of her tee shirt when she opened a cabinet and reached for the cereal.
“You want something to eat?” He pulled two bags from the box, closed it.
“No thanks.”
She pulled the cereal down, opened a drawer and pulled a Ziploc bag out. Shutting the drawer with her hip, she opened the bag and the box.
He pulled the bags apart, put one in each cup. “You should eat.” He closed the box and put it back in the cabinet.
She shrugged a slim shoulder, and poured cereal. “Not hungry.”
Closing the box, she replaced the cereal and closed the cabinet. Grabbing the bag, she ran her fingers over the blue and pink lines to make purple. With a satisfied smile, she came back to the counter and dropped it on the counter.
“I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“It’s for Danny.” She pulled a sippee cup and cover from the dishwasher, poured apple juice. “He likes to feed himself when he wakes up. And I can stay in bed for a little while longer while he plays.”
“You’ve really got the mom thing down.”
“It’s practical.” Her shoulder moved again. “It works.”
“I could always get up with him, if you wanted.”
She stiffened suddenly, shoulders back, spine rigid, head tilted up slightly. “This works.”
The whistle of the kettle split the tension suddenly shimmering in the air.
In carefully choreographed silence, she moved to the stove, shut off the burner, picked up the kettle and came back to the counter, poured steaming water. She didn’t look at him as he picked up the cups, carried them to the table.
She put the kettle back on the stove, picked up the cereal bag and the juice, and joined him at the table.
Still not looking at him, she settled herself in her seat, raised the cup to her lips and blew gently.
“So.” He tried to catch her eyes from the corner of his. “What did you do tonight?”
She blew softly on her tea. “Went for a ride.”
“Damn it, Maddy, I’m trying here…”
She was on her feet and moving toward the hallway before he could stop her.
He was out of his own chair and starting after her. “Madelyn…”
She stopped at the sound, spine suddenly rigid, shoulders drawn back in a hard, tight line. “Like I tried?”
“Talk to me.”
He felt her tension hit him like a shock wave, a kick to the head that stopped him in his tracks a step behind her as she turned to face him.
“Why? Because you’re ready?” She slipped forward slowly, backing him up a step, surreal, sleek, and serene, as quiet as death. “Because you want to?”
Coiled tight, she was wrapped in a raw, bitter chill; a living, physical thing that stretched out between them with a killing cold. “Because you’re wondering if I’ve been busy…figuring things out?”
Heavy-lidded eyes locked on his and a cut glass smile sliced her lips as she stood face to face with him.
“Was it good for you?”
He reeled from the kick to his gut.
Her voice, whiskey smooth, flowed through him.
Stopped his breathing.
Caught in the crosshairs of her cold, contained rage and his own shame flashing hot and bright in his gut, he shut his eyes as the world turned over.
“Were her lips soft and warm?” She traced his with a soft fingertip, slid the finger gently between his lips. “When you mapped the terrain?”
His head jerked and a spasm rippled against a clenched jaw as she trailed her finger over and down the corded tendons of his neck, along his collar bone, over his shoulder, across his neck. Slash and burn, he felt the trail of heat from her fingers ignite the shame into a firestorm as she slowly circled him.
“Did you tell her how to touch you? Where?” She pushed tight up against him; leaned in close, let her lips and warm breath brush the join of his neck and jaw. “Did you call her baby and breathe hot in her ear when she was under you? Over you?”
She trailed her finger over his shoulder as she came full circle, pressed her palms against his chest and let her hands drift downward. “Did she run her hands all over you?”
Taut as a tripwire, he breathed hard, a harsh, jagged gasp for air. The first spike of real fear shot up his spine, blazed into his brain, blood pounding in his head making his face burn. He shivered as her fingers found his waist, slipped lower to rest on his hips.
“Did she make you moan and arch against her when she took you in? Was it more? Was it better?” She pulled him in hard against her. “Did you find what you were looking for? What you wanted? What you needed?”
He exploded, his hands moving to grab hers. Hard fingers snapped shut, wrapped her small wrists like a steel band as he pulled her even closer to him, spinning them around and driving her back, pinning her against the wall with his greater mass.
“It wasn’t like that,” he rasped, forehead to forehead breathing her in. “It was…figuring things out.”
Her words were as warm and soft as her breath, surgically precise as they sliced through him like a razor. “And was that the only time you needed to…figure things out?”
There was a crack of thunder as light and heat exploded in a conflagration behind his eyes. A shudder worked its way through him as he struggled to suck enough air into his lungs to breathe. “No.”
She moved slightly beneath him and he felt soft breasts and sharp hipbones, radiant heat fusing them along their shared border.
“How many?”
He slid his cheek against hers, whispered hotly in her ear. “One.”
He pushed harder against her, growled harsh and low into her face. “It was a fuck.”
She laughed suddenly, brittle and high pitched, shattering the thin veneer of civility stretched beyond its limits between them. “You still think this is about fucking?”
Despite everything she was still quick. She pushed him off and around, backed him up against the wall. “I’ve told you before, Logan.”
He exhaled harshly on a groan as a long, slender finger traced his lips and her husky, smoke-filled voice floated over him.
“It’s not about the fucking.”
He growled low and fierce deep in his throat. “Madelyn…”
“I’m not stupid.” She was strong and had survived. She had learned a lot. “I understand love.”
He dragged in a jagged breath, his heart pounded deep in his chest. “Don’t do this.”
“Honesty. Trust. Your words.” She pulled back; turned, started moving away from the torched free-fire zone between them.
He exploded, hands moving to grab hers as he stepped to her, invaded her space. His hands wrapped her wrists as he pinned her arms and used his hips and shoulders to chivvy her back up against the wall.
He leaned in, eyes dark with rage, voice low and dangerous. “Trust?”
White-hot rage boiled up and out, spread like wild fire in his veins.
He buried his face in her hair, his lips close to the delicate shell of her ear as he breathed harsh and hot and heavy. “You couldn’t trust me enough to tell me where you’d been.”
Roiling torrents of grief, guilt, shame, and joined the rage and suddenly became a riptide that threatened to drag him under as she stilled completely under him.
He couldn’t even feel her breathing.
He pulled back, blinked hot tears from his eyes as he felt her shift beneath him. “Hell, you couldn’t even tell me about the kid.”
He didn’t feel her move, didn’t see the slap coming. His head snapped and she shoved hard, sent him staggering.
Words sharp as razor-wire carved him to the bone. “I’m not doing this anymore.”
She quietly lobbed the flash-bang grenade into the still smoldering carnage. “It’s too late.”
The shock wave rocked him back as she disappeared in the incandescent glare behind his eyes.
“No, no, no, no, no, no.” He couldn’t tell if the chant was only in his head, but he knew he had to make her hear.
“Because you were right.” Her voice floated down from far away, words char and ash that covered him. “What do we have now?”
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day!
Well, I’m going to take a break here from the Nine Muses Challenge and go for something completely different. I’m late signing up, but in honor of the day, here is my contribution to the Love at First Sight Blogfest.
We met in school, as undergraduates. I thought he was strange.
I mean he hung out with friends of mine, I'd see him in class and in the lounge, and I'd talk to him, but he seemed kind of intense, and that scared me. When he looked at me, I felt a vague sort of uncomfortable, as if he knew something about me that I didn't know about myself.
We danced around each other, him pushing me and me backing away. He'd asked me out, often, every time I saw him, for months, and I told him no. I was kinda, sorta, sometimes going out with another guy.
Mike asked a friend of mine to go on a double date with us.
Him and his friend, me and this guy. We sat at dinner, the four of us.
Except it wasn't really the four of us. Mike isolated the two of us even though we sat on opposite sides of the table with the others between us. He focused everything on us, talking to me, hitting on me all evening.
Every once in a while, when I could tear myself away from Mike, I'd stolen a glance at our two companions. Mike's date was apparently in on whatever he was doing since she was watching us with a wicked grin on her face. Kyle, the other guy, just kept looking at him like he had an extra head or something.
I'd never sat through anything so bizarre or surreal before. It was like I was outside myself watching this strange evening unfold.
Before we left the restaurant Mike, asked me out again. I said yes. Like I said, bizarre and surreal.
Our first real date was really low key. After my last class of the day I took the train uptown, got out and met Mike down at the bottom of the station. He had his dad's car and we drove east while we made small talk and tried to decide where to eat dinner and what we'd do for the rest of our date.
Both of us were in college so the choices weren't very hard to make. We'd get Burger King from the drive through and then go to the piers to watch the submarine races.
It only took about twenty minutes or so to get from the station to the piers. Once there we settled down into a comfortable silence, eating our Whoppers and looking out over the water at the setting sun.
We just sat. Together.
Mike broke the silence. "We should probably think about getting married."
I looked at him like he had grown another head. I wondered if he was used to getting that look. It didn't seem to bother him at all.
"Why would we think about that?"
Strangely enough, the implication of the statement itself didn't faze me. I just wondered why the hell he thought that might be a good idea.
He looked sideways at me and gave me his best half-assed grin. "You know why. I'm not an idiot or a hopeless romantic, never even believed in love at first sight.”
His left eye twitched in a wink. “I had a plan.”
He shrugged a careless shoulder. “I'd just gotten out of the Navy and back into school and I figured at this point in my life I'd be going out with all kinds of girls, having lots of terrific, meaningless sex with lots of willing partners.”
He popped a fry in his mouth. “You kinda messed that up for me. The first time I met you I realized I was meeting the woman I was going to marry. Plan A went right out the door and it was on to Plan B."
"Plan B?" I don’t recognize my voice in the stillness.
"Plan B. Getting you to realize I was right all along."
I couldn't believe the affection I heard coming from this man. The affection in his voice and in his eyes.
"You really are a stubborn wench. Never had to work so hard for something in all my life."
I couldn't believe the way his eyes were looking at me in the twilight.
Yeah, definitely bizarre and surreal.
Even more unbelievable than what I was hearing and seeing was what I was feeling. The rightness of what he was suggesting was blowing me away.
It didn't even seem so incredibly ludicrous, the more I listened to and watched him. He seemed so certain, so calmly convinced of his decisions and feelings.
I tried to assemble rational thought as I sat looking at this man, because I am nothing if not practical. I am organized and disciplined and make lists of things to do. I am orderly and like things in their place and in their time. I am anal-retentive. A control freak. I am all about planning and follow through.
According to Myers-Briggs, I am an introvert, a sensing, thinking, judging type.
Despite this predisposition in my personality I have also known myself, at certain points in time, to just chuck everything in my life in a moment of life altering spontaneity to do something so completely out of character that it defies all attempts at rational explanation.
This apparently was one of those moments.
And he seemed to know this.
Turning in his seat to look at me full on, he smiled. "So, whadaya think?"
"About what?"
He was right. I could be a stubborn wench and now I felt the need to be deliberately obtuse. I needed to be sure I was hearing what I thought I was.
"What do you think about marrying me?"
"I think you've never even kissed me."
"I can fix that. If I do, whadaya say?"
"Yeah, sure."
Why not?
He leaned over to me as I slowly closed my eyes.
We met in school, as undergraduates. I thought he was strange.
I mean he hung out with friends of mine, I'd see him in class and in the lounge, and I'd talk to him, but he seemed kind of intense, and that scared me. When he looked at me, I felt a vague sort of uncomfortable, as if he knew something about me that I didn't know about myself.
We danced around each other, him pushing me and me backing away. He'd asked me out, often, every time I saw him, for months, and I told him no. I was kinda, sorta, sometimes going out with another guy.
Mike asked a friend of mine to go on a double date with us.
Him and his friend, me and this guy. We sat at dinner, the four of us.
Except it wasn't really the four of us. Mike isolated the two of us even though we sat on opposite sides of the table with the others between us. He focused everything on us, talking to me, hitting on me all evening.
Every once in a while, when I could tear myself away from Mike, I'd stolen a glance at our two companions. Mike's date was apparently in on whatever he was doing since she was watching us with a wicked grin on her face. Kyle, the other guy, just kept looking at him like he had an extra head or something.
I'd never sat through anything so bizarre or surreal before. It was like I was outside myself watching this strange evening unfold.
Before we left the restaurant Mike, asked me out again. I said yes. Like I said, bizarre and surreal.
Our first real date was really low key. After my last class of the day I took the train uptown, got out and met Mike down at the bottom of the station. He had his dad's car and we drove east while we made small talk and tried to decide where to eat dinner and what we'd do for the rest of our date.
Both of us were in college so the choices weren't very hard to make. We'd get Burger King from the drive through and then go to the piers to watch the submarine races.
It only took about twenty minutes or so to get from the station to the piers. Once there we settled down into a comfortable silence, eating our Whoppers and looking out over the water at the setting sun.
We just sat. Together.
Mike broke the silence. "We should probably think about getting married."
I looked at him like he had grown another head. I wondered if he was used to getting that look. It didn't seem to bother him at all.
"Why would we think about that?"
Strangely enough, the implication of the statement itself didn't faze me. I just wondered why the hell he thought that might be a good idea.
He looked sideways at me and gave me his best half-assed grin. "You know why. I'm not an idiot or a hopeless romantic, never even believed in love at first sight.”
His left eye twitched in a wink. “I had a plan.”
He shrugged a careless shoulder. “I'd just gotten out of the Navy and back into school and I figured at this point in my life I'd be going out with all kinds of girls, having lots of terrific, meaningless sex with lots of willing partners.”
He popped a fry in his mouth. “You kinda messed that up for me. The first time I met you I realized I was meeting the woman I was going to marry. Plan A went right out the door and it was on to Plan B."
"Plan B?" I don’t recognize my voice in the stillness.
"Plan B. Getting you to realize I was right all along."
I couldn't believe the affection I heard coming from this man. The affection in his voice and in his eyes.
"You really are a stubborn wench. Never had to work so hard for something in all my life."
I couldn't believe the way his eyes were looking at me in the twilight.
Yeah, definitely bizarre and surreal.
Even more unbelievable than what I was hearing and seeing was what I was feeling. The rightness of what he was suggesting was blowing me away.
It didn't even seem so incredibly ludicrous, the more I listened to and watched him. He seemed so certain, so calmly convinced of his decisions and feelings.
I tried to assemble rational thought as I sat looking at this man, because I am nothing if not practical. I am organized and disciplined and make lists of things to do. I am orderly and like things in their place and in their time. I am anal-retentive. A control freak. I am all about planning and follow through.
According to Myers-Briggs, I am an introvert, a sensing, thinking, judging type.
Despite this predisposition in my personality I have also known myself, at certain points in time, to just chuck everything in my life in a moment of life altering spontaneity to do something so completely out of character that it defies all attempts at rational explanation.
This apparently was one of those moments.
And he seemed to know this.
Turning in his seat to look at me full on, he smiled. "So, whadaya think?"
"About what?"
He was right. I could be a stubborn wench and now I felt the need to be deliberately obtuse. I needed to be sure I was hearing what I thought I was.
"What do you think about marrying me?"
"I think you've never even kissed me."
"I can fix that. If I do, whadaya say?"
"Yeah, sure."
Why not?
He leaned over to me as I slowly closed my eyes.
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