You may or may not have noticed that I completely forgot to post on Wednesday. It’s the first time I’ve missed posting since I began this blog, and I’m thinking it might be a sign. I’ve been massively distracted by a number of things for a while now, but this summer it’s been so much so that I’ve not been able to write a word or prepare anything I normally do for the start of the new school year.
Because of this, I’m feeling really pressured to get things done, so I’ll be taking a hiatus from blogging for the rest of the month. Hopefully I can wrestle real life into some semblance of control and find the time to make the rounds of my blogging friends for something good to read and comment on. I’ve missed doing that and hope you don’t think too badly of me for not keeping up with you.
Anyway, enjoy the rest of your summer, and I’ll see you in September.
Showing posts with label tgif. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tgif. Show all posts
Friday, August 6, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
TGIF! and a Contest
Just a couple of things before I wish everyone a Happy Holiday Weekend. Abby Annis is having a 200 followers celebration and contest. Go here to check it out for the chance to win some very cool swag.
My current WIP, which apparently is also my once and future WIP is chugging away. I am, however, in dire need of naming help. My male lead needs a name, so if you are so inclined, please leave me your suggestions in a comment.
That’s it folks. Short and sweet. If you are traveling this fine weekend, have a safe trip. If not, I hope you enjoy the fun and frivolity of BBQ and fireworks at home. Happy Fourth and I’ll see you on Monday.
My current WIP, which apparently is also my once and future WIP is chugging away. I am, however, in dire need of naming help. My male lead needs a name, so if you are so inclined, please leave me your suggestions in a comment.
That’s it folks. Short and sweet. If you are traveling this fine weekend, have a safe trip. If not, I hope you enjoy the fun and frivolity of BBQ and fireworks at home. Happy Fourth and I’ll see you on Monday.
Friday, June 25, 2010
TGIF!
This week I was gifted with the very lovely award above by both Callie over at Chimera Critiques and Julie Dao at Silver Lining. I have to share seven things and pass it on to fifteen others. Here goes:
1. This summer for me, change is the theme. We'll see how that works out.
2. I'm writing two online courses as well as working on the WIP.
3. I'm the only Leo I know that doesn't like the sun, the heat and the beach.
4. I love chocolate.
5. I love cooking and Food Network.
6. I spend endless hours watching HGTV.
7. I'm addicted to caffeine.
And now for the lucky fifteen recipients:
Summer over at ...and this time, concentrate!
Bossy Betty
Christine over at Christine's Journey
DL over at Cruising Altitude
Donna Hole
Aubrie at Flutey Words
Laurel over at Laurel's Leaves
Lois at Lotus Rising
Hannah over at Musings of a
Palindrome
Mia over at My Literary Jam and Toast
Patrick Tillett
Portia Sisco
Lola at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword
Courtney over at Southern Princess
Talli Roland
And that's all folks. Check out these versitile bloggers and have a great weekend.
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.
Friday, May 28, 2010
TGIF! and an award
I don’t know about you, but I am ever so grateful that this week is over. It’s been a forever kind of week, the kind that’s hot and brutal, makes everyone beyond cranky, and seems like it will never end. I’m so thankful for the three day weekend it seems a little pathetic.
To start the weekend right, I want to share an award that were given to me a while ago. Tessa over at Tessa’s Blurb gave me the Beautiful Blogger Award. My thanks to her, and if you get a chance go over and sign up for her Blogfest of Death.
And I’d like to pass this on to some of the most beautiful bloggers I know. Seriously, go visit them and bask in the gloriousness.
Betty over at Bossy Betty
Lois over at Lotus Rising
Aubrie over at Flutey Words
Shelley at Stories in the Ordinary
Lola over at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword
Theresa at Substitute Teacher’s Saga
That's all for me now. Have a great Friday and a great weekend. I hope you all enjoy your Memorial Day.
Friday, May 21, 2010
TGIF!
Happy Friday. My brain is fried and I don’t think I’ve had a coherent thought in days. That’s a bad thing for anyone, but for a writer it’s catastrophic. Writers are story tellers and story tellers are creative. What happens when the creativity dries up and there’s no inspiration to be found?
Write to Done has a great post on how to have ideas. Check out their seven steps to creativity and tell me: How do you inspire creativity?
Write to Done has a great post on how to have ideas. Check out their seven steps to creativity and tell me: How do you inspire creativity?
Friday, May 14, 2010
TGIF! and a Tag
A while ago Raquel Byrnes, Lilah Pierce, and Anne over at Piedmont Writer tagged me with the 5 questions/answers meme. For a "Tag" you answer 5 questions 5 times to share a bit about yourself. So here goes!
Question 1 - Where were you five years ago?
1. Same town, same house.
2. Helping my daughter begin her freshman year at U of M.
3. Helping my youngest begin his freshman year in high school.
4. Doing a lot of writing.
5. Hoping that writing might actually get to the point of being published.
Question 2 - Where would you like to be in five years?
1. In a different house.
2. On a book tour.
3. Watching all of my kids settled into the life of their choice.
4. Working on my Ph.D.
5. Traveling to all the places around the world I’ve always wanted to visit.
Question 3 - What is on your to-do list today?
1. Make it through the last day of the week in my classroom.
2. Finalize the Pacing Guide for my Human Rights and Genocide course.
3. Work on critting at least one chapter for my crit group.
4. Think about a theme for my blog posts next week.
5. Pack and leave for a quick trip to Chicago to pick up my oldest.
Question 4 - What snacks do you enjoy?
1. Potato chips.
2. Any kind of chocolate.
3. Strawberry shortcake.
4. Hot fudge sundae.
5. Rice pudding.
Question 5 - What five things would you do if you were a billionare?
1. Pay all of my bills.
2. Establish trust funds for my kids and their children.
3. Buy each of my kids a house.
4. Start a foundation that grants scholarships to underprivileged kids going to college.
5. Donate to causes/institutions doing work to benefit women and children.
The rules are that I get to pass the Tag along to 5 Bloggers I admire....
Aubrie at Flutey Words
Tara at Feel of Something New
Bossy Betty
Crystal at write because you must
B. Miller
And that's all folks. I'm out. Have a great weekend.
Question 1 - Where were you five years ago?
1. Same town, same house.
2. Helping my daughter begin her freshman year at U of M.
3. Helping my youngest begin his freshman year in high school.
4. Doing a lot of writing.
5. Hoping that writing might actually get to the point of being published.
Question 2 - Where would you like to be in five years?
1. In a different house.
2. On a book tour.
3. Watching all of my kids settled into the life of their choice.
4. Working on my Ph.D.
5. Traveling to all the places around the world I’ve always wanted to visit.
Question 3 - What is on your to-do list today?
1. Make it through the last day of the week in my classroom.
2. Finalize the Pacing Guide for my Human Rights and Genocide course.
3. Work on critting at least one chapter for my crit group.
4. Think about a theme for my blog posts next week.
5. Pack and leave for a quick trip to Chicago to pick up my oldest.
Question 4 - What snacks do you enjoy?
1. Potato chips.
2. Any kind of chocolate.
3. Strawberry shortcake.
4. Hot fudge sundae.
5. Rice pudding.
Question 5 - What five things would you do if you were a billionare?
1. Pay all of my bills.
2. Establish trust funds for my kids and their children.
3. Buy each of my kids a house.
4. Start a foundation that grants scholarships to underprivileged kids going to college.
5. Donate to causes/institutions doing work to benefit women and children.
The rules are that I get to pass the Tag along to 5 Bloggers I admire....
Aubrie at Flutey Words
Tara at Feel of Something New
Bossy Betty
Crystal at write because you must
B. Miller
And that's all folks. I'm out. Have a great weekend.
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.
Friday, April 30, 2010
TGIF!
Just a reminder that you only have until 6 PM tonight to enter my 150 followers giveaway. Click on the link in my sidebar if you haven’t already signed up for your chance to win a gift card. I’ll announce the winners of my giveaway on Monday.
On the award front, Kelly over at Just Write gifted me with this very cool award sometime forever ago, and now I’d like to pass it on to people who lift me up with their comments.
Jen over at unedited
Theresa at Substitute Teacher’s Saga
Wendy at W.M. Morrell’s Musings From Down Under
Shannon over at Book Dreaming
Tara at Feel of Something New
All of these blogs are great and if you haven’t been over to check them out, you should go over and say hi. Enjoy the weekend and don’t forget to check out the Last Line Blogfest posts going up tomorrow.
Friday, April 23, 2010
TGIF! and a Contest
Being the slacker you all know I am, I completely missed celebrating my 100 followers when I hit that milestone. And I promised myself that I would not miss celebrating at 150 followers because I never cease to be amazed at your kind, generous, warm response to me and my words.
Anyway, I was gifted with that monumental milestone of 150 on 4/19 and now it’s time to celebrate. I wish I could offer critiques or a fiction contest, but real life is not being kind and my brain is dead.
So to celebrate, we’ll have nice old-fashioned giveaway. Up for grabs are three gift cards. One for $20 and two for $15 from either Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Borders, winners choice.
So how does this work?
The rules are simple. You get one entry for each of the things listed below that you do. Since I’m a low-tech kinda girl, I’m keeping this simple. Each entry you get goes into a hat. At the end of the contest, I’ll pull out a winner.
What do you have to do?
1. Comment here to enter. Your comment gets you (+1) entry. Include any of the following information you have to get more entries.
2. You must be a follower of my blog. New followers get (+1) entry, current followers get (+2) entries.
3. Blog about this contest. That will get you (+2) entries. Leave the link here in your comment.
4. Put this contest in your sidebar. That will get you (+2) entries. Leave the link here in your comment.
5. Send followers my way. Each follower you send me that mention you by name gets you (+1) entry.
That’s it. Easy peasy. Make sure you leave your comments. This contest ends next Friday, 4/30 at 6:00 PM EST, and I’ll announce the winners by the following Monday.
Anyway, I was gifted with that monumental milestone of 150 on 4/19 and now it’s time to celebrate. I wish I could offer critiques or a fiction contest, but real life is not being kind and my brain is dead.
So to celebrate, we’ll have nice old-fashioned giveaway. Up for grabs are three gift cards. One for $20 and two for $15 from either Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Borders, winners choice.
So how does this work?
The rules are simple. You get one entry for each of the things listed below that you do. Since I’m a low-tech kinda girl, I’m keeping this simple. Each entry you get goes into a hat. At the end of the contest, I’ll pull out a winner.
What do you have to do?
1. Comment here to enter. Your comment gets you (+1) entry. Include any of the following information you have to get more entries.
2. You must be a follower of my blog. New followers get (+1) entry, current followers get (+2) entries.
3. Blog about this contest. That will get you (+2) entries. Leave the link here in your comment.
4. Put this contest in your sidebar. That will get you (+2) entries. Leave the link here in your comment.
5. Send followers my way. Each follower you send me that mention you by name gets you (+1) entry.
That’s it. Easy peasy. Make sure you leave your comments. This contest ends next Friday, 4/30 at 6:00 PM EST, and I’ll announce the winners by the following Monday.
Friday, April 16, 2010
TGIF, Contests, and an Award
Happy Friday. It’s been a long stretch with posting both days last weekend with blogfest entries. It’s good to be looking at the weekend. Before we get there though, here’s the last post for this week.
We all know what a slacker I am about awards, so here we are again. It’s time for me to pass on another award that was given to me forever ago by the lovely Christine D and more recently by Tara at Feel of Something New. I don’t think I have to do anything here except pass it on to some of my favorite blogging buddies:
Elizabeth Mueller
Justine Dell
Lola at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword
Talli Roland
Niki at Wool ’n Nuts
and Lilah Pierce
There's contests, too. Rebecca over at Sonshine Thoughts is giving away the cutest owls to celebrate her followers. And Julie Dao over at Silver Lining is celebrating 200 followers. Go over and check them both out.
And that's it for this week. I'm off to Chicago after school today for a wedding this weekend. Have a great Friday folks, and enjoy your own weekend.
We all know what a slacker I am about awards, so here we are again. It’s time for me to pass on another award that was given to me forever ago by the lovely Christine D and more recently by Tara at Feel of Something New. I don’t think I have to do anything here except pass it on to some of my favorite blogging buddies:
Elizabeth Mueller
Justine Dell
Lola at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword
Talli Roland
Niki at Wool ’n Nuts
and Lilah Pierce
There's contests, too. Rebecca over at Sonshine Thoughts is giving away the cutest owls to celebrate her followers. And Julie Dao over at Silver Lining is celebrating 200 followers. Go over and check them both out.
And that's it for this week. I'm off to Chicago after school today for a wedding this weekend. Have a great Friday folks, and enjoy your own weekend.
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, March 26, 2010
TGIF!
It's time once again for me to share one of the awards that have been so graciously been given to me. The beautiful Sunshine Award was given to me weeks ago by the lovely Anne over at Piedmont Writer and the wonderful Tara over at Feel of Something New. Because I am such a slacker and suck at passing these things on in a timely matter, and because I don't think there's anything you have to do to earn this award, I'd like to pass it on to anyone who would like it and doesn't have it.
Also a couple of weeks ago Laurel over at Laurel’s Leaves tagged me for this like/love/hate meme. I finally got around to doing my list.
I like long walks in nice weather.
I like sweaters and skirts.
I like dinner time with my family.
I like a lot of the people on my staff and all kinds of kids.
I like snark.
I like people who get me and knowing people like me.
I like quiet.
I like parents who don’t automatically blame the teacher for mentioning their kid’s bad behavior or failing grades.
I hate disrespect in all its myriad forms.
I hate parents that enable their children’s bad behavior.
I hate misogyny.
I hate the racist behavior rearing its ugly head once again at my school.
I hate running late.
I hate drivers who flip you off after they cut you off.
I love parents who assign appropriate consequences to their kids’ bad behavior.
I love flying.
I love all kinds of music except country (and I’ve never figured out why I don’t like that).
I love riding in trains, on buses, and driving in cars.
I love learning all kinds of things.
I love libraries, schools, and museums.
I love diners and coffee shops.
I love the craft and process of writing.
And now I get to pass this meme along to others:
Donna Hole
Shelley at Stories in the Ordinary
Portia Sisco
Crystal at write because you must
Mary at Play off the Page
Tricia at Talespinning
VR Barkowski
And now that that's taken care of, happy weekend to everyone.
Friday, March 12, 2010
TGIF!
Elana is running a Fantabulous Followers Giveaway and you need to go check it out. It really is fantabulous. She’s giving away seven books, but you only have until March 14 at 10 PM to enter. So hurry.
And since it’s Friday and we’re at the end of another brutal week, I thought I’d make myself feel better by putting up another one of the awards I’ve been hording. This one is really special not only because Wendy made it herself and I was one of the original recipients, but also because it was the first award two people gave me, which made me very happy. Roxy also bestowed the Quillfeather honor on me. So thank you both. Now what I’m supposed to do is tell you how I like my eggs. Here goes.
Scrambled with cheese. Scrambled with cut up hot dogs and cheese tossed in. Over medium with cheese melted on top. In a sausage omelet. In a sausage and cheese omelet. In a breakfast sandwich with ham and cheese. Are we sensing a theme here? In a country omelet with sausage and cheese and hashed browns stuffed inside and sausage gravy ladled over the top. With pancakes. Baked Italian style over tomato sauce and topped with fresh grated parmesan cheese. Eggs Benedict.
Can you tell I love eggs? And breakfast? Maybe I’ll swing through Mickey D’s on my way to work and get an Egg McMuffin.
Happy Friday and enjoy whatever you may be having for breakfast.
Friday, March 5, 2010
TGIF!
Don't forget my contest ends tonight at 6:00 EST. So if you've been procrastinating, you're running out of time to get your entries in. I'll be announcing the winner tomorrow. And since we're here at the end of another week, I'm leaving you with a snippet that just kinda makes me feel good. Enjoy and have a good weekend.
Reeds sway, silent sentinels chasing shadows. A night heron crows as it takes flight. The call of a willet pierces the early morning stillness, and he catches the black and white pattern of a flashing wing as it comes in for a landing.
His hand finds hers. Long, cool fingers wrap his as she leans in, strong and solid beside him, fused shoulder to hip.
The whisper of bare feet is lost here to the sounds of the shore; the soft rustle of grass, the screams of gulls swooping low, the gentle slap of waves coming home.
Sand is implacable here. It blows and shifts, changing boundaries and erasing everything.
He can almost forget there’s a world up the bluff on the other side of the highway.
They crest the dune together, in lockstep, the way they do everything, and stop and stare.
Shards of brilliant gold explode on the horizon; the first orange-red brush strokes of a rising sun painting a lightening blue-black sky.
The breeze shifts; picks up; sea and salt and sun; time and tide. It’s all right here, right now as the world transitions into life and light.
He slips in behind her; slides his arms around her, pulls her back tight against him, hands gentle as they glide along the curve of her belly.
A small shiver runs through her and into him as she leans back, quiet and still in his arms, hands covering his.
He buries his face in her hair; breathes her in deep, feels the band around his chest loosen as he exhales softly in her ear. “High tide.”
She hums in response, stretches out an elegant arm; pulls his focus out as she points down the beach. It’s colder here now; his arms wrap her tighter and he rests his cheek on her hair as clear, hollow eyes track his sisters across the sand, onto the pier.
All his senses push; salt air and sea breeze and the sun climbing high on the horizon converge and he blinks hard against the sudden sting in his eyes.
Through crystal tears he sees they’ve reached the end of their journey; stand suspended statue-still between sea and sky and sand; the illusion of solid ground.
He wonders if they’re crying as their arms stretch out in unison over crystal-clear blue water.
Her voice is soft and low as she shifts against him. “Your mother, too?”
“Dad kept her ashes.” Possessive hands roam over her belly; his eyes drift shut as he feels his child kick. “He wanted this.”
He wants to move, can almost feel himself step; feels sick as he wonders what it would be like to be standing there next to them.
She shifts again, and cool, satin fingers wrap his hands; still them.
He anchors himself against her and rocks them as he steps outside himself and stares; counting up the years in one last invocation to who he used to be.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but the sun’s climbing higher on the purple-pink horizon, burning off the haze, and she’s in his arms as he watches his sisters disappear across the sand.
She shifts and steps, slides her hand into his and leads him down the dune.
The scent of sea and salt carries on the breeze and he’s going to walk on the beach with her.
Reeds sway, silent sentinels chasing shadows. A night heron crows as it takes flight. The call of a willet pierces the early morning stillness, and he catches the black and white pattern of a flashing wing as it comes in for a landing.
His hand finds hers. Long, cool fingers wrap his as she leans in, strong and solid beside him, fused shoulder to hip.
The whisper of bare feet is lost here to the sounds of the shore; the soft rustle of grass, the screams of gulls swooping low, the gentle slap of waves coming home.
Sand is implacable here. It blows and shifts, changing boundaries and erasing everything.
He can almost forget there’s a world up the bluff on the other side of the highway.
They crest the dune together, in lockstep, the way they do everything, and stop and stare.
Shards of brilliant gold explode on the horizon; the first orange-red brush strokes of a rising sun painting a lightening blue-black sky.
The breeze shifts; picks up; sea and salt and sun; time and tide. It’s all right here, right now as the world transitions into life and light.
He slips in behind her; slides his arms around her, pulls her back tight against him, hands gentle as they glide along the curve of her belly.
A small shiver runs through her and into him as she leans back, quiet and still in his arms, hands covering his.
He buries his face in her hair; breathes her in deep, feels the band around his chest loosen as he exhales softly in her ear. “High tide.”
She hums in response, stretches out an elegant arm; pulls his focus out as she points down the beach. It’s colder here now; his arms wrap her tighter and he rests his cheek on her hair as clear, hollow eyes track his sisters across the sand, onto the pier.
All his senses push; salt air and sea breeze and the sun climbing high on the horizon converge and he blinks hard against the sudden sting in his eyes.
Through crystal tears he sees they’ve reached the end of their journey; stand suspended statue-still between sea and sky and sand; the illusion of solid ground.
He wonders if they’re crying as their arms stretch out in unison over crystal-clear blue water.
Her voice is soft and low as she shifts against him. “Your mother, too?”
“Dad kept her ashes.” Possessive hands roam over her belly; his eyes drift shut as he feels his child kick. “He wanted this.”
He wants to move, can almost feel himself step; feels sick as he wonders what it would be like to be standing there next to them.
She shifts again, and cool, satin fingers wrap his hands; still them.
He anchors himself against her and rocks them as he steps outside himself and stares; counting up the years in one last invocation to who he used to be.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but the sun’s climbing higher on the purple-pink horizon, burning off the haze, and she’s in his arms as he watches his sisters disappear across the sand.
She shifts and steps, slides her hand into his and leads him down the dune.
The scent of sea and salt carries on the breeze and he’s going to walk on the beach with her.
Friday, February 26, 2010
TGIF
Here we are at the end of another week. Congratulations to all of us. I've got a couple of awards I need to put up and/or pass on, but I think I'll do that next week. And I've decided no more big, thinky-type questions about the art and craft of writing for right now. For now I'll just leave you with a tad over 1500 words of flash fiction. Mind the warning, it's a bit more...romantic...than my last few offerings.
Springs groan in protest as he pushes through the screen door, runs his eyes around faded pea soup walls that once upon a time might have been a brighter shade of green. A tinny sound echoes in the thick air hanging heavy in the small, empty lobby as he steps over the basset sleeping just inside the door.
It takes him a couple of rings to recognize the sound of a phone.
Three long steps bring him to the counter. He dings the cheap little silver bell twice; wipes sweaty palms down his jeans, shoves his hands in his pockets.
The tick of the clock hand counting off the minute splits the stillness as he bounces on the balls of his feet under the muted whoosh of a slow spinning ceiling fan.
A dog barks in the distance. He slides his eyes to the door. The basset doesn’t move.
He snorts a harsh exhale; rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. His shirt clings to his chest and back like a sweaty second skin. It’s already past hot and he wants her inside, out of the heat, somewhere safe where they can wait.
Impatient fingers tap a staccato beat on the counter. He bounces one more time and then gives up the fight, dings the bell again.
The gnarled little man in the stained wife-beater that comes out of the back room doesn’t bother to look at him, just plunks a dog-eared book on the ledge and holds out a pen.
He shrugs his flight bag up higher on his shoulder; snags the pen and scribbles something that might be someone’s name, makes up a license number.
The old man doesn’t bother to cover his yawn, just scratches several days of grey growth along his jaw line as flicks his gaze over the book, up and down him. “How long you gonna be stayin’?”
“Just tonight.”
“Eighty bucks.”
He nods once and slides his hand into his pocket, beyond grateful for the sealed envelope full of cash his dad had stuck into his bag.
The smile dies. His dad had known he’d need it.
He pulls out a small roll; peels off four twenties, hands them to the old man.
“Number nine.” The old man doesn’t bother to smile as he reaches down and pulls up a key; slides it across the counter. “Checkout’s at eleven.”
He nods again and spins on his heel. The basset’s eyes follow him out the door.
She’s waiting for him; leaning up against the wall, shoulders curled forward, arms crossed over her belly. She pushes off before the echo of the door swinging shut fades, falls into step beside him.
He reaches down, slides his hand into hers as his eyes scan the numbers of passing doors. It’s hot and she’s tired, even if she won’t admit it, and he wants to get her into a cool, dark room and off her feet.
He almost passes number nine; the number’s upside down. She angles her head and squints at it as he slides the key into the lock, jiggles the knob, pushes the door in.
Stepping aside, his hand skims the small of her back as she crosses the threshold ahead of him into the darkness. He follows her in, slaps at the light switch as she drops with a soft exhale onto the bed.
The smell of disinfectant hits him like a wave; he sends up a silent prayer of thanks. At least the place is clean.
The room’s everything he expected in the dim glow of a forty watt bulb. One double bed; one bedside table; one round table with two mismatched chairs.
He tosses their bag onto one of the chairs. A dozen long strides take him past the dresser, across the room to the air conditioner. A long forefinger stabs the on button and the unit kickstarts with a jolt.
It’s not quite cold air, but it’s better than outside.
He turns and makes his way back to her, drops to his knees in front of her, gentle hands cradling the swell of their unborn child.
Her eyes drift closed as he rubs her belly reverently; she hums slightly, runs her fingers through his short hair.
A small, satisfied smile pulls at his lips as he looks up at her through the tops of his eyes. “Won’t be long now.”
She shakes back her hair, exhales softly. “Another week at most, I think.”
“How you doin’?”
Shifting slightly, she rolls her shoulders, cracks her neck. “I’m fine.”
“You look beat, babe.” His hands leave her belly reluctantly; pull off one of her boots and her sock. “You’d probably feel better after a shower.”
She hums a non-committal answer.
“There’s a mini-mall next to this place.” He tosses the boot into the near corner, pulls off the other one. “I can get us something to eat and be back by the time you get out.”
He pulls off the other sock and they join their mates in the corner.
Her eyes drift open as a quiet smile curves the corners of her lips. “Or you could join me and go to the store later.”
He plants his hands on the mattress, pushes up; leans in and kisses her slow and sweet and lazy. A small shiver runs through him as she wraps long, lean arms around his neck, smooth satin fingertips tracing delicate patterns behind his ear.
His heart’s beating faster when he breaks the kiss; rests his forehead against hers as they breathe the same air. He slides his hands into hers; pulls back and leverages her off the bed.
She’s not close enough and he moves, one arm wrapping her waist, pulling her tight. His free hand palms her skull; he buries his fingers in the soft silk of her hair as he kisses her, open-mouthed, wet and deep.
Strong, slender fingers find their way under his shirt and trace the trail of his spine. Suddenly he’s on fire, heat and want igniting deep inside and he needs her like his heart needs to beat; needs to feel her skin to skin against him.
She breaks the kiss and pulls back. When he tries to follow, her hands hard on his shoulders stop him. Smokey eyes, dark and wide with desire lock on his as she rucks his shirt up and over his head.
He shivers and leans in, buries his face in her hair, breathing hard against the soft curve of her neck as her fingers feather over his shoulders, along his collar bones, down his bare chest to work his belt and zipper.
Her breath is a whisper against his skin as her fingers trace the hollows of his hips, slide jeans and boxers over slim hips to pool at his feet. He steps out of them and a quick flick of his foot sends them flying as he buries his hands in her hair and kisses her deeply.
He moans into her mouth as his hands glide down her back, work her shirt up and off. Her lips are swollen and glistening in the low light as she stands before him, pale and perfect, still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
His hands slide around her waist; fingers skimming up the soft, satin curve of her spine to unhook her bra, slide it off, drop it to the floor.
Her lips find his and her hands glide up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair as he retraces his way back down her spine, fingers trailing along her waist to make quick work of fasteners.
She breaks the kiss, pulls back, breathing harshly. “Shower?”
He growls deep in his throat, low and fierce and thick with need. “Bed.”
A quick tug sends her pants over the flare of her hips. Heavy lidded eyes lock on hers as he leans in; cradles her head and kisses her hard, driving his tongue deep.
She steps out of them as his arms wrap her, hold her tight. He follows her down as she sinks onto the mattress.
A shudder runs through him and he growls again, low and fierce as she breaks the kiss. His entire body thrums with need beneath her palms as she runs them up and over his chest, fingertips feathering their way back down.
His hands on her shoulders take her down to the mattress, glide down her body to bring her legs up and over as she rolls to her side.
He crawls in behind her, fingers curling in the cascade of black silk spilling over his hand as he fuses them belly to back, shoulder to hip.
“John.” Her voice is low and smooth and slides right through him.
“It’s ok, baby.”
His free hand presses the soft satin skin over her heart; he feels the strong, steady beat against his palm as his tongue traces a trail along her elegant neck. He breathes her in; tastes sea and salt on her skin as her head rolls and she presses closer to him.
His hand glides along the lush curve of her body, hooks her leg up and over his. “We’ll make it work.”
Springs groan in protest as he pushes through the screen door, runs his eyes around faded pea soup walls that once upon a time might have been a brighter shade of green. A tinny sound echoes in the thick air hanging heavy in the small, empty lobby as he steps over the basset sleeping just inside the door.
It takes him a couple of rings to recognize the sound of a phone.
Three long steps bring him to the counter. He dings the cheap little silver bell twice; wipes sweaty palms down his jeans, shoves his hands in his pockets.
The tick of the clock hand counting off the minute splits the stillness as he bounces on the balls of his feet under the muted whoosh of a slow spinning ceiling fan.
A dog barks in the distance. He slides his eyes to the door. The basset doesn’t move.
He snorts a harsh exhale; rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. His shirt clings to his chest and back like a sweaty second skin. It’s already past hot and he wants her inside, out of the heat, somewhere safe where they can wait.
Impatient fingers tap a staccato beat on the counter. He bounces one more time and then gives up the fight, dings the bell again.
The gnarled little man in the stained wife-beater that comes out of the back room doesn’t bother to look at him, just plunks a dog-eared book on the ledge and holds out a pen.
He shrugs his flight bag up higher on his shoulder; snags the pen and scribbles something that might be someone’s name, makes up a license number.
The old man doesn’t bother to cover his yawn, just scratches several days of grey growth along his jaw line as flicks his gaze over the book, up and down him. “How long you gonna be stayin’?”
“Just tonight.”
“Eighty bucks.”
He nods once and slides his hand into his pocket, beyond grateful for the sealed envelope full of cash his dad had stuck into his bag.
The smile dies. His dad had known he’d need it.
He pulls out a small roll; peels off four twenties, hands them to the old man.
“Number nine.” The old man doesn’t bother to smile as he reaches down and pulls up a key; slides it across the counter. “Checkout’s at eleven.”
He nods again and spins on his heel. The basset’s eyes follow him out the door.
She’s waiting for him; leaning up against the wall, shoulders curled forward, arms crossed over her belly. She pushes off before the echo of the door swinging shut fades, falls into step beside him.
He reaches down, slides his hand into hers as his eyes scan the numbers of passing doors. It’s hot and she’s tired, even if she won’t admit it, and he wants to get her into a cool, dark room and off her feet.
He almost passes number nine; the number’s upside down. She angles her head and squints at it as he slides the key into the lock, jiggles the knob, pushes the door in.
Stepping aside, his hand skims the small of her back as she crosses the threshold ahead of him into the darkness. He follows her in, slaps at the light switch as she drops with a soft exhale onto the bed.
The smell of disinfectant hits him like a wave; he sends up a silent prayer of thanks. At least the place is clean.
The room’s everything he expected in the dim glow of a forty watt bulb. One double bed; one bedside table; one round table with two mismatched chairs.
He tosses their bag onto one of the chairs. A dozen long strides take him past the dresser, across the room to the air conditioner. A long forefinger stabs the on button and the unit kickstarts with a jolt.
It’s not quite cold air, but it’s better than outside.
He turns and makes his way back to her, drops to his knees in front of her, gentle hands cradling the swell of their unborn child.
Her eyes drift closed as he rubs her belly reverently; she hums slightly, runs her fingers through his short hair.
A small, satisfied smile pulls at his lips as he looks up at her through the tops of his eyes. “Won’t be long now.”
She shakes back her hair, exhales softly. “Another week at most, I think.”
“How you doin’?”
Shifting slightly, she rolls her shoulders, cracks her neck. “I’m fine.”
“You look beat, babe.” His hands leave her belly reluctantly; pull off one of her boots and her sock. “You’d probably feel better after a shower.”
She hums a non-committal answer.
“There’s a mini-mall next to this place.” He tosses the boot into the near corner, pulls off the other one. “I can get us something to eat and be back by the time you get out.”
He pulls off the other sock and they join their mates in the corner.
Her eyes drift open as a quiet smile curves the corners of her lips. “Or you could join me and go to the store later.”
He plants his hands on the mattress, pushes up; leans in and kisses her slow and sweet and lazy. A small shiver runs through him as she wraps long, lean arms around his neck, smooth satin fingertips tracing delicate patterns behind his ear.
His heart’s beating faster when he breaks the kiss; rests his forehead against hers as they breathe the same air. He slides his hands into hers; pulls back and leverages her off the bed.
She’s not close enough and he moves, one arm wrapping her waist, pulling her tight. His free hand palms her skull; he buries his fingers in the soft silk of her hair as he kisses her, open-mouthed, wet and deep.
Strong, slender fingers find their way under his shirt and trace the trail of his spine. Suddenly he’s on fire, heat and want igniting deep inside and he needs her like his heart needs to beat; needs to feel her skin to skin against him.
She breaks the kiss and pulls back. When he tries to follow, her hands hard on his shoulders stop him. Smokey eyes, dark and wide with desire lock on his as she rucks his shirt up and over his head.
He shivers and leans in, buries his face in her hair, breathing hard against the soft curve of her neck as her fingers feather over his shoulders, along his collar bones, down his bare chest to work his belt and zipper.
Her breath is a whisper against his skin as her fingers trace the hollows of his hips, slide jeans and boxers over slim hips to pool at his feet. He steps out of them and a quick flick of his foot sends them flying as he buries his hands in her hair and kisses her deeply.
He moans into her mouth as his hands glide down her back, work her shirt up and off. Her lips are swollen and glistening in the low light as she stands before him, pale and perfect, still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
His hands slide around her waist; fingers skimming up the soft, satin curve of her spine to unhook her bra, slide it off, drop it to the floor.
Her lips find his and her hands glide up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair as he retraces his way back down her spine, fingers trailing along her waist to make quick work of fasteners.
She breaks the kiss, pulls back, breathing harshly. “Shower?”
He growls deep in his throat, low and fierce and thick with need. “Bed.”
A quick tug sends her pants over the flare of her hips. Heavy lidded eyes lock on hers as he leans in; cradles her head and kisses her hard, driving his tongue deep.
She steps out of them as his arms wrap her, hold her tight. He follows her down as she sinks onto the mattress.
A shudder runs through him and he growls again, low and fierce as she breaks the kiss. His entire body thrums with need beneath her palms as she runs them up and over his chest, fingertips feathering their way back down.
His hands on her shoulders take her down to the mattress, glide down her body to bring her legs up and over as she rolls to her side.
He crawls in behind her, fingers curling in the cascade of black silk spilling over his hand as he fuses them belly to back, shoulder to hip.
“John.” Her voice is low and smooth and slides right through him.
“It’s ok, baby.”
His free hand presses the soft satin skin over her heart; he feels the strong, steady beat against his palm as his tongue traces a trail along her elegant neck. He breathes her in; tastes sea and salt on her skin as her head rolls and she presses closer to him.
His hand glides along the lush curve of her body, hooks her leg up and over his. “We’ll make it work.”
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Award!
TGIF! It seems like forever since I’ve put up a post that wasn’t a response to a challenge. I’ll probably talk about the intensity of the Nine Muses Challenge at some point in the near future, and I have some other things I made sticky notes in my head to talk about, but for now it’s award time.
This award was given to me by the lovely and much more interesting than me Nicole over at One Significant Moment at a Time. And that means that I have to tell you seven interesting things about myself.
1. I was going to be an archaeologist. Really. I have a BA and an MA in Anthropology and Geography. After getting married and starting to have kids, I realized I wouldn’t be digging for months on end far from home. So I went back to school for my M.Ed so that I could teach. In the years that it took to get my degree and for the kids to get old enough for school, I used to tell people I was the most educated unemployed person they knew.
2. I have been married for twenty-six years and have four children, one of whom was born at home on the family room couch after the hospital sent me home. The paramedics who helped deliver her didn’t have a thermal blanket with them, so they wrapped the baby up in tin foil for the ride back to the hospital to protect her from the January cold. Needless to say, my doctor was not amused.
3. When I was seventeen, I had enough credits to graduate from high school, so I basically skipped my senior year and spent my time learning to fly a single-engine, fixed-wing, four-seat Cessna.
4. I’m a great cook. I love Food Network and Iron Chef and Good Eats and Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. I’ve tried a lot of their recipes and I secretly want to take Guy’s book and my car and road-trip across America visiting each one Guy’s places.
5. I have a friend that is really the other half of my brain. We might live 2000 miles and three time zones apart, but we can still finish each other’s sentences.
6. I love Edgar Allen Poe but I think Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird might be my favorite novel of all time. Followed by Fahrenheit 451, The Handmaid’s Tale, The Blind Assassin, The Road, and Call of the Wild.
7. I think chocolate is a food group.
Now I get to pass this award on to some other deserving souls. So I’m giving it to:
Amy over at She Writes
Anne over at Piedmont Writer
Wendy aka quillfeather
Friday, February 5, 2010
TGIF
It’s Friday of another long, brutal week. And once again my brain is fried. But I’ve been thinking about voice and POV, and so I leave you with 915 words of an experiment in second person.
------------------------------
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 goes 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. You’ll follow her anywhere, beside her all the way. You won’t be left behind.
But there are ghosts here. Her. You. Your unborn child who lingers in the walls, whispers in the silence and the shadows, echoes in your heartbeat.
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, untossed balls, 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.
It was more.
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 leathers over her hips to pool on the floor at her feet.
You take her hands again and 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 won’t waste another second of time apart from her.
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. Different shades of grey.
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 it 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 it 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 goes 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. You’ll follow her anywhere, beside her all the way. You won’t be left behind.
But there are ghosts here. Her. You. Your unborn child who lingers in the walls, whispers in the silence and the shadows, echoes in your heartbeat.
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, untossed balls, 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.
It was more.
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 leathers over her hips to pool on the floor at her feet.
You take her hands again and 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 won’t waste another second of time apart from her.
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. Different shades of grey.
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 it 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 it because she trusts you fully.
Happiness.
You whisper a kiss into her hair and close your eyes.
Friday, January 29, 2010
TGIF
Once again, another Friday. The end of another long, brutal week. My brain is fried and I cannot seem to form coherent thoughts. I must be getting old.
Anyway, every once in a while I write for a challenge, and this is what resulted from one of the last ones I did.
111 words of dialogue only. :)
***************************
“This is your fault.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Fine. It’s not your fault.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Not nearly as hard as this.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Well, what? This was your idea.”
“My idea?
“Forced Family Fun. Or don’t you remember saying Come on babe, the kids will love it?"
“Yeah, well…”
Well, what?”
“On second thought, that was really a bad idea.”
“Not nearly as bad as your last one.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Need I remind you there’s a video?”
“Nope.”
“Or that said video has been tucked away for safekeeping?”
“But we are still stealing it, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are. Right after this.”
Anyway, every once in a while I write for a challenge, and this is what resulted from one of the last ones I did.
111 words of dialogue only. :)
***************************
“This is your fault.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Fine. It’s not your fault.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Not nearly as hard as this.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Well, what? This was your idea.”
“My idea?
“Forced Family Fun. Or don’t you remember saying Come on babe, the kids will love it?"
“Yeah, well…”
Well, what?”
“On second thought, that was really a bad idea.”
“Not nearly as bad as your last one.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Need I remind you there’s a video?”
“Nope.”
“Or that said video has been tucked away for safekeeping?”
“But we are still stealing it, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are. Right after this.”
Friday, January 15, 2010
TGIF
The conversation about story and storytelling continues unabated over at the Literary Lab and an incredible converation it is. Go on over and check it out.
For me, I keep coming back to honesty and respect in my storytelling. When all is said and done, when I've pared down my words, when I've found my theme, when the dialogue and action are sharp and clean, in the end is it honest? Not happy, but true to the story and the characters?
Because there is nothing worse for writer or reader to invest heavily and in the end to feel cheated.
Anyway, when all is said and done, right now I'm ready for the weekend. So I'll leave with a snippet of something else.
But before I get to that, Sara is having a contest for reaching one hundred followers. Go check that out.
----------------------
The working girls are working. Sharp eyes and bodies in colorful dresses cut low and tight cruise the crowd.
Garish faces plastic and painted with gilt-edged smiles whisper words promising pleasures carnal and venal to keep the fear and the cold and the lonely away.
She smells the desperation on them; knows the tricks of the trade. It’s just like old times, watching this dance.
She leans forward, arms crossed and resting on the table, runs her eyes around the room as the barmaid buzzes the table dropping off drinks.
She thinks they might have been pretty once, back in their other lives.
She settles back in her seat, knocks back another swallow.
She doesn’t remember when she started to feel so old, so empty and hollow, but she remembers pretty.
She misses it.
A young-old girl with fire-red hair piled high on her head slides into the dealer’s lap, fuck-me-red lips whispering in his ear.
She leans back, tilts her head, watching him through her lashes; sees hard, hungry eyes, a mean mouth; cheap clothes.
All this time and she still finds it hard to believe that someone with that much money in that many hidden places still has such a taste for the gutter.
She thinks this time she’s got a better hand.
For me, I keep coming back to honesty and respect in my storytelling. When all is said and done, when I've pared down my words, when I've found my theme, when the dialogue and action are sharp and clean, in the end is it honest? Not happy, but true to the story and the characters?
Because there is nothing worse for writer or reader to invest heavily and in the end to feel cheated.
Anyway, when all is said and done, right now I'm ready for the weekend. So I'll leave with a snippet of something else.
But before I get to that, Sara is having a contest for reaching one hundred followers. Go check that out.
----------------------
The working girls are working. Sharp eyes and bodies in colorful dresses cut low and tight cruise the crowd.
Garish faces plastic and painted with gilt-edged smiles whisper words promising pleasures carnal and venal to keep the fear and the cold and the lonely away.
She smells the desperation on them; knows the tricks of the trade. It’s just like old times, watching this dance.
She leans forward, arms crossed and resting on the table, runs her eyes around the room as the barmaid buzzes the table dropping off drinks.
She thinks they might have been pretty once, back in their other lives.
She settles back in her seat, knocks back another swallow.
She doesn’t remember when she started to feel so old, so empty and hollow, but she remembers pretty.
She misses it.
A young-old girl with fire-red hair piled high on her head slides into the dealer’s lap, fuck-me-red lips whispering in his ear.
She leans back, tilts her head, watching him through her lashes; sees hard, hungry eyes, a mean mouth; cheap clothes.
All this time and she still finds it hard to believe that someone with that much money in that many hidden places still has such a taste for the gutter.
She thinks this time she’s got a better hand.
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