Write ... Edit ... Publish ~ TAKING CHANCES (Aug.)

My excerpt for today's WEP challenge post is 695 words, according to an online word counter. It's an excerpt from my novel NAUSICAA, which I have edited and whittled down, but which naturally I'm still nowhere near happy with. But it's the best I can do for now! Critique is welcome.

They sat at the edge of a dry riverbed, gazing out across the sandy expanse to the plains beyond. Overhead, the weak morning sun hung in a washed out blue sky, bathing them in its pale light.

A breeze rustling through fallen leaves was all the sound that broke the silence.

Nausicaa studied the bent trees far out on the plain, sticking up through hardened soil. They reminded her of herself and the other rebels--scorched, wizened, and stripped of all leaves, but not yet quite broken.

They had spent the night out here, since manor rules prevented them from sharing a room, and neither had wanted to be alone. It was a beautiful night, with a fat, full moon illuminating the landscape. It had reminded Nausicaa of the artful backdrop in a video game she and her friends had played in high school. Gazing at it, she had fallen into a reverie about her past life, and for the first time in a long time, she had actually enjoyed reminiscing, instead of fixating on the present.

Their night had passed in silence, a meditative vigil before the dawn. But now that the sun had risen, the urge to speak overwhelmed her.

Studying the distant mountains, she said, “Part of me wants to run. Just run all the way to the horizon."

Jonathan nodded his understanding.

“But another part knows… I'd have to keep on running. Forever. And never look back."

He watched her for a moment, saying nothing. Then he sighed and murmured, “We cannot run from this, can we?"

"No."

In truth, they both knew that they would be running--backwards, not forwards. Their job in Persas was not done. The city still needed them to make one last stand. And that stand would be their last.

Jonathan folded his hands. “Where will we aim first?”

She answered, though he already knew the answer well enough. “We need to aim for the heart. We need…” She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. “We need to kill them once and for all. Forget all the incidentals…all the limbs, so to speak. Cut off the head.”

“No easy task, that,” he said. But he didn’t argue. “You and I alone…I’m not sure how far we’d get.” To her surprise, he sounded bleakly amused. She smiled and rested a hand on his arm.

“We would have help,” she said. “We will call upon the Artemis.”

“What?”

“Not what. Who. Anna Vander. The Artemis, we called her. Did I ever tell you I saw her?”

“Yes, you did,” he said. “In the prisons, wasn't it?”

“Yes. She was like…like an apparition. But she spoke to me.” Shame filled Nausicaa, as it had done back then when she'd first heard the legend's warning. “Stay back…it isn’t safe,” the Artemis had said, as if even she knew that Nausicaa couldn’t take care of herself.

But no, it hadn’t been that. It was more that the Artemis was accustomed to being legendary, and so naturally thought more highly of her own ability than of anyone else's. She had started young, while Nausicaa had spent her formative years confined indoors, never gaining experience on outside missions. There were fathoms between them in terms of experience. Still, it had stung to hear her own insecurities echoed back at her from such a mythic figure.

“She is formidable,” Jonathan said. “But an excellent choice in ally.”

“And perhaps…” Nausicaa lowered her gaze. “…Perhaps Actaeon will show up?”

“I have no doubt that he will,” Jonathan said. “If he is able.”

She didn't want to think about if he was not.

What about Ganza? she mused. Will they be fighting? And if so…on which side? She sensed everything coming to a head, Persas’s fate waiting to be decided once and for all. And she felt a rush of exhilaration, a desperation to see it happen quickly. She had had enough of her city being held captive.

It must be set free.

“When do we leave?” Jonathan asked, another unnecessary question.

“On the next train,” she answered, speaking words that would become famous in time.

With those four words, Nausicaa sealed the fate of Persas.

Write ... Edit ... Publish ~ ROMANCE (June)

It's that time of the month again when we participants in the WEP get together and share our thoughts on the monthly theme, set by Denise Covey. This month's theme is simply ROMANCE.

This time I'm sharing an excerpt from my novel SUNDOWN. As I mentioned last time, I'm happy to receive feedback. I know for sure that I tend to be one of those wordy writers, and I definitely welcome constructive criticism.

We move to the door and I turn to face him, realising with a jolt that he’s stepped really close. He towers over me with less than half a metre between us. He’s all darkness and shadow and on his face is a look of weariness so heavy it’s almost despair. I stare at him fixedly, unable to tear my gaze away.

“What?” he says, staring right back at me.

“You just…you look really tired.”

A slight twitch indicates something that was almost a smile. “Yeah. I am.”

“I hope you get a good sleep.”

“This is normal,” he says as if I haven’t spoken, gesturing to himself. “I mean, I’m always tired. I don’t get much sleep most nights.”

My face heats up at the thought of Jared Pearson trying to sleep. In bed. Or on couches, as the case may be. I’d really love to ask him about that—Why the couch? I bet there’s an awesome bed in the other room—but I’m too busy feeling for him. Sympathy, sadness, a fervent hope that tonight he sleeps soundly.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asks, his voice strangely husky. “Isn’t that meant to be rude or something?”

“God, I’m sorry. I’m going.”

And I’m just about to turn away when he steps fluidly toward me, reaches out his hands and takes mine. As he pulls me to him, excitement spikes inside me, and my purse drops to the floor. The closer he gets, the harder it is for me to breathe.

His hands trail upward, finding my face and framing it. He tilts it up toward him, his touch like fire on my skin. It draws a sharp, almost painful breath from me. My mouth falls open and I melt into him. He buries a hand in my hair, making my scalp tingle, gripping with his fingertips. The action sends sparks of pleasure all through me. His other hand trails down to rest against my neck, brushing my collarbone. I shiver almost violently and tilt my head back further.

Then he kisses me.

It starts out soft, a tentative brushing of his lips against mine. His mouth is warm, and then the kiss deepens and his mouth is hot. I’m still melting, but now I’m this hot puddle and I’m pretty sure he’s the one holding me upright. I lean against him and feel his heat, his hardness. My mouth opens further to let him in and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing but his hands are on my face and in my hair and his body is pressed against mine and it’s so warm and I can’t think any coherent thought anyway, so why bother trying?

His tongue flicks against mine and I twitch and make this weird soft sound. I try to remember being kissed like this ever. Steven is a good kisser, but this? Orestes was good, too, I remember. But even he wasn’t this.

Nobody’s ever been this.

I’m melded against him and my hands start to rise, they rest on his shoulders and squeeze. He pulls me even closer and I wonder if I’m feeling my own limbs or his. My hands trail down over his solid arms, drinking in his delicious warmth. It occurs to me that this is only the beginning; that there’s so much further to go.

With that thought, I wrap my arms around him, resting my palms against his back. I press hard to pull him closer into me.

~585 words

Write ... Edit ... Publish ~ FAILURE (May)

It's that time of the month again when we participants in the WEP get together and share our thoughts on the monthly theme, set by Denise Covey. This month's theme is as follows:

TIME to sign up for the May challenge - FAILURE...or is it?
Write your stories, poems or get your artwork or photos ready!
You can link up immediately or with your direct link afer you post on your blog.
Edit your work. Word limit of 1,000 words for stories, poems or photo essays.
Publish on your blog between May 21 - 24. Leave a message at WEP when you do.

For my post this month I am sharing a little excerpt from DAPHNE II, which I have just edited - though I haven't edited the rest of the story in a fair while now. Feel free to give me any feedback. :) I'm happy to receive critique of the harshest order as long as you aren't unconstructively mean about it.

I cross Hackett Drive on foot and pick out a shady patch of grass under a Moreton Bay fig tree. I settle on the grass facing the river, and manage a smile, even as my nose wrinkles.

While Matilda Bay is a beautiful spot, currently it smells a bit like dead jellyfish.

I turn my thoughts to all the good things I can identify about this moment: the gentle breeze washing over me, the rustle of wind through leaves, the acceptable distance between me and the nearest traffic.

Slowly I draw breath, imagining my lungs expanding and my ribcage stretching around them. The stress is a fist in my sternum but I'm determined to rid myself of it. I try to focus on the good things--the small miracles that grace my reality. I'm fortunate to be here, to be able to attend such a beautiful campus. I'm definitely privileged. But right now those good things are being quickly overwhelmed by other aspects of my existence that I usually refuse to think about at all.

I'm in completely over my head here.

I need to think about the stresses, because to deny them is to delay the inevitable devastating freak-out. So I breathe slow and steady, close my eyes, and let little cracks begin to form in my defences. Reality seeps in, though I'm controlling the amount of flow, and suddenly I'm letting myself consider what it is that truly terrifies me.

What the hell would I do if I failed? What if I bombed all my assignments and screwed up all my exams and failed this entire semester? What would all those snobby friends of my mother's have to say then?

And what will I do with my Arts degree? I didn't care about that question at all until people started hassling me about it, and not just my mother's snobby socialite acquaintances either. My own friends do it, too. Even Daniel never got it.

Nathan does, I realise in surprise. He's in the boat with me. He's doing a useless degree just like I am. But I can't see him failing at anything. Whatever his long-term plans, he strikes me as the ambitious type. He's independent and strong-minded. I could totally imagine him going places, even if he doesn't go the traditional route.

In short, when I look at that guy I see one hell of a bright future. I just wish I could see the same thing for myself.

(411 words - according to wordcounter.net) 

Ten Years Later ... Blogfest

Today is the 10 Years Later ... blogfest, hosted by Angeline Trevena and Laura E. Brown. I think this is a very groovy idea for a 'fest indeed. If only there were more participants, I think it could be even groovier. But never fear, folks, there is still time to sign up! Click here to find the linky. And check out the details of the 'fest:

Have you ever read or written a book that's had you so intrigued, so immersed, that you're left wondering what happened to the characters after the story ends? The Ten Years Later... Blogfest gives your characters the chance to return, the chance to tell their story ten years after you stopped writing it. 

Choose one of your characters from one of your stories, and imagine them ten years after the story ends. Give them a voice a decade later. 

You can write your post in any format you like - a journal entry, a newspaper article, a piece of flash fiction, an interview, or even an obituary. 

And the character I've chosen for my post is Nausicaa, a.k.a. Natasha. Here is what Natasha has to say ten years after she helped to overthrow a brutal, corrupt government:

Sometimes it's hard to believe I'm still alive. Not just because I came so close to dying numerous times before the liberation, but because for the last ten years I really haven't known what the hell to do with myself. People have found me things to do, of course. They tell me I'm useful, definitely much more than a waste of space. But I know the truth, which is that this life can never be as meaningful as the one I led before.

In those days I was fighting against a corrupt regime. I was sneaking through shadows, slipping through cracks. I was saving lives. Nowadays, I stand on a street corner handing out fliers and giving people directions. I deliver lunch orders in the business district, and even manage one company's incoming post. Not really as useful as helping to take down a brutal, tyrannical government, is it?

Ten years ago when I first returned to this city, I walked the streets and slowly came to realise that I was supposed to feel free. Kyam's regime had fallen, the prisons had been emptied, and there was no longer any reason to be afraid. I was supposed to feel free.

I still don't. And I'm still afraid. Kyam's gone, his cronies too, but his legacy remains, a permanent blight we can't ever scrub clean. Scarier than all that, though, is that I don't feel at home in this reality. I feel like I belong back there, in the time when all my friends were alive and we were still fighting.

Naturally I don't tell anyone this, 'cause they think I'm crazy enough as it is. But it's how I feel, and I can't see it changing.

Anyway, I've got to go - the lunch orders are almost ready.

Write ... Edit ... Publish (edited with my Holiday "story")

Today we kick off the very first Write ... Edit ... Publish monthly bloghop, and my post appeared too early. So early, in fact, that I hadn't even written it yet! I've edited now and here is my post for the bloghop. For the record, I usually hate to schedule stuff on the off chance something like this will happen, but this month I had sooo much on that I thought it was the only way of remembering to post everything. Clearly, though, it's better to forget stuff than schedule if you're not able to stay on top of even that. ;) Anyway, here is the info about this bloghop:

FLASH FICTION, POETRY, NON-FICTION, PLAYSCRIPTS, ARTWORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY...

1. SUBMIT your name to the Inlinkz list below NOW if you wish to participate
2. CREATE your entry according to the monthly theme - August = VACATION. More infohere
3. EDIT your entry until it sparkles
4. POST your entry on your blog/facebook on the dates shown - remember to state feedback preferences (full critique to general comments) and whether your work is copyrighted - ©
5. READ other entries, giving feedback as requested

Open to all genres - Fiction works can be - Adult, YA, MG. All entries maximum 1,000 words or thereabouts.

For feedback I am happy to just get general thoughts or really nitpicky ones - whatever you want to give and whatever comes into your mind as you read. My work is not copyrighted except that it is to me, if you know what I mean? But yeah, it's not a published work elsewhere. And with that out of the way, here is my submission, which measures at 780 words (and, sadly, it's not yet sparkling. But I'll continue to work on editing it):

I arrive on Vatulele Island on a private jet, and am transferred immediately to a sleek car that takes off from outside the airport with a soft hum. As we drive along Vatulele’s east coast, I keep my face plastered to the window. The beach is all blinding white sand and bright azure sea, and while we’ve definitely got gorgeous beaches back home, this is something else.

It must be pretty amazing if it can distract me from this sleep deprivation. And from Jared, for that matter.

After only eight minutes on the road, we cut inland, moving into vibrant green jungle. I’m as mesmerised by what I’m seeing here as I was by the pristine water and searing sand. But still the only thing I want to see is Jared.

Seven more minutes pass before the car slows to a stop. I step out onto firmly packed earth and find myself in the middle of the jungle. Except when I turn around, there’s a white plaster archway and a narrow pathway beyond it, winding upward to places unknown. I feel like some princess on the outskirts of a fantasy world. I should probably pinch myself just to make sure I’m really here. But my hands are kind of full with a purse and camera.

My driver ushers me up the walkway, and I move steadily upward, shaded by surrounding jungle. I reach a turn in the path where going right gives a glimpse of a bright turquoise pool glittering in wait below. Turning left takes me up some stairs to a doorway leading into the most amazing-looking villa I’ve ever seen.

I try not to run as I head up the stairs and inside, where white walls are decorated by ancient artefacts and other beautiful artworks. As I turn right, I’m quickly blinded by sunlight streaming in from tall, rectangular windows. Everything glows. I stand there awestruck, wondering how little working class me can possibly fit into this world.

I step forward, hungry for more.

The living area is an artwork in and of itself. I just want to perch on one of those bright white couches and take a moment to drink in every little detail. Underfoot I see red and white flower petals spelling out a word of greeting: BULA. I break into a smile and find that it’s soon stuck in place. I can’t dislodge it, and it’s starting to hurt my face.

I dump my purse and camera on the coffee table in between two couches, then walk to the left where a door leads to a balcony overlooking the lagoon. My eyeballs are seared by the blinding blue of ocean and sky, the bedazzling white of the sand even at this distance, and the light refracting off the white building I’m standing in.

Then a voice sounds behind me, and my heart stutters in my chest.

“Hi,” is all he says. Turning to face him, I see him smiling at me, a pair of sunglasses hiding his eyes. I regard him in mounting awe and suddenly feel all shy, even though we’re not nearly strangers anymore. We’ve learned a lot about each other in a short amount of time, this man and I.

“Hey,” I breathe, moving toward him feeling unsure of myself. But my smile is still firmly in place.

It’s not going anywhere.

“You like the place?” he asks, gesturing around him.

I stare at him like he’s grown two heads. “Like it?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s beautiful. Enough to bring a tear to a girl’s eye…”

I trail off and shake my head, truly lost for words to describe it. Because I am a princess and this is my fairytale.

And he is my prince.

“It’s pretty cool, huh? I like the privacy. It’s…”

“Secluded,” I say with a smile. “Yeah, I can see the appeal for you.”

He moves toward me, gesturing towards a little table bearing a chiller full of ice and a glistening bottle. “You want champagne?”

“That…would be awesome. But there’s something else I need first.”

He pushes his sunglasses up and I see his eyes at last—they’re a colour far more searing than any ocean. They’re currently alive with a mixture of delight and passion. Something that’s missing, I realise, is nerves. I’m the only one who’s nervous here. But seeing him so comfortable helps to calm me down.

“If it’s in my power to do, I’ll do it,” he says.

“Oh, it’s in your power.”

He laughs. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”

“Kiss me.”

He pulls me closer, draws me into his arms. “Your wish is my command.”

The Overcoming Adversity bloghop

Today is the first day of Nick Wilford's Overcoming Adversity Blog Hop, which aims to raise money for a very worthy cause. Check out Nick's blog for more details. Meanwhile, here is my little flash fiction piece about a gal who is determined to overcome any adversary (even Death) to achieve her end goal! According to Scrivener it's 489 words long.

Meri stares at the ceiling a lot. It helps distract her from the pain. The healer tends to her, but there are others much more badly wounded and the healer has set his priorities straight. It helps that she’s given up fighting him. He trusts her to stay put. 

She’s counting on it. 

Time passes and the fussing lessens. Soon enough it’ll cease completely, and Meri will be left to her much-needed rest. 

Seconds tick away and she grits her teeth. 

~*~*~ 

Cries echo down the hall—they’re admitting a new group of wounded. Meri draws a deep breath, folds the sheet back and slides gingerly off the bed. She pads to the door and peeks out. All clear. Back in the room she closes her eyes, expands her focus and summons the magic. 

It floods her, swelling each strand of pain to a glowing hot red. It fills her with a new strength. 

It hums and blossoms outward, covering everything. 

Meri’s eyes snap open. She creates a portal and steps through it. 

She enters chaos.

Cheers, Cavanaugh! (and my blogiversary contest winners)

Wahooo, it's AlexFest time!! AlexFest is hosted by Mark Koopmans, Morgan Shamy, David Powers King and Stephen Tremp. It lasts from December 10-12, and is going to be SO much fun.

This 'fest requires that we answer 4 questions. My answers are below:

In +/- 20 words, what does Alex look like?
I imagine him with some really cool shades and a slicked-back hairdo, since ya know, he's a bit of a rock star around the blogosphere. ;)

In +/- 20 words, who could play Alex in a documentary? (Living or dead.)
For some reason the first name that popped into my head was Joss Whedon. haha

In +/- 20 words, who does Alex remind you of?
He reminds me of Alex J. Cavanaugh, this legendary blogger dude I heard about once...!

In +/- 100 words, (excluding the title) write flash fiction using all these prompts:

The ninja melted shadow-like into Cavanaugh's Bar and Restaurant, seeking the fiend who had stolen the greatest of treasures from him. He flicked his eyes around the room and quickly spotted his quarry. Moving more languidly than any cat, he made his way over to Mr Jon Cosbolt's table and spoke these dramatic words:

"Hhhhhello. My name is Alex. You kill my guitar. Prepare to die!"

Mr Jon Cosbolt was almost ready to laugh at what he took for a joke when the ninja launched his attack, moving faster than lightning in a blur of deadly hands and feet.

The last word uttered by the heinous destroyer of stringed instruments, Mr. Jon Cosbolt, was an involuntary "IWSG!" and then it was all over. In the wake of his vengeance, the ninja slid away into the night, never to be seen in that part of town again.

And that's my contribution! ;) Happy 'fest day Alex!!

---

Back on December 2-3, I hosted my very first blogfest in honour of my 2-year blogiversary. I want to say a huge THANKS to everyone who participated! It was so much fun seeing you as babies/toddlers, and/or hearing stories from your younger days. But I'm here today to announce the winners of the giveaway I hosted also on December 2. To remind you, the prizes were:

1. 1st prize - a book from my selection, or one of your own choice, from Book Depository (value = $10)
2. 2nd prize - any eBook(s) written by our author friends who commented on the post (value = $5)
3. 3rd prize - an ebook of your choice (value = $3).

So, without further ado, here are the winners, randomly picked by an internet number generator:

1. 1st prize - Judie
2. 2nd prize - C. Lee McKenzie
3. 3rd prize - Jeff Hargett

Congrats to all the winners!! Please contact me via email (you can find my email in the "Find Me" part of my side bar) with your choices of book and details (including a postal address if you want a Christmas card!).

The Game of 7s [a meme]

Years and years ago (okay, back in April) I got tagged by Dangerous Dan with the Game of 7s meme. I saved the link to his post in draft form and am only now getting around to getting this thing done. What can I say? I like to let things stew a good while. ;) Anyway, these are the rules as stated on Dan's blog way back then:

The Rules:

1. Go to page 77 of your current MS/WIP.
2. Go to line 7.
3. Copy down the next 7 lines – sentences or paragraphs – and post them as they’re written. No cheating.
4. Tag 7 authors.
5. Let them know.

My lines are from the rough draft of the novel I just rewrote, which I am now planning to rewrite again...yay! But here are the lines as they stand currently:

My nose wrinkles but I take the cup, knowing beggars can’t be choosers. I sip from it and crunch on an ice cube. And all the while I think about what he just said: I don’t drink. So it’s true, then. But why?

I shove the question aside, focusing on the present. “Thanks.”

Thrilling stuff, I'm sure. And just so you know, I did cheat, by fixing a typo. ;) I don't apologise though. And now I shall finish this thing off by tagging some lucky, lucky people who get to either ignore this or share some of their own lines, depending on their energy levels at the moment of tagging. I tag:

• Chris K (Kelworth Files)
• Kyra Lennon
• Brooke R. Busse
• Susan Fields
• Danette Baltzer
• Madeline Jane
• Laura (Daily Dodo)

Hookers & Hangers pt.2 (the Hangin' part)

It's time for part 2 of the Hookers & Hangers Blogfest, hosted by the ladies at Falling For Fiction. Today we're sharing hangers (last lines of chapters)! I don't think I've ever before paid this much attention to my ending lines (or even my beginning ones). First lines are crucial - this lesson has certainly been driven home. But studying these lines out of context, all on their lonesome, has given me a new perspective.

The aim of any last line is, of course, to keep the reader hangin' on for dear life. To make them hungry for more. I'm not sure that my hangers below do that, but I guess that's up to the reader!

I've chosen last lines from chapters of DANNA, as I did with my first lines, but not necessarily from the same chapters. Here they are:

1. That way lies danger. And that’s the way I’m going.
2. Disturbed, I turn back to the window and press my face against it, dying for fresh air and open spaces.
3. For the first time in over a year, I wish my mother would haunt me.
4. Now that’s one hell of a daydream.
5. I think she was onto something and it got her killed.
6. More fun times I have certainly known.
7. Losing balance, falling, and vomiting up everything I ever ate.
8. Then he’s gone, and I’m alone with my shitty thoughts.

Now, I'm going to get around to reading some more people's last lines in just a bit (as well as the first lines I haven't yet checked out), but first I want to say something totally unrelated to the rest of this post. If I were a robot (see image below), maybe I would have had more of a chance of figuring out what's in that first image. Even when I opened the image in a new window, I saw no extra detail. See why I get annoyed with captchas?

Hookers & Hangers Blogfest (sounds rude doesn't it?)

I'm fashionably late for this, as I forgot it started yesterday...ha. Silly me. Anyway, I guess this way I'm more 'in tune' with my northern hemisphere pals, for many of whom it may still be the 16th of July...only just! Anyway, this is such a cool idea for a blogfest. Here is what it's all about:

We all know how important those first and last lines are in every chapter. This blogfest will hopefully get your HOOKERS and HANGERS polished making it impossible for readers to put down your book and leaving them begging for more! 

On July 16th, post the first sentence from each chapter. 

On July 18th, post the last sentence from each chapter. 

Post as many as you like!  

We will be judging everyone’s first three HOOKERS and first three HANGERS. We'll each pick two winners (MOST ENTICING HOOKER and MOST IMPOSSIBLE HANGER) making a total of ten winners! Winners will receive a 10 page (double spaced) critique and a Friday Spotlight on FFF! - Hope Roberson

So, here are my hookers...errr...yeah, you know what I mean (these are from my rough draft of DANNA, one of the novels I started last year for NaNo):

1. Eyes to the front.
2. First she faints, drawing all that attention to herself.
3. Dreaming of Mack Wilson is not a good sign.
4. “Your girlfriend is stalking me.”
5. Once he’s done lying to Melinda, and I’m done caring about what he sent to her—did he tell her I’m crap in bed?—we settle into two chairs facing each other over one of the small classroom desks.
6. I don’t need a capture chamber this time.
7. The marshy air fills my lungs like rising damp.
8. It happens at night, when the world is so quiet I can hear every thought whirling in my head.

Is It Getting Hot In Here? blog hop - Valentine's Day!

It's Valentine's Day, and time to steam it up a bit for the Is It Getting Hot In Here? blog hop, hosted by Hope Roberson and Cassie Mae at Reading, Writing and Lovin' It. I'm sharing an excerpt with you of what I think is one of my steamier kissing scenes. In actual fact, this scene ends in romantic disaster for my characters, but I'm leaving that stuff off so as not to spoil the fun! I hope you enjoy the excerpt!

          His voice had turned soft, and as if his words had their own magic, everything was suddenly different. His smile faded, and his eyes shone with a new intensity. My breath caught with a familiar panic--the panic of knowing I might soon be washed away. I inhaled raggedly, preparing to change the subject, to turn away. Instead I stepped toward him, reaching out.
          What are you doing?! Are you insane? an inner voice yelled. And maybe I was, because I kept reaching...
          He was easy to reach, half seated as he was on the table. He was still taller, but I didn’t have to crane my neck quite so far to meet his eyes. God, those eyes... They made my head swim. I felt both hot and cold at once; my skin prickled. That warning voice kept screaming in my head, but everything else drowned it out.
          I felt his heat right before my fingertips touched down, touched his jaw, brushed upwards and back. Fire on fire. I shivered.
          Then, flash. I froze, a wave of icy coldness washing over me. I couldn’t move--not even to let him go. There was new gleam in his eyes—panic. You bloody idiot. Get away from him! I stayed frozen.
          Was that his heart I could hear beating staccato, or my own?
          In my mind the scene played out: me springing on him, smashing my mouth against his. But I couldn’t move. I stood there, hands on him, under a spell.
          Then the spell broke. “Oh shit,” I whispered, withdrawing my hands. No heat now, only cold. I withdrew my hands but then he gripped them, and a single word rushed out of him:
          “Don’t.”
          I wanted to ask him, Don’t what? but instead I shifted, drawing my face to his. I knew he was close because I could feel the sparks. Was I breathing? Was he? I couldn’t tell. My head moved a fraction, and I was sure that our mouths must now be touching. But only as my head tilted forward further did I know for sure. My lips brushed his, dragging me into the electrical storm between us.

Day 8

I shall not fail in the posting every day-ing-ness! That's why I'm here with my eyeballs about to fall out of my head with tiredness! Just for fun, I thought I would share a relatively short extract from my NaNo work so far. It's unpolished, it's a rough draft...it's NaNo. I know I don't need to explain to any of you! But with all the above in mind, here it is:

My mouth has fallen open.

“Careful, don’t wanna catch flies,” Mack tells me as he settles in the seat diagonally opposite me.

“You.”

“Me.”

“Melinda’s meat.”

He’s still wearing his sunglasses, so I can’t see the look in his eyes. I can imagine it, though. Especially with the sudden furrow I see appear on his brow. It smoothes quickly and I see his eyebrows quirk upward. I get the distinct impression he just rolled his eyes.

“That her name?” he asks idly.

We stare at each other, or at least I stare at him. I can’t tell what he’s staring at. “You do know the sun’s gone down, right?”

“Cheers for the tip.”

That’s all he says before turning to stare out the window on his side. I watch him a moment more, dying to comment on the baseball cap. Then I resume my own survey of the urban countryside.

My word count is 28,276. Tonight I didn't get much done, probably 1500 words? I suck at maths, but basically if you took last night's word count away from this night's, you'd get the difference. And on that note, I need to go and sleep or something terrible may happen (I might fall asleep while typing, for e.g.).

Hope you are all great!! And thanks for all the blog visits!!

P.S. New Chrysalis prompt today...new story must be written. Oh gawd!

Once An Imago

Once An Imago

The clock strikes twelve and Annie trips on the third step, embarking on the tumble to her near-death. Tommy's Grandmother hands him a carefully-wrapped present; her hands are shaking and the box slips through Tommy's fingers; everyone watches its descent. Lauren pauses in the act of reaching for her hand mirror as the doorbell rings. Rowan shakes his head, which is full of thoughts about how gorgeous Sandra looks tonight, and how he can't believe he ever thought Denise Rowland was hotter.

The cripple emerges from the condemned building, beginning his morning shuffle downtown. He wafts in a miasma of decay, an excellent example of what not to become. He's a survivor who foolishly refused to let the war kill him when he had the chance. The promise of what might have been haunts him every moment of every day, a giant lacuna lurking in his shadow. He passes people on the street and imagines the way his tale would make them oscitate. Their faces would turn bright red as they realised their bodies had betrayed how little they cared. He reflects on where he came from, and where he's ended up.

He thinks, Synchronicity.

---

I was tempted to let this post stand on its own, without any 'non-fiction' addition. That way it would truly be a 200-word post. But I just have to explain that this post is counting not only as my 2nd Campaigner Challenge entry but also as my first post for NaBloWriMo, which I am insane enough to have signed up for at sort of the last minute.

I also have to say that during October, and therefore NaBloWriMo, I am going to be reporting on how my transferral of paper edit notes to my Scrivener file for SUNDOWN goes - because yes, today I finally finished the paper edit!!! So now it's time to get that all into digital format. In time for November to start. Yes, friends, I've got a month to get this off my to-do list so I can relax for the rest of the year (and by 'relax' I of course mean write 2 novels in November, then spend the rest of the year scrambling to get my other 2011 goals finished). For the record, my word count before beginning to transfer edits is 101,459. I want it to be more like 95k by the time I'm done.

First Campaigner Challenge!

Yes, I surely am! And it's time for the First Campaigner Challenge. Dude, sometimes it's not easy saying 'campaign' instead of 'crusade', but I'm doing my best to get used to it! Anyway, the challenge involves the following: Write a short story/flash fiction story in 200 words or less, excluding the title. It can be in any format, including a poem. Begin the story with the words, “The door swung open” These four words will be included in the word count.

If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional), use the same beginning words and end with the words: "the door swung shut." (also included in the word count)

For those who want an even greater challenge, make your story 200 words EXACTLY!

Now, before anyone leaps upon my post accusing me of being a liar, my story is precisely 200 words...in Scrivener. I don't know what it is in your word processor, but I have no doubt at all it's either over or under 200 words. But I SWEAR to you that Scrivener tells me 200. So, without further ado, here's my little ditty, all glorious 200 words (and by glorious I mean forced and unpolished and all that stuff, yeah):

---

The door swung open and Elsie staggered through, crystal glass flying from her hand. Bennett's heart stuttered then swelled. Elsie hit the ground seconds before her glass. The crystal came apart as if in slow motion, glittering shards spraying out. Mother and father care more about the family crystal than they do a human life, he thought. But now wasn't the time for bitterness.

It was time for Elsie.

She was all he cared about. And she was here, alive. With him.

"Elsie! Oh God, I thought— I thought they'd…"

Bennett trailed off, staring at her still form. She hadn't stirred since landing, and she lay so still. Too still. Fighting back fear, he sank to his knees beside her and reached out a hand, scared but compelled to touch her. "Elsie?" He gripped her shoulder and shook her, first lightly, then harder. "Elsie?"

Then he saw the dark tide of crimson pooling beneath her, and he knew. They'd got to her after all.

"Oh, how sweet," came his mother's voice behind him. "You two, together at the end." He looked up into her haggard, bitter face, and knew it really was the end. Behind them, the door swung shut.

Blogfest, I hate you!

First off, I love the name of this blogfest, which is being hosted by Tessa Conte. Secondly, I love the concept of it (and what does that say about me, exactly?). But I better stop lovin', 'cause today we're talkin' about hate!

These are the requirements of Tessa's blogfest:

1. Sign up by the end of August 12th
2. On August 12th, post a story, an excerpt of your work or a poem you've written that shows HATE of some form or another - your character hates someone, someone hates your character, or maybe you hate someone/something?
3. Once you've posted, go check out the other entries and share some comment love!
4. Don't forget to link back to my blog when you post so people can find the other entries

For my excerpt I've decided to share some of SQUEAKY, and this is from Claw's point of view. I adore my evil villain cat! (and yes, I am a cat lady and a lover of cats all around) I also want to add that this is a draft...

     Far up in Feline Heights, Claw reclined on a couch. It wasn’t just any couch - its covering was made up of tiny mouse skins, and in fact it’d been passed down through the generations of Claw’s family for the last two hundred and eighty years. That was, of course, in cat years. Claw didn’t have very much information about where his family name stemmed from - except, of course, that they had all descended from the Egyptian sphinxes originally. But every cat claimed that these days, even the dirty-blooded ones who had no right, no right at all!
     Claw hated. He hated a lot, in fact he hated all day and every day. But he laughed, too. He laughed at the foolishness he witnessed day in and day out. He laughed at the fact that so many remained ignorant of what he knew.
     He laughed, because he could.

Lovin' the Language Blogfest

Yep, time for another Blogfest!! This time Jolene Perry at Been Writing? is hosting, and here's what she says about the blogfest's requirements:

"Pick any five lines or any five SHORT excerpts from one of your WIPs. If you're feeling shy, and don't want to share from your own work, share from something you LOVE." - Jolene Perry

So for my excerpt I decided to go with one of my BuNoWriMo projects (I've been working on a fair few...). This one is tentatively titled JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE, and I opted to choose 5 short excerpts from it, as per the rules above.

So here are my excerpts:

1.
     The banshee rushes at me in a blur of movement, almost too fast to see. I duck out of the way in time, but only barely. Her shrieking is incredible, a sound to threaten the eardrums and set the teeth on edge. No...not teeth. I don't want to think about teeth.

2.
     In the warehouse, we eat shitty beans and mouldy bread for dinner. Not all that appetising, but hey, it's food. There is no meat—couldn't find one single supplier this week that had anything to offer that wasn't rancid. There's not much conversation, either. Everyone's feeling solemn this evening.

3.
     Gwen doesn't look at me, and I don't look at her. Nobody is looking anywhere but straight ahead. Raids are a pretty common occurrence, but things have changed a lot since the early days. In the early days, we were curious, careless. Reckless. We've learned our lessons since then.

4.
     "You…don't touch," the banshee says, and I realise she's talking to me. Her glowing eyes are darting between me and Lazar, and I know what she means. I'm not to try and tackle her to the ground, attempt to rescue him in any way. As if I could tackle her on my own.

5.
     "So," Lazar mutters, after my laughter has petered out and I've been silent a few long moments. "You know you're fired, right, Mason?"
     I sigh loudly, then nod. "Yep. Kind of figured…"
     We sit in silence for a time, and then Lazar speaks again. "And…anything you want to tell me?"
     I look at him, and see him tugging at his own shirt, indicating himself.
     "Oh. Yes. You're fired too, Sir."

And now it's time to read everyone else's! Thanks Jolene for a great Blogfest idea! :)

The Power of Tension blogfest

It's time for the Power of Tension Blogfest, and here's what's required:

"Give us an excerpt (up to 300 words) from your manuscript or recently completed work (or just a random scene) that just drips with tension and will tie us up in knots wanting to know more. It doesn’t matter what the piece is about, as long as it screams tension." - Rachel Morgan & Cally Jackson

I'm going to share an excerpt from one of my Chrysalis stories. I'm sorry to say it's 12 words over the 300-word limit. I snipped what I could but I think I left the essentials. I could be wrong of course. :D Feedback is of course welcome!

The story was originally in past tense, but I switched this excerpt to present because I felt that would increase the "immediacy". I think I caught all the "need to switch that from past to present" moments.

Anyway, here goes:

I make it to the corner store with minutes to spare.

Rushing down the kitchen and bathroom aisle, I dart around the corner and see the storeroom door. Suppressing a yell of triumph and relief, I fly at the door and rattle the handle—it turns. I fall on it, push, slip inside. My breaths are harsh in my ears, but at least they’re still coming.

Time, time, so little time.

I begin to whimper as I lock myself in and throw my dusty backpack on the grimy white tiles. Sometimes I can’t help making those sounds. It’s been so long since I spoke to another human being. Talking to myself is a substitute. And when the words won’t come I just make sounds.

Human sounds, I think.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember.

Silent tears make tracks through the dust on my face as I kneel and rummage through my pack. Compulsively I check my stopwatch and nearly cry out.

Less than a minute to go.

The syringe is in my hand, but I can’t find the scarf. I curse and dig deeper, fingers scrabbling. Where the hell IS it?

I look around in mounting desperation, and see a bungee cord. I don’t even stop to wonder what that might have been used for originally. I snatch it up and wrap it around my arm, breath tearing in and out of my throat. My veins pop out under my skin, and I quickly fill the syringe with sleep syrup. Then I stick myself.

When it’s over and a tiny speck of blood is all the sign that I’ve made it in time, I pack away my materials and lean back against the door, eyes closed. Tears continue to bubble over, making my eyes sting even more. But I’ve made it in time. I’m sure I have.

Reality fades, and I play dead.

Inanimation Blogfest

Today is the Inanimation Blogfest, hosted by The Red Angel in celebration of her 100 followers (now 118 :D). The guidelines are as follows:

The idea is to write an entry of NO MORE THAN 1000 words that somehow incorporates the personification of inanimate objects. It can be a poem, a short short, a letter (perhaps to your favorite childhood toy?), a fairytale, a scene from a dream, or even a song--anything you want! It can be something you've written in the past or it could be totally brand new...it's all up to you! - The Red Angel

I decided to post an excerpt from a Chrysalis story I wrote wayyyy back when. I have posted another excerpt from this in the past, which can be found here. There was another Chrysalis story I could've posted which was actually about inanimate objects, but it was too difficult to choose an excerpt, as it was one 1000+ word piece that flowed quickly from start to finish.

So here's my entry for the Blogfest:

By far, the house's worst feature is the painting.

It hangs on the living room wall, opposite the room's gaping entrance. A grotesque face stares out of it. Twisted and leering, it is a face out of nightmare. It has yellow-white teeth, haphazardly placed between mottled, cracked lips. Those teeth dominate the scene.

Then there are the eyes. Cold, flat eyes that used to follow me all around the living room. They usually followed me out of that room, too. Floated in the air behind me as I headed for the kitchen. In childhood, they'd tracked me as I left by the front door for school each morning. Followed me as I crossed the lawn and stepped onto the footpath. I'd always had to round the nearest corner before the 'watched' feeling finally left me.

I've long believed in ghosts. Returning to that house each day after school, my belief gradually cemented itself. I shouldn't give the house all the credit, I guess. I could blame my little sister. Or my parents with their haunted eyes. But really, I hold the painting responsible.

Today is a bad day. Today is a worse day than I've had in a long time. Because I've got to go back into that house. And I know that painting's still there, waiting on the wall.

I've got to pack up the house.

But what to do with that blasted painting?

Maybe I'll burn it.