Write ... Edit ... Publish ~ SPECTACULAR SETTINGS

Lake Louise.

It's back! I'm happy to be participating in the WEP Challenge once again. Thank you to Denise Covey & Yolanda Renee for starting this baby up again!

Today's theme is Spectacular Settings, and while I could have drawn inspiration from where I live, by spectacular oceans and a mighty river, I tend to be more inspired by what I can never have. Sniffle. That's why I'm going to talk a bit about snow. ;)

The photo above was taken at Lake Louise, Canada, in 2009. Lake Louise was the coldest place I've ever been to, so cold it hurt to breathe. But I love snow, and cold weather. Easy for me to say since I never have to deal with any actual snow in my daily life. But it's still true - I love snow. One might say I'm a little obsessed.

Maybe that's why the song "Falling Snow" by Agalloch first caught my attention! It's one of the most mesmerising songs I've ever heard. The lyrics are beautiful to me, though to others they may seem rather bleak and dark. I don't know what it is about metal, but to me, it's often romantic. This song is no exception. And so I thought I'd share the lyrics, though I don't expect everyone to "get" my obsession with it / them. But here they are anyway:

The water pours its embracing arms 'round the stone.

Decay drips from the unquiet void.

Where the ice forms. Where life ends.

The stone is by the crimson blood, swallowed.

The red tide beyond the ebon wound, contorted.

My sacrifice bids farewell in this river of memory:

A wave to end all time.

Red birds escape from my wounds,

And return as falling snow,

To sweep the landscape a wind haunted

Wings without bodies.

The snow, the bitter snowfall.

You long to die in her pale arms, crystalline

To become an ode to silence

In the soul of a mountain of birds, fallen.

The cascading pallor 

Of ghostless feather.

The snow has fallen

And raised this white mountain

On which you will die

And fade away in silence.

Those last four lines are the ones that get me every time! 

Thanks for visiting. :)

Write ... Edit ... Publish ~ GHOST STORY

First off, HAPPY HALLOWEEN! I hope you all a fun day. And I hope the world is kind to all the beautiful black kitties out there.

Secondly, it's time for the WEP, which I missed last month. WEP is hosted by my awesome fellow Aussie, Denise Covey. This month's theme is, fittingly for the time of year, "Ghost Story".

My story is actually from a novel I never ended up finishing, despite working on it across 2 years of NaNo (2004 and 2005, I believe). It's technically part of a greater epic fantasy work, but is currently a little bit disconnected from the "whole". Anyway, this is the scene as it stands after a few revisions done today. MS Word tells me it's 523 words long.

Somana stared at the ghost. She knew what it must see as it looked back at her—a face haggard and sagging, red-rimmed eyes with heavy shadows underneath. No doubt it also saw a withered, worn-out body, all planes, angles and shadows.

That was how Somana felt. Desiccated.

Soft orange-red light flickered all around, filtering through the ghost, playing tricks. The ghost stood silent, its power unspoken, undefinable…inescapable. It held Somana in its thrall, a trembling prisoner barely able to draw breath.

This had been one of the bad nights—the ones that always seemed to age Somana so dramatically. And it was far from over yet.

“Why are you here?” Somana’s voice shook. “You torment me!”

The ghost did not need her accusation. It knew.

It knew all her names: Zeille. Ereta. Joenne. Somana. It even knew the name she’d gone by as a child, a name all but forgotten now even by its owner. Best forgotten. Perish the thought of anyone speaking it aloud nowadays—such an act would surely seal Somana’s doom.

In her mind, she saw the ghost’s mouth open; saw the word, the name, slip out.

Her heart seized, stuttered. Her lungs constricted, and she was convinced they would explode at any moment.

Her life hung in the balance. Cradled in a ghost’s hands.

Empty bottles lay scattered about the room—at the foot of Somana’s chair, on every windowsill, and peeking out from beneath the thick, velvet curtains. Those glass receptacles glimmered in the firelight, mesmerising representations of the depths to which their owner had sunk. Usually a visitor wouldn’t see them, for no visitors came on bad nights like these. But the ghost saw them always, and drew them out.

Somana hated this ghost. She also loved and grieved, as she had done across all these bereaved years. The sickly feeling swelled in her breast, sweeping through her entire being, threatening to obliterate her the way endless bottles of elixir could never do. Why are you being so cruel? she wanted to ask, but her mouth no longer worked. And besides, she would never ask that question. Never could. The ghost was not being cruel on purpose. It was only fulfilling its purpose.

But she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of life this was. Could she really go on this way forever?

Her limbs had grown stiff to the point of cramping. She sweated, twitched, grimaced, whimpered, but did not move from her seat, huddled as she was against the great cushions. Sometimes she leaned forward, and always her eyes remained fixed on the spectre of her fascination. She wanted to run and hide, but she also wanted to spring forward and enfold the apparition in her embrace.

A motherly embrace...

The sun crept above the horizon but the light inside Somana’s room never changed. Only when the ghost departed would the shadows relinquish their hold on her. For now, the ghost held sway, and gained some measure of vindication. No comfort. Never that. No one could ever feel comfort here.

But when vindication was all there was to gain, it would have to do.

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 ~ PICTURE x 1k wrds (Jul.)

It's time for an other WEP challenge post.

The WEP is hosted by Denise Covey over at L'Aussie Writing, and it's a fun challenge to participate in once per month.

Here are the details for this month:

FLASH FICTION, POETRY, NON-FICTION, ARTWORK, PHOTOGRAPHY...
TIME TO SIGN UP FOR THE JULY WEP CHALLENGE...OPEN TO ALL...PLEASE JOIN US.

1. SUBMIT your name to the Inlinkz list below NOW if you wish to participate, or direct link on the due date - July 23 - 25.
2. CREATE your entry for the monthly theme - July - A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words - 1,000 word limit. 
3. EDIT your entry until it sparkles, then PUBLISH.
4. POST your entry on your blog on the dates shown - state feedback preferences.
5. READ other entries, giving feedback as requested

I'm going to share a photo which amuses me every time I see it:

My mum took this photo of me when I was moving out of my first ever home away from home, into my first ever share house away from home.

I lived in a triplex, and the guy you see out the door lived at the other end. There was a lady with a straying eye (one eye) that lived in the middle unit. Anyway, this picture sums up my time in this place - going about my business, and with my nosy neighbour always hovering nearby, watching all the happenings.

My mum got really annoyed by this guy as whenever she popped over to see me, he was there watching. ;)

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) 

Write ... Edit ... Publish ~ THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD (Mar.)

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:

What comes to mind for the March WEP challenge - Through the eyes of a child? Rewriting a passage from a child's POV? A montage of images through the eyes of a child? A poignant or exhilarating poem? A non-fiction piece told from a child's POV? The possibilities are limitless! 

I thought about this briefly, and came up with the idea to share some diary entries I wrote when I was in primary school:

January 1 - 1/01/1991

The first day of 1991 We are going to Lake Leschenaultia. Annie is comeing.

January 13 - 13/01/1991

Today Annie goes home Bye Annie

January 23 - 23/01/1991

We are going to kings park Today to do bike riding, it is free.

January 24 - 24/01/1991

Today we are going to rottnest We're getting gloucouse lollies to take there

March 31 - 31/03/1991

Today is Easter Sunday. I'll get lots of EASTer eggs

May 29 - 29/01/1991

Sure, the turtles are only half human, but I don't know what makes me like them.....

LEONARDO

He seems sensible and witty. He does take things seriously, although he does often long for a hang out with a pretty gal. I really admire him.

Mike.

He's a fat pig. But he's real good. angry

DON Don is never angry. I like him.

Raph. Raph stores the most radical JOKES.

May 30 - 30/05/1991

I KNOW A SECRET, ESTELLE HATES THE TURTY'S That's Dumb

May 31 - 31/05/1991

OLIVIA'S Birthday I KNOW ANOTHER SECRET, ESY'S FAVOROUT COULOR IS GREEN some people are strange ? MEANIG meaning Estelle

June 10 - 20/06/1991

Today is 2 days before Jakes birth day

July 10 - 10/07/1991

Today is Jesse's birth day. he is 10

July 25 - 25/07/1991

Today is my birthday. I am 11 years old.

July 26 - 26/07/1991

Mum, I saw anelec-trec train go by. and Mum, I thought, I could take you for a ride. Oh oh yeah Mum, I saw, an eletrec train go by. and mum, yeah, with a flash of mind my brillient mind. I saw on the time table ooooooh the price of the tickets, woh ho yeah, It s said on a ticket, lieing on the groud ground, enjoy the joyride, your body is bound.

August 1 - 1/08/1991

Today we are goin' to Dwellingup with Carlos and Olivia and it will be fun. We are nearly there now. I can see little roads in the hills and the lambs are just sitting. We can see Caliminos and chestnuts. It is great here because I got a bunk and I'm on the top! James can't have his way! We are goin' to the river soon and I have green bathers.

My favourite has always been the last one, with the "little lambs just sitting". But there are more I haven't got around to transcribing yet. Most of the time it was just boring stuff like "Today is Jesse's birthday, he is 10", or "Today we are going to King's Park." :P

I also wanted to link back to a post I put up back in Feb 2012, for the Origins blogfest. In this post I shared a bunch of primary school art, and sometimes stories I'd written that were accompanied by art. So that post can be found HERE.

Write ... Edit ... Publish ~ NEW BEGINNINGS (Jan.)

It's time yet again for WEP, the monthly hop hosted by Denise at L'Aussie writing. You can check out January's blog list here. And now here is a bit of info about this month's theme:

It's time for the sign-up for our first challenge of 2014 - NEW BEGINNINGS. Whatever comes to mind that expresses NEW BEGINNINGS - you may want to share a true story, a fictional story, post photos that typify NEW BEGINNINGS...whatever you want, it's your choice!

So, with that out of the way, I thought I'd just put up a little list of new beginnings I'm anticipating experiencing this year (and I must admit that I haven't really done much editing of this list, but now that I've written it I'm going to publish it here on my blog):

• I will begin to be completely student loan free sometime around the middle of this year!
• I will begin a new travelling phase when I order a new passport at some point, since both of mine have long since expired (I have a British and Australian passport)
• I will begin to very much enjoy my built-in bookshelves at home - once they've been built in, anyway
• I will begin yoga again, at some point this year
• I will begin to drink from a brand new bottle of Bailey's, at some point (I haven't had my beloved Bailey's in quite a while now)
• I will begin a new life wherein I no longer have the Brothers' Grimm fairytales on my GoodReads "currently reading" list, and,
• I will begin to read Ursula le Guin's Earthsea series at long last!

I think that will do for now.

P.S. Achieved my first goal from my list - rewriting LOST, MISSING, GONE. Neeeext!

P.P.S. Just finished reading Mina Lobo's THAT FATAL KISS, and loved it.

Write ... Edit ... Publish (Dec. ed. ~ TRADITIONS)

Today is December 18th, and therefore it's time to post for this month's WEP - the last for 2013! I have really enjoyed participating in Denise Covey's monthly blogfest this year, and look forward to continuing next year. Thanks so much Denise for being such a great hostess!

This month the theme is TRADITIONS, so I thought I'd share some of my Christmas traditions, or just things that tend to happen in my life around each end of year.

First off, the place where I get my morning coffee each weekday on the way to work gives their regular customers a little treat in thanks for their loyal custom!

This year's gift was deeelish! (I ate it earlier today)

Sometime before Christmas, I tend to catch up with two of my friends in particular and we do whatever. A few years back, we went into Freo for a wander around, a hot chocolate, and probably a movie (my memory's foggy, but here are some pics from that night):

Christmas decorations in Fremantle.

I love how they deck out this beautiful big tree.

Anything that sparkles gets my attention!

This was alcoholic.

(This year we are having a Bon Jovi sleepover because we missed out on concert tickets - the gals are coming to my place for a slumber party & that also counts as our Christmas do)

Also before Christmas, the institution I work for puts on a rather decadent Christmas bash, where the bubbles are flowing, the beer is chilled on ice, and the food is sumptuous.

And the department I work in organises a Christmas lunch at one of the many beautiful places to eat in downtown Freo. This year we went to Tabella, which I already knew was awesome. We also do a Secret Santa thing, but nobody has to participate.

On Christmas Day, my mum's side of the family has some "set in stone" traditions, though these days our numbers are fairly depleted (everyone's either moved to Melbourne or to Canada!!). Anyway, our tradition is to go to Cottesloe Beach in the morning for bubbles, smoked salmon & cream cheese bagels, fruit skewers, and of course, a swim!

Sparkly!

A typical Christmas day in Perth.

Cottesloe Beach.

Then we go back to somebody's place to eat more food and drink more bubbles:

I do like me some bubbles!

I love taking pics of glasses full of bubbly - what's up with that?

In recent years I have generally also done something with my dad's side of the family (cousins who moved here from New Zealand, and their extended family/friends), generally at my cousin Olivia's place:

They have a pool, and always show us a good time!

Aaaand last year, because my mum was working away (she has a drive in, drive out job down south/east right next to a gold mine), I went down south/east on Boxing Day to visit her:

Gold Mine Road.

So there you go. You got a taste of some of the traditions that mark the coming-up-to-Christmas time period for me.

Write ... Edit ... Publish (Nov. ed. ~ SHARING)

It's that time again, when a bunch of us get together to participate in Denise Covey's full-of-awesome monthly blogfest, Write ... Edit ... Publish. This month's theme, as the image above suggests, is "SHARING", and here are some of the suggested themes:

SUGGESTIONS:

• tell us about your writing in November

• write a flash fiction piece with SHARING as a theme - maybe an Adam and Eve story?

• post some pictures to suit the theme (raid Pinterest!)

• share something memoir-ish about your travels, experiences, your life

• write a poem that encapsulates SHARING in some way

• other...?

For me it was pretty easy to choose what to write about this month - NaNoWriMo!

You know, I can't tell you all how happy I am that NaNo has become so immense since the days of its humble inception. Sometimes, great ideas flare for a while, and then burn out. Maybe the great minds that come up with these ideas work so hard and get worn out, with nobody there to take up the slack and keep their great idea alive. Thankfully that didn't happen with NaNo, and I can't see it happening anytime soon. NaNo is basically an institution now!

I've participated since 2002, failing twice and participating "unofficially" one year. Most of my 11 novels have been NaNo-born. And I guess that's a good enough reason for me to love NaNo!

In truth, I seem to do my best work during months like November, when I'm given permission to just write like a nutter. And by "best" I don't mean "really great writing", just that I get a lot of work done. Of course, it never feels like work, per se. It's more like freedom from work, actually. NaNo is my time to slack off from what I probably should be doing (revision, editing, etc.) and do something for the pure exhilarating fun of it. So this month, I haven't been doing hard work at all. I've been having a supreme amount of fun.

During November so far, I've written 83,305 words (and a tiny bit more as of tonight, which I haven't counted up yet. Too busy writing up this post!). I've loved pretty much every second of it.

(I usually forget to share the linky list of all

the participants, but I didn't this time! Here it is)

Write ... Edit ... Publish ~ HAUNTED for Halloween!

Hey everyone! It's that time again, when we post for Denise Covey's Write ... Edit ... Publish monthly blog hop. This month's WEP is a little different though, as Denise explains:

Welcome to creepy Halloween! There are many blogfests vying for attention. I am combining the Write...Edit...Publish blogfest with Francine Howarth's Trick or Treat Blogfest where you either give or receive free books. (In comments, say if you want your name to go into a hat to win a free book - say TREAT!)

Those who participate in the WEP blogfest will be competing for a $10 Amazon Gift card from yours truly (for the entry that catches my , and Francine is donating a free e-book to a participant.

So, with all that said, here's my post (all 970 words) for October's hop.

Watched

In the days immediately after Brian Walters drowned, his wife Jeanna existed in a strange sort of limbo. She could neither believe the accident had really happened nor say definitively that it hadn’t. She had seen it with her own eyes—him standing up at the wrong angle, teetering for one endless moment, and finally sailing overboard. She’d seen it, yes, but she found it hard to trust her own mind. 

After the news broke, friends and family flooded in around her, opening their arms and hearts and, unfortunately, their mouths as well. “She won’t talk about it,” and “The poor woman,” and “Such a tragedy!” were all the things she heard and wished she hadn’t. She craved peace and quiet—mostly, the quiet—but with a missing husband who was an important member of the community, she had certain obligations to meet. 

Organising the funeral and the wake were the first on a long list. 

So Jeanna called in favours, she used her very best business voice and she made all the necessary arrangements. She pulled it all together at a dizzying speed, and finally the day arrived when she would say goodbye.

* 

The service passed quickly but lasted a lifetime. As Jeanna stepped out into the harsh, sweltering air of mid-February, she felt more sapped of energy than she ever had in her life before. Faces swam all around, turning their sympathy on her, and voices pecked at her from every angle. She was quite convinced they drew blood. 

Her focus narrowed and the sounds faded away. She drew a breath that echoed, climbed into the backseat of the limousine, and slammed the door behind her, shutting out the chaos of a world that never stopped shaking.

* 

Up on a miraculously verdant slope, with the hot air of a full-blown summer’s day leaching life from everything, Brian Walters’ coffin sank into the ground. It didn’t have him in it, but it was still his. A wide-eyed Jeanna watched it go down, and when it finally came to rest her lips moved in a silent farewell. 

But she didn’t feel that she was really saying goodbye. Because he wasn’t in there. All they were burying was a wooden box, with nothing but mementos inside. And hours later, when the last of the dirt had been flung back in, sealing the deal once and for all, Jeanna still didn’t believe he was really gone.

* 

Time passed, and Jeanna felt warm and watched over. She never really felt widowed, though she missed Brian’s ridiculous laugh, his dancing green eyes, his reassuring presence. She never really felt alone, and she couldn’t explain it. But while people kept a close eye on her, always expecting her to finally have the breakdown they all presumed was simply delayed, she managed to get through each day without shedding a single tear. 

It didn’t really seem strange to her until the second year was halfway through, and she realised she didn’t so much feel watched over anymore as she felt watched.

* 

Over the months, the ‘watched’ feeling persisted. When at home, Jeanna took to drawing all the blinds and keeping all the curtains closed. It didn’t make her feel better. No matter what she did, the surveilled feeling remained. 

Was Brian here in ghost-form, haunting her? She’d never really believed in any of that, but the watched feeling was making her think twice. 

One night, she got the feeling so strongly that she spoke aloud without meaning to: “Brian? Are you there?” She waited, but got no response. “If you’re there … please tell me.” 

What she really meant was, Please leave me alone. 

She was ready to move on, and wished he would let her.

* 

She worked with a man called Jake Reynolds, who was interested in her. He’d asked her out a few times, but each time she’d declined. He respected her boundaries, but also assured her with a gentle smile that he wouldn’t give up until she told him to. 

She hadn’t told him to yet. 

Nor had she told him she was being stalked by her dead husband. 

When she saw him at work next, he hinted once more that they should make a dinner date. As usual, she said no, but this time it was more a knee-jerk reaction than the old reluctance. So she quickly added more words to the mix. “But ask me again and I’ll say yes.” 

“When should I ask?” he wanted to know. 

She hesitated. “When you think the time is right.” 

H asked her out a week later, and she said yes.

* 

Their date went beautifully and Jeanna spent almost the entirety of it forgetting all about her dead, ghostly husband. At the end of the night the truth came rushing back in a dismaying wave as Jake walked her to her front door, his arm linked with hers. 

“I had a wonderful night,” he said softly as they came to a halt in front of her doormat.

Something fluttered in her chest as she gazed up at him, admiring his chiselled jaw and bright blue eyes. 

“So did I,” she whispered, and on a whim decided to kiss him. Just as she was stretching up on tip-toes, the front door to her house opened and Brian’s voice sounded out, loud and clear.

“I didn’t expect you to give up so soon.” 

She turned to the doorway, fear seizing her throat, and realised he wasn’t dead at all. That man was very much alive, and wearing a seriously grave expression. 

“Who’s this?” Jake murmured from beside her, his arm tightening on hers, but Jeanna barely heard him, because her attention was all on the thing Brian held in his hands. 

It was a shiny, metallic thing.

It was a gun.

© 2013, Trisha Farnan.