tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87006885297683482582024-03-13T12:52:06.732-06:00My Life In Writing“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” ~WalterWellesley “Red” SmithDianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-83478536642373407592016-08-27T12:16:00.000-06:002016-08-27T12:16:12.381-06:00Short Story: Playing Chicken<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mama folded her silky things and stuffed
them into her largest suitcase. She didn't pay me any mind as I stood near her
bedroom door, too anxious to ask questions. My stomach tied itself in knots at
the site of her mismatched set of luggage she'd placed on the bed, open and
ready for filling. I bit my lip, knowing what it meant, and tried to steady my
insecurities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">After she walked into her bathroom, I peered
into each suitcase, wondering if this time she'd saved room for me. My hands carefully
sifted through the piles of clothes and shoes, but not even the smallest part
of me remained. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She hurried out of the bathroom, her arms
cradling a blow dryer, curling iron, and a giant can of aerosol hairspray. "Go
get your bag." Her head jerked toward the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My heart leapt with desperate joy, and I
couldn't help but smile. "Where are we going?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You're going to Nan's for a while."
She didn't bother looking at me as she crushed my short-lived happiness with a
few measly words. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I wanted to throw myself onto the ground
and scream for her to take me with her, but too much experience and
disappointment sent my feet racing down the hall and into my room. I collapsed
onto my bed and scooped up Clementine, the stuffed elephant my father had given
me during our one and only visit three years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I hate her," I whispered into
Clementine's large floppy ear, but she already knew that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Fifteen minutes." Mama poked
her head into my room. She pulled her brassy blonde hair back into a ponytail,
doing her best to smooth out the tangled mess. "Damn it, Kellie. You
haven't even started." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I stared up at the ceiling above my bed
and pretended she wasn't looming over me. Fifteen minutes before the landlord
came, most likely. Chasing evictions. Burning bridges. Story of Mama's life. Her
life would never mirror mine. I was going to make something of myself, and I
wouldn't rely on my tits to get me there, well, when I grew tits anyway. Some
eleven-year-olds at Jefferson Elementary already had them, but I was still as
flat as flat could be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Fifteen minutes," she said
again, but with crisp insistence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Fine." I grumbled and sat
upright. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My validation was apparently enough. She
hurried out of my room, leaving me to pack what little I had. I crammed a
sport's duffle with the clothes that fit me best, Clementine, my journal, a
Rubix Cube, and my memory box. The box was filled with things Mama had saved
from when I was a baby: newborn cap, hospital tags, rattle, scrap of cloth,
photos, and ceramic cast of my fist. I found it in the garbage two apartments
ago. Maybe it was a mistake that she'd thrown it out. Maybe it wasn't. I didn't
focus on the reason why she discarded it; I was just happy to know it existed
at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I kept my head held high as I carried my
things to our rusted out piece of crap Oldsmobile Cutlass. No matter what, I
wasn't going to let her know I cared what she did—at least when she could see
me anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She started the car then glanced in the
rearview mirror and wiped at the black sludge under her eyes. The consequences
of her night out at the bars, probably spending what little rent money she had,
no doubt. "Why are you looking at me like that?" She turned to face
me, her expression filled with mock-hurt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I'm not looking at you. I'm looking
through you," I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"What's that supposed to mean?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I shrugged and stared out the window.
"Nothing. It means nothing." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The ride to my grandma's farm stretched
into an eternity. I wondered where she'd gotten the gas money for the
three-hour trip, especially since the only food I'd had in the last two days was
a couple bologna sandwiches, a toaster waffle, and a can of New Coke. Each
bounce and bump stirred resentment in my empty gut. Resentment for being Hazel
Petty's daughter. Resentment for not speaking my mind. Resentment for calling
9-1-1 the last time she took too many sleeping pills. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Nan bought three new calves. She
said you're big enough to help feed them now. Doesn't that sound like
fun?" Mama wrapped her lips around her cigarette and sucked in the poison as
if her life depended on it, then tossed the butt out the window. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I waved off the smoke, turned my head, and
stared into the vast yellowing fields stretching for miles. When I felt her
hand at the back of my head and to my shoulder, my eyes instantly closed. Why
couldn’t she just love me a little more? Hadn't I been helpful? Quiet? I wasn't
a whiny baby. I was old enough to take care of myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Maybe she'd sensed my disappointment or
simply felt her own stabs of guilt in her selfish heart and thought she'd
better act like a loving mother. She was a horrible judge of character, and she
usually showed no remorse for leaving me, so of course it had to be about her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I'm doing this for us," she
said, eager for sympathy. "It's been hard since Axel left. I can't do this
alone. I need…." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I counted the rolls of hay sprinkled
across the landscape and let her words fade to nothing. Axel wasn't my father.
He was another somebody in a long line of somebodies pretending to be my old
man. He started off okay; they all did. The way to a man's heart was through
his stomach, everyone knew that. But for a single mother, the surest way to a
woman's heart was through her kid. Love the kid and you were in. He spoiled me
with attention and presents for a little while, but he lost interest as soon as
Mama started acting all emotional. He went on his way, like the rest of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When we finally pulled into the long
graveled driveway of Nan's farm, I'd settled into survival mode, and in my
mind, I'd already said my goodbyes. I focused on the barn and out buildings on
Nan's property, plotted new adventures, and remembered the old. Adventures I'd
always taken alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I didn't say a word as my mother kissed
the top of my head and gently tugged on one of my braids. Plus, I knew how my
silence rattled her so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Tell me you love me," she said
in a coaxing way. When I didn't look at her, she forced my chin upward.
"Tell me… you love me." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I stared into her eyes, those beautiful
blue eyes I'd longed to truly see me. "I love you," I said the words,
clear and cold. As long as she had the words to cling to, she didn't seem to
care how I said them. Either that or she was ridiculously stupid. Sometimes, I
wondered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Nan come out of the house and onto the
porch of her doublewide mobile home. I liked to think she hung back purposely
because she was disappointed in her only daughter, but I sure could've used her
support right then. An arm around me to show that I wasn't a burden, that if Mama
didn't want to fight for me, she would. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As I trudged up the wooden steps,
weathered and in disrepair, to my grandmother's home, I stopped. I usually
didn't like to see Mama pull away or feel the finality as she did, but for some
reason, I turned for one more look. In the past, she would've waved and smiled.
This time though, she paused at the end of the drive, her hand tight around the
steering wheel. She stared back at me, her face solemn. I willed her to come
back, to take me with her, but the longer she stared I knew I'd probably never
see her again. As horrible as that assumption was, I had to prepare myself for
something far more challenging—Ernest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When I caught sight of him in his tatty
green recliner, I gripped the handle of my duffle bag a little tighter and held
it in front of me. Nan had married Ernest Klinger when Mama was teenager. He
was cold, aloof, and hid many secrets behind black, horn-rimmed glasses. One
couldn't meet the man without getting a heavy case of the hebbie jebbies. Mama
warned me about Ernest long ago, his moods, his temper; so, I avoided him the
best I could anytime I'd visited before. He'd left me alone for the most part. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You're mom up and left ya again,
huh?" He forcefully folded his newspaper and tossed it on the side table
next to him. He didn't want me there, no big surprise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Leave her alone." Nan scowled and
pulled me in for a hug. "Kellie's welcome any time, ain't that
right?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> "Just
stay out of my room," he grumbled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Nan kept an arm around me as she led me to
her sewing room that also doubled as a small guest room. "Ignore the old
grouch," she said. "You and I are going to have so much fun. Did your
mom tell you about my baby cows?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I nodded and managed a smile, which
quickly faltered as I caught Ernest watching us walk away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">#<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ever since Mama left, I tried my best to
avoid Ernest. I decided I wasn’t scared of the putz or let his words bother me.
I mostly hated the way he looked at me, part judgment and part interest. I
hadn't had much of a father figure in my life, except for Larry, husband number
one who was a bit touchy feely if you know what I mean. Then there was Bill who
got a kick outta playing "let's see how fast it takes you to get me a
beer." John. Kent. Axel. What a bunch of jackasses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">All Mama's relationships failed. After she
sucked them in with what she proclaimed the sexiest ass in town, they'd follow
her anywhere. Once her insecurities
decided to surface they'd bail, leaving her feminine wiles behind, and leaving
me with Ernest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Every night after dinner, he retreated
into his office. The lazy rat didn't work, so I don't know why he needed an
office, or why he locked it. I tried peeking through the windows once, but the
small crack in the curtains didn't do much but tick me off with what I couldn't
see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I'd waited until Nan was out playing
pinochle with her church ladies and Ernest MIA to put my plan into action. Not
that I had a plan, just an unquenchable case of curiosity. I had to know what
was inside that room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">An hour shot by while I tore through the
house looking for a key or something to jimmy the lock, but all that
accomplished was making my insides boil over with more contempt. Damn Ernest.
Damn my mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">With my patience running amuck, I uncoiled
a couple of paperclips and forced one into the lock, twisting just so, then
popped in another one. I didn't know what the heck I was doing, simply motoring
on instinct. Supposedly, my real father mastered the art of the break-in, so it
should've come naturally. I mean, I should get something more than a stubby
nose and a stuffed elephant from the sperm donor, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"What in God's name do you think
you're doing?" Ernest said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Busted. Dang. My hands dropped from the
doorknob and sent the paperclips into the gold shag carpet at my feet. I took
my time standing, no point in running from the firing squad. They'd come soon
enough. I gulped then turned around, feigning as much resolve as I could. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He put his hands on his hips and glared at
me. "Well, answer me. What are you doing?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Nothin'." My facial expression
probably didn't convince him much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He canted his head, wisps of black hair
blowing upward from the breeze of the oscillating fan. I stared at those
bobbing strands, up and down, up and down, while silence filled the space
between us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ernest scratched the graying stubble on
his chin. "You aiming to steal something?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Nope. I thought I heard one the cats
meowing. Like it was trapped or somethin'." Nan had a crapload of cats, so
it wasn't a farfetched idea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Another clump of hair joined the others,
bobbing up and down in some sort of dance. I couldn't help but chuckle a bit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You think this is funny? I bet your
grandma won't think it's funny." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I ain't done nothin'." I folded
my arms and glowered through my furrowed brow. "Like I said, I heard somethin'."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He bent over a bit and leaned in close;
his eyes scoured mine more than they usual, but I didn't budge. He stared at me
so long, I thought I might pass out from holding my breath, but then he stood
upright and looked at me sorta like he was more amused than pissed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He reached into his pocket, pulled out a
key, and waggled it in front of my face. "Why don’t we rescue a cat,
huh?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I shrugged and nodded. "Oh yeah,
great idea. I bet it's Pearly, she's a curious girl." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He twisted the knob and stood to the side,
his arm made a sweeping gesture to welcome me into his sanctuary. I should've
known better, trusted that faint voice telling me to walk away, but I didn't. I
walked right into Neverland willingly, and it didn’t take me long to realize
what a stupid mistake I'd stepped in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Posters of naked women in precarious
positions covered the walls. They were beautiful and gross at the same time. I
couldn’t help but stare, spinning around the room, taking it all in. An old
desk and a twin bed filled the space, which felt cold and lonely and nothing
like a bedroom. For as much time as he spent in this room, it smelled musty and
old. Two things I knew about from bouncing from one place to the next. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"No cat," he said, not that he
believed there was one in the first place, I was sure. He shut the door behind
him. His fingers pinched the lock on the doorknob, pausing for a moment before
sealing my fate. I stood rooted in place, my eyes drifting from the contents of
the room to the lock. He settled into his office chair and reclined back. He
steepled his fingers while a suspicious smile pulled at his thin lips. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Instinctively, I started for the door.
"Well…" My arms swayed back and forth out of nervousness and anticipation.
"I'm just gonna—"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Wanna see something?" his voice
was low, but painted with subtle excitement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Heck no<i>,
</i>I thought<i>.</i> I needed to get the
hell out of there, but then he pulled out a blue fabric binder with a bit of
fraying at the edges from a desk drawer and held it in his lap, tempting my
interest once again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Do ya?" he prodded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I shrugged and inched forward, eyeing the
folder. Once I got within a foot of him, he flipped it open and his face took
on a quality I hadn't seen before nor could fully explain. His stare bore
through me with an intense knowing, while his grin curdled the contents of my
stomach. I forced my eyes from his, but couldn't tear myself from the contents
of the binder. Picture after picture of little boys and girls about my age smiling,
as if they were getting their picture taken for a class photo, burned through
me. Innocence. Trust. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Who are they?" I asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">His grin broadened. "Old friends.
Just like you and I are gonna be old friends." His tongue rolled over his
front teeth. "Isn't that right?" He flipped the pages toward the back
where a new set of photos emerged. Photos of the same children, only now fear drenched
their expressions. Their pleas screamed at me, silent but ever-present. I can't
describe what I saw. I don’t want to. Not to anyone. But let me tell you, it
isn't easy breaking the spirit of children. Whatever he did, he accomplished
just that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He closed the binder, reached into his
drawer, and pulled out a Polaroid camera and a knife. He place them on the
desktop, next to one another as if they were as ordinary as a set of salt and
pepper shakers, rarely seen apart. "I bet you're just like your mother,
ain't ya?" His gaze travelled down my body. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I'm nothing like her." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Why don’t we find out, hmmm?" He
went to stand as I matched his movement with a step backward. He wanted to hurt
me, and I was dumb enough to let myself believe otherwise. <i>Fear Ernest. Fear Ernest. </i>My mama used to pinch my chin and prod it
upward, insistence saturating her voice and settling deep in her eyes.
"Stay away from him," she'd said. "Fear him!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But she left me? She knew who he was and
she left me here. I continued to match his steps backward until I'd bumped into
the door. I searched for the lock behind me. He could've pounced, but he liked
the chase I was certain. The smarmy look on his face proved that. I've never
seen him happier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My head thumped against the door as I
withdrew from his imposition, his smell. I'd never imagined someone so
disgusting could smell so clean. The over powering smell of Ivory soap clung to
me, making me question everything, my thoughts, my fears, the complaints about
my life and those filthy apartments I'd reviled, and of course, my mother:
would she knowingly leave me with a dangerous man? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Maybe this wasn’t what it seemed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ernest reached for his belt and loosened
the clasp. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fear
Ernest. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Anybody home?" Nan bellowed
through the small house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My body slackened at the sound of her
voice—my hopeful freedom. Ernest held up a finger to silence me, not that he
needed to; my words had long since vanished. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Yeah, I'm here," he said with a
calmness as pristine as his scent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Well, get yer ass out here and help
with the groceries, will ya?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He scowled down at me, a look of warning
burned through my soul. We walked out of that little room without saying a
word. He didn’t have to say anything, I knew. As I watched him close the door
and ensure it was locked, I couldn’t help but feel like I'd left something
behind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The moment I was able, I dashed through the
back door and ran for the pasture. I didn't look back. Even when Nana yelled
after me, I kept running. I shimmied through the wood fence and tore through
the fields. Nan had five acres and a lot of junk, which made for endless hiding
spots. I made my way to the rusted ol' bus, climbed inside, and hunkered down
between two rows of seats. Ernest wouldn't come looking for me, at least not
right away. He probably expected me to hide, which would give him time to
wrangle some story to tell Nan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I wasn’t sure what to do. Nan married the
son of a bitch. Didn't she know what a freak he was? Or what he did to my
mother? Those kids? Thoughts twisted in my head, images of Mama and Ernest. I
hated her more than ever. I clenched my arms around my knees, squeezing away
the mental torture ripping through me. Stop feeling sorry for her. Hate her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fear
Ernest. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My heart thumped wildly, so much so I
struggled to breathe. Tears filled my eyes, but I quickly forced them away. I
had no use for them, but no matter how hard I tried to curb them, they crashed
down my hot cheeks and clouded my vision. The loss of sight did nothing to
obscure the images from their relenting pursuit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The day my mother left me burst through the
other crap pummeling my mind. It was front and center—my crux to bear. I played
the moment over and imagined words I'd feared saying but should have. Each
scenario grew bolder, angrier. Pained thoughts spurred me forward, begging me
to act out what I should have long ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Show rage. Show power. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fear
Ernest</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fire lit through me as I bolted off the
bus and straight for the barn. I reached up on a rusted nail and pulled the
hatchet from its cradle. The splintered handle scratched at my palm, but I
didn't mind. The more pain I felt, the more courage brewed within me. Before
stepping from the barn, I closed my eyes, took a breath, and wiped my eyes. No
turning back. No fear. Not anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I walked slowly, one calculating step
after the next though the field and back to the house. The sun dipped into the
horizon, painting the sky in a brilliant red. I stopped to appreciate the view,
the colors. The peace. I didn't know what would happen next, but I trusted my instincts.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ernest.
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I made my way to the house and stopped
near the back door. Nan must've recently scattered chicken feed for her noisy
brood of prized hens moments before. I bent down and picked up Molly, the
fattest of the bunch. I stroked her back, smooth and warm against my palm. As
my hand smoothed over her feathers, I hummed the only real tune I knew. Some
lullaby my mama had sung to me at one time, but the words were as lost as I
was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The chicken clucked and struggled in my
grasp. When I couldn't hold her anymore, I brought her to the chopping block.
Then slowly, to savor the delicacy of the moment, I raised the hatchet into the
air and thrust it down on the chicken's neck. I cocked my head in wonderment,
as the chicken's body didn't simply collapse. It sputtered and moved, its
nerves causing spasms and feigned life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I swept my hand across my shirt, leaving a
bloodied path in its wake. I'd never killed a living thing before—besides an
insect or a spider. Killing Molly relieved something within me. I don't think
words existed to describe how I felt in that moment, except calm. Utter and
complete calm. A tear cascaded down my cheek as I stared at Molly. I brushed it
away and silently thanked her, thinking briefly that the tear should've been
for her. But it was for me—my celebration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Nan called out to me again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I reached down, picked up Molly, and
carried her and the hatchet back into the house, to the kitchen where Nan and
Ernest sat at the table for dinner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Oh my God!" Nan grasped and
stumbled back against kitchen counter as she saw me standing before her in a
blood-covered shirt, carrying the hatched, and her prized hen. "What have
you done?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I glared at Ernest, who looked on with shock
so delicious it triggered my smile. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"What have done?" Nan screamed
again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The pieces of Molly and the bloodied
hatchet fell on Ernest's plate in a glorious thud I'd never forget. Blood
spattered his face and the dancing wisps of hair. I settled onto a chair and
began dishing up meatloaf and potatoes. Nothing further to say. My game of
chicken complete. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-30154156556082282182015-02-16T08:39:00.000-07:002015-02-16T08:39:16.036-07:00Edge of Redemption: Chapter Two Kenna<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter Two<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Kenna <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">No matter how hard I tried, I could never
recreate that day—the day I burned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The heat of the flames licked my face,
encapsulating me with a force I'd grown to savor. Tainted smoke filled my
lungs, but my memories remained locked away as if it happened to someone else
entirely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It always began innocent enough with the deceptive
smell of campfire wafting high in the air and bouncing toward me in a playful
dance, confusing my memories with that of willow sticks and marshmallows, goodness
and life. But I knew better. It was only a precursor. The old barn, abandoned
fifty years before, popped and cracked. Its final battle lost and swallowed by
a kaleidoscope of orange, yellow, and red flames. A cloud of black smoke filled
the sky, but still, no new memories were triggered. No part of me, changed. As
glorious as it was, it was all routine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It was strange to think I'd just set my
fourteenth burn, well, my official burn. The rest of my fires had been
discarded long ago as simply a child's curiosity, but Cal knew the difference.
He knew I was searching, and he wanted to protect me from myself. Maybe that was why he encouraged the burnings
in the first place. I bet he never expected it'd turn into this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Even now as I played the part of showman
and waved at the crowd, I recognized no one. My fans for one day. These
faceless people in a crowd. My teachers. Old friends. My first love. I'd never
gotten used to the spectacle, but simply tolerated their prying eyes. It was
easier being the freak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The people's chants and shouts of
encouragement reeked of selfish intentions. If the billowing stench of molted
flesh hadn't soured my stomach, their false sense of support would have. The
fires eventually always smelled of death and decay. Maybe that was my curse—my one
memory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I heard the chief calling out to me,
warning me to back away, but I chose to ignore him. I'd always pressed it until
the last minute to savor each moment in hopes that the fire would never be in
vain. The skin on my arms and face grew hot, but it was a heat that fueled me. <i>Almost there. A little longer. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Kenna!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Shouts of warning had little effect on me.
I lit fires for Christ's sake, big ones, I wasn't afraid. Besides, if I pushed
just a little longer… Mom? Did I even
call her that? Why did it seem like a foreign word, tasteless and cold? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Kenna. Pull her back. Now!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And just like the thirteen burnings
before, I came up short and retreated to the arms of the men leading me away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A few onlookers remained in the dwindling crowd;
I could see pity in their expressions. I must've been obvious nothing had
changed within me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Next year, Kenna. I can feel
it," someone called out, as if I wasn't more than just a thing to
them—their creation—and an annual plaything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Kenna Doe. God, how I hated who they'd
made me. They might as well called me Brown or Green, something ordinary,
something that anyone or anything could've been. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You okay?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I closed my eyes at the sound of Whit's
voice and leaned into him. The other hands around me gave way, and eventually,
I only felt his touch. I let him lead me, pretending he provided some sort of
comfort, while I searched my brain for anything—even an afterthought of my
former life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Are you okay?" he asked again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It was times like these when I wished I
could still cry, but it seemed with each added burning, my tears dried up
completely. "I'm fine. I just want to go home." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Let's get you some water," he
said quietly. "Do you want to sit?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I nodded and reluctantly opened my eyes. I'd
forgotten all about the amateur preacher who'd requested I speak with him, but
as I looked at him, standing next to me, in his bland short sleeve oxford shirt,
my stomach turned. I wasn't in the mood for talk of God—of the Savior who
allowed my mother to die. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"This is Duncan Cane," Whit said
almost enthusiastically, as if this little prick held some sort of power. Like
a goddamned medicine man come to banish the devil out of me. Been there. Done
that. No thanks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I didn't mean to study him as I did, but
he didn't look like any student of God I'd seen, with his black framed Wayfarer
glasses and trendy hairstyle. He looked like some rich kid who thought a lot
about himself and wanted others to know just how little his shit stunk. No
God-loving, seminary student could possibly be so shallow, even in a bad shirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Sorry, Duncan Cane. I'm not
interested." I turned to Whit. "Take me home."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Whit scratched his head and looked over my
shoulder with a look of apology that made me want to scream. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I didn't always act like such a bitch, but
burnings got the better of me. No matter how much I prepared for the letdown, I
couldn't help the inevitable rage that stirred. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I appreciate your willingness to
talk to me," Duncan said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You know, maybe it isn't a good
time." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Whit sounded nicer than I would've put it.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I wasn't expecting what I saw today
and I'll completely understand if…if—" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"If what?" I whipped around to
face him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He swallowed then stared back at me almost
as if he'd slipped inside my thoughts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I'm sorry," he finally said,
"about your mom." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I couldn't deny the concern in his voice.
I guess I hadn't given those simple words of condolence much thought until then,
when it felt like I'd heard them for the first time, seen it on his face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Thank you," I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Wait. What was I doing? Why did I have to
continue the charade? But the truth was, as I looked back at Duncan my mind
filled with things I hadn't seen before. Plain white shirts with short sleeves.
Flashes of images—of people. Faces drawn and somber just like his. A large cross
behind a pulpit in a little church. Singing. There was singing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I laughed. I wasn't sure what was
happening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Duncan glanced from Whit and back to me. A
stunned expression twisted his boyish face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I couldn't help it. I laughed again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Is everything all right?" Whit
took my hands and peered into my eyes. "Is it the fire? Do you remember
something?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"No. I don't know. Maybe."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Whit and Duncan exchanged glances. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The images continued to flicker. Numbers.
One-five-seven. Two-Three-Eight. I laughed, but the images slowed. Plain white
shirt. Short sleeves. Hands tight around the pulpit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My heart began to pound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Kenna?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
am one of the wretched</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">. The words pierced through my
thoughts. <i>I am one of the wretched</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Kenna, did you hear me?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
am one of the wretched</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">. Plain white shirt. Short sleeves. <i>I am one of the wretched</i>. Plain white
shirt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Kenna!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I jumped, but Whit's loud voice did little
to curb my thoughts and speculation. Insistent. Foreign. Mine. I turned on my
heels and started for my car. I had to get out of there. For the first time in
fourteen burnings, I remembered something. But, it wasn't the fire that fed my
memory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It was Duncan Cane. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-87731243297580842972015-02-07T18:17:00.001-07:002015-02-07T18:17:12.639-07:00Edge of Redemption Chapter One<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><b>Edge of Redemption<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter One<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Duncan<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Born of fire. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">At least that was the tale. Elaborate and
rambling. </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">Far fetched,</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> yet mystical. Or maybe, just maybe, the whole story was
utter bullshit. I tended to believe the latter, but there I stood, waiting for
the show, my camera in hand, my eyes searching the scene. Scratch that. I
should be honest. It wasn't as if I arrived in Redemption by chance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I came to this place, somewhere between
backwards and normal to land Kenna's story. The real one. Minus speculation. Minus
fantasy. The tricky part would be getting her to tell me anything at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It didn't help that I was a journalist,
especially in this town. From what other saps like me reported, folks hadn't
embraced my sort (soul-sucking media hound) or the stories I wished to tell
(the kick ass variety). Didn't you hear the one about the journalist who walked
into a bar? Spend five minutes in a town like this and you would, if there even
was a bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Redemption did have small town appeal set
in a backdrop of rugged mountains sprinkled with the last bit of winter snow.
They stood like looming guardians protecting the town. Old brick buildings,
grandfathers of today's towering giants, lined the main street. Imagine the
stories they could tell—the secrets. I was born an Army brat so I'd been
shuffled all over the world, been to places large and small, but none felt as
timeless as this one or as creepy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"It's a good day for a burning."
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The line bounced around me like an
annoying game of Keep Away. Me, grasping and reaching, desperate to know how
seemingly good people could celebrate the worst moment in a girl's life over
and over like an Independence Day celebration. Complete with cotton candy and
corn on the cob. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Are you Duncan?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I turned toward the deep, authoritative
voice. "Yeah, I'm Duncan." It was only after I said my name that I
actually noticed who was asking. I recognized his face from the one news report
about Kenna that came out of these parts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"I'm Bodee. Bodee Whitaker. Most
people just call me Whit." He jutted out his hand with such enthusiasm, I
half expected a "put 'er there, partner" to follow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I probably stared back at his splayed mitt
as if I was some sort of freaking germaphobe. It wasn't that, but could I
really trust a man who'd let all this sideshow crap happen to his girlfriend? Did
I want that bad juju rubbing off? Nonetheless, I slipped my hand in his and
squeezed tight, as my old man taught me. I even did the lean-in, no back slap, just
a lean. Damn, he had a grip too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Have you talked to Kenna yet?"
Bodee rested his hands on his hips, his elbows pointed east and west in perfect
superman pose. He was that typical jock I hated in high school complete with
overly gelled hair and a frequent flyer gym membership. He was everything I wasn't
or cared to be. I was okay with nerdy. Nerdy was popular. Nerdy got me laid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You're a fireman." I motioned
to the emblem on his shirt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Yeah, kinda ironic,
considering."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Kinda, disturbing, really. But I gave him
an agreeable nod as if I knew what he meant and wasn't bothered by it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"So have you talked to her?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"No, I was going to wait until
after…." I glanced around, not sure what to call this impromptu fire
festival in the middle of some old farmer's field. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Bodee scratched at his chin and chuckled.
"After the show?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Something like that." I smiled,
still trying to mask how shitty this all made me feel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Faces of the people milling about the
yellowing field caught my eye. Everyday individuals. No one particularly
unique. I watched them stare, with their hands shielding their eyes from the
setting sun. They focused on the weathered barn in the distance, two story and
leaning slightly to one side, barely holding on, like an old man with one last
sunset to take in. A million questions jumbled my mind. I had to bite my lip so
I wouldn't start rambling. Those questions would have to wait until I could
talk to Kenna. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Well, if you're looking for a better
seat, I can take you near the front." Bodee pointed at the fire truck
parked in the prime location between the barn and the gathering spectators. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Yeah, that'd be great. Are you sure
I won't be in the way?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Nah, we've been through enough
burnings. Nothing ever happens. Plus, you've got it in with the man upstairs,
right?" He gave me a shoulder slap with a bit more force than I would've
imagined necessary. Again, nerd here, not a jock or even a half a jock so I
wasn't sure his gesture was some sort of male bonding thing or if Bodee was
smarter than I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I nodded and smiled, not ready to confront
my lie. Yes, I was a complete jackass for saying I was a seminary student, but
the truth wouldn't get me the story of my career—at least my college career. For
today, or until I fleshed out Kenna's tale, I was Duncan Cane lover of all
things Godlike, or God-<i>ish</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Oh, I suppose I didn't mention that I
wasn't a legit journalist with the degree and my Daily Planet name badge. Nope.
I was a college journalism major, but don't judge. I was damn good at it. My soon-to-be-realized
career was going to be big. Ask any of my professors, any except Professor Crow,
who thought I was a little wiseass without talent. He was wrong. I was a huge
wiseass and as far as the talent… well, I shouldn't brag. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Kenna Doe's story was big and soon, it'd be
mine. Crow would have to swallow his words with his Metamucil chaser. GIRL
RESCUED FROM BURNING SHACK AND ADOPTED BY PYROMANICAL TOWNSPEOPLE. How awesome
was that? I needed to work on the tag line a bit, but first, her story—the real
story and not what The Redemption Society wanted everyone else in the country
to believe. And even if pyromanical wasn't a real word, it should be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It will be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Bodee weaved me through the crowd of
people who looked at me with wonder, yet despite their curiosity nodded a hello
and wished me a good evening. It made my gut ache a bit thinking of the lies
I'd have to tell. My fake background. My self-serving intentions. It wasn't as
if I hadn't gone through it before. Made a few enemies. Broke a few hearts.
Life moved on eventually. It always did. My responsibility to the truth weighed
more on my mind than a few superficial relationships anyhow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Is it always like this," I
called after Bodee, but kept my eyes on the people around me, some in folding chairs,
others standing with a child on their shoulders. They shifted their weight
right to left, left to right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"What's that?" He turned his head
slightly my way but kept trudging toward the fire truck. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"This"—I made a gesture with my
hand to indicate our surroundings—"is it always like this? I mean… with
the whole town?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Bodee smiled and nodded. "Not everyone supports Kenna. There's
quite a few who don't think kindly of her. Think she was brought to Redemption
by evil, but they stay away for the most part. I think more out of respect for
my uncle. He rescued her, ya know." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Calvin Whitaker's your uncle?"
I said, as if I didn't already know. Considering they had the same last name,
my fake surprise came off a bit dodgy. I'd watched a local interview with him,
not about Kenna, but about the reintroduction of wolves in the area and the
effects on the cattle. He had that Wyatt Earp kind of air about him. Made a man
want to stand taller to avoid drowning in his shadow as he passed. I couldn't
imagine what'd be like being son or nephew. He seemed like a whole lot of man
to live up. "Are you two close?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"As close as anyone is to him. Most
just call him Cap or Captain. On account of his time in the service. He's a
great man." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I bobbed my head, speculating, filing
questions about Ol' Cappy for later. "That must be hard for Kenna. People
not supporting her—judging." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Several people in the crowd started to
cheer and clap. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"She's an amazing person." Bodee
had to raise his voice above the noise. "Not much fazes her, as you can
see." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We neared the truck and I finally understood
the rush of excitement that hit the crowd. I'd seen pictures of Kenna, mostly
from a few years back when she seemed like a less than ordinary girl with
frizzy hair and a face sprinkled with freckles, but the years, <i>holy shit</i>, were they kind to her. I
couldn't help myself as I stared back at her—I actually laughed this freakin' schoolboy
doofus kind of laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"You okay," Bodee asked with a
slight laugh of his own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Yeah. I'm good." I closed my
wide mouth and shook off my complete look of awe at sight of her, but I could see
clearly in Bodee's expression, I was too late. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He nudged me. "You can say it." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Silence. What the hell could I say that
wouldn't result in Bodee popping me in the eye? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Bodee folded his arms around his chest,
which made his biceps seem even larger than they were, and me, as small as
ever. "I think this is the part where you tell me I'm a lucky guy,"
he went on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I turned to drink her in. It was as if I
was looking at a woman for the first time and my body was feeling it too. I wasn't
one for freckles typically, not that I had a lot of choice with the women I'd
been with, but there was something about the randomness of those light brown
flecks kissing her creamy skin. Her long, wavy red hair rested just at the
small of her back, above an ass that… I ran a hand over my face and laughed
again. My heart raced. This was either the best assignment, or the one that
would ruin me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Bodee was right. He was a lucky guy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She looked my way—okay, Bodee's way—and
smiled. It wasn't a full mouth smile, but one of those barely there, subtle
sideways glances that instantly made my mind bound with curiosity. She tucked
her hair behind her ear as her smile fell. Sadness pulled at her eyes, no
matter how hard she tried to appear otherwise, she was broken and I had to know
why. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A lanky man with salt and pepper hair and
pristinely tailored fireman's dress uniform wandered over to Kenna. I assumed
he was the Fire Chief by the way Bodee and his comrades tightened their
expressions as he took center stage. He held a wireless microphone in one hand
and smiled less like the protector he should be and more like a politician. A
wave to the crowd. A nod. God, the dude was smarmy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Good evening, Redemption." His
voice echoed and cracked which prompted him to adjust the mic from his mouth.
"I want to thank you for coming out tonight to celebrate and to offer
support for one of our own." He turned and winked at Kenna. "It's
been sixteen years since Kenna came into our lives. I still see that little
four year old when I look at her sometimes. She may have not been born to any
of us, but she is ours. In our hearts." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"We love you, Kenna," someone
shouted and triggered applause. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"That's right," the chief said.
"So, in honor of the day this precious girl came into our life, we
celebrate with fire. May it cleanse you of the past and help you understand
where you came from." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Bodee sidestepped around me and started
forward, a blazing torch in his hand. He passed it to Kenna with little
ceremony or affection I would've thought appropriate. She situated it in her
grasp, her back still facing the crowd. I almost expected her to turn and raise
the flame high in the air, like an Olympian or a Gladiator. But she slowly made
her way to the barn, looking smaller with each step. She paused only a moment
before tossing the torch inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She didn't back away as the flame
flickered and grew, but dropped to her knees. No fear. No hesitation. Smoke
filled the sky. The brittle wood spit and popped. It was all strange, and I
felt guilty for watching. I turned to a man next to me and wanted ask him what
the hell we were doing? What this all was for? But as I returned my attention
back to the flames, I swallowed, mesmerized by her. The wind tossed her loose
curls about—a firestorm of its own. In that moment, I understood nothing but
couldn't turn away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"It's pretty incredible, don't you
think," Bodee said as he returned to my side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"This happens every year?" The
disgust in my voice was unmistakable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"This is what Kenna does." Bodee
came back with his own defensive tone. "This is what she'll always do. At
least until…" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I couldn't bear his pause. I had to know. "Until
what?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Until she remembers who set the fire
that killed her mother." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-35477596843577609382013-05-07T18:24:00.002-06:002013-05-07T18:24:55.433-06:00Caretaker: Chapter Three <div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_410173425"></span>Chapter One</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua;"><a href="http://dstracywrites.blogspot.com/2013/04/chapter-2-caretaker.html">Chapter Two</a></span><em></em></div>
<br />
<em>Keep in mind, this is a work in progress. Editing issues will be addressed later. </em></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter Three<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hagan licked her lips as she slowly awakened. A heavy metallic taste coated her mouth and the smell of sulfur mingled in the air. She struggled to force her eyelids open. Each time they gave a little, their weight eventually sent them crashing down again. Only intermittent flashes of light broke through before the darkness inevitably took control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Why is it always the last damn match that lights?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Leonard</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">. Her chest tightened at the sound of his voice. She held still and allowed her eyes to relax. No sense in fighting her body when the real threat loomed so close. As she lay silent, listening to her surroundings, her reality began to settle in. She’d been kidnapped. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What else did you give her? She’s been out for hours.”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not Leonard</i>. This new voice was low, controlled. The man in black, maybe?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ah, come on, Slick, it ain’t gonna hurt her.” Heavy footsteps clomped forward. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“There are rules.” The other man’s voice grew louder, more insistent. “If you can’t—” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Shut the hell up. That’s my rule numero uno. And numero <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i>, you don’t get to tell me a goddamned thing. How ’bout that?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m warning you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Warning <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>?”Leonard laughed. “I’m the one with the most risk in this chicken shit outfit. She’s seen me. Shoot, they’ve all seen me and my car. I liked that old car.“<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She tensed her fists beneath the scratchy blanket draped over her body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You knew what you were getting into when we hired you. If I have to—” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Why don’t you do us both a favor and take your scrawny ass outside for a smoke. I’ll stay with our girl.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Our girl? </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She waited for the man’s refusal, but after a moment of pause, she heard a door open and close. Her body tensed. As strange as it was to wish for her other captor to stay, she didn’t want to be alone with Leonard. He was right. He had the most to lose: no disguise; the bookstore employees could identify him in a line up; and Hagan had taken down his plates in the logbook the first night she’d met him—a standard procedure for all suspicious lurkers of the bookstore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hey,” Leonard yelled, “make me a turkey sandwich.” He muttered something about respect then shuffled closer to where she lay. “Don’t let the kid scare ya. I just gave ya a little somethin’-somethin’ to keep you relaxed. It’s good shit too.” He snorted what sounded like a thick glob of snot. “A girl like you knows her way around pharmaceutical. Am I right or am I right?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Such a pig</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">. She didn’t move. Maybe if he grew bored, he’d leave her alone. Why couldn’t it be as simple as that? He’d eventually leave and she’d find her way out of wherever she was. She’d be okay. She’d be— <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ha-gan. Why don’t you wakey wakey so we can have ourselves a little chat?” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump</i>. “Hagan Hagan Bo Bagan . . . Remember that one?” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump.</i> “Chuck Chuck Bo Buck . . .” He yawned, exaggerating the sound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Thump. Thump</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What was he doing?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I bet if I came over there and”—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thump—“</i>touched those titties of yours”—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thump</i>—“you’d wake up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She swallowed.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Go away. Please</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m a leg man myself, but your rack could change a fella’s mind.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump.</i> “I still have dreams about that little black tank top of yours. The one with the sparkly skull on it.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump</i>. “Tight enough to show just how round and firm those babies are. Loose enough that the straps fall off your shoulders . . . damn, girl.” He whistled. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump</i>. “Didn’t you’re daddy ever warn you what happens when you dress like a tramp?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">His footsteps grew louder, almost as if he was pacing right in front of her. The intermittent thumping sounds<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>sent her mind racing with wonder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Old slick probably won’t be back for a while . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What did he mean by that? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Should I open my eyes?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A thick, calloused hand cinched around her ankle and sent her skin afire with a million goosebumps. He applied steady pressure as he pulled off one shoe, then the other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She held her breath and listened for the sound. A ball? The sound came from a ball! For a fleeting moment, she felt something other than defeated—her senses had won. But the image of her captor tossing a ball around the room quickly washed away any trace of her meager triumph. Her nostrils flared as the musky smell of sweat and yeast grew potent. His breathing became louder, more labored—he was near. She could sense his leering eyes all over her body. Silence toyed with her mind. His breathing. His smell. What was he doing? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just go. Please just go. Go</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The blanket slowly drifted off her body almost as if he was trying not to wake her. His hand brushed against her skin at her navel. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, my god</i>. He fumbled with the waistband on her jeans and as the clasp popped, she opened her eyes, drew back her legs, and kicked as hard as she could at the shadowy haze at her feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No,” she screamed. Her eyes fluttered through the fog, while her hand instantly went to her head in attempts to mask the sudden throbbing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Leonard groaned. Stomped his foot. “Stupid bitch!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She scooted against the wall and sat upright. Her head thundered from the quick change to a sitting position. She could barely make out his shape before he lunged and clutched her throat in his large hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Don’t make this easy,” he seethed, his rank breath hot on her skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She clawed at his hand, gasping, flailing. She tried to scream, to plead for her life, but only her garbled pleas answered back. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can’t breathe. Help me</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Consider this a freebie. Next time, I will slit your throat. Capish?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">His spittle peppered her face. She couldn’t nod. Couldn’t speak. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes. Yes. Please. I don’t want to die.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A far off look darkened his eyes, and as she stared into them, a rush of warmth filled her pants. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He lessened the pressure he had on her throat, pulled his hand from her neck, and stared at the growing wet spot on her jeans. “Looks like we understand each other.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She collapsed onto the mattress and began coughing, deep and painful coughs. Her face and throat burned from the strain. “Please.” She took several breaths. Her eyes locked on Leonard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He bent over at the waist, hands on his knees. He took several breaths of his own. “I should’ve known you . . .” He stood taller and grabbed his crotch. “Stupid bitch.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She hugged her knees to her chest. Waves of nausea rolled in and out. She would’ve thrown up if she had a moment to process what had happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He turned toward her suddenly as if he’d charge again and pointed a finger. “You’re lucky.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sorry. Would never be sorry. She hugged herself tighter, the smell of her own urine reminding her just how bad her situation was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He glowered at her for a moment then cocked his arm back and chucked the ball hard against the wall behind her. She jumped at the loud thud, then watched the ball bounce and roll backwards on the dirty wooden floor. He scooped up his ball and silently walked out of the room. The only sounds remaining were her whimpers and the door locking behind him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She sobbed into her knees. Thoughts of her family snuck through her fear and panic. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fight. You have to fight</i>. She sniffed and wiped at her tears as she sat upright. She looked around her shabby surroundings. Weathered, wooden walls and floorboards mirrored how she felt inside, worn and broken. The room was the size of a small bedroom with only the dingy mattress she was sitting on and a lopsided metal folding chair as furnishings. Add a workbench and some tools and it could’ve passed as her father’s carpentry workshop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She pressed a hand to the wall for stability and slowly stood on wobbly legs. She took a breath and began wandering the room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a support beam in the center of the room, a lantern hung on a rusted and upturned nail. She stared into the modest flame of her only source of light. Her mind focused on the steady flicker while her thoughts drifted to survival. How far would she have to go to stay alive? What would she have to do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hel . . . hello?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hagan gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She turned toward the voice—waiting, listening. This was a trick. A reaction from the drugs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Is someone there? Anyone,” the voice called out again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She held her breath as the words melted over her. A female voice?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hagan walked toward the wall from where the voice carried. She stared at the barricade for a moment, then gently laid a hand against the splintered wood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She was not alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-67578440071882958812013-04-21T21:44:00.003-06:002013-04-21T21:45:01.354-06:00Chapter 2 (Caretaker)<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Chapter Two<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">James propped his phone to his ear, while his other hand twisted against the steering wheel of his rusted 1975 Ford F250—old blue. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Hey, it’s Hagan. I’m probably avoiding you, so do whatcha gotta do and leave me a message.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He took the phone from his ear and clenched it in his fist. The urge to throw it out the window tore through him, but he paused and closed his eyes while he controlled his breathing. “Damn it, Hagan.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In most respects, he was a simple man. He ate Spaghetti O’s straight from the can and couldn’t wait to do the Sunday crossword, even if he’d never finished one. He liked old Jimmy Cagney movies and loved to build things. He may have liked the simple things, but he was not without complexity. For those who knew him best, he was a kind and loyal friend. For others, he was a worthless criminal—a murderer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He glanced at his watch, then looked back to the empty parking lot of the Cotton Grove Cemetery. Waiting for his daughter, being angry with her, was easier than ruminating in scattered memories and poor decisions. He also didn’t want to face it alone. In one last desperate attempt to gain his daughter’s favor, he called home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah?</i>” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">James shifted in his seat at the brusque tone of his father’s voice. “Hey, Pop. You’re back early.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Mags had a conniption, so I left her scraggy ol’ butt at the hotel and came home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You should bite your tongue. She’s a good woman.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Maybe on Sunday, but the rest of the week she’s a pit bull disguised as a nice old gal who knows how to make a mean apple tart. That tart’s a ruse, I tell ya, and once she gets you in her clutches its goodbye tart, hello <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nag</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">James pinched at the bridge of his nose. “And you’re just a ball of sunshine, aren’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Whaddya want, anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Is Hagan home? We’re supposed to meet at the cemetery, but I haven’t heard from her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Nobody’s here but me. Doesn’t look like her bed’s been slept in. You live here too. Didn’t you see her?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Not since yesterday. I assumed she woke up before I did and made her bed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Pop let out his James-is-a-dumbass laugh. “You don’t know your kid well enough. She only makes her bed on Sunday, and since it’s Monday . . . there ya go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“So what? Does that mean she didn’t come home last night?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“She’s twenty-two. Maybe she found a fella to shack up with for the night. You know, test the thread count . . . sample the percale . . . do the horizontal mambo. . . ” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Pop!” James pounded a fist on the steering wheel. “I get it. Do you know her schedule?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Yeah, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> actually pay attention to her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He swallowed the aftertaste of the truth. “I’m trying. I am.” He took off his hat and ran his calloused hand over his shaved scalp. “She’s stubborn.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Just like her dad.” Pop softened his tone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Maybe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Look, Son, Hagan’s been stuck with me for the last decade. I taught her to be suspicious. Maybe that ain’t right, but in my experience, it’s good to be cautious. There are a whole lotta snakes out there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.” James looked over the patchwork of headstones in the distance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Her boss’s name is Peter over at the bookstore. He’s somewhat of a fruit, but Hagan likes him. Give him a call, maybe he knows where our girl is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I will.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And son, give Ingrid my best.” <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>James closed his eyes, the stir of emotion stealing his words. He sniffed, sat taller, and slipped his phone into his pocket. His wife, Ingrid, had purchased a cemetery plot long before she knew she was going to die—even longer before she knew James. It was the one thing she’d owned free and clear, and the only thing his crime hadn’t taken away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He eased out of the truck and unfolded the map his daughter had made of the cemetery the night before. Ingrid’s final resting place was in the far corner, near a crooked pine tree Hagan had called Mr. Whispy. He took one-step after the next, pangs of regret stirring his insides. A beam of summer sun broke through the trees. Her gravestone shined like a beacon amongst the thick shade. Even in death, she knew how to stand out. He took a deep breath as her name became visible: INGRID MARIE PERRY. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He stared for several minutes, his eyes locked to those letters and her date of death. It was real. He knelt and brushed away the pieces of fallen cotton; he sensed her restless energy all around him, could nearly smell the clean citrus scent of her favorite shampoo. Eleven years without his wife; eleven years riddled with guilt; eleven years taken with no one to blame but himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">From his prison walls, he used to silently speak to her, offering his apologies and regrets. He couldn’t wait for the chance to speak those words aloud, words he thought would come easy, but he should’ve known better—words never came easy for him. He slipped off his short brimmed fedora and stood with his head bowed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">With each intake of the fragrant air, he fought the urge to break down. His love for his wife was as intense as it had been in life. She was the one person that accepted his faults and encouraged him to be better. When she’d become sick, he would’ve torn down The Great Wall if it meant she’d get well. And after months of tests and more tests, the money ran out. What else was he supposed to do? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He sighed, the sound of her voice filling his mind. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No excuses, James.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A man takes his lumps without complaint.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So many things he wanted to say, things he had practiced in his mind. But in the end, they meant nothing. He placed his hand on the cool surface of the stone. “Je t’aime, Pigeon.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He sniffed back his anguish, slipped on his hat, and rose to his feet. He stopped halfway to the parking lot and fought the urge to turn around. Instead, he glanced up the vast trees and the billowing cotton, then with a forced expression of strength, he wandered back to his truck. He was James Perry. Ex con. Murderer. He needed to be tough, but when he opened the truck’s door, a swell of emotion rushed through the hardened man, bringing him to his knees. Years of suppression caught up with him and he wasn’t sure he could take Hagan’s condemnation too. He knew he should’ve headed over to The Purple Penguin Bookstore, but he couldn’t. Instead, he drove straight to trouble—straight for The Tavern Saloon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>James’s childhood friend, Frank, owned the bar. It was clean and one of the only places where he wasn’t just a lowly ex-con. He was accepted and left alone to stew in silence. He squeezed through a crowd of college kids playing darts near the front door. One of them called after him with some reference to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Die Hard</i> and Bruce Willis as he made his way to the bar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Frank flipped a white towel over his shoulder and placed a cocktail napkin on the mahogany bar while James settled onto a stool. “Jim. Good to see ya, pal. How about an O’Doul’s?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>James hesitated. Rows of liquor taunted him from behind the bar. “Bourbon. Neat.” He knew he shouldn’t, but the words just came out, nearly as delicious as the product itself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frank shook off a look he knew far too well and placed a glass dead center on the white cocktail napkin. “You know . . .” He twisted the cap off a bottle of Jim Beam. “Sometimes—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just pour. I’m not lookin’ for advice right now.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frank shook his head as he poured. “Me and my advice will be over there if you need anything.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>James picked up his drink and held it to the light before bringing it to his nose. The familiar amber glow and woody corn-like aroma sent heat through his body without having to take one sip. It’d been a long time since he’d drank liquor. He’d stopped by The Tavern every now and then for a beer, mostly “Near Beers” and the like, but never touched the hard stuff. His proclivity for alcohol, whisky in particular, was the root of his former troubles and something he’d sworn to avoid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t believe it,” a woman’s voice called out. “Is that Jimmy Perry?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He placed his drink down and turned to see a busty brunette dressed in skintight clothing. He recognized her immediately. “Tristie Johnson.” He forced a smile, a barely there type of smile. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her own smile trembled but never faltered. “Thompson,” she corrected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He knew her name. She’d chased after him since he was three-years old, in one way or another. He’d even received dozens of letters from her while incarcerated, none of which he’d read. His cellmate, Vic, had enjoyed them, so they weren’t entirely in vain. Tristie wasn’t an unattractive woman. If she softened her make-up and teased her hair a bit less, she’d be a pretty gal. Her desperation was what repelled him. Her look, her appearance, all screamed of insecurity. And from what he remembered, she’d always been like that. In high school, the boys had called her Trusty. Apparently, she knew her way around a back seat, and since then she’d been in one bad relationship after another. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She shimmied next to him, her nipples taut against her purple tank top. His body tensed. The smell of her spicy vanilla-like perfume lit his senses and stirred feelings he hadn’t experienced in some time. “Looking good, Jim. I heard you got out.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.” He stared straight ahead, turning his glass of whisky with his thumb and middle finger in slow, even circles. He didn’t want to be rude but subtle hints had usually evaded Tristie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How’ve you been?” She arched her back against the bar, accentuating her already accentuated bosom and making James wonder just how she looked without that tank top. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not bad. You?” He took a breath, reminding himself it was Trusty Thompson’s boobs he was thinking about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t complain.” Her voice was sweet. “How’s that daughter of yours? Hagan, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She’s good.” He glanced at the TV, feigning interest in the latest Diet Coke commercial. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We really should get together.” Her smile faded in and out as she looked from James to the TV and back again. “I could make dinner for you sometime. We could talk about old times and celebrate your homecoming. It might be fun.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He eyed her square in the face. “That’s nice of ya, Tristie, but I’m—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t say no . . . not yet, anyway.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a pen with a hot pink poof attached to the end. She smiled as she wrote her number on a cocktail napkin and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “There, right by your heart.” She patted his pocket and smiled. Then she did something he didn’t expect. She lifted her hand to his face and traced the outline of his jaw with her index finger. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You need a shave, Jimmy.” Her smiled twisted sideways. “But, I always liked a bit of stubble. Call me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He hoped his expression would dispel any false hope, but as his eyes found hers, he softened. “Take care of yourself, Tristie.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She nodded and started for the door, the sound of catcalling college boys grew louder as she elbowed past them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frank strolled over and leaned into the bar. “I remember when she chased you around Johnny Butler’s sandbox. Things ain’t changed much . . . except maybe your hair, or should I say lack thereof.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And your gut,” James said, finally breaking a smile. “But I wouldn’t use the word lack.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frank laughed. “Ready for that O’Doul’s now? I know you don’t want that shit.” He nodded toward the glass of whiskey. “You might think you do, but—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hold on.” James held up his hand and nodded towards the television. “Can you turn it up?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frank grabbed the remote and turned up the volume for the local news broadcast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Authorities are seeking information on a 2009 black Volkswagen Jetta pulled from the Portneuf Resevoir this afternoon. There has been no word yet from officials if this incident is connected to the rash of stolen vehicles dumped throughout the city. If anyone has any information you are asked to please contact your local police department</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The camera panned in on the black Jetta, and James held his breath. No license plates. Maybe it wasn’t her car. It was a common model. Then he noticed the decal on the right passenger window—a purple penguin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-36825232620979663022013-04-14T20:26:00.000-06:002013-04-19T18:50:25.330-06:00Chapter One: Caretaker's Kiss (Working Title)<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter One<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hagan stared through the murky window of The Purple Penguin Bookstore, waiting for her shift to fade like so many other useless minutes of her life. It had been especially slow for a Monday, which meant she had to lock up on her own. The trouble was, one or two straggling “pervies” always seemed to pop in right before closing to either get their jollies for free or buy something for the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">At one time, The Purple Penguin had been an actual bookstore. Unfortunately, customers hadn’t rushed through the doors for the New Age books the shop promoted. The owner, a product of the sixties free-love era, changed tactics and replaced many of the books, Buddha statues, and incense with something a little more risqué for the predominately Mormon community. Tucked behind a beaded curtain in a former storage room, sex toys, x-rated videos, and a line of erotic products soon filled the shelves and kept the shop in the green. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just as she’d anticipated, a black 70s style Oldsmobile Cutlass rumbled up to the curb. One missing right hubcap, rusted fender, and bent antennae. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damn it</i>. Leonard Small. She grabbed her co-worker’s discarded copy of “Inked” and began thumbing through it, not really seeing the tattooed images before her but needing something to settle her rambling thoughts. As harmless as most of the customers were, she voluntarily worked in a sex shop with a steady supply of whips and chains and all things to entice the freaks to come out and play. And Leonard Small could’ve been the captain of them all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The metal bell fixed to the heavy front door rang as he shuffled inside, the smell of salami and sweat wafting above his fat head. He pulled a toothpick out of his mouth and smiled. “How’s it hangin’?” The sight of his tangled and discolored teeth set the hairs on her arms on end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She stood taller as he approached and pointed at the clock. He sneered at her gesture, not bothering to look at the time. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Son of a bitch couldn’t care less</i>. He nodded, but didn’t speak, which was unusual for Leonard. He’d liked to chatter to whoever was working, pressing his large gut into the counter as he boasted about one of his exploits. Hagan hadn’t been shy about her distaste for him, so maybe he’d gotten the hint and would leave her alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The tinkling sounds of the long multi-colored beads soon signaled his decent into “perveville.” She pulled out the logbook, and next to the daily sales, she wrote: 8:48 p.m. Oxymoron here—again! She tossed both the magazine and logbook aside and began drumming her fingers against the top of the glass case that displayed the most expensive treasures of The Penguin: a collection of anatomically correct Smurf figurines, hand blown glass dildos, gold plated handcuffs, and first edition copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alice Does Wonderland</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">8:50</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through her recent text messages, all from her father and all purposely ignored. If she hadn’t needed something to do, she probably would’ve gone on ignoring him. “Nothing’s changed, jailbird,” she muttered as she typed: C U 2moro. Her father hated where she worked, hated that she’d dropped out of her junior year of college to “piss her life away.” Not that she cared what he thought, however true it might’ve been. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She slipped her phone back into her jean’s pocket. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">8:52</i>. She leaned over the counter and looked toward the back corner of the store and into the large convex mirror hung to prevent shoplifting. “Hey, we need to close up,” she yelled. “If you’re going to buy anything, move it or lose it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">No movement. No sound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Leonard! Did you hear me?” She paused as she waited for a response. When he didn’t answer, she locked the cash register and slipped the coiled bracelet key chain around her wrist and up to her elbow before making her way toward the back. “I need to close up.” She stared into the room, not wanting to venture any farther. “Did you hear me?” With a nervous hand, she parted the curtain and pulled the beads to one side. Her chest grew tight—something was off. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damn Peter for calling in sick</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In front of the rows of x-rated DVDs, Leonard stood with his back to her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Closing time. Didn’t you hear me<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">?” Just turn around and leave, freak. Turn around and leave. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He didn’t move. The bell on the front door rang. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’re closed,” she yelled. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She held her breath waiting for the bell to sound again, or a conceding remark from the new late comer, but nothing. What the hell? Her hand fell away from the beads, causing them to sway and crash into each other. “What part of—” She whipped around and slammed into a thick wall of stale cigarette smoke. She took a step backwards, realizing she’d just run into a man’s chest. “Sorry, but . . .” Her gaze widened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A man, dressed in black clothing and a full ski mask, towered over her. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh my God.</i> She turned again toward Leonard, the least likely person to help, only he was now facing her, his pervert smile on high, a loose white cloth in his hand. “I think I’m gonna like this.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hagan looked from Leonard to the masked intruder. “This isn’t funny, Leonard.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He laughed. “This ain’t meant to be funny, sunshine.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“If you want the money. Take it.” She slid the register key from her arm and held it out for him. “Please, just take it.” Her hand trembled as she pushed the key towards the man’s chest. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Take it</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He didn’t acknowledge the gesture, his eyes looking past her, not seeing her at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Please.” Her voice cracked. She held the key toward him again. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Take</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it and go. Please. Take it and go. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Leonard stopped less than a foot from where she stood, tilted his head, and scratched at the patchy stubble on his chin. “We ain’t here for the money.” He batted the key from her hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Her eyes followed its flight into a far corner of the room. What was she supposed to do? She returned to face him. “I won’t say anything. Take anything you want.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Leonard crouched and bore into her gaze. “I intend to get what I want.” He pinched her lips into a pucker and drew her face closer to his. “If you play nice, maybe you won’t get hurt.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She tried to nod despite the strong hold he had on her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Very good.” He dropped his hand from her face and turned to the man in black. “Tie her up.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No!” She leapt toward the only space between the man and freedom, not that she had a chance. The men quickly pinned her in the doorway. Strands of beads tangled themselves over her arms and legs as she fought to escape their grasp. Leonard laughed as he taunted her with his ping-ponging shoves back and forth with the darkened stranger. She was an object, nothing more. Through all of her kicking and screaming and Leonard’s deep belly laughs, she heard the bell ring again. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to smile, but as the men continued without any regard to whomever ventured inside, she realized they weren’t worried—they’d expected it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Help! Help me!” She screamed so hard, so loud, her ears popped, then something soft covered her nose and mouth. Her pleas silenced. Her nostrils burned. And by the time she realized what that sweet smell was she’d just inhaled, it was too late. Everything faded to black. A chirp of her cell phone signaled the last sound she’d heard. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-10047810124682189602013-03-31T13:02:00.000-06:002013-03-31T13:02:45.282-06:00Stan and My Easter Lesson<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This Easter, my husband and I took our two children to our town’s egg hunt. We live in a city with a population of about 2000, where it isn’t unusual to see folks driving their lawnmowers to the corner store. In fact, when I was younger, we’d often ride horses to the same store and tie them up on the hitching post while we went inside to buy fifty cents worth of penny candy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Every year, the locals donate their gently used stuffed animals for the kids to collect along with plastic eggs filled with prizes. It isn’t a grand event, but my kids love it regardless of the size of the hunt or range of potential loot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My daughter scanned the field of colored eggs, planning her strategy. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to get an animal. I can feel it.” She beamed and readied herself as they began the countdown. At the go, she ran past all the animals and eggs in the front and sprinted for last one on the far end of the field. The animal had been placed in a plastic bag and it wasn’t until we came home that she discovered what she’d scored. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Her smile faded as she opened the bag and caught a whiff of her more-than-gently-used new friend. She pinched his fur with two fingers and lifted him out of the bag. Her lip curled as she struggled to find her smile. “He smells a little.” She leaned over him and inhaled. “He smells like smoke and . . . old stuff.” She backed away and I could see that she was disappointed, not in the prize itself but more in the way she felt toward this large stuffed dog. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My nine-year-old daughter has always been tender hearted and kind. She is the first to comfort a friend in need and often finds ways to look on the sunny side of disappointments. She asks for little when others take a lot. So I knew that my sensitive child felt horrible for her judgment of this ragamuffin old dog. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She grew quiet as she stared at him. I told her we could put him back in the bag and donate him for next year’s hunt. She gazed at his sad and dirty face. “Someone loved him once.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I tried not to smile because I’ve often teased her about her “Toy Story” approach to her things. She is maturing physically, changing every day, but inside, she still believes that although inanimate, these toys have souls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you want me to try and wash him?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She nodded. “He needs a chance.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So I popped the scraggly dog into the washer with a little detergent and some lemon oil and hoped for the best. After his tumble dry, he didn’t turn out so bad. Actually, he looked pretty good. He’s still a little roughed up, but his white fur shines and his smile seems just as bright. My daughter gave him to her brother who can’t seem to get enough of him. His name is now Stan, which suits him perfectly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Often as a writer, I study people and situations—how they act and what they say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These observations trickle into my writing and help me transform the rambling voices in my head into characters. If I’m lucky, I’m able to make them believable enough that whoever reads my work sees and feels as the character does. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m thankful and so very blessed that my children and Stan have shown me what it takes to be of good character. They looked past something that made them uncomfortable to see possibilities. They fought for Stan and believed that everyone deserves a second chance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Happy Easter and may you all have a day filled with more than sunshine and chocolate bunnies. And that you always remember someone else who fought for you so long ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-10480288060939863762012-03-26T22:03:00.000-06:002012-03-26T22:03:00.046-06:00Missing Walking Dead? Try, Wanted: Dead or Undead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PHA3GtDDvBw/T3E7FHDKTfI/AAAAAAAAANg/veBDc3VCEk0/s1600/wanteddead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PHA3GtDDvBw/T3E7FHDKTfI/AAAAAAAAANg/veBDc3VCEk0/s1600/wanteddead.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Stephen King has a term called “Ideal Reader”. The one person you write for. I am fortunate to have one of the best as my ideal reader, Angela Scott. Two years ago, we met at a writing meeting. We formed a critique group a while later, in which we are the only two remaining members. We are a little too opinioned, a bit too blunt, and a bit too determined for most people, I suppose. But, it works for us. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Angela didn’t start out that way. She was far too humble to admit her talent. During our first meeting, she pulled out a copy of her NaNoWriMo proof and said, “I’m good with this. All I want is a copy on my shelf to look at now and then.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thankfully, she didn’t know me well enough, at that point, because that wasn’t good enough for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was no way I could allow someone with that much natural talent to hide. So, I pushed and soon, she pushed me back. And two years later, I am thrilled to say she has just published her first book called <i>Wanted: Dead or Undead</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Who would’ve thought a dare—a writing exercise—would become a series? A fun, engaging series.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Not only is her writing tight. She creates great characters we root for and a story full of rich description without the fluff. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She has a lot in store for her characters and I can’t wait for the next book. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Check out the blurb from Amazon: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Trace Monroe doesn’t believe in luck. He never has. But when a fiery-headed cowgirl saunters through the saloon doors, wielding shotguns and a know-how for killing the living dead, he believes he just may be the luckiest man alive.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="background: white;">Trace wants to join Red’s posse, but she prefers to work alone—less messy that way. In order to become her travelling companion, Trace has to agree to her terms: no names, no questions, and if he gets bit, he can’t beg for mercy when she severs his brain stem.</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">He agrees, knowing only that Red is the sharpest shooter he’s ever encountered. The fact she’s stunning hasn’t escaped his attention either.</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">What he doesn’t know, is that Red has a very good reason to be on top of her game. She not only has the answer for how they can all outlive the plague taking over the wild, wild west, she IS the answer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For one day only, Tuesday March 27, 2012, Evolved Publishing is offering several of their books for free. <b>FREE! </b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Take the opportunity to check out their site <a href="http://www.evolvedpub.com/press/promotion/current-promotion/">HERE</a> for a list of books and links to Amazon. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Here is a direct link to <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wanted-Dead-or-Undead-ebook/dp/B007MCHXEU/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top">Wanted: Dead or Undead</a></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Also, check out Angela's writing blog with more information about her upcoming books <a href="http://whimsywritingandreading.weebly.com/">whimsywritingandreading.weebly.com</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-87963350239290831732012-03-19T21:55:00.001-06:002012-03-19T21:55:58.132-06:00The Sword of Senack Release<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Over five years ago, I met a crazy girl at Sam’s Club. I never expected a lifelong friendship to be forged while waiting in line for a pretzel. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">We shared more than our love of carbs. We were both closeted writers and soon, we began sharing our “attempts” at fiction. Let me just say, it wasn’t pretty. In fact, let me share an excerpt of Elisa’s first draft: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Did you hear that? Funny how loud a hundred pound woman sounds falling off her chair. Hahaha. No worries, E. It’s safe—for now. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hl1-PF2-kCg/T2f-U0wIhsI/AAAAAAAAANQ/8EEzrZe8VTY/s1600/the+golden+sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hl1-PF2-kCg/T2f-U0wIhsI/AAAAAAAAANQ/8EEzrZe8VTY/s1600/the+golden+sky.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Elisa’s second child, the boy she always wanted, died from birth defects at only three months. Recently she published her journal as a way of helping others manage their grief, called <i>The Golden Sky</i>. In it, she shows us what it’s like to lose a child—lose everything—and yet, come back stronger and more determined. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">This determination was the driving force behind <i>The Sword of Senack</i>. She had her oldest child with a patchwork of memories of her little brother and subsequent children with only photos and endless questions. In an effort to settle her children’s curiosities and to help them cope, she filled their minds not of death and loss, but with wonder, magic, and love. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Each night Elisa would tell the story of young Jack and his quest. It grew more grand and elaborate as her children begged for more witches, pirates, mermaids, and magic. Not only did they love the story, but it also brought them closer to their lost brother—Zeke. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sometimes writers are inspired by a question, a memory, a dream. Elisa’s story came from the best inspiration of all: the love of a child lost and the hope of the children remaining. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The Sword of Senack is introduced at a low price of $.99. And look at this cover! Fantastic. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sword-Senack-Mer-son-Cycle-ebook/dp/B007JPR8W2/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1332215265&sr=8-3" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q0e4H657u08/T2f9tUkLH6I/AAAAAAAAANI/DVIOaeY3Yso/s1600/senack.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to Amazon</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">If you want more information about the author, please visit her blog at <a href="http://ecwrites.blogspot.com/">ecwrites.blogspot.com</a> there you will find links to her publisher’s site and her web page. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Description from Amazon of <i>The Sword of Senack</i>: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Aliya Fisher knows nothing about her true heritage until a vindictive sorceress kidnaps her brother and sister. The young adventurer must take up her birthright, battle strange creatures, and find the Sword of Senack if she hopes to best the witch. But even if Aliya finds the famed weapon and survives the perilous oceanic journey, the enchantress is far more than she appears. How does one defeat an immortal who lusts for revenge?</span> <span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-52483926749285768312012-03-15T21:49:00.000-06:002012-03-15T21:49:50.433-06:00What Happens If I Hate It?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-68vMJRRgXJU/T2K3_xq902I/AAAAAAAAANA/4PlBITmGXAw/s1600/meh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-68vMJRRgXJU/T2K3_xq902I/AAAAAAAAANA/4PlBITmGXAw/s1600/meh.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve met a lot of great people on my writing journey. Some are lifelong friends, while others are simply random faces I’ve chatted with here and there---forever locked in that Google Friend Connect pose.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve met writers at conferences and writing meetings. Blog hops. Coffee shops. Work. It seems there is a writer everywhere. Some of these writers have asked me to critique their work, while others just ask for me to buy their book when they publish. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The few who have allowed me to manhandle their work with my endless red scratches know I can be a bit brutal. I don’t intend to be mean, but I worry that if I don’t push for better or mark mistakes when I see them, I’m setting my friend up for a blow I should’ve eliminated in the first place. I’m down to one critique partner. She’s the only one left who can put up with me; she knows my intentions are good. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Have you ever read the negative reviews on Amazon? Holy cow! Some make my chest tighten, while others are right on. But being right about something and saying it tactfully doesn’t help the writer desperate for praise. We hate to hear we suck, especially at the no take back stage. Clicking that publish button makes it a done deal and it seems with the ease of self-publishing, too many people are clicking before they are ready. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So, I have a dilemma. Many of my friends and acquaintances are publishing, some traditional, some self-published. I get more “buy my book” tweets filling my home page every day. We need to support each other, but when asked what I think do I tell them the truth?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m not the type of person to just give a five star review just ‘cause we’re blogging pals, but how do you politely say no? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Has this ever happened to you?</b> <o:p></o:p></span></div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-60025985198415871752012-03-13T19:10:00.000-06:002012-03-13T19:10:11.441-06:00What's Up With The Commenting, Blogger?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7r_HdPGkBfE/T1_vtLTtceI/AAAAAAAAAM4/6eetjDNNDEo/s1600/comment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7r_HdPGkBfE/T1_vtLTtceI/AAAAAAAAAM4/6eetjDNNDEo/s1600/comment.jpg" /></a></div>Last year, I was unable to comment on blogs. I couldn't figure out what was wrong, so I switched from Internet Explorer to Google Chrome and yay me, I was able to comment again. Well, my problems have come back. At first it was isolated to other blogs. I would post and click publish and it would disappear. Then, I tried to comment on my blog and still, no dice. So I read somewhere that switching from the comment embedded below the post to the pop up window or full page would help. I switched to pop up window and I can now comment on my own blog. <div><br />
</div><div>I know other people are having troubles too, so if you are thinking you aren't getting as many comments as you used to, switch to pop up window and see if it helps. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I would love to comment on your blog, but over half the ones I visit, I'm just unable. If you'd like me to test your blog with my failure as a comment-er....shoot me a message. </div><div><br />
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</div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-12581171785046427232012-03-09T22:50:00.001-07:002012-03-09T22:52:54.706-07:00Ain't Like It Used To Be<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">When I was younger, I liked to think of myself as a smart girl. I loved to have in depth, intellectual conversations with my friends, who were all much older than I was. But after having kids and staying home to raise them for nearly eight years, my smarts have all but vanished, along with my muscle tone and my patience. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I went to a dinner recently with a group of people, most of who did not have children, and found myself thinking I was a complete idiot. I mmmhmm'd and nodded, channeling my best Sydney Bristow. I was someone else. Not me. Someone smarter and worldly. But my mission wasn't so successful. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">While they discuss the impact of extinction on our environment, I think about this sort of extinction: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vldoritWPNw/T1rmm3QR2JI/AAAAAAAAALg/LzWp933w5xM/s1600/walking+dead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vldoritWPNw/T1rmm3QR2JI/AAAAAAAAALg/LzWp933w5xM/s1600/walking+dead.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Or maybe this is more my style: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UvhExENmOKM/T1rmuoimDjI/AAAAAAAAALo/5kIpYB_WE-0/s1600/shaun+of+dead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UvhExENmOKM/T1rmuoimDjI/AAAAAAAAALo/5kIpYB_WE-0/s1600/shaun+of+dead.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">They drink wine and fancy schmancy teas, while I’ve been known to: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--hKCjZ0RPik/T1rm3otGBTI/AAAAAAAAALw/xHNrSR-Xr2k/s1600/shotgun+beer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--hKCjZ0RPik/T1rm3otGBTI/AAAAAAAAALw/xHNrSR-Xr2k/s1600/shotgun+beer.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Okay, that’s not totally true, sometimes I prefer this: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zUenw_6Z_jo/T1rm8zZMJvI/AAAAAAAAAL4/s-k0cASunTw/s1600/beer+bong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zUenw_6Z_jo/T1rm8zZMJvI/AAAAAAAAAL4/s-k0cASunTw/s1600/beer+bong.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">While they discuss politics, I think about this: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zE3rwHSxh8k/T1rnCm-_BMI/AAAAAAAAAMA/XEIEJ2nPRLg/s1600/spock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zE3rwHSxh8k/T1rnCm-_BMI/AAAAAAAAAMA/XEIEJ2nPRLg/s1600/spock.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p>Or maybe even:</o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GlggAfHX5cU/T1rqqDyzYsI/AAAAAAAAAMw/PZ3afvDGOjU/s1600/pedro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GlggAfHX5cU/T1rqqDyzYsI/AAAAAAAAAMw/PZ3afvDGOjU/s1600/pedro.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">While they share their fine dining favorites of seafood and specially rubbed beef, I imagine my own fancy seafood diner: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S0HU5GCaj6w/T1rnJ86By5I/AAAAAAAAAMI/tNOdTMkL3EQ/s1600/crab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S0HU5GCaj6w/T1rnJ86By5I/AAAAAAAAAMI/tNOdTMkL3EQ/s1600/crab.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">They discuss books like this:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-epT2buExEUY/T1rnRvwf7xI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/4LxlPp-SIws/s1600/tolstoy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-epT2buExEUY/T1rnRvwf7xI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/4LxlPp-SIws/s1600/tolstoy.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">While my favorite book remains this: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DUkM0MeaFwY/T1rnZnMLfKI/AAAAAAAAAMY/vrAR-4pIqig/s1600/to+kill+a+mocking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DUkM0MeaFwY/T1rnZnMLfKI/AAAAAAAAAMY/vrAR-4pIqig/s1600/to+kill+a+mocking.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">They discuss television shows I’ve never heard about because this is the show I watched last: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">So, my goal is to get a bit of my old self back (or the illusion of). Be a little more like this: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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</i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>Wait a minute. . .</i> </b></span></div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-70989552740280374182012-03-04T21:40:00.000-07:002012-03-04T21:40:44.660-07:00Just Nonesense Blogfest<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">As a writer, I rely on all my senses to bring my stories to life. But what if I didn’t have one of those senses? What if I lost one of the most important of all?</span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">A good friend of mine has struggled with diabetes since she was a young child. Diabetes has been rough on her body. Last year she had surgery to try and save one of her eyes, but it wasn’t successful and now, whatever sight she had left is dwindling. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I can’t imagine her fear—her anger. But, she is in remarkable spirits. One of our mutual friends took the initiative and published several of her blog posts into a book called, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Just-Nonsense-January-March-ebook/dp/B007EHO0B2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1330922359&sr=8-1">Just Nonesense</a></i> by Melynda Fleury. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Melynda has already lived quite a live and never hold back on anything she does. Her mouth tends to always get her in trouble, which is great for more of her hilarious blog posts. She's always dreamed of becoming a writer, and although her path isn't quite what she imagined, she is a great writer with lots of stories to tell. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Already her book is doing fantastic with less than a week of sales. With medical costs mounting and the need for talking diabetic monitors, she could use the money. She may not be able to read her own book, but maybe you can. Or, check her out at her blog: <a href="http://melyndarockinthecrazy.blogspot.com/">CrazyWorld<o:p></o:p></a></span><br />
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<center><a href="http://www.melyndarockinthecrazy.blogspot.com/2012/03/my-blog-got-hacked.html" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/justn1-1-1.gif" /></a></center>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-1041661899102640452012-02-28T21:49:00.000-07:002012-02-28T21:49:28.192-07:00Writing Prompts and New Release<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jzPIG-K6ao4/T02tvrgStRI/AAAAAAAAALY/UKtv33PH7K4/s1600/dead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jzPIG-K6ao4/T02tvrgStRI/AAAAAAAAALY/UKtv33PH7K4/s320/dead.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I'm getting really excited for my friend <a href="http://whimsywritingandreading.weebly.com/">Angela Scott.</a> Her first book is going to be released sometime in March. What makes this so exciting, not just that she is one of my favorite people, but her book started out as a writing exercise--a double dog dare.<br />
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We've been writing buddies for a while and used to meet regularly to talk about writing and whatever else--mostly writing. We thought we'd change things up and challenged each other to write out of our comfort zone. Elisa, our nonfiction and YA writing buddy, was challenged to write romance. Me, the suspense/women's fiction girl, landed sci-fi/fantasy. And, just because we love to torture Angela, we dared her to write a zombie western.<br />
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The jokes on us, I suppose, because she is in love with her zombies. She even has a another zombie YA book brewing after the two in her Zombie West Series.<br />
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<b>I know there are a lot of writing exercises out there to wrangle your creative juices. What are some of yours? </b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you have a minute check out the link to my first photo challenge using a photo from my friend's Flickr account as a writing prompt.</span><br />
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<a href="http://dstracywrites.blogspot.com/2011/02/finding-inspiration-my-weekly-photo.html">Finding Inspiration: My First Writing Challenge </a>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-65646756497861743062012-02-22T21:41:00.000-07:002012-02-22T21:41:45.291-07:00I Was Tagged!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wUS17ZOMCh4/T0XCTg1tcAI/AAAAAAAAALQ/HMLjZKRm8AY/s1600/question.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wUS17ZOMCh4/T0XCTg1tcAI/AAAAAAAAALQ/HMLjZKRm8AY/s1600/question.jpg" /></a></div>I got tagged by <a href="http://www.christinetyler.net/">Christine Taylor</a>. It didn't hurt, no worries. But I'm supposed to answer questions about myself. Normally, when I get these award/game thingies I turn into a big smart ass and post things about myself that is all made up and from the fictional characters we love, (<a href="http://dstracywrites.blogspot.com/2011/03/stylin-and-profilin.html">Stylin' and Profilin'</a> and <a href="http://dstracywrites.blogspot.com/2011/05/look-shiny-secrets-revealed.html">Look Shiny! Secrets revealed</a> )but just to play nice here are my answers.<br />
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">What do you eat when you write? What don’t I eat—ever? I’m game for anything. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">What do you do when you experience despair and crippling doubt? Wow, if I didn’t feel despair before, I do now. Am I supposed to be crippled with doubt? That doesn’t sound good. I am my worst critic. I will always think my stuff stinks, but that doesn’t stop me from clicking and clacking away at the keyboard. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">How did you find your first critique partner, or what are you looking for in a future CP? Back when I was a closeted writer, another friend of mine mentioned she was writing a novel, soon we exchanged our crap and found other writers from there. We didn’t match well for writing. I am far too honest and she is far too nice, so it didn’t work out, more so for her. I can be brutal, but it's all because of love and passion. I'm the most brutal on the people I care about. Kinda like spinach in the teeth--gotta tell 'em something nasty is in their choppers, right? As far as what I look for in a CP: I think it is important to be honest and brutal, but fair. I expect my feelings to be hurt and I expect to get better; it's the circle of life without the Hyena that has a Whoopi voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">What is your biggest distraction when you write? My kids, husband, cats, squirrels, rainbows, sunshine. You name it. I am easily distracted and . . . I forgot what we were talking about. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">What character in your writing are you most proud of development wise? Why? I like a piece of each of them, I’m not sure if I like one more than the other because I sort of move on to the new characters I’m working on. I love the father of my second novel, because I had a crappy one and good dads are hard to come by. Atticus Finch syndrome or something. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">What is the worst thing you’ve ever written? Ugh! My first novel was crap, embarrassing crap, but I reworked it and have had some great praise, a couple contest wins, but I still see such huge flaws. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">7.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Do you talk to yourself, get up, act things out, or make faces when you’re writing? I read my stuff aloud to make sure it flows. My husband makes fun of me all the time because he thinks I’m talking to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">8.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Where do you go for inspiration? Other books, movies, a long shower, a drive in the country, my car at lunchtime. Anywhere where I have a moment to just be and let the voices tell me what’s up. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">9.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">What is the hardest part about writing for you? Writing is a huge sacrifice to family. We are so consumed by it that’s all we want to do. I say, we, because I’ve seen it over and over. It is really hard to balance life and writing. My kids miss out of me because, rather than living in the real world, all I want to do is play in imaginary ones. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">10.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">If I were a world famous author what advice would I give new writers? Hmmm. . . Don’t ever let anyone tell you how you should write, what I mean is yes, there are rules, but getting wrapped up in them takes away from the creative unique way you tell a story. If you want an adverb, write it. Don’t be afraid to break the rules, but in order to write well you need to know the rules just so you can break them. (That makes sense in my head)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">11.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Have you ever had ketchup chips? Nope, but I like the dill pickle kind. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><b>So, I’m supposed to tag people now. If that doesn’t involve running, then maybe I’ll participate. Unless you’d like to make my life a lot easier and pick one question on here and answer it in my comment box. Help a girl out. Oh, and can you hand me the remote, while you're up.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-68925643665898290092012-02-20T21:02:00.000-07:002015-02-07T18:20:11.142-07:00A Little Study In Movement Thanks To "Lars and The Real Girl"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I don’t have much to blog about, but I just had to share a clip from a movie I’m crazy about. I love Ryan Gosling, first of all, but the story is one of the more endearing ones I’ve seen in a while. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I find a movie I like, I usually try to watch it again when it is fresh on my brain. Instead of watching for the story, I watch the characters and their reactions to what’s happening around them. Movement and description can be difficult to effectively pull off for a writer, especially with so many characters furrowing their brows or nodding and the endless chuckling...fuhgetaboutit. Movement is where we truly see who a character is without being told through blatant narration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ryan Gosling did an amazing job in this flick. The blinking eyes, the smell of his baby blanket he keeps around his neck like a scarf, the reactions of supporting players to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-27005637094977421262012-02-16T21:38:00.001-07:002012-02-17T17:41:46.368-07:00Likable VS Fallible Characters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cE41jRldwQk/Tz3Zk75kJdI/AAAAAAAAALA/UnbqBTsbeC8/s1600/mistake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cE41jRldwQk/Tz3Zk75kJdI/AAAAAAAAALA/UnbqBTsbeC8/s1600/mistake.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Bradley Hand ITC'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Bradley Hand ITC'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Nobody’s perfect <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial Black', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We all make mistakes <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 2.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Kristen ITC'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Live and learn <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 2.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Copperplate Gothic Bold', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">To err is human to forgive is divine <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I like to pride myself on being a giving person. Someone who is considerate of others feelings, however there have been so many occasions when words fly out of my mouth unintended—at least partially unintended. It takes a few seconds. A look. Whatever. Then I want to crawl back inside myself and take it back. I don’t know why I said what I said, but I did. Does that make me a bad person? No. I guess, it just makes me real.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">So how far can you go when crafting characters? How big of a hole can you dig them in before the reader simply thinks the person is unlikable?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I’m struggling with this in my second novel. It’s completed, but in need of a good edit. I am a by-the-seat-of-my-pants writer, no matter how hard I try to follow a written or even an imaginary guide, my characters steer me on their own path. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">In this story, the MC is struggling to relate to her father, to forgive him for a foolish and disastrous mistake he made in a moment of weakness. He made the wrong decision because he loved someone so much. He paid his consequences, however so did his family and that is the thing she can't forgive him for. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Years later, his daughter makes a really bad decision of her own also in the name of love. She tells a horrible lie. One that she can’t undo. This isn't new. Who hasn't lied when they've been pushed in a corner? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I’ve had a critique partner suggest I take it out. “We need to like her,” she says. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I get that, but so often in life we repeat our parents mistakes. No matter how much we say we won’t do this or that, we end up doing the exact same things. My character judged her father so harshly for something he would give anything to take back, yet she made a dumb mistake too. She took a risk and it didn’t pay off. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">So do I dumb it down? Make her do the right thing so she’s likable? Or do I let it ride, hoping someone gets it? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><b>I’d love to hear about how you infuse character idiosyncrasies into your work? </b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 2.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-77250010056615695072012-02-13T22:10:00.000-07:002012-02-13T22:10:28.678-07:00Starting In The Right Place: Are You a Flasher or A Meander-er?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V3o0m9Sp890/TznsDDfjHyI/AAAAAAAAAK4/nVKpxCOzroI/s1600/party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V3o0m9Sp890/TznsDDfjHyI/AAAAAAAAAK4/nVKpxCOzroI/s1600/party.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One of the biggest issues I see with some of the free downloads I’m reading on my Kindle is that many of them are starting in the wrong place. The concept of the story sounds great, but the beginning isn’t enough to pull me in, or it’s full of so much backstory and narrative. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We are an impatient society. We want our food fast, our internet fast, and our women . . . (just seeing if you’re paying attention). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So how do you know if your story starts in the right place? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Wanna come to a party and find out?<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Put on your fancy shoes and step inside. Drinks are on me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I was rackin’ my brain trying to come up with a way to explain how to start a story in the right place, I kept seeing two friends of mine. We’ll call one Matilda and the other Amy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Matilda is responsible. She works hard and likes her life to be as simple and stress free as possible. Amy also works hard, but she grabs each minute of her free time and lives it completely. These two girls are a blast, but they are very different. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Matilda takes her time in each situation. She thinks things through. She wanders the food table, samples a bit of the usual tid bits, takes a cracker or two, but she just isn’t ready to jump into the gooey stuff everyone’s been raving about—too risky. She nurses her drink while she makes small talk with Jimmy, a friend of a friend’s brother Larry. They chat about nothing in particular, in fact, Matilda can’t remember his name. She’s so preoccupied with saying the right thing that she loses a bit of focus. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Meanwhile, Amy doesn’t waste any time. She storms into the room and announces her presence. She skips the crackers and cheese and takes a big dollup of the gooey stuff and smacks Jimmy on the ass. She doesn’t waste time with idle chit chat; she heads straight for the dance floor. She isn’t much of a dancer, but that doesn’t stop her. And when the party starts to waver, she’s the first to flash the crowd and bring them back to submission. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So am I saying your main character needs to flash her boobs and smack some ass? Yep, I am. We don’t have time to meander through the crowd, building up courage to talk to the hot shot across the room. We need to start with action—purpose—and not only lead the reader through the story, but pull them by the eyeballs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m a smart reader, most of the time. I catch onto things. Trust me a little bit. Let me discover and feel the story. Resist the urge to explain. Have a drink. Flash your boobs. (book boobs, not real boobs) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This is a hard lesson, I know. I’m a meanderer in real life. I don’t wanna touch the gooey stuff, especially not after Larry double dipped. I want to get to know people slowly, so I know whether I can trust them. I don’t want to be the first on the dance floor. But if I bog people down with backstory and dense narrative right from the get go, I’m gonna be the girl who doesn’t get invited back to the party, and what a shame that would be since I just bought a fancy pair of shoes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>What do you think about starting in the right place? Do you see more stories getting it right or meandering?</b></span></div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-53365569762006014452012-02-09T21:13:00.000-07:002012-02-09T21:13:24.351-07:00It’s Time To Kiss The Baby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XxQCSGmDAMY/TzSY7jSKQaI/AAAAAAAAAKw/aDBc9Ddu9E4/s1600/goals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XxQCSGmDAMY/TzSY7jSKQaI/AAAAAAAAAKw/aDBc9Ddu9E4/s1600/goals.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A year ago, I was an active writer, deep in the dream of publication. I wrote every day, blogged, belonged to two different critique groups, and pursued my dream head on. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">However, a bump in the road steered me in a different direction—a different state—and I started working full time. Full time work meant part time writing, and when part time writing seemed too much I stopped all together. Meanwhile, the lives of my writing circle changed. They moved closer to their goals of publication and soon, one buddy published with an e-publisher, and another decided to go the self-pub route and a couple months ago another signed with a publisher and is getting ready to release her debut. Yet I remained just as I was—stagnant and far away from my group in both distance and direction. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As much as I wanted to be supportive, I struggled to keep up the mask of excitement. I was<b> </b>excited for them, but I was the one who had brought us together and soon, I was the one standing in the crowd watching. I had lost my desire. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was resentful that I wasn’t strong enough to balance it all and bitter that I allowed myself to slow down, to let my dream fade as if it meant nothing at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was thinking about this recently as I tried to pull myself out of my funk and give my writing peeps some of the support I wasn’t previously able to give. I remembered when I had graduated college and started my big girl job. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I met a couple friends who were born to be mommies and desperately wanted children. They couldn’t get enough of the drooling, boogery things, but unfortunately, no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t have children. Despite their hang-ups, life carried on for those around them. Soon, a mutual friend had a child, then another and another. One year turned into ten. Yet, through years and trial after trial, these women weren’t able to live their dream. Failed adoptions and broken hearts kept them at a distance. Relationships faltered. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I couldn’t imagine what it was like to want something so bad and have to face that loss every day. To greet friends with smiles, knowing that she has the one thing you could never have. Baby showers full of women, forced laughter, and envious stares, then a hug goodbye and a silent car ride to an empty nest. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I remember watching one of these ladies as she scooped up a child into her arms and lulled it to sleep. The look in her eyes as she stared at that baby was heartbreaking. All the people in the room hushed because this woman, in particular, had suffered through three miscarriages. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help but ask her later how she was able to cope and she simply said, “Sometimes you just have to kiss the baby.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So as I figure my way back to my dream, I just wanted to tell my friends—new and old—how exciting it is to see them pursue theirs. This is a rough business and not one for everyone. We face scrutiny, jealousy, frustration, and a loss of faith in ourselves. But it doesn’t have to be that way if we take a minute to remember why we do what we do, why it matters. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How do you handle life and writing? Have you ever wanted to give up? <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-81124344005671645342012-02-07T18:42:00.000-07:002012-02-07T18:42:56.326-07:00Rach Writes Platform Building: Are you in?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QBNLg94n5Xs/TzHS8Q8_58I/AAAAAAAAAKo/_I3REO3VoSA/s1600/I'm+a+platform-building+campaigner+badge+(purple).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QBNLg94n5Xs/TzHS8Q8_58I/AAAAAAAAAKo/_I3REO3VoSA/s1600/I'm+a+platform-building+campaigner+badge+(purple).png" /></a></div>When I first started blogging, I was fortunate to get involved in Rach Writes Platform Building or "Crusade". It is a great opportunity to meet other writers and bloggers and support each other. <br />
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Pop on over and check it out. Hope to see ya there!<br />
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Here it is in Rachel's own words:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">"There are so many of us out there. Aspiring authors, bloggers (whether established or beginning), industry peeps, even published authors, all of whom want to build their online platforms. We write insightful posts and articles, actively blog within the blogosphere, take part in challenges, competitions, and contests galore.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">We have the passion and the drive to make it, but…we could all do with a bit of support.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">So I started thinking. What if we link all these people together? What if we create a way to meet people in a similar position, people who genuinely want to help build our online platform while at the same time building theirs? People who want to pay it forward in the spirit of writerly writerness and blogging beautificity (and see it come back to them in turn).</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">And so, my Writers’ Platform-Building Campaign was born."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Click <a href="http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com.au/">here</a> to head right to her site. </span>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-28157731839188653692012-02-05T14:19:00.000-07:002012-02-05T14:19:47.544-07:00The End? Seriously?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4Ep0q-o7JuE/Ty7xDQf1dRI/AAAAAAAAAKY/twGgkGpEm0Q/s1600/kindle+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4Ep0q-o7JuE/Ty7xDQf1dRI/AAAAAAAAAKY/twGgkGpEm0Q/s1600/kindle+2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My husband bought me a Kindle for Christmas, which was much nicer than last year’s present. I won’t rat him out on what I scored last year, however let’s just say I did not shake, shake, shake myself into great arms and shoulders. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Anyway, love my new gadget. The trouble is I’m downloading a mess of sample chapters and not a lot of books. I’m just simply not impressed. Perhaps it is my impatient mind, or my whining children. I don’t know. I just feel like there isn’t a lot of great, grab-you-by-the-eyeballs books out there. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I just finished a self-published dystopian. It actually started pretty good and I willingly purchased the book. The author kept my attention, however the book could’ve been so much better. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Repeater words, thick narrative saying essentially the same thing, bare minimum character development, and just enough to get by world building.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The worst, and deal breaker for me, was the ending. The book simply cut off after a major turning point in the story with a lackluster lead to the next book. The End. Please purchase my next book. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Thanks for the sample chapter, Ms. Author, but I’ll pass.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I love series books. BUT the first book needs to have some sort of resolution—a pay off of sorts. The threat can remain, but I need it to come full circle somehow or I have no desire to read on. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hunger Games</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> is hugely popular, so I will reference this. The first book’s ending alluded to more to come, however the initial threat was satisfied. Katniss and Peeta lived. They won the games and outsmarted the government. It was a moment to breathe, yet our minds couldn’t help but wonder what else was on the horizon for them. We knew they were in for it. And because I read the book right after it came out I had to wait another year before <i>Catching Fire</i> came out. I had time to think about it, let it stew, yet not feel jipped. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What do you think about the ending of a series (first book in particular)? Do you need resolution of sorts, or if the second book is out is that okay? <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-55913917867745388442012-01-30T22:07:00.000-07:002012-01-30T22:07:43.174-07:00Do I Have What It Takes To Be A Book Pimp?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a1hXFM76jpg/Tyd01jh4rLI/AAAAAAAAAKI/DW0bU2lqLUA/s1600/buy+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a1hXFM76jpg/Tyd01jh4rLI/AAAAAAAAAKI/DW0bU2lqLUA/s1600/buy+book.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m a bit shocked with the change in Twitter since my brief hiatus. I don’t know if I just didn’t pay attention before, but I find myself avoiding it all together. Each time I log on, my Timeline is full of the same five to ten faces, all pimping their books or blogs. The tweets vary, but are obviously scheduled and mostly sound the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It didn’t always seem like this. It was more about people, building relationships in 1</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">40 characters or less. Tweets were creative, drew attention to themselves with their wit and spontaneity. Those are the people I wanted to follow. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If I choose self publishing is this what I’m going to have to do just to sell a book? If so, I might as well pack it up right now. I’ve never been a good salesman. I sold Avon for a short time and felt so guilty for providing people with a free, no obligation brochure. Needless to say, I closed up shop a year and a whole lotta face cream later. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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What do you think? Does all this blogging and tweeting endlessly about your book really help?Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-86149808609200399912012-01-21T10:39:00.000-07:002013-03-29T21:26:51.354-06:00Did She Just Say . . . Penis? Our Critique Group’s First Experience with Romance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If you’re a writer, you’ve probably heard the advice to join a critique group. Some believe strongly in it, while others clutch their babies and hold on to dear life, not ready or willing to share themselves. Then there are those who simply think they are above that and want to go it alone. <i>(Good luck on that!)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was reluctant at first; it’s a big deal. Someone not only is peeking into your “panty drawer” but he or she is digging in, moving stuff around, and putting it on their heads like an obnoxious teenager. You want to look over their shoulder, making sure they are taking care of your unmentionables. But, this is a moment of restraint—of trust—and one that I wouldn’t change for anything. I wouldn’t be where I am today without my group. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When Kacey Mark joined my partners and me in our critiquing mayhem, we couldn’t be happier. She was blunt and to the point and offered great suggestions to keep us going. But as my critiquing friends and I delved further into her paranormal romance, we realized we had a different sort of cookie on our hands. I was writing women’s fiction at the time, while the other two were tackling nonfiction and contemporary YA. Kacey was writing romance, but this wasn’t your average romance as we’ve read. It was heated and intense. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At one point, I was behind on chapters and received an email from the biggest pervert of the group, who just so happens to be an active Mormon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Did you read the part about . . . ? Call me as soon as you get to the part with <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the . . . “ <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then another email from my other partner, who is not Mormon, but a girl who is as naïve as they come—in a good way. I call her my sunshine and roses friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“<i>Did you read the part about . . . ?” Call me as soon as you get to the part with the . . . "<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I grabbed my laptop and started plugging away on my critiquing of <i>A Muse Gone Rogue, </i>I read three chapters and never got to “the part about . . .” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">WTH? I emailed her, feeling cheated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Here’s your chapters. They look great, but I seem to be missing something.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Can you really say, “Hey, where are my sex scenes?” Nope. “Something” would have to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She sent me two more chapters, which I promptly went through and still, no “part about the . . .” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Where was my dot, dot, dot?</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I didn’t realize I was that far behind. Meanwhile, I received another email. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“This is good stuff. Can you believe Kacey wrote this? She looks like the PTA president. I had to read the one part with Quenton and Marie twice. You know, that ONE PART.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">No, I actually don’t know THAT ONE PART or THE DOT DOT DOT! I was digging her story. I mean check out her product description from Amazon: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“When a demonic attack leaves one child without a mother, Marie Durrant throws out her predictable lifestyle to become the little girl’s nanny. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s a big enough step for the virtual shut in, but even more difficult when Marie becomes inexplicably attracted to the mysterious widowed father, who happens to be the most powerful muse west of Mt. Olympus. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Quenton Blake is an extra hunky, extra irritated immortal, cursed to seek out those desperate for inspiration and feed on their souls. There wasn’t anything wrong with saving Marie’s soul for dessert, but his sweet tooth has a way of overriding his good judgment.”</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Quenton was sexy and the sexual tension with Marie was great, but I had yet to get to the good stuff. I was a housewife after all. We need some inspiration to get past the boogers and whining that fill our day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I got it. Finally. *insert celestial music* But my chapters also came with a note: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here it is!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That “here it is” was a little fishy and I could’ve sworn I heard giggling. I’m thinking one of my compadres had passed on my lack of dot, dot, dots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m not going to give away the juicy details, let’s just say it was definitely a read-it-twice kind of scene (or two). Especially since I had forgot to edit the first time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So what kind of romance does Kacey Mark write? Well, let’s just say it’s enough to make a girl blush and enough to keep you turning the pages. It’s not trashy by any means, but if you have a heart condition you may want to read it with only one eye opened, just to be safe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lucky for you, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Muse-Gone-Rogue-Dark-ebook/dp/B005HXXL5G/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1327164682&sr=8-1">A Muse Gone Rogue</a></i> is on sale for a limited time. Evernight Publishing is offering it at the promotional price of $.99. But, that price won’t last for long. Her second book <i>A Muse Gone Commando</i> was released recently and is just as steamy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-10483552288770052502012-01-17T05:00:00.001-07:002013-12-28T21:30:05.218-07:00The Art Of A Memoir: The Golden Sky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Everyone has a story to tell and there are millions of writers out there telling them. Often these are fiction, stories we shape from the crazy characters yammering on in our heads. But then there are those who tell their own stories: the memoir writers who pull their inspiration from a piece of their lives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">One of my favorite books is <i>Angela’s Ashes </i>by<i> </i>Frank McCourt. I was fortunate to listen to it on audio. I’m not sure I would’ve fallen in love with it as much simply reading the words, but hearing it . . . I’m not sure how to explain the power of Frank McCourt’s voice as he told his heartbreaking tale. I felt a surge of honor listening to his story and smiled as he sang his Irish ditties. But mostly, I was mesmerized, mesmerized by his strength and his will to carry on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Another favorite of mine is <i>Night </i>by Elie Weisel. It’s the story of a young Jewish boy and his father struggling to survive a Nazi concentration camp during WWII. At one point, Elie refers to his father as “dead weight”. The burden that boy must’ve felt as he silently wished for his father’s death settled into my soul and never left. This was a real boy, experiencing real torture. Not made up. Not a dream. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then of course, there is <i>The Diary of a Young Girl </i>by Anne Frank, which I also prefer on audio. The audio brings her life—life which should’ve never been taken away. This young writer leads us through her adolescence with hope, despite all the death around her. We want her to succeed, however we know something that Anne does not. Each day she writes to her fabled “Kitty,” we know is a day closer to death, a day she wouldn’t see her dreams realized. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">A couple years ago, I had the privilege of reading the journal of another young girl—a woman embarking on a journey of her own. At nineteen, she discovered the baby she carried inside her had serious birth defects. Doctors suggested she terminate the pregnancy. It was hopeless: the baby wouldn’t survive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Elisa struggled to come to terms with the idea of ending the life of the baby who still moved and fluttered within her. She fought with God and ultimately decided to give her child a chance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Zeke is born and struggles to hang on, but that does not deter Elisa from doing what any mother should and fight for strength. He has good days and bad yet he still clings to life. There was hope at one point, unfortunately, a nurse’s mistake changes everything and little Zeke takes a turn.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Elisa and her husband, Cade, watch their son falter and struggle against the pain of living. It is then they make the decision to let him go—to breathe on his own for the final time.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The rest of the memoir shows what happens to their lives as they battle through guilt, loss, and anger. Their relationship crumbles; Elisa questions her faith in God, survives a “rogue skunk,” finds redemption in “the good morning yahoos” all the while caring for her three-year-old daughter. Money is tight—nonexistent—and she often relies simply on the “oatmeal option” to make it day to day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">As heartbreaking as her story is, it was laugh out loud funny. I’ve known the writer for some time and had experienced all the crazy things that only seemed to happen to her, but I couldn’t believe her luck with the absurd. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ever wonder what happens when your husband doesn't get around to fixing the toilet? Elisa's husband doesn't. </td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">To preserve the authenticity of her journal, Elisa copied her words straight from the spiral notebooks, napkins, scrap papers, and hardbound diaries to the computer. It’s all real—all her. She struggled with how much to take out, while making it readable and real. She’s a storyteller by nature and although she could’ve taken liberties with her story, she didn’t. She wanted the words of that naïve and impressionable nineteen year old to come through. She once told me that although it was painful and terribly personal to put herself out there for all to dissect, she had to do it. If her story could help one person, then she’d relive it all over and over again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Because . . . </span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Handwriting'; font-size: 12pt;">The Golden Sky</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">comes after the storm</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Golden-Sky-ebook/dp/B006FD16DQ/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1326772492&sr=8-2">http://www.amazon.com/The-Golden-Sky-ebook/dp/B006FD16DQ/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1326772492&sr=8-2</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I'm honored to add Elisa's story to my favorite memoirs. Not only does she show strength in the face of such sadness, but she shows us all that despite the pain, we can laugh and find the bright light in anything. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">If you have a moment check out the link above and consider adding <i>The Golden Sky</i> to your list too. Or if you simply want a laugh <b>or several</b>, check out Elisa at her blog: <a href="http://ecwrites.blogspot.com/">The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom </a></span><br />
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Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8700688529768348258.post-1909125542994092852012-01-11T21:43:00.000-07:002013-12-28T21:38:24.196-07:00Too Many #aspiringwriters Out There? Have You Considered A Career Change?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve been popping in and out of twitter in my quest to get back in the writing groove. At first, I felt a little revived—I even edited a bit—but now I’m feeling a bit like the last person in line for Black Friday. The fact is there are a crapload of writers out there and each, it seems, is one-step ahead of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I knew there were a lot of aspiring writers, but in the short time I've been on hiatus, there have been a surge of self published writers all tweeting for me to buy their book, read their blog, review this, retweet that . . . Ay yi yi. Am I foolish in my endeavors to become a writer? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Maybe</i>. I chose the wrong career in the first place. I could be wrong again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve been doing some research and have found several promising careers that I’m betting are safer, more reachable. After all, the world is my oyster, right? Lots of opportunities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Speaking of Oysters . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I could be an “Oyster Floater”. No really, I could. Did you know oysters need to float in specially attuned water in order to remove impurities? Yep, it’s true. Who likes impure Oysters? Not this girl. I like mine as unadulterated as a Hallmark commercial. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What about a “Pet Food Taster”? I’ve been meaning to give up real food for good, since it’s so delicious and makes my ass big. What better way than to taste pet food for a living? I can’t imagine I’d ever want to put anything in my mouth ever again, especially after I went to my part-time job as a . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Vomit Collector”. Yep, no theme park would be complete without those folks whose sole purpose is to clean up the yak around the rides that inspire the worst motion sickness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After excelling at those, I would be quite the “Odor Judge”. I mean, who wouldn’t want their nose shoved into a hairy ol’ armpit. I’m thinking after I ate some pet food and cleaned up barf all day, a whiff of an armpit would be like soft serve ice cream on a hot day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Or, I can go a whole different route and work with animals. I love animals. I could be a “Chicken Sexer”. Think how important it is to decipher the genitalia of newly-hatched birds and inventorying the males vs. the females. That’s a big time job. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And after I checked the kibbles and bits of poultry, I could slip on over to the barn and inseminate Bessie the cow. “Animal Insemination” is a necessary for us to keep up our food supply. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Similar to this line of work is one that I think not many would pass up. In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it before. A “Livestock Masturbator” (nope, not making this up) acquires the body fluids necessary for conception, which as all you know, play an integral role in our food supply. Have you thanked your Livestock Masturbator lately? If not, you should. A plate of cookies at Christmas would be nice. I would just avoid the cream filled center kind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m feeling a little better knowing that even though I’m one of many in a sea of wanna-be writers, I have options. There are career paths out there waiting for me. So if you see me on twitter #amvomitcollecting or #chickensexing, you’ll know I’ve embarked on a new journey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">BTW, those are real job titles. Not making it up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So how are you feeling amongst all the promising writers out there? Feeling like jumping ship, perhaps becoming an Ostrich Babysitter? Are you overwhelmed as I am with all the pimping of books and blogs. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
Dianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752019877440100530noreply@blogger.com15