The Fight, Fight, Fight! Blogfest!!!

And now, my entry in the Fight, Fight, Fight! Blogfest, being held by JC Martin at Fight Writer. Check out all of the other entries here.

I had posted this yesterday, after my Fairytale Blogfest entry. I figured posting it on its own today might be easier for folks to get to. Less scrolling.

And thank you to all who also commented on my Fight entry yesterday!

I have written shoot outs, verbal fights, fist fights and even a cat fight. This ‘fight was a bit different for me.

This is a part of scene from my temporarily shelved WIP, Touched. Logan is my MC. He is a telepath, amongst other things. He is helping his childhood friend Mike (a deputy), with a dispute outside of town. The islands dock manager, Stan Murdock, is drunk and taking revenge on Dr. Melbourne, a marine researcher who runs the science center.

I attempted to give the reader the viewpoints of both Logan and Mike. I am not sure it worked (hence shelved WIP). In this scene, Mike gets a small hint that his long lost friend has something more than money and attitude going for him….

WARNING: Curse words and some crude epithets of a derogatory nature. Do not read if this offends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Buddy?” Logan called out just as Murdock slammed the axe into the door hinges. “How about ya call it a day and go sleep it off…”

“FUCK YOU!” Murdock bellowed, now focused on the embedded axe.

“No, I don’t think so.” Logan knowingly smirked, his eyes solidly trained on the axe wedged into the door.

When the big man reached for his weapon of choice and pulled, the axe stayed put by the sheer strength of Logan’s telekinetic stare. Murdock’s hands slipped from the handle, sending him staggering back from the door and into a table top.

Taking the opportunity, Mike moved to Logan’s side. Murdock found his unsteady footing and was reaching for the axe once more.

“Come on Stan, let the axe alone…” Mike calmly ordered the bleary eyed dock manager. At this point, a voice could be heard from behind the mangled door.

“It’s Deputy Michael Mahoning, Doctor. We are here to help…”

“You people get this deranged Neanderthal out of my lab!” The muffled sound of authority bellowed from behind the door. “To protect and serve, my ass…”

Logan could only feel indignation and a over bearing sense of entitlement emanating from Murdock’s target behind the door. (through his ability) For a half second, he considered allowing the big brute to bag the snooty intellectual and call it a day.

“FUCK YOU TOO, YA MURDERIN TREE HUGGIN FAG!” Murdock yelled his unoriginal epithets to the scientist behind the door. “I told ya I’d get ya for burnin my boat, ya freekin fairy…”

“You stupid, half breed ogre.” The doctor retorted. “I don’t give two shits about your precious rat trap skiff. Why would I burn it?”

“Shut up! SHUT. UP.” Murdock’s screamed at the top of his lungs and pulled angrily once more on the axe handle, becoming more frustrated with each try.

Logan took the opportunity to step away from Mike and walked closer to the exit door, cautioning his friend the deputy to stay put.

Mike watched his friend with raised brow, his gun now trained on Murdock who was still trying to move the strangely unmovable axe. ‘What the hell is Logan doing?’ And then he realized and his stomach went sick.

“Hey big guy…” Logan could almost taste the immense swell of anger and frustration swirling in the alcoholic whirlpool that was Murdock’s head. It was familiar and it tasted bitter, but it was strong, too strong for the man to stop the path he was taking now.

‘Need to focus that nasty elsewhere. Need to distract…’

“Tell me, what kind of man will your girl think of you for killing this guy…” Logan nodded to the storage vault. The large man abruptly turned and let out a bull snort, focusing his full attention on Logan. “Then again, I guess it wouldn’t matter much anyway, being that you’re not much of a man to begin with, being a wee thing and all…”

Mike’s eyes grew wide when Logan raised his thumb and pointer finger to demonstrate the size of the large man’s questionable manhood.

Murdock screamed with rage and lunged, knocking Logan into the emergency exit he'd purposely positioned himself. Logan had hoped to take the party outside.

‘Oh, shit.’

Logan realized the flaw in his plan too late. The door was locked. Something he was quickly remedying with his ability, while trying to avoid getting smashed like a bug by the larger man pinning him into the door.

Mike joined the tussle, throwing his own body weight onto the man to try and subdue him. And then the lock on the emergency door disengaged, and all three men went sprawling out into the back parking lot. The door alarm blaring.

“Holy hell, Stanley. Knock it off!” Mike yelled, reaching for his cuffs, trying to sit on Murdocks flailing legs.

Logan pushed his weight into the man’s head and shoulders and into the ground, trying to get his arms. “Mike. Cuffs!”

This needed to end.

Logan closed his eyes, before they began to blur, the hand he held down on Murdock’s head began to hum with everything—all the anger and humiliation and even pain that drove the man struggling under him. The fast frightening beat of the mans heart became Logans own and he focused on it, held it within his own mind as tight as his grip on the mans body. ‘Slow…’ Logan breathed out, eyes squeezed tight. ‘Rest. You are done, here.’

Mike could feel the large man slowly begin to still under him, giving him enough time to catch the hands that now lay limp on the snow and gravel. Finally cuffing the man he sat back on the now listless man’s legs, and looked to his friend who had rolled off the big man’s body and was now on his back in the snow.

The young deputy felt a shiver go down his spine; the light blue of Logan’s eyes almost appeared white when he opened them to the overcast sky. Something had just happened here and Mike was damned if he knew what.

Before he could say a word, the frazzled but no less indignant Dr. Melbourne walked through the alarming exit door, reaching up with his key to shut off the sound. “So you got the son-of-a-bitch…”

Logan sat up, wiping the snow off his body and out of his unruly hair. Mike turned his attention to the scientist and the large axe in his shaking bony hand.

“How did you get that out of the door?”

The doctor continued to eye his ex-captor, now trussed up on the ground like Christmas Turkey. “Found it on the floor.”

Mike turned back to Logan and found his friend’s cool crystalline blue eyes dulled and settled upon him. His expression unreadable.

“Keys? I’ll pull the Jeep around and help ya load ‘Gigantor’.” Logan snarked, his voice calm and even while Mike still found himself panting for breath.

Mike nodded and flipped him the keys. “Thanks.”

Logan nodded and turned, feeling his friend’s eyes and questions follow him into the falling snow….



Thanks for reading folks. I will be around to ya soon!

Fairy Tale Blogfest AND Fight, Fight, Fight! Blogfest

I have duel entries to give today. Both around 1,000 words so be warned.

The first is my entry for The Fairy Tale Blogfest. Hosted by Emily White at Stepping into Fantasy. Love the pic BTW! Go here to read all the other wonderful blend ups.

I am unsure if the story I chose these characters, can be considered a fair tail, but I definitely have two genre's colliding. You be the judge.

My Fight! Fight! Fight! entry is right after. Scroll down!!!!!! Thanks all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shahryar!” The old Vizier squinted mirthfully at his youngest grandchild, stalking him just outside the kitchen backdoor.

“Come child; give your grandfather an ear.” The old man heartily patted the edge of the fire hearth beneath him. “I have another tale for you.”

The Viziers smile grew wide while watching the small prepubescent quietly acquiesce and step obediently inside. He’d found his entertainment for the evening, a perk of being a grandfather.

“It’s not another sea monster tale is it Pa Pa? The boy cautioned, dark wide eyes reflecting in the late evening light. “Mother said I cannot listen if it’s a lie about sea monsters and such. She said I might have nightmares...”

“No monsters, only facts child. Besides, your mother would not deny a good story telling. Your father can attest to that fact. ” The old man winked at his would-be audience. The child quietly took the offered seat.

“Besides, I told your mother you are made of the stronger stuff—I know it! And to be honest, it’s tales of the truth that’s scarier. My ‘monster tales’ as your mother calls them can be given a happier ending if I see fit. A story can be as kind or as sensible as you wish in its telling. But the real can be just as dangerous and unexplained as it pleases. And if you wait long enough, the real becomes story with each new generation of tellers...” the Vizier rambled on.

“Grandfather?” the child questioned.

The old man ceased his lecture of the real and make believe and smiled conspiringly at his young charge. “If your mamma asks, just tell her I was saving your soul, a thousand and one tales at a time.” The small boy raised his brow but dutifully nodded. The old man began.

“This story goes back a while and it starts simple enough. A boy, not much older than you, was helping his Uncle on his fishing boat, the Dunyazad. Two days into the trip, the crew saw a man afloat upon the sea. They pulled him aboard—naked as a newborn babe and so very pale. They weren’t expecting the man to have breath left in him. It was all a shock when they were proven wrong...”

“So he was alive, grandfather? How did he get out there? Was there a ship?”

“Now you get talkative with all your questions, huh?” a twinkle lit the old storyteller’s eye. “Of course there had to be a ship, child—man out in the middle of the ocean—and yes he was living. What did I say? Now listen.” The old man smirked unperturbed and began again.

“Well, when this man started to come around he began to mumble things in some sort of foreign tongue unfamiliar to the boy or the men. It wasn’t long before the stranger opened his eyes-pale silvery grey eyes...” the old man trailed off into silence for but a moment, his own eyes reflective and far away.

“Well, after talking to the man and clothing him, the man began to make more sense. He told the crew about his ship and its crew. Said it was in trouble and demanded the Captain take the Dunyazad out of its way—out into the great sea near a coming storm. A dangerouse storm, growing red and angry with each passing hour. ”

The old man leaned back against the far corner of the immense old fire place and breathed in the supper cooking there.

“A day glides fairly quick when you’re heading to somewhere you don’t want to be.” The old man nodded to the child. “It felt that way to the crew of the Dunyazad. It didn’t help that the pale man sending them on their present journey took to pacing the bow of the ship—faster and faster with each knot they came.”

“It was around about supper time, the storm promised itself just over the horizon. Clouds taking out the last of the sunset and the glow of lightning taking up where the stars should have been. It was about this time did the stranger stop pacing on the bow and stood dead center, his eyes out over the sea.”

“By then the crew was busy batting down the ship, for the storm had picked up, but the boy kept watch on the stranger. Even with the ship tipping and rolling, the man stood at the front of the ship, steady legged and sure. And then, just before the ship hit another wave, the pale man turned to the boy and smiled...” the old man trailed off while he held the frozen and attentive stare of his grandchild.

“And then he looked to the sky...” the old man looked up to the ceiling and then back to the wide eyed child.

“It was in the light of the next lightning strike, did the boy see something he would not forget to this day. The strangers eyes, those pale grey eyes had taken on the glow of the lighting—the lightening that now seemed to be steadily following the ship over the waves into the night. Before the child could blink another bolt of light shot across the bow of the Dunyazad but at a strait vertical, sending the boy for cover. When he turned back to the bow, both the stranger and dancing lightning were gone.”

A silence fell over the kitchen, the crackle and pop of the fire filling the space.
“What ha-happened to the stranger Pa Pa?” the young boy finally spoke. The old man gave the child a quiet smile.

“Some say he fell overboard, maybe got hit by the lightning. No one but the boy was watching him at the time, but no one believed what 'I' told them when we got back to port...”

“So the boy was you Pa Pa!” the boy exclaimed in awe. The old man gave a nod. He’d only partly meant to let that bit of information slip.

“I told you I tell stories about the real—it’s what I saw.” The old man leaned in close to his grandchild, placing a wide palm on the boys shoulder. “And I say that the stranger didn’t drown or get burst apart by a lightning zap. And he wasn’t looking for his ship that night out on the sea. I say he wanted to be taken back, so his ship could find him and take him up and away into the stars...”

“Father, Shahryar...”

The steady foot falls of the lady of the house neared the kitchen threshold. The Vizier’s daughter had come to take away his young audience.

“In here, Scheherazade.” Quietly, the storyteller raised a finger to his lips and winked at his grandchild. “Tomorrow I shall tell you the one about the giant squid...”


(One Thousand and One Nights or Scheherazade and the 1001 Arabian Nights and a visitor from anther planet tale.)

And now, my entry in the Fight, Fight, Fight! Blogfest, being held by JC Martin at Fight Writer. Check out all of the other entries here.

I have written shoot outs, verbal fights, fist fights and even a cat fight. This ‘fight was a bit different for me. This is a part of scene from my temporarily shelved WIP, Touched. Logan is my MC. He is a telepath, amongst other things. He is helping his childhood friend Mike (a deputy), with a dispute outside of town. The islands dock manager, Stan Murdock, is drunk and taking revenge on Dr. Melbourne, a marine researcher who runs the science center.

I attempted to give the reader the viewpoints of both Logan and Mike. I am not sure it worked (hence shelved WIP). In this scene, Mike gets a small hint that his long lost friend has something more than money and attitude going for him….

WARNING: Curse words and some crude epithets of a derogatory nature. Do not read if this offends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Buddy?” Logan called out just as Murdock slammed the axe into the door hinges. “How about ya call it a day and go sleep it off…”

“FUCK YOU!” Murdock bellowed, now focused on the embedded axe.

“No, I don’t think so.” Logan knowingly smirked, his eyes solidly trained on the axe wedged into the door.

When the big man reached for his weapon of choice and pulled, the axe stayed put by the sheer strength of Logan’s telekinetic stare. Murdock’s hands slipped from the handle, sending him staggering back from the door and into a table top.

Taking the opportunity, Mike moved to Logan’s side. Murdock found his unsteady footing and was reaching for the axe once more.

“Come on Stan, let the axe alone…” Mike calmly ordered the bleary eyed dock manager. At this point, a voice could be heard from behind the mangled door.

“It’s Deputy Michael Mahoning, Doctor. We are here to help…”

“You people get this deranged Neanderthal out of my lab!” The muffled sound of authority bellowed from behind the door. “To protect and serve, my ass…”

Logan could only feel indignation and a over bearing sense of entitlement emanating from Murdock’s target behind the door. (through his ability) For a half second, he considered allowing the big brute to bag the snooty intellectual and call it a day.

“FUCK YOU TOO, YA MURDERIN TREE HUGGIN FAG!” Murdock yelled his unoriginal epithets to the scientist behind the door. “I told ya I’d get ya for burnin my boat, ya freekin fairy…”

“You stupid, half breed ogre.” The doctor retorted. “I don’t give two shits about your precious rat trap skiff. Why would I burn it?”

“Shut up! SHUT. UP.” Murdock’s screamed at the top of his lungs and pulled angrily once more on the axe handle, becoming more frustrated with each try.

Logan took the opportunity to step away from Mike and walked closer to the exit door, cautioning his friend the deputy to stay put.

Mike watched his friend with raised brow, his gun now trained on Murdock who was still trying to move the strangely unmovable axe. ‘What the hell is Logan doing?’ And then he realized and his stomach went sick.

“Hey big guy…” Logan could almost taste the immense swell of anger and frustration swirling in the alcoholic whirlpool that was Murdock’s head. It was familiar and it tasted bitter, but it was strong, too strong for the man to stop the path he was taking now.

‘Need to focus that nasty elsewhere. Need to distract…’

“Tell me, what kind of man will your girl think of you for killing this guy…” Logan nodded to the storage vault. The large man abruptly turned and let out a bull snort, focusing his full attention on Logan. “Then again, I guess it wouldn’t matter much anyway, being that you’re not much of a man to begin with, being a wee thing and all…”

Mike’s eyes grew wide when Logan raised his thumb and pointer finger to demonstrate the size of the large man’s questionable manhood.

Murdock screamed with rage and lunged, knocking Logan into the emergency exit he'd purposely positioned himself. Logan had hoped to take the party outside.

‘Oh, shit.’

Logan realized the flaw in his plan too late. The door was locked. Something he was quickly remedying with his ability, while trying to avoid getting smashed like a bug by the larger man pinning him into the door.

Mike joined the tussle, throwing his own body weight onto the man to try and subdue him. And then the lock on the emergency door disengaged, and all three men went sprawling out into the back parking lot. The door alarm blaring.

“Holy hell, Stanley. Knock it off!” Mike yelled, reaching for his cuffs, trying to sit on Murdocks flailing legs.

Logan pushed his weight into the man’s head and shoulders and into the ground, trying to get his arms. “Mike. Cuffs!”

This needed to end.

Logan closed his eyes, before they began to blur, the hand he held down on Murdock’s head began to hum with everything—all the anger and humiliation and even pain that drove the man struggling under him. The fast frightening beat of the mans heart became Logans own and he focused on it, held it within his own mind as tight as his grip on the mans body. ‘Slow…’ Logan breathed out, eyes squeezed tight. ‘Rest. You are done, here.’

Mike could feel the large man slowly begin to still under him, giving him enough time to catch the hands that now lay limp on the snow and gravel. Finally cuffing the man he sat back on the now listless man’s legs, and looked to his friend who had rolled off the big man’s body and was now on his back in the snow.

The young deputy felt a shiver go down his spine; the light blue of Logan’s eyes almost appeared white when he opened them to the overcast sky. Something had just happened here and Mike was damned if he knew what.

Before he could say a word, the frazzled but no less indignant Dr. Melbourne walked through the alarming exit door, reaching up with his key to shut off the sound. “So you got the son-of-a-bitch…”

Logan sat up, wiping the snow off his body and out of his unruly hair. Mike turned his attention to the scientist and the large axe in his shaking bony hand.

“How did you get that out of the door?”

The doctor continued to eye his ex-captor, now trussed up on the ground like Christmas Turkey. “Found it on the floor.”

Mike turned back to Logan and found his friend’s cool crystalline blue eyes dulled and settled upon him. His expression unreadable.

“Keys? I’ll pull the Jeep around and help ya load ‘Gigantor’.” Logan snarked, his voice calm and even while Mike still found himself panting for breath.

Mike nodded and flipped him the keys. “Thanks.”

Logan nodded and turned, feeling his friend’s eyes and questions follow him into the falling snow….



Thanks for reading folks. I will be around to ya soon!

Musings Under the Steps: A Apt Definition

INVITATION

If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . .
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

by Shel Silverstein

A fairly apt definition of a writer, I think. Dream well my writing comrades. Write well and often.

Finds and Friends Friday: Blogfests and a Thank You!

Let me start by saying how much fun and how happy I was to come across a crop of new friends during the most recent Blogfests I've participated. Guess That Character Blogfest (my prt.1 and prt.2 reveal) hosted by Jen at unedited. And The Rainy Day Blogfest (my entry) hosted by Christine at The Writers Hole.

Again, I recommend entering one of these bits of entertainment, socialization and dare I say challenge to your writing skills.

While reading through many of the other entries, exchanging messages with other participants and browsing others blogs, I was reminded of what a great comfort having this creative outlet has been to me. I know I am not alone in my creative journey. That I have all of you--most I have never met face to face but found something in your entries that talked to me and made me a follower of you. You give me thought provoking articles, links, words of wisdom and folly. I enjoy or am moved by your stories and pictures. And I am given warmth when I get a personal message outside the blogisphere, showing me you have become more than a follower or followed, but a friend.

Having a blog, having followers (and I do not care if its just 5 or 500) has provoked me into being more aggressive with my writing schedule and my writing goals. Now that I have others eyes on me (paranoid much?) I feel more compelled to finish projects on time. 'Gettin er done' has taken on a more professional vibe for me--a good thing for a procrastinator.

And having this blog has sorta become my own version of mom's fridge. I cut, paste, link and write here, the things I have accomplished, things of pride and things I see as solid stepping stones on a right path.

So I raise my fresh brewed to you from under the steps and thank you for reminding me that I am not crazy! I am just a writer...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BTW, a few upcoming blogfests to enjoy. If you have one coming up or know of one I do not have, drop me a line. I think when I hit my 100 mark, I will toss one of my own. *thinking*


* The Fairy Tale Blogfest is being held by Emily White at Stepping into Fantasy, August 30th. Love the pic!

* Fight, Fight, Fight! Blogfest is being held by JC Martin at Fight Writer. August 30th-31st. Felines really do kick ass!



* Flash Fiction contest held by Anne Riley at Anne Riley. Deadline Aug 31st.



The Blogfest of Food is being held by Angela McCallister at Jaded Love Junkie. September 23. Yum!!!



* And Michele Emrath is having a Happy Birthday Blogfest at Southern City Mysteries. September 24. Congrats!

Rainy Day Blogfest meets WIP Wednesday!

Welcome to my entry to The Rainy Day Blogfest, brought to you by Christine at The Writers Hole and some Wednesday WIP. So please follow the link and read the rest of the wonderful entries after your time here with me and my rough bit of WIP.

In this scene, my MC Wyatt, his heroin Mary and half the town have met at the church to go over Mercy Corners Fall Festival plans for the coming weekend. A early fall rain storm is the back drop and a mood setter for this bit.

It’s Wyatt’s first time back in church since his Uncles death and has been talked into singing (once a choir boy). He sings because something in him, something Mary has awakened in him since her return, makes him say yes.

It’s sort of an odd but touching scene. A rough looking, quiet manly man singing with a soft grace in front of his town and the girl. At this point in the story it’s a surprising change in his character. He’s trying to live…

The first section fits in the under 500 wrd count for the Rainy Day Fest, the rest is there if you would like to continue reading some of my WIP. Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

…When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

Wyatt’s warm vocals trailed out into the stilled room and then faded into the thunder that growled outside the chapels opened window panes.

Mary was feeling that thunder—or was it her heart.

Wyatt’s eyes, which he’d kept strictly focused on the back wall of the church during his performance, were now wide and open and trained on her own. She was struck by what she found there.

He’d sung of redemption and grace in a voice full of honesty and confidence. If anything, it was how most saw him as a man. But in his eyes—those dark fathomless eyes, Mary could see redemption and given grace were things Wyatt felt undeserving.

Right then and there, Mary sent up her own prayer within the little house of God. She was out of practice, but it was a simple one.

‘Please let him forgive himself.’

“Well thank you there, Wyatt.” Reverend Wright stepped back up to his pulpit and waved on the warm swell of applause rising and falling through the room like the rolling clouds coming in. It wasn’t every day the town protector dipped his shield and sung to a packed church.

Wyatt humbly nodded to the Reverend and quickly took his seat in the front pew. Through announcements and the reading of the closing prayers, Mary could not keep her eyes from the back of Wyatt’s ridged form.

“Almighty and most merciful Father, we humbly beseech Thee, of Thy great goodness, to restrain these immoderate rains with which we have had to contend. Grant us fair weather for our jubilations. Graciously hearken to us as followers who call upon Thee that, armed with Thy power and love, we may advance from our yesterday’s storms and to better days, and conquer our fears and bring out your glory in all of us. Amen.”

“Amen” Mary whispered.

In the prayers ending, Wyatt partly turned his head in the direction where she sat. A wind gust blew into the little chapel, heralding in the first rains of the coming storm.

****************************************

“Hon, ya want a ride back to the Inn before I go to Molly’s?” Aunt Sissy had sidled up to Mary’s side after the meeting let out. Mary had left before Wyatt could turn around, she was still angry at him for earlier in the week. But she couldn’t leave.

“That’s okay Sissy.” Mary smiled and placed her hand on the perfumed one that squeezed her shoulder. “I need to talk to the Reverend about scheduling at the Red Cross tent tomorrow.” She hoped Sissy humored her lie and walked on without giving one of her patent pending looks of knowing.

She didn’t.

“Sure, hon.” The intuitive redhead cocked her brow and glanced to the back of the church. “See ya tomorrow then.”

Mary didn’t answer, but it seemed Sissy took that as all the answer she needed. Smiling wistfully, Sissy again glanced towards the back of the church and then to Mary. Sighing deep, Sissy winked then stepped out onto the front steps, popped her umbrella and leisurely sauntered out into the rain.

Mary just shook her head, watching her too-smart-for-her-own-good Aunt smoothly dodge mud puddles to her lemon yellow VW.

“So, did she say it’s Molly’s she’s going to?”

Startled, Mary closed her eyes and smiled away her surprise. She turned and found Wyatt standing at her shoulder looking out into the rain.

“You really should wear a bell.” Mary grumbled.

Wyatt offered a light smirk, but continued to look out into the rain.

“So where is my Aunt going?”

“Marcus Wheeler”

“No. The two of them?”

“Since early Summer. Not long after his wife died of cancer. Sissy thinks she needs to hide it, being that he’s so recent a widow.” Wyatt shook his head and shrugged. “All I know it’s every other Sunday she goes to Huntsville to see him. She wears her heals and her good perfume for church service and then she tells Jack she’s going to Molly Jones house afterward for a visit.”

It made sense. Mary had felt something was different about her Aunt this visit. Different, but good. It explained why Sissy had been trying so hard to push her closer to Wyatt. People in love always had a thing for meddling in others relationships. Happiness was its own spreadable disease.

“But that sort of thing shouldn’t matter. They’re not hurting anyone.” And it didn’t surprise Mary that Wyatt was keeping tabs on her Aunt. Wyatt the constant Sheppard. “And besides, their just giving each other comfort…”

The rain had begun to fall hard, splattering off the concrete steps and onto the pair where they stood under the overhang.

“Everyone deserves that…”

Mary’s words failed her when she turned to find Wyatt’s eyes boring through her. She felt like a butterfly pinned or prey found under his piercing stare. She had never known another man like Wyatt, whose stares spoke louder than most men’s loudest roars.

She never knew another man who could make her feel what she felt right now…

She doesn’t quite remember when she’d accepted his offer of a ride back to the boarding house or even if he gave one. They hadn’t spoken a word after leaving the church steps.

The rain poured now. Both had been soaked to the bone and Mary had begun to shake, but it had nothing to do with the rain or the cold.

She watched him put the car in park in front of the house and swore she saw his shoulders begin their downward dip by a weight from some unfathomable source.

“Wyatt?”

Before she could say another word he had bridged the gap between them and had her ensnared in his arms. Overpowered and overwhelmed by the feel of him—his intensity, she gasped for air in-between their kisses. It felt frightening and familiar and oh so good to be held this way again.

Mary quickly caught up with Wyatt in the moment, crawling up into his lap and held on tight. Her hands reached out and grasped the sopping fabric that covered the lean lines and physical strength Wyatt had become. But what hadn’t changed—the most important thing—he still could make her feel so special and so lov…

“No…”

Before she could respond, Wyatt had roughly slid from under her, depositing her against the car door and pulled himself back to his side of the Jeep.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” Wyatt placed his hands to the wheel and focused on squeezing it to death.

“Goodnight Mary.”

“Wyatt?”

“Don’t…” His order came out as a plea. A smothering silence descended on the two.

At this point Mary wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel…embarrassment, hurt, she defiantly felt confused. So she picked an emotion she had come to grips with earlier in the week----anger.

“Don’t what Wyatt? I’m not the girl you left behind fifteen years ago. You can’t just run and not expect me to ask why this time. You have NO RIGHT to push me away.” Only the thunder outside the car was louder. “If anything at all, we are friends and I care…”

“Mary, please…”

“So don’t what Wyatt…” Her voice had begun to waver. “…care?”

The silence ticked between them once more when he didn’t answer.

“Is this where you run from me again, Wyatt?”

Wyatt’s eyes shot around and met Mary’s in the dim light. She was startled by everything that glistened in his onyx stare--all of it complicated. She realized she couldn’t handle complicated right then. Not tonight.

Mary turned away, opening the car door to step out. She stopped when she heard his voice drift just over the sound of the rain hitting the Jeep roof.

“I ’m not the man you think I am, Mary.”

A small fraction of Mary’s anger slipped away and was replaced by hurt—for both of them.

“No Wyatt, I guess you are not the man I know you to be.” She turned back around to meet his eyes. “The man I know isn’t a coward.”

Mary stepped out into the downpour and slammed the car door, leaving Wyatt behind.

TBC. and edited.

Sunday Sermon: Musings from Under the Steps. The Less Traveled Road.

"...I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."


~~Robert Frost. The Road Not Taken

I remember a Chinese New Year Ceremony I attended with Jim and his parents on the Big Island of Hawaii. We were in for a visit and one evening we all went up to Waikoloa Village to watch the Lions dance in blessing of the local shops and businesses. It was a wonderful evening full of color, athletic show, breathing fire and the heart echoing beat of drums. I took pics of the ceremonies, ate my fill of traditional Chinese fare with the family and sat around and watched…

I watched. It’s something I am very good at. Writers are people watchers, voyeurs of the worlds around them and sometimes beyond. But being only a watcher can leave a person and a creative mind stagnant.

So against the better wishes of Jim and my in-laws, I disappeared into the crowd with my camera and followed the Lions out into the night…

I fed a Lion my prayer envelope a blank wish, one to be filled by myself someday. I mingled with excited children dancing around acrobats in large sparkling costume, waiting for candy to be tossed and lettuce offerings to be fed to the dancing Lions at shop doors (pictured right).

(and then the Lion enters the shop, below)

To me, these moments on my own in the crowd—participating, was better than any choreographed show I could have enjoyed. I felt the energy. I felt the crowd. I took the path less taken and it led me to a gift I at present have no name for.

This small vacation detour is so very small in comparison to the other stranger and longer paths less traveled in my life. Going to college in my family was one. Entering into the Mental Health field was another. Taking the leap into writing again and beginning my own business has been a favorite of mine as of late. And there are more personal paths I will not mention, but they were jumps of faith (or impulse) just the same.

But I share this small moment because it fits this format best. I can give you tangible proof that the road less traveled taken has its rewards. And if you should meet a Lion on this path, give it a wish and someday it may come true.

Guess That Character Blogfest: The Reveal

Day two of Guess That Character Blogfest. Brought to you by Jen at unedited. Thanks Jen, it has been a blast!!!!!!

And now may I introduce to all, Wyatt Paxton...

Wyatt is in his mid to late 30's. He has dark deep eyes he often quints. Eyes that speak wistful thoughts or shoot out commands. Dark brow and brown hair he keeps close cut to his head. Military grooming but not man-scaped. Has stubble later in story.

He is fit and lean with broad shoulders. Long limbs. Broad calloused hands and long fingers. Just under 6 ft. but appears taller due to his carriage. He moves like a cat on calm days and a fast moving freight when in action. He does wear a uniform well, but often opts to go plain clothed on duty as Sheriff. Henley pull-overs over wife beaters or button downs over T's, uniform pants or jeans. Utility type outdoors jackets in neutral or dark shades and tough outdoors man boots.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wyatt Paxton is the visual amalgam of a boy I knew in High School, military men and characters I have found impressive and the two men below (the closest I can come without drawing a picture)...

Pissed Wyatt.
Friendly Wyatt.


I loved Tim Olyphants eyes, set of his jaw and the easy way he moves around. He can look sort of harsh often but then gives those warm smiles. And Adrian Brody (circa 'Preditors') I saw the professional in my character. The man of cool calculating action and the hair.

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As for Wyatt's personality...

He was a physically abused child pushed too far. He became "Mr. Responsible" when he was given a better home. He left his small town after high school to join the Marines (Sniper). He wanted to prove he was better than his old man...

Wyatt is a quiet man. He is loyal and smart, but he gets dense when he's being stubborn. He smiles on rare occasion, but they are worth waiting for. His wit is a bit dry. He has a long fuse but it's a fierce blow when it gets there.

He is not concerned with his own safety but always concerned about everyone around him. He is his towns Sheriff, protector, unofficial leader and the guy next door that the young ladies wink at (he rarely notices), children wish to emulate, old ladies smack on the arm and men respect with little question. He is capable of great kindness, but he is very capable of great harm to anyone doing wrong to his friends or his town. He uses his military training sparingly and prudently.

Wyatt can stand very very still. Something he learned as a sniper. He radiates a cool calm that calms others around him. He is a quiet watcher of men and situations. He likes to keep control. Even though he is well mannered, his logical side can come off gruff. His gruff side often offends but he does not care--not really. Not if its for the greater good.

He is quiet about what personal life he does have and his own wishes. He ignores his own needs because he feels undeserving. Because deep down he feels like the boy his father called 'a do nothing' and 'useless'. His greatest fault (aside from his stubborn streak), is holding onto the past. Because in the end he is the 'Good Guy' who doesn't see himself as a good man. Or at least no yet. That is where I come in.

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Thanks to all of you who stopped by and giving me a look into how others see Wyatt. All but a few of you were close or on the mark with Wyatt's character. I am happy for that.

I think all of us bring with us and take away from a character and a story different things. I love that about fiction and the imagination. We as writers can envision our own characters, write them as we envision them, but in the end it's the readers who 'sees' them. Once we begin to read, the characters face becomes a personal thing. As we write, we can only hope the 'character' of the character becomes a universal thing.

Have a great weekend all!

Guess That Character Blogfest!!!

Welcome! First, a shout out to Jen at unedited, for throwing this wonderful Blogfest, the Guess That Character Blogfest. What a great way for all us to introduce our characters to the blogger world AND test our own view of what we want our characters to be.

Today will be the introductions to our characters. Just a bit of story to give ya a taste. Please take a peek at mine below and then tell me who you think my character is. What does he look like? How does he see himself, his world? And then check out all the other wonderful entries listed here.

Tomorrow, all participants in the fest will unveil our take on the characters in question and give you a visual of the faces that haunt our imaginations.

Have fun and happy reading folks. Thanks for stopping by!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now, may I once again introduce Wyatt Paxton from my WIP, Ghost Mountain...

Down went the wood gavel in fast and furious succession. “Folks, we need to start this meeting…”

Wyatt closed his eyes before he had the chance to roll them. Mayor Jenkins attempt at order had rapid fired through his skull one too many times tonight. So quickly Wyatt stepped from his inconspicuous vantage point outside the crowd and stealthily moved to the front of the meeting hall, and then took the small stage in one leap.

A shrill whistle rented the air. Wyatt lowered his fingers from his lips. The roar of the room quickly faded to a few whispers and coughs from his friends and neighbors.

“Mayor.” Wyatt nodded to his flustered but relieved Major, knowing and not caring that the man was annoyed at his assist.

Mayor Barney Jenkins had been Deputy Mayor only five months before. But after Mercy Corners much loved Mayor Branagan passed on unexpectedly of a heart attack during a fishing trip, the job fell to Jenkins to finish the remainder of the term. It didn’t take a rocket scientist or a leader of men to see that the new title was chafing the less experienced man in spots that were bound to make Wyatt and the rest of the town uncomfortable for the next six months.

“Thank you Sheriff Paxton.” Mayor Jenkins acknowledged through tight lips without looking at him. “Now lets begin this meeting by introducing…”

Impervious to his Mayors slight, Wyatt made to step down from the low stage, forgetting all eyes had fallen obediently to him earlier, including Mary’s…

‘Damn, she’s still beautiful.’

In that moment, Wyatt felt like his boots had been nailed to the steps and at some point between restoring order to the room and finding his old high school sweetheart staring up at him, his heart had stopped along with his motor skills. Wyatt felt like he was falling and he didn’t like it one bit.

Maybe if he'd been thinking strait, he would have noticed just how struck Mary had been seeing him too. It had been fifteen years. But then again, Wyatt's sniper vision had always been a bit blurry when seeing himself through others eyes.

WIP Wednesday: What WIP's Get Happy About?

What does a Work In Progress get happy about? What made me happy this week?

• 2,000 more words added to my WIP Ghost Mountain yesterday. (Check out the simple but happy little word counter on the left column. Watch her climb!)
• My Focus on Fiction Group at my local B&N is this Sunday. A WIP--or at least this WIP, always looks forward to my writing groups.
• Two jewelry pieces picked to be on Etsy Treasury this month. HERE and HERE!!!!!! It's nice being noticed by your creative peers. The newest pick was my Regal Beach Pearls and Crushed Velvet Multi-Strand Necklace.

• Here is a BIG ;-D for the week. I won a $15.00 Gift Certificate for Barnes and Nobles for my entry and advertising of DL's High Drama Blogfest at Cruising Altitude. THANK YOU DL! And a big congrats to the other six winners! It was a blast!!!!!
  
• How about the opportunity to join in on another wonderful Blogfest in the VERY near funture! Remember Jen at unedited, is throwing the Guess That Character Blogfest August 19th and 20th. That's tomorrow kids!!!!
  
  
  

  
  
  
  I am thinking I may use that new bit of WIP that I was going to use for the Weather Blogfest but then said I was going to use today for WIP Wednesday. That will work.

• I have also enjoyed new blog designs and Etsy Widgets this week. The Blog header was a pic I took of some of my things lain about--WIP sorts stuff, and then I used Adobe to play with the image a bit. And I do like the wider look of this new blog design a lot better. And the Etsy Widget can be found just under my followers and traslator. Cool, compact and useful I think. I know a few of you who follow have a Etsy shop, so check it out and see if ya want one for your own.

So what got the WIP in you all geared up and cheery. Share! It's good for the creative ego. Ya know ya wanna!

Sunday Sermon: Patience...

"If you sit by the river long enough, you will see the bodies of your enemy float by."

--A Misinterpretation of Confucius?


And how does this patient and wise proverb have to do with finishing my WIP's?

Yes, my WIP's are not my enemy, although they may seem it some days. And most will say that nothing gets accomplished when you just sit around waiting for something to happen. Especially writing or business! AAAND by nature I usually take a more direct route with my enemy when so unlucky to come across one. So I guess its the patience part I'm taking away from this quote. Not the sitting-on-your-ass-waiting-for-your-enemy-to-either-hang-themselves-with-enough-rope-or-hope-that-another-enemy-kills-them-for-you part. That would be Karma.

I do love this quote and envy those who can relate to it. I envy patience, patience that is worth more than all the treasure in the world. Because with patience comes continuance and with continuance comes completion. And with completion something tangible has been accomplished in this world.

So I will be patient and sit at my computer typing till all the ideas flow and the pages fly by and into a book.



Picture by N. Murray.

The Weather Blogfest!!!!!

From the nice folks at A Little Slice of Nothing, The Weather Blogfest!!!!!

I was originally going to enter a new bit from my WIP Ghost Mountain, but found it well exceeding 1,ooo words. I wouldn't feel so bad boring all of you with something of this length on a WIP Wednesday, but I've learned to be a bit more length savy when entering a blogfest. It's just fair.

Anyhoo, I shall bore you with the WIP bit on Wednesday and shall give you this petite offering from my Jericho Fan Fiction "Chapters".

Jake, the MC, is about to dance with his long longed for love at a friends wedding and a storm is about to roll in. The chapter this bit comes from was titled 'Watershed'. It was fitting.

Jake turned back to his silent companion when the first few notes of Garth Brooks’ ‘When You Come Back to Me Again’, drifted out into the evening air and mixed with the rumbles of thunder in the nearing distance.

The wind had kicked up again, molding the fabric of Heather’s dress across her body, brushing her hair over her face in gentle wisps. All the while she stood completely still before him, waiting against the backdrop of the coming storm.

Till the day he died, Jake knew he would always remember just how beautiful, how vulnerable she had looked in that moment.

WIP Wednesday: My Other WIP Salvaged Beauty

As stated in my About Me, I am a WIP who is juggling a few WIP's at present. My Jewelry Design Business, Salvaged Beauty, is definitely one of those.

I've never had a business of my own. It can be a lot of preparation and planning. It's a lot of multitask check off lists throughout a week. It can be frustrating and sometimes lonely even. But I like having something that is all mine. And I do like being my own boss. I mean--my boss may be a bit lazy sometimes, but she lets me drink as much coffee and eat as much chocolate as I like. AND she doesn't even blink when I show up in my comfy clothes for work or when I'm late finishing an assignment. Okay, she rocks!!!!!

Good things I have accomplished recently:

• Applied to enter one of my area's largest craft shows. *Crossing fingers*
• Collecting craft show set up equipment (displays, tables, a sign, etc...)
  
• Created a business card...
  

(Just image on linen textured and colored paper with a decorative red inked stamp in the right corner.)

• And I am working on a new jewelry project. Painted wood beads for Halloween. Eyes and planets so far. Maybe skulls later?

And today, the decider of this post, was a lovely message I received on Etsy, telling me I have once again been chosen and placed in another sellers Treasury. A Treasury is where members create curated lists of enjoyed or favored items and share them with the Etsy world. And it's another way to get free andvertising for your shop. So thank you Lizzie Caye of Lizzie Caye Uniquely Made Handbags!

The chosen piece is my Bollywood Disco Pendent Necklace. My mind had went strait to good old fun lively glittery Bollywood when I found this fun bit of salvage at the market.

Measures at at 31 inches, not including the 3 1/2 extension of chain and 1 inch ball pendent. Suspended on brass crossover chain and accented with two gold Czech beads and black glass beads, this is a easy wear necklace for summer, fall or winter.

To view the rest of the Treasury check here.

And a writerly note, remember Write On Con is still going on, so check it out. And some up and coming blogfests...

* And at A Little Slice of Nothing, "The Weather Blogfest". Due August 14.

* The Literary Lab's second annual Genre Wars Anthology presents "Notes From Underground" contest!

* Jen at unedited, is throwing the Guess That Character Blogfest August 19th and 20th.

Know any other great contests or Blogfests let me know!

A Sunday Sermon from Under the Steps: Life as a Scavenger Hunt

"Searching is half the fun: life is much more manageable when thought of as a scavenger hunt as opposed to a surprise party."
~~~Jimmy Buffett

Life as a scavenger hunt keeps ya busy while you find needed or just plain fun things to use and share along the way. The hunt--journey helps you grow and lets you determine your life's direction when you come to the next new situation in your life. And when you come to that next event in your life, you may find that some of the things you've scavenged will help you get through.

Now, life as surprise party may be fun on occasion, BUT... its a bitch when the lights pop on and 'SURPRISE' is yelled out by all of your friends, family and your families priest when you're already half way out of your pants...

Mental picture? Yep. That's what living life as a surprise party feels like. If you spent your life drifting--unprepared, everything feels like a surprise your not ready for and it overwhelms.

Do not spend your days simply reacting to life. Live your life searching for a better you in it.

The High Drama Blogfest!

Welcome to my entry to DL's High Drama Blogfest and thank you DL for holding such a fest with so many possibilities. I urge all to stop by his cool blog Cruising Altitude and read all the other high drama entries!!!!!

I am still working through some plot issues in my own WIP, so I found this bit of fan fiction drama to fit. I wrote the original draft of this piece a couple years ago. It was for my ‘Chapters Series’, a Jericho Fan Fiction. My first multi-chapter anything. The below scene was originally 3,000 words, so it took a bit of editing to get it down around 1,000. That sort of heavy editing of story material was a learning experience all on it’s own, let me tell you. And DL, I am so glad you raised the number to around a 1,ooo. I like to build drama and that takes a few more words.

Now, when I wrote this bit, the show was still on its way to being canceled outside its first season. I made Jake become Sheriff, I had him talking with his dead granddad and father for closure purposes, I paired him with Heather and not Emily (do not get me started), and I made it a point to allow Jake and Heathers characters to grow. (REMINDER: Disclaimer, the show and characters are not mine...)

Months later, the show got another chance but was canceled in its second season (due to bad writing). They did make Jake the Sheriff and had him talk to his dead granddad, but they paired him with Emily and still had him acting like a half cocked gun.

Can ya tell it bothered me?

SO, my entry...


The MC of this story and this scene is Jake Green. He was once a rebel without a cause, but after the apocalypse, he becomes his town’s hero. He had a lot of baggage and in this scene he finally comes to a point where he wants to tell someone. That someone is Heather Lisinski , the town good girl and his love interest. He is telling the story from a hospital bed after once again saving the day through his own sacrifices.

~ENTRY~ENTRY ~ENTRY~ENTRY ~ENTRY~ENTRY ~ENTRY~

“Going overseas—it was like nothing I had ever known. If the situation had been better, it would have been one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Everything seemed so different. The places I went, the cultures I was submerged in...”

Jake leaned into his hospital bed, leveling his eyes on the emerging moon. It was getting more difficult to look at Heather. He wondered if she would have the same problem with him after his story was told.

“I’d made alot of local contacts in Baghdad. A man named Ahmad was one of our most trusted information peddlers. He was Sunni Tajik, wanted change, wanted peace, or whatever was passing for it. He believed the US could help…”

Jakes eyes narrowed at the moon outside his window.

“I liked him.” Jake finally spoke. “Ahmad had this twinkle in his eyes, like he knew something the rest of us didn’t. Something that made everything else bearable. I think that thing had been his family…” Jake trailed back into silence, thinking of the old widower and his six children; five sons and a girl…

In Jake's silences, Heather watched him. Her lover may as well have been on the moon the way he stared at it now. She felt him distancing himself and all she could do was listen and watch him go.

“We were waiting for our transport back to the airstrip with a group of US officials. Our transport was late—had to change route when fighting intensified on the southern end of the city…”

Thing about waiting, it left time open for situations to go wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Fuck!” Jake irritably spat, taking one last drag off his cigarette, snuffing it out in the sand.

Rapid gunfire echoed out over the eastern corner of the city, making the newbie beside him jump. Jake shook his head while eyeing the surrounding buildings with the barrel scope on his riffle; only getting a view of vacant eyed windows and an unsettled feeling that they were not alone.

He’d told Ahmad about the buildings having eyes earlier in the week, when the elder man had invited him to his home. They’d just finished lunch with Ahmad’s extended family before sitting to watch the younger children play ball in the back courtyard.

‘Shadows have eyes here, Jake Green.’ He’d said. ‘Make sure you do not blink.’

“You’ll get use to the sound.” Jake told the newbie without looking away from the buildings on the other side of the square.

“Get use to it!” Freddie raised a questioning brow to his unaffected superior. “When’s that happening?”

Jake smirked while he continued his watch, the sound of gunfire could be heard peppering the air several blocks from their position.

Jake was use to the gunfire. It was as common place to him as birdsong back home. But the sound of explosions still made him hold his gun tighter, his head dip down lower and his feet move.

“Green. Ready to roll. Transport in five.” Jake nodded to his communications officer then shouldered his weapon.

“We’re getting out of Dodge, Freddie.” Jake smirked. “Not a moment too soon.”

Jakes eyes drifted back across the street while he stepped towards the square. Something in the shadows caught his eye once more. It was small and moving quickly.

“Shoma?” Jake yelled in broken Farsi at the approaching form.

“Amal!” He heard Ahmad yell at the small figure and Jake realized it was the old mans daughter. “Amal stop!”

The roar of truck engines could now heard coming through the neighborhood. The girl continued her walk out to meet them in the square.

Amal had not come to see her father, but the men he was helping. Her oldest brother believed this action took honor away from their family. She was told, by doing this—she would be saving her family and her beloved father from great ruin. She was a good, obedient girl.

Jake yelled the girls name, now recognizing her, as the first truck cleared the street corner into the square. She had turned to her father and then to Jake; he would remember those frightened brown eyes for the rest of his days.

Jake followed her wide eyed gaze to the center of her small body and felt his insides burst with a numbing cold when he traced the outline of a bombers belt just under the young girl’s robes.

Jake watched her hand trail down to her side and he felt his gun rise as if in slow motion. Without hesitation, Jake made a choice…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Everyone hit the deck.” Jake’s voice was weak, a lifeless whisper. Heather kept her stunned silence. “None of it—what I had done, hit me till Ahmad ran into the square…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“She would not have done it!” Ahmad’s voice rose in anguish as he cradled his daughter’s lifeless body in his arms. “I could have talked to her—my Amal!”

The old man’s words trailed out into a howl of misery as he tore the belt off his daughters limp form and threw it into the gutter, not caring if it exploded on impact.

Jake stepped closer, but stopped when he could see the girl’s lifeless face when her father layed her small body down to the bloody sand.

“You killed my girl!” The old man yelled.

“I had no choice…!” Jake screamed his only defense, dropping his weapon onto the street.

In that moment the old man charged down upon Jake, brandishing a dagger, consumed in a fathers rage.

“Nooooo!” Jake screamed as another gun shot rang out through the square.

Ahmad stopped within a few feet of Jake, his eyes wide with surprise. His knife fell from his hand. Before he could take another step, he fell dead in the street.

“He was gonna kill ya, Jake!”

“No choice…” Jake fell to his knees in the sand.

Time would pass after that day and he’d wish that Freddie had been a worse shot....

(End of entry but not of story. BTW, Heather didn't turn away after the story.)

And now the muffins...