Denise Covey's Blog, page 9
September 3, 2019
#IWSG post - My ideal writing places - Italy and France. Why? Come and see ...
Hi all!
Time for the IWSG again!
This month we thank Alex's helpers for assisting in reading the entries. If you have time, please visit.
Gwen Gardner,Doreen McGettigan, Tyrean Martinson, Chemist Ken, and Cathrina Constantiner!
Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
Go HERE for more posts for the IWSG.
September 4 question - If you could pick one place in the world to sit and write your next story, where would it be and why?
What a great question for me this month. If I could pick one place in the world to write my vampire stories I'd go to where they're set.
Castello de Castellina in Chianti
My first two locations for my first three books in the series of my Renaissance hero, Duke Vipunin de Castellina are Florence, Italy, and Castellina in Chianti, Tuscany. In Florence, my hotel is in the general area where Vipunin lives when he serves the powerful de' Medici family, rulers of Florence. I cross the bridge he crosses when the story gets underway when he rides to Castellina, near Siena. I'll follow his route by car LOL and walk through the subterranean tunnels under 'his' castle which is still standing, albeit a crumbling heap of stones.
Book Four is set in 17th century Paris, which, surprise, I visit after Florence.
The Bois de Boulogne, Paris
So I spend some time in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris where a lot of the action will take place. I'll enjoy soaking up the atmosphere, imagining it four centuries ago.
I have two other books set in Paris. One needs more research, so beauty, I spend nearly three weeks in Paris just making sure I have the location sussed out just right. My first book is set in Montmartre, the second, in Saint Germain des Pres.
So, I have two places in the world where I will add to my stories and write Book Four of my Renaissance vampire series. Woo hoo. It sucks to be me, doesn't it?
Where are you writing? Why? Tell me...
Another WEP is over. No winners in yet.
The next WEP/IWSG challenge is in October. As well as a critique prize, there are prizes for each of the three winners. October is our BIG month. Please consider joining us with your Halloween or horror story.
Most of our members go with horror or speculative for October. But that's not written in stone. Nothing rigid about us - we are a culturally diverse mix and we welcome all interpretations.
Thanks for visiting!
Time for the IWSG again!
This month we thank Alex's helpers for assisting in reading the entries. If you have time, please visit.
Gwen Gardner,Doreen McGettigan, Tyrean Martinson, Chemist Ken, and Cathrina Constantiner!
Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
Go HERE for more posts for the IWSG.
September 4 question - If you could pick one place in the world to sit and write your next story, where would it be and why?
What a great question for me this month. If I could pick one place in the world to write my vampire stories I'd go to where they're set.
Castello de Castellina in Chianti
My first two locations for my first three books in the series of my Renaissance hero, Duke Vipunin de Castellina are Florence, Italy, and Castellina in Chianti, Tuscany. In Florence, my hotel is in the general area where Vipunin lives when he serves the powerful de' Medici family, rulers of Florence. I cross the bridge he crosses when the story gets underway when he rides to Castellina, near Siena. I'll follow his route by car LOL and walk through the subterranean tunnels under 'his' castle which is still standing, albeit a crumbling heap of stones.
Book Four is set in 17th century Paris, which, surprise, I visit after Florence.
The Bois de Boulogne, Paris
So I spend some time in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris where a lot of the action will take place. I'll enjoy soaking up the atmosphere, imagining it four centuries ago.
I have two other books set in Paris. One needs more research, so beauty, I spend nearly three weeks in Paris just making sure I have the location sussed out just right. My first book is set in Montmartre, the second, in Saint Germain des Pres.
So, I have two places in the world where I will add to my stories and write Book Four of my Renaissance vampire series. Woo hoo. It sucks to be me, doesn't it?
Where are you writing? Why? Tell me...
Another WEP is over. No winners in yet.
The next WEP/IWSG challenge is in October. As well as a critique prize, there are prizes for each of the three winners. October is our BIG month. Please consider joining us with your Halloween or horror story.
Most of our members go with horror or speculative for October. But that's not written in stone. Nothing rigid about us - we are a culturally diverse mix and we welcome all interpretations.
Thanks for visiting!
August 20, 2019
#WEP/IWSG AUGUST CHALLENGE. RED WHEELBARROW. My Paris story extract, The Arrival.
Hello all! Welcome to the August WEP/IWSG challenge, RED WHEELBARROW. For this challenge, I'm submitting a scene from my Paris novel. The protagonist, Saskia Bell has been fired from her fashion designer position in a New York fashion house and has come to Paris, where her mother was born to forge an independent life for herself away from her controlling father.As stated in the blurb for this challenge: The RED WHEELBARROW can be purely a prop.I hope you enjoy this extract..
[image error]
The Arrival
I clamber up from the bowels of the earth that is the Place des Abbesses’s metro station, studying the stunning murals climbing the walls—the oranges, the blues, the purples—imagining what stunning fabric designs I’ll create using this art as inspiration. I snap pictures on my cell phone, so I don’t forget those perfectly orange and red poppies, the outline of the city meandering up the stairs, the white winged Pegasi flying on the blue background. I hate closing my eyes for a second in Paris. It’s a never-ending feast for the eyes.
When I finally exit into the glaring daylight of a brilliant blue sky, I check my watch, then hurry along the narrow cobblestones to the Place du Tertre at the top of Montmartre hill. It’s alive with activity – bearded artists in smocks and berets touting, hopeful tourists posing on rickety wooden stools while artists frown and flourish brushes, trying to capture their image. Since my last visit, restaurants have set up in the center of the Place and already tourists are queuing for early lunch. I check my watch. Désolé.
‘Désolé,’ I say to the artists in berets who hover along the street, clutching their clipboards with blank art paper at the ready, begging to paint my picture. Soulful cries of “Pretty lady” don’t break me. Until I find a job, if I can’t eat or drink it, I’m not interested.
Sacre Coeur is directly ahead past the cafés. I slip into the dim interior and light a candle for Mom in what was her favorite church. I cross myself, whispering, ‘Please forgive me, Mom’. My eyes fill with tears. Will I ever stop feeling angry with myself for the part I played in her death? There’s no answer in the flickering candles. Checking my watch again, I see it’s time.
‘Et vous, Madame Lavelle?’ I ask the tall African woman standing at the top of the street beside a red wheelbarrow overflowing with red and yellow blooms. She’s more colorful than any potted plant in her flowery green maxi dress, matching turban, and gold earrings that brush her stately long neck.
‘Oui, Mademoiselle.’ Her beautiful smile is enhanced by a slash of shiny orange lipstick. I trot out my best French. ‘Je m’appelle Saskia Bell. I’m here for the apartment.’
She leans forward and air kisses me, bisou, bisou, bisou, smelling faintly of garlic and citrus. ‘Speak English with me, Mademoiselle. I’m from Burkina Faso. I need to practise.’ She smiles to take the sting out of her words. Obviously, my American-accented French hurts her ears. ‘Welcome to rue des Martyrs, the best street in Paris.’ She speaks with a sing-song French lilt. Adjusting her huge shoulder bag, she gestures with wide-open arms down the street. ‘Whatever you need, you will find here. Bookstores, baguettes, and bistrots that sell creamy Mont d’Or cheese you eat with a spoon.’
Immediately I taste that runny cheese melting on my tongue, washed down with a glass of bubbly. I study the narrow, cobbled street weaving down the hill. It’s so exotic, so cute, so medieval. What a contrast to Fifth Avenue with its clamor, its stylish buildings and wall-to-wall yellow cabs. No wonder Mom missed Paris so much. Here, people sit crushed elbow to elbow drinking wine or espressos while enjoying a cigarette sitting outside cafés under red awnings with gold fringes. I spy quaint antique shops I can’t wait to explore. I breathe it in. ‘It’s perfect.’
We’ve only walked a short way down the street when Madame Lavelle holds up her hand. I’m in love, imagining the aroma of coffee and cake on my doorstep each morning. I wonder if they’ll make me an almond cappuccino like Dom’s in New York?
Looking up, I see a woman on the second floor with long blonde hair, her elbows on the balcony rails, blowing smoke from a cigarette holder like she’s Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I wave back when she raises a palm in my direction. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I swallow the lump in my throat.
I feel it in my bones.
I’m home.
‘Come.’ Madame Lavelle keys in the door code. ‘I think you will like the apartment very much.’
We clamber up flights of rickety stairs, the stairwell dark except for sensor lights added sometime in the dim past. I stifle a giggle. How fit will I become running up and down these stairs every day. It’ll fit in well with my training for the Paris Marathon next April.
As we climb towards the top, Madame’s wheezing grows louder. I take her elbow. We pass the fifth floor, then the building narrows and the stairs are so tiny I walk sideways to fit my shoes to the treads. Where’s she taking me? The roof?
Madame Lavelle is wheezing and gasping for breath when she stops in front of an old arched door studded with huge copper nails. ‘We’re here,’ she says through ragged breaths. ‘The attic.’
I study the ancient timber door and shiver. My knees are weak. I clutch the door frame. Even before I walk inside, I know. This is my Paris home. My Parisian adventure is about to begin.
I step inside.
The attic smells of time, of layers of life, of people who’ve lived here before. My eyes prick with tears at the simplicity of the light-filled space, loving its original scuffed parquet floors, shabby rose-tinted walls and distressed cream trims. I’ve grown up in luxurious homes decorated with bespoke furniture, antiques and gold-leaf trim, but they never excited me like this little attic with its sloping roof and two cute boxy windows either side of one full length grilled door. But what reminds me of my Hamptons’ beach house is the skylight which bathes the room in sunshine. Perhaps it was originally an artist’s garret.
I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling window. There it is. The red wheelbarrow. Every day I'll see it and offer up a prayer of thanks for my arrival in Paris.
WORD COUNT: 1044FCA
To read more RED WHEELBARROW stories, please click on the names in my sidebar or go to the WEP website.
[image error]
The Arrival
I clamber up from the bowels of the earth that is the Place des Abbesses’s metro station, studying the stunning murals climbing the walls—the oranges, the blues, the purples—imagining what stunning fabric designs I’ll create using this art as inspiration. I snap pictures on my cell phone, so I don’t forget those perfectly orange and red poppies, the outline of the city meandering up the stairs, the white winged Pegasi flying on the blue background. I hate closing my eyes for a second in Paris. It’s a never-ending feast for the eyes.
When I finally exit into the glaring daylight of a brilliant blue sky, I check my watch, then hurry along the narrow cobblestones to the Place du Tertre at the top of Montmartre hill. It’s alive with activity – bearded artists in smocks and berets touting, hopeful tourists posing on rickety wooden stools while artists frown and flourish brushes, trying to capture their image. Since my last visit, restaurants have set up in the center of the Place and already tourists are queuing for early lunch. I check my watch. Désolé.
‘Désolé,’ I say to the artists in berets who hover along the street, clutching their clipboards with blank art paper at the ready, begging to paint my picture. Soulful cries of “Pretty lady” don’t break me. Until I find a job, if I can’t eat or drink it, I’m not interested.
Sacre Coeur is directly ahead past the cafés. I slip into the dim interior and light a candle for Mom in what was her favorite church. I cross myself, whispering, ‘Please forgive me, Mom’. My eyes fill with tears. Will I ever stop feeling angry with myself for the part I played in her death? There’s no answer in the flickering candles. Checking my watch again, I see it’s time.
‘Et vous, Madame Lavelle?’ I ask the tall African woman standing at the top of the street beside a red wheelbarrow overflowing with red and yellow blooms. She’s more colorful than any potted plant in her flowery green maxi dress, matching turban, and gold earrings that brush her stately long neck.
‘Oui, Mademoiselle.’ Her beautiful smile is enhanced by a slash of shiny orange lipstick. I trot out my best French. ‘Je m’appelle Saskia Bell. I’m here for the apartment.’
She leans forward and air kisses me, bisou, bisou, bisou, smelling faintly of garlic and citrus. ‘Speak English with me, Mademoiselle. I’m from Burkina Faso. I need to practise.’ She smiles to take the sting out of her words. Obviously, my American-accented French hurts her ears. ‘Welcome to rue des Martyrs, the best street in Paris.’ She speaks with a sing-song French lilt. Adjusting her huge shoulder bag, she gestures with wide-open arms down the street. ‘Whatever you need, you will find here. Bookstores, baguettes, and bistrots that sell creamy Mont d’Or cheese you eat with a spoon.’
Immediately I taste that runny cheese melting on my tongue, washed down with a glass of bubbly. I study the narrow, cobbled street weaving down the hill. It’s so exotic, so cute, so medieval. What a contrast to Fifth Avenue with its clamor, its stylish buildings and wall-to-wall yellow cabs. No wonder Mom missed Paris so much. Here, people sit crushed elbow to elbow drinking wine or espressos while enjoying a cigarette sitting outside cafés under red awnings with gold fringes. I spy quaint antique shops I can’t wait to explore. I breathe it in. ‘It’s perfect.’
We’ve only walked a short way down the street when Madame Lavelle holds up her hand. I’m in love, imagining the aroma of coffee and cake on my doorstep each morning. I wonder if they’ll make me an almond cappuccino like Dom’s in New York?
Looking up, I see a woman on the second floor with long blonde hair, her elbows on the balcony rails, blowing smoke from a cigarette holder like she’s Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I wave back when she raises a palm in my direction. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I swallow the lump in my throat.
I feel it in my bones.
I’m home.
‘Come.’ Madame Lavelle keys in the door code. ‘I think you will like the apartment very much.’
We clamber up flights of rickety stairs, the stairwell dark except for sensor lights added sometime in the dim past. I stifle a giggle. How fit will I become running up and down these stairs every day. It’ll fit in well with my training for the Paris Marathon next April.
As we climb towards the top, Madame’s wheezing grows louder. I take her elbow. We pass the fifth floor, then the building narrows and the stairs are so tiny I walk sideways to fit my shoes to the treads. Where’s she taking me? The roof?
Madame Lavelle is wheezing and gasping for breath when she stops in front of an old arched door studded with huge copper nails. ‘We’re here,’ she says through ragged breaths. ‘The attic.’
I study the ancient timber door and shiver. My knees are weak. I clutch the door frame. Even before I walk inside, I know. This is my Paris home. My Parisian adventure is about to begin.
I step inside.
The attic smells of time, of layers of life, of people who’ve lived here before. My eyes prick with tears at the simplicity of the light-filled space, loving its original scuffed parquet floors, shabby rose-tinted walls and distressed cream trims. I’ve grown up in luxurious homes decorated with bespoke furniture, antiques and gold-leaf trim, but they never excited me like this little attic with its sloping roof and two cute boxy windows either side of one full length grilled door. But what reminds me of my Hamptons’ beach house is the skylight which bathes the room in sunshine. Perhaps it was originally an artist’s garret.
I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling window. There it is. The red wheelbarrow. Every day I'll see it and offer up a prayer of thanks for my arrival in Paris.
WORD COUNT: 1044FCA
To read more RED WHEELBARROW stories, please click on the names in my sidebar or go to the WEP website.
August 6, 2019
August 7th - #IWSG post. - Pen name, building websites, social media...Toni Morrison, Kristen Lamb on Amazon.
Hello all! Time for the August 7 IWSG! Yeah I know. But it's nearly lunchtime 7/8 (or 8/7) in Oz.
Go HERE to visit. more participants.
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the August 7 posting of the IWSG are
Renee Scattergood,Sadira Stone, Jacqui Murray, Tamara Narayan, and LG Keltner!
Please visit them if you can!
Be sure to visit the Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
Before I begin, I honor Toni Morrison. the great American literati who recently passed. She will be sadly missed, but her words will never die. I plan to resurrect her yellow-leafed tomes for a good re-read.
If you haven't caught it, I recommend reading Kristen Lamb's latest post on Amazon's road to world domination of the publishing industry. It's not a put down of the ZON. She's researched it well - the NY big publishers and how they dropped the ball, never regarding e-books as real competition, to Amazon's well-thought-out, clinical, long range plan to sell books ... fascinating reading.
I know there's an opinion that blog posts should be kept short, but in the same way I love LONG books (bring 'em on - I just read every book in the Game of Thrones series. Even skipping the gratuitous violence, them's some serious word numbers). If a long blog post captures my attention, I'll read every word. And Kristen's post are usually attention capturing.
Now down to little ole me. Not nearly as interesting as Amazon's journey which affects pretty much all of us ...
Keyword - PEN NAME
Who amongst us uses a pen name? Long ago, I decided to go with a pen name when I got around to publishing, whether traditional or self-publishing. I asked for opinions in my self-publishing FB group, 20Booksto50K, and the jury was overwhelmingly positive about pen names. These high achievers write multi genres and seem to write each under a different name.
Back in the day, the idea of a pen name was to publish in secret. Today it can be to separate genres or just to look for the right name on a certain type of book. Not really secret anymore.
Now that I'm approaching the day I publish all those books I've been working on for years, I have a truckload of work to do - new website, FB page, Twitter, Instagram ... As if maintaining one of each of these wasn't enough.
Part of my insecurity is that I no longer have a photo editing program simple enough for me to use, and I'm too impatient to struggle with the steep learning curve of getting my head around a new one, so I spend a lot of time designing headers etc on paper and checking how it looks online, but not a lot of time actually building anything online. I know. I know. I don't have much choice, so I hope when I sit down and actually create these online, it'll all come together.
Writing books is the fun part! The EASY part. All the rest, including BLURBS and SYNOPSES, are the HARD part.
How's it going with you?
- Do you have a favorite photo editing program? (I never got over the loss of free PicMonkey.) Gosh, I was an expert! Now they want over $7 US a month, which is a lot more in $AUS.
- Do you do everything yourself - social media etc - blurbs, synopses, editing, covers? I'll definitely be outsourcing covers and some editing, but think I'm doing the remainder myself.
Now, to the fun part. WEP/IWSG will have the sign up for the August prompt, RED WHEELBARROW, on August 21st - open for 3 days. Go HERE for ideas. Consider writing for us. We'd love to have you.
Go HERE to visit. more participants.
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the August 7 posting of the IWSG are
Renee Scattergood,Sadira Stone, Jacqui Murray, Tamara Narayan, and LG Keltner!
Please visit them if you can!
Be sure to visit the Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
Before I begin, I honor Toni Morrison. the great American literati who recently passed. She will be sadly missed, but her words will never die. I plan to resurrect her yellow-leafed tomes for a good re-read.
If you haven't caught it, I recommend reading Kristen Lamb's latest post on Amazon's road to world domination of the publishing industry. It's not a put down of the ZON. She's researched it well - the NY big publishers and how they dropped the ball, never regarding e-books as real competition, to Amazon's well-thought-out, clinical, long range plan to sell books ... fascinating reading.
I know there's an opinion that blog posts should be kept short, but in the same way I love LONG books (bring 'em on - I just read every book in the Game of Thrones series. Even skipping the gratuitous violence, them's some serious word numbers). If a long blog post captures my attention, I'll read every word. And Kristen's post are usually attention capturing.
Now down to little ole me. Not nearly as interesting as Amazon's journey which affects pretty much all of us ...
Keyword - PEN NAME
Who amongst us uses a pen name? Long ago, I decided to go with a pen name when I got around to publishing, whether traditional or self-publishing. I asked for opinions in my self-publishing FB group, 20Booksto50K, and the jury was overwhelmingly positive about pen names. These high achievers write multi genres and seem to write each under a different name.
Back in the day, the idea of a pen name was to publish in secret. Today it can be to separate genres or just to look for the right name on a certain type of book. Not really secret anymore.
Now that I'm approaching the day I publish all those books I've been working on for years, I have a truckload of work to do - new website, FB page, Twitter, Instagram ... As if maintaining one of each of these wasn't enough.
Part of my insecurity is that I no longer have a photo editing program simple enough for me to use, and I'm too impatient to struggle with the steep learning curve of getting my head around a new one, so I spend a lot of time designing headers etc on paper and checking how it looks online, but not a lot of time actually building anything online. I know. I know. I don't have much choice, so I hope when I sit down and actually create these online, it'll all come together.
Writing books is the fun part! The EASY part. All the rest, including BLURBS and SYNOPSES, are the HARD part.
How's it going with you?
- Do you have a favorite photo editing program? (I never got over the loss of free PicMonkey.) Gosh, I was an expert! Now they want over $7 US a month, which is a lot more in $AUS.
- Do you do everything yourself - social media etc - blurbs, synopses, editing, covers? I'll definitely be outsourcing covers and some editing, but think I'm doing the remainder myself.
Now, to the fun part. WEP/IWSG will have the sign up for the August prompt, RED WHEELBARROW, on August 21st - open for 3 days. Go HERE for ideas. Consider writing for us. We'd love to have you.
July 2, 2019
#IWSG July 3 - Personal traits and character traits. Style survey.
Hello all!
Here we are again. Officially passed the halfway mark for the year. I like IWSG day when I can settle back for for my monthly blogfest. These days I usually only blog once a month. I spend most of my time writing, but I still don't want to let go of the blog like others have decided to. In my opinion, a blog gives more satisfaction than other social media, although I admit it is a time suck.
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the July 3 posting of the IWSG are Erika Beebe, Natalie Aguirre, Jennifer Lane, MJ Fifield, Lisa Buie-Collard, and Ellen @ The Cynical Sailor!
Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
I'm going with the July question: What personal traits have you written into your character(s)?
As soon as I saw the July 3 question I thought of the time I immersed myself in one of the wonderful Margie Lawson Immersion Masterclasses, a retreat I attended with 8 other writers awhile ago to improve things like deep editing, deep POV, character motivations, dialogue, visceral responses etc etc.
The first thing Margie did was to hand out a Style Survey. We've all done those personality tests, right? A real pain as you fill out page after page trying to be honest, but not quite getting there. They're confusing I think. Anyway, Margie has whittled her survey down to one page - 4 colors - RED, GREEN, BLUE, YELLOW with 4 lots of 10 questions regarding personality attributes.
RED - Driver - disciplined, efficient, energetic, keep others focused, impatient with delays.GREEN - Expressive - outspoken, spontaneous, fun, generate enthusiasm, distractibleBLUE - Amiable - caring, sensitive, supportive, others confide in them, less likely to take risksYELLOW - Analytical - fact orientated, organized, may appear detached, fully assess before making a decision.
No surprise that I'm BLUE with secondary YELLOW. And no surprise that my female leads are BLUE with secondary YELLOW. Once I realized how 'me' they were, I did some serious changes!
Saskia, my mc in my Paris novel is caring, nurturing, not a risk taker and not spontaneous. So I had to change her as she progresses through her hero's journey and reaches her goals.
Her lover, Raphael, on the other hand, is RED - energetic, impatient, efficient and disciplined and very spontaneous.
Their different personalities make for some interesting conflict which has been at times painful for me to write. But to loosely quote James Scott Bell - get your characters up a tree and throw rocks at them.
Today, I publish the WEP/IWSG winners post. Yeah, I'm back baby. Pop over to the WEP website if you have time and read all about the tumultuous month we had, the fantastic stories posted and the wonderful winners who nailed the prompt, Caged Bird. Already I'm thinking of what I'll write for the August prompt, RED WHEELBARROW. If you haven't tried a WEP/IWSG challenge, it's a great way to sharpen your writing! And get some instant feedback.
Here we are again. Officially passed the halfway mark for the year. I like IWSG day when I can settle back for for my monthly blogfest. These days I usually only blog once a month. I spend most of my time writing, but I still don't want to let go of the blog like others have decided to. In my opinion, a blog gives more satisfaction than other social media, although I admit it is a time suck.
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the July 3 posting of the IWSG are Erika Beebe, Natalie Aguirre, Jennifer Lane, MJ Fifield, Lisa Buie-Collard, and Ellen @ The Cynical Sailor!
Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
I'm going with the July question: What personal traits have you written into your character(s)?
As soon as I saw the July 3 question I thought of the time I immersed myself in one of the wonderful Margie Lawson Immersion Masterclasses, a retreat I attended with 8 other writers awhile ago to improve things like deep editing, deep POV, character motivations, dialogue, visceral responses etc etc.
The first thing Margie did was to hand out a Style Survey. We've all done those personality tests, right? A real pain as you fill out page after page trying to be honest, but not quite getting there. They're confusing I think. Anyway, Margie has whittled her survey down to one page - 4 colors - RED, GREEN, BLUE, YELLOW with 4 lots of 10 questions regarding personality attributes.
RED - Driver - disciplined, efficient, energetic, keep others focused, impatient with delays.GREEN - Expressive - outspoken, spontaneous, fun, generate enthusiasm, distractibleBLUE - Amiable - caring, sensitive, supportive, others confide in them, less likely to take risksYELLOW - Analytical - fact orientated, organized, may appear detached, fully assess before making a decision.
No surprise that I'm BLUE with secondary YELLOW. And no surprise that my female leads are BLUE with secondary YELLOW. Once I realized how 'me' they were, I did some serious changes!
Saskia, my mc in my Paris novel is caring, nurturing, not a risk taker and not spontaneous. So I had to change her as she progresses through her hero's journey and reaches her goals.
Her lover, Raphael, on the other hand, is RED - energetic, impatient, efficient and disciplined and very spontaneous.
Their different personalities make for some interesting conflict which has been at times painful for me to write. But to loosely quote James Scott Bell - get your characters up a tree and throw rocks at them.
Today, I publish the WEP/IWSG winners post. Yeah, I'm back baby. Pop over to the WEP website if you have time and read all about the tumultuous month we had, the fantastic stories posted and the wonderful winners who nailed the prompt, Caged Bird. Already I'm thinking of what I'll write for the August prompt, RED WHEELBARROW. If you haven't tried a WEP/IWSG challenge, it's a great way to sharpen your writing! And get some instant feedback.
June 4, 2019
Combined #WEPff/IWSG post - My favorite genre, Women's Fiction - "CAGED BIRD" JUNE CHALLENGE - MY #FF, MEMORIES
Hi everyone!
Click here to read more posts...
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the June 5 posting of the IWSG are Diane Burton, Kim Lajevardi, Sylvia Ney, Sarah Foster, Jennifer Hawes, and Madeline Mora-Summonte!
Please visit if you can!
It's time for the June WEP/IWSG challenge. One of the changes to WEP, other than L.G. Keltner has taken over as host, is that posting can be any time from the first of the month to the third Wednesday of the month. So I thought, why not combine the two? So ... the June 5 IWSG question:
Of all the genres you read and write, which is your favorite to write in and why?
I'm an eclectic reader and writer, but one of my favorite genres is Women's Fiction, a pretty bleh name, since many 'women's fiction' writers claim over 40% of their readers are men (Jodi Picoult). I like WF as it delves into women's issues and foregrounds women. Unlike Romance, WF can contain a romance, but it's not the main focus and there doesn't have to be a happy-ever-after.
Like everyone, I have hot-button issues - domestic violence, abuse of women and children - sexual and otherwise, inequitable salaries and promotion opportunities ... you know, just life. Not saying men don't have their issues ...
One of my WF novels which I hope hits the shelves this year has within the storyline - domestic violence, patriarchy, a woman fighting for independence, fighting to be strong. Hmm. Does she reach her goal? Of course it contains a hot romantic element. It is set in Paris after all.
So ... my flash fiction for the WEP prompt CAGED BIRD has the nasty whiff of one of my hot-button issues (boil, boil, boil, rant, rant, rant). My little caged bird is in a metaphoric prison shared by too many women. I hope you enjoy reading, although you may not like the subject matter.
Memories
She was a fool to leave Paris.
The city where she feels safe.
She was a fool to come back.
Here.
Here holds too many memories, too many secrets.
Memories and secrets she can no longer ignore.
She must deal with them or she’ll never reach her potential.
There. In front of her. The beach house, its timbers broken and exposed. Since she escaped, years of relentless tides have eaten away its foundations. It now teeters on the edge of the dunes, on its knees in the sand, ready to surrender to a king tide.
Today the ocean holds no threat like it did that night many years ago. Its gentle waves lap the sand, leaving a trail of silvery froth and grit. Gazing at the peaceful sea, she almost forgets why she ran away from her memories for so long. But the mind holds onto things, remembers things best forgotten, overwhelms in the early morning hours when the body is most vulnerable.
Confronted with the crumbling house, her mind searches its dark recesses, unearthing hidden secrets which she thought buried. Through the years, in her silent moments when the busyness of life paused, it spoke so softly in the gentlest of whispers, as it tried to speak to her of its memories. Then there were other times when her pain rushed to the surface without warning, hurtling through her like a runaway train, threatening to derail her altogether.
She cries, falls to her knees in the wet sand. She no longer wants to carry that heavy sharp stone of hurt which has kept her caged like a helpless bird.
She no longer wants to be a prisoner to painful memories.
Memories of her last terrible night in the house threaten to drown her in a tidal wave of hurt.
vvv
On the night she died to her old life, the wind roared, the rain poured, the waves crashed. The Pacific swirled, rose and fell in a dance of wave and tide. Then the winds calmed, the moon rose and sat outside her window, bathing her in light.
She’d been asleep, tossing and turning like the tide as she did every night. She’d opened her eyes and watched the moonlight creep across her bed like a lover’s soft caress. The sheets tangled and folded over the bed like waves. Kicking off the covers, she threw herself across the bed like a beached whale.
The moon’s light overlooked the angry welts criss-crossing her legs. The welts throbbed, but she had no ointments to ease the pain. But the pain she felt inside at her father’s betrayal was worse than any belting. There were no ointments to soothe that sharp pain.
The crashing waves heralded high tide. Soon the water would rise to just below her window. The relentless pummeling against the house posts, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, mimicked the sound and rhythm of her father’s belt as it cut her tender flesh while her mother cowed in the corner, praying. For her husband’s soul? For her daughter’s pain? Why didn’t she do something? Anything … But her mother was as helpless as she.
Father would not be denied his will. She was her father’s daughter. She would never give in. She would not marry the boy from Afghanistan her father chose for her. She would marry the man she loved.
There was a big storm earlier in the night and now the rain starts again. Relentless. Like her father’s demands. He locked her in her room until you come to your senses were his words. She hasn’t been able to communicate with Ahmed since she was imprisoned, but she was not afraid. She would escape her cage. She and Ahmet would be together. As God willed.
She knew Ahmet waited for her beyond the dunes. It was her hope. Her belief.
She wrapped her hand in the end of her sheet and smashed the locked window, thankful the pelting rain muffled the sound of breaking glass. Falling from the window, she was thankful she did not cut herself on the jagged edges. The black night sucked her in. She swam for her life in the treacherous waters, her robe tangled around her knees, threatening to drag her under. Water filled her mouth and nose. Waves slapped her face but fell more gently than her father's hands. She fought the urge to surrender to the elements. No. She has waited too long for freedom. What was this water compared to the joy that lay ahead, a new life with her love? Her name meant ‘Heart’s Wish.’ She would have her wish.
A new life in Paris. With Ahmet.
Her bare feet found sand at last. Running out of the water, she held her sopping robe in her hands and sprinted toward the trees.
‘Emma Dil.’ Ahmed whispered her name from his place on the dunes where he later told her he’d made a shelter and watched her window for many days.
Ahmed held her in his safe arms.
She was home.
vvv
Ahmed watches her now from the top of the dunes, next to the crumbling wreck that had been her home when her family first arrived from Afghanistan. Before it became her prison. A few long strides and he is by her side. He gently lifts her from the sand. Cradles her. Rocks her like a baby while she cries in his arms.
Her tears are healing.
She will be whole again.
‘My brave girl,’ he whispers.
Over her shoulder the house groans and lurches, falls into the sea. Its timbers break up like skittles. The tide reaches out its greedy hand and sucks it under the waves.
vvvvvv
WORD COUNT: 949
My main reason for surrendering the hosting of WEP is that I need more time to sort my stories/books for publishing. I have plenty. I am collating a series of short stories from various genres written over my 9 years with RFW and WEP challenges. Most have grown from the 400 word days of RFW and the current 1,000 word limit for WEP to between 2,000 and 4,000 words. The above story may be included in one of my collections, so please comment on how to improve it. As it's a PRESENT/PAST/PRESENT it's easy to make mistakes of tense.
Thank you!!!!
FCA
Click below to read more WEP entries.
Click here to read more posts...Alex's awesome co-hosts for the June 5 posting of the IWSG are Diane Burton, Kim Lajevardi, Sylvia Ney, Sarah Foster, Jennifer Hawes, and Madeline Mora-Summonte!
Please visit if you can!
It's time for the June WEP/IWSG challenge. One of the changes to WEP, other than L.G. Keltner has taken over as host, is that posting can be any time from the first of the month to the third Wednesday of the month. So I thought, why not combine the two? So ... the June 5 IWSG question:
Of all the genres you read and write, which is your favorite to write in and why?
I'm an eclectic reader and writer, but one of my favorite genres is Women's Fiction, a pretty bleh name, since many 'women's fiction' writers claim over 40% of their readers are men (Jodi Picoult). I like WF as it delves into women's issues and foregrounds women. Unlike Romance, WF can contain a romance, but it's not the main focus and there doesn't have to be a happy-ever-after.
Like everyone, I have hot-button issues - domestic violence, abuse of women and children - sexual and otherwise, inequitable salaries and promotion opportunities ... you know, just life. Not saying men don't have their issues ...
One of my WF novels which I hope hits the shelves this year has within the storyline - domestic violence, patriarchy, a woman fighting for independence, fighting to be strong. Hmm. Does she reach her goal? Of course it contains a hot romantic element. It is set in Paris after all.
So ... my flash fiction for the WEP prompt CAGED BIRD has the nasty whiff of one of my hot-button issues (boil, boil, boil, rant, rant, rant). My little caged bird is in a metaphoric prison shared by too many women. I hope you enjoy reading, although you may not like the subject matter.
Memories
She was a fool to leave Paris.
The city where she feels safe.
She was a fool to come back.
Here.
Here holds too many memories, too many secrets.
Memories and secrets she can no longer ignore.
She must deal with them or she’ll never reach her potential.
There. In front of her. The beach house, its timbers broken and exposed. Since she escaped, years of relentless tides have eaten away its foundations. It now teeters on the edge of the dunes, on its knees in the sand, ready to surrender to a king tide.
Today the ocean holds no threat like it did that night many years ago. Its gentle waves lap the sand, leaving a trail of silvery froth and grit. Gazing at the peaceful sea, she almost forgets why she ran away from her memories for so long. But the mind holds onto things, remembers things best forgotten, overwhelms in the early morning hours when the body is most vulnerable.
Confronted with the crumbling house, her mind searches its dark recesses, unearthing hidden secrets which she thought buried. Through the years, in her silent moments when the busyness of life paused, it spoke so softly in the gentlest of whispers, as it tried to speak to her of its memories. Then there were other times when her pain rushed to the surface without warning, hurtling through her like a runaway train, threatening to derail her altogether.
She cries, falls to her knees in the wet sand. She no longer wants to carry that heavy sharp stone of hurt which has kept her caged like a helpless bird.
She no longer wants to be a prisoner to painful memories.
Memories of her last terrible night in the house threaten to drown her in a tidal wave of hurt.
vvv
On the night she died to her old life, the wind roared, the rain poured, the waves crashed. The Pacific swirled, rose and fell in a dance of wave and tide. Then the winds calmed, the moon rose and sat outside her window, bathing her in light.
She’d been asleep, tossing and turning like the tide as she did every night. She’d opened her eyes and watched the moonlight creep across her bed like a lover’s soft caress. The sheets tangled and folded over the bed like waves. Kicking off the covers, she threw herself across the bed like a beached whale.
The moon’s light overlooked the angry welts criss-crossing her legs. The welts throbbed, but she had no ointments to ease the pain. But the pain she felt inside at her father’s betrayal was worse than any belting. There were no ointments to soothe that sharp pain.
The crashing waves heralded high tide. Soon the water would rise to just below her window. The relentless pummeling against the house posts, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, mimicked the sound and rhythm of her father’s belt as it cut her tender flesh while her mother cowed in the corner, praying. For her husband’s soul? For her daughter’s pain? Why didn’t she do something? Anything … But her mother was as helpless as she.
Father would not be denied his will. She was her father’s daughter. She would never give in. She would not marry the boy from Afghanistan her father chose for her. She would marry the man she loved.
There was a big storm earlier in the night and now the rain starts again. Relentless. Like her father’s demands. He locked her in her room until you come to your senses were his words. She hasn’t been able to communicate with Ahmed since she was imprisoned, but she was not afraid. She would escape her cage. She and Ahmet would be together. As God willed.
She knew Ahmet waited for her beyond the dunes. It was her hope. Her belief.
She wrapped her hand in the end of her sheet and smashed the locked window, thankful the pelting rain muffled the sound of breaking glass. Falling from the window, she was thankful she did not cut herself on the jagged edges. The black night sucked her in. She swam for her life in the treacherous waters, her robe tangled around her knees, threatening to drag her under. Water filled her mouth and nose. Waves slapped her face but fell more gently than her father's hands. She fought the urge to surrender to the elements. No. She has waited too long for freedom. What was this water compared to the joy that lay ahead, a new life with her love? Her name meant ‘Heart’s Wish.’ She would have her wish.
A new life in Paris. With Ahmet.
Her bare feet found sand at last. Running out of the water, she held her sopping robe in her hands and sprinted toward the trees.
‘Emma Dil.’ Ahmed whispered her name from his place on the dunes where he later told her he’d made a shelter and watched her window for many days.
Ahmed held her in his safe arms.
She was home.
vvv
Ahmed watches her now from the top of the dunes, next to the crumbling wreck that had been her home when her family first arrived from Afghanistan. Before it became her prison. A few long strides and he is by her side. He gently lifts her from the sand. Cradles her. Rocks her like a baby while she cries in his arms.
Her tears are healing.
She will be whole again.
‘My brave girl,’ he whispers.
Over her shoulder the house groans and lurches, falls into the sea. Its timbers break up like skittles. The tide reaches out its greedy hand and sucks it under the waves.
vvvvvv
WORD COUNT: 949
My main reason for surrendering the hosting of WEP is that I need more time to sort my stories/books for publishing. I have plenty. I am collating a series of short stories from various genres written over my 9 years with RFW and WEP challenges. Most have grown from the 400 word days of RFW and the current 1,000 word limit for WEP to between 2,000 and 4,000 words. The above story may be included in one of my collections, so please comment on how to improve it. As it's a PRESENT/PAST/PRESENT it's easy to make mistakes of tense.
Thank you!!!!
FCA
Click below to read more WEP entries.
April 30, 2019
My May #IWSG post -- Cultural Genocide -- book burning.
Time for another IWSG post, thanks to Alex J Cavanaugh and
his awesome co-hosts for May -- Lee Lowery, Juneta Key,Yvonne Ventresca, and T. Powell Coltrin!
If time allows, please visit the co-hosts and
be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
May 1 question: What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?
Go HERE to read other posts
Today I'm going to take the question and mould it into what kept popping into my mind when I saw it -- cultural genocide in the form of book burning.
There's no argument against language having power. Just think about what happens in ideological wars -- often there's a book burning as a new regime tries to eliminate traces of the old.
According to Wikipedia, book burning represents an element of censorship and usually proceeds from a cultural, religious, or political opposition to the materials in question.In some cases, the destroyed works are irreplaceable and their burning constitutes a severe loss to cultural heritage. Examples include the burning of books and burying of scholars under China's Qin Dynasty (213–210 BCE), the burning of the Library of Alexandria (c. 49), the obliteration of the Library of Baghdad (1258), the destruction of Aztec codices by Itzcoatl (1430s), and the burning of Maya codices on the order of bishop Diego de Landa (1562).In other cases, such as the Nazi book burnings, other copies of the destroyed books survive, but the instance of book burning becomes emblematic of a harsh and oppressive regime which is seeking to censor or silence an aspect of a nation's culture.A good example is a book often studied by my students, The Book Thief, by Marcus Zuzak.
The title suggests that literature and writing is an important theme of the novel. It certainly is. Written from the POV of Death -- yep, you got that right -- who's fascinated by a young girl, Liesel who loves books, in a little German town, Molching, in the midst of Hitler's war. The Book Thief is framed by various other books, not the least of which is protagonist's memoir, The Book Thief.
But for the purpose of this post, this novel also dramatizes the destruction of literature and writing, as shown by the burning of Jewish creative and intellectual products in a book burning to commemorate Adolph Hitler's birthday. Liesel loves words so much, she rescues a book from the burning pile and hides it under her coat, ignoring how it smolders away, burning her. Do we love books so much we'd risk our lives to own one?
I love how the character, Max Vandenburg, a Jew hiding from the Nazis, gets a small revenge by painting over the pages of Hitler's own book, Mein Kampf, and writing stories for Liesel over the top of them. Overall, the novel demonstrates the power that words of friendship have to overshadow words of hatred.
Language in the small German town certainly had power.
I wanted to celebrate that today.
So, if you haven't read it, please do, and celebrate the power of language. Language is our life, right?
his awesome co-hosts for May -- Lee Lowery, Juneta Key,Yvonne Ventresca, and T. Powell Coltrin!
If time allows, please visit the co-hosts and
be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
May 1 question: What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?
Go HERE to read other posts
Today I'm going to take the question and mould it into what kept popping into my mind when I saw it -- cultural genocide in the form of book burning.
There's no argument against language having power. Just think about what happens in ideological wars -- often there's a book burning as a new regime tries to eliminate traces of the old.
According to Wikipedia, book burning represents an element of censorship and usually proceeds from a cultural, religious, or political opposition to the materials in question.In some cases, the destroyed works are irreplaceable and their burning constitutes a severe loss to cultural heritage. Examples include the burning of books and burying of scholars under China's Qin Dynasty (213–210 BCE), the burning of the Library of Alexandria (c. 49), the obliteration of the Library of Baghdad (1258), the destruction of Aztec codices by Itzcoatl (1430s), and the burning of Maya codices on the order of bishop Diego de Landa (1562).In other cases, such as the Nazi book burnings, other copies of the destroyed books survive, but the instance of book burning becomes emblematic of a harsh and oppressive regime which is seeking to censor or silence an aspect of a nation's culture.A good example is a book often studied by my students, The Book Thief, by Marcus Zuzak.
The title suggests that literature and writing is an important theme of the novel. It certainly is. Written from the POV of Death -- yep, you got that right -- who's fascinated by a young girl, Liesel who loves books, in a little German town, Molching, in the midst of Hitler's war. The Book Thief is framed by various other books, not the least of which is protagonist's memoir, The Book Thief.
But for the purpose of this post, this novel also dramatizes the destruction of literature and writing, as shown by the burning of Jewish creative and intellectual products in a book burning to commemorate Adolph Hitler's birthday. Liesel loves words so much, she rescues a book from the burning pile and hides it under her coat, ignoring how it smolders away, burning her. Do we love books so much we'd risk our lives to own one?
I love how the character, Max Vandenburg, a Jew hiding from the Nazis, gets a small revenge by painting over the pages of Hitler's own book, Mein Kampf, and writing stories for Liesel over the top of them. Overall, the novel demonstrates the power that words of friendship have to overshadow words of hatred.
Language in the small German town certainly had power.
I wanted to celebrate that today.
So, if you haven't read it, please do, and celebrate the power of language. Language is our life, right?
April 12, 2019
#WEP/IWSG post -- my #flashfiction, SORRY. SORRY. SORRY.
It's time for the WEP/IWSG April challenge. I've been missing Yolanda Renee's grisly stories, so I thought I'd go grisly myself with a little ghost thrown in. I know. I know. It's April, not October, but sometimes the story won't be denied. I wanted to retell the Aladdin story. It was the first thing that came to mind when I saw Jewel Box and the wonderful image our image guru, Olga Godim found. But Aladdin wouldn't be retold, so I plunged in another direction.
DISCLAIMER; Don't read this late at night...
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Since the murder, I could hear a mouse wearing bootees tiptoe through my house. Otherwise, I would not have heard the faint footsteps creaking up the stairs. Sitting up so fast I cracked my head on the poster, I screamed, ‘Who’s there?’
The bedroom door handle turned slowly.
I squeaked like a frightened mouse, my voice scarcely audible over the thump of my heart. ‘Who’s there?’
Someone. In my room. I strained my eyes in the darkness. A small shadowy sinister shape stood on the threshold.
‘Sorry, Sheila. It’s me.’
OMG! My arm hairs prickled. A shiver sprinted down my spine.
It was him...
But … I’d buried him a week ago. I’d tossed the black rose onto his coffin. I’d watched the gravediggers set about their grisly task. He’d risen from the dead? Tread quietly into my house like he’d been working night shift and didn’t want to wake me.
‘It really is me.’
I’ve never seen a ghost. But like they say in the old cliché, there’s a first time for everything. I’d heard there are two types of ghosts – benevolent and malicious. If this was Drew’s ghost, it’d be malicious. After what I’d done.
‘Sheila.’ He mouthed my name again, his voice wavering like he spoke underwater.
Far from oblivious to the threatening tone, I grabbed my throat. ‘Drew? How … why … whaaat?’
‘I had no time to give you your birthday gift. Sorry. Death came to me … so suddenly.’
Did he know I hired the assassin? Did he know about Leopold? Had he come home early one night and caught us? Maybe in that place where he’s gone, he’d figured out his sudden demise.
He stepped out of the shadows.
I gasped. Clutched the bedclothes to my throat. He looked the same but different. Was I expecting blood dripping from his slit throat?
He smiled his kind Drew smile. ‘I came back to give you something for your birthday. I don’t want you to go to your grave thinking I don’t care.’
Grave? A strange turn of phrase? I shuddered. Did he have foreknowledge? Did he know the time and hour of my death? Was I dreaming this whole creepy episode? I just wanted him gone. ‘Please don’t worry yourself. Go back where you came from. I, er, know you care. Or did. Once.’
And he did care. He was the best husband a woman could want, but not the one I wanted. I wanted glitz and glamour. Nights on the town. Not nights sleeping alone waiting for my husband to finish night shift.
Leopold gave me the glitz and glamour I craved, but he stressed I had to deal with Drew.
I rubbed my fingers over the gold necklace I never take off. So much better than those cheapo chains Drew gave me. Did he make the onerous journey back from the grave to give me another cheapo chain? I chewed the sheet so I wouldn’t laugh out loud.
Closer and closer he came. His shape grew bigger and bigger. His black presence filled the room. Or had a black moon stumbled through my bedroom window?
I flicked my eyes around the room. There was no escaping this looming presence standing between me and the door.
He opened the curtain that hid the safe, exposing the shiny steel. Flicking the dial, he said, ‘Someone’s changed the code.’
I didn’t miss the flash of anger in his voice.
Drew had been locking the safe when the assassin broke through the window and slit his throat.
I’ve since torn up the carpet. Repapered the walls. Hung new curtains. But like Lady Macbeth, I can’t get the blood off my hands. The smell of Drew’s death lingers.
By some magic, he wrenched the safe open. Apparently where he came from, you don’t need a code.
His shape turned to me, holding another, more concrete, shape in its hands.
‘Sheila. Your belated gift. I hid it in the secret compartment no one knows about, not even you.’
Walking to the side of the bed, he threw aside the filmy curtain I liked to sleep behind. Gave me a sense of mystery. Tonight, seeing his shapeless face, I’d had more mystery than I wanted for a lifetime.
‘Take it.’ In his cloth-covered hands he held out a small, sparkly box.
There was something vaguely Aladdin-ish about the scene. If I obeyed his wishes, maybe he’d disappear into the miasma from which he’d appeared. If he didn’t hurry and get this over with, Leopold would return. I crossed my fingers. I touched one the wooden posters of my four-poster bed.
Ghosts killed.
The box was smooth, satin to the touch. Jewels studded the lid and sides. They looked like precious jewels, but, no, Drew never gave me precious jewels.
‘Open it.’ His shape leaned closer, but stepped back when I gasped in fright. He wandered aimlessly around the room seeking distraction while I examined his gift. When he picked up our photograph where I’d slashed him out of the picture and added Leopold, I nearly vomited.
The phone rang. I lay the box aside. If it was Leopold, I’d warn him to stay away. "Hello," I said, "Hello." No one there. I hung up at the same time the lights went out ...
Beside me, I heard faint music. What the? I picked up the box and lifted the lid. Loud music crashed around the room like out-of-tune violins played by a cat.
Then it stopped. Like my heart was about to.
‘Ghosts don't exist!’ I screamed as the horrific visage gurgled, approaching my bed.
Drew’s hand reached into the box and chose a shining emerald necklace. ‘Your birthday gift, Sheila. I came back to put it around your throat.’
I struggled. I screamed. I twisted. But he was a ghost. A malicious ghost. He ripped off Leopold’s necklace and replaced it with his. His ice-cold hands bunched it behind my neck. He pulled … and pulled ... tight … tighter. I gurgled louder ... louder... I was vaguely aware of the door opening and Leopold’s chilling scream.
‘Sorry.’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks for reading my entry. If you like it, please leave a comment and press my buttons.
WORDS: 1024FCA
If you'd like to join us for JEWEL BOX, please sign up HERE or in my sidebar. We'll be around to read. Go HERE for ideas for JEWEL BOX. CLICK on entries in the list in my sidebar with DL (Direct Link) after their name and read more entries.
DISCLAIMER; Don't read this late at night...
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Since the murder, I could hear a mouse wearing bootees tiptoe through my house. Otherwise, I would not have heard the faint footsteps creaking up the stairs. Sitting up so fast I cracked my head on the poster, I screamed, ‘Who’s there?’
The bedroom door handle turned slowly.
I squeaked like a frightened mouse, my voice scarcely audible over the thump of my heart. ‘Who’s there?’
Someone. In my room. I strained my eyes in the darkness. A small shadowy sinister shape stood on the threshold.
‘Sorry, Sheila. It’s me.’
OMG! My arm hairs prickled. A shiver sprinted down my spine.
It was him...
But … I’d buried him a week ago. I’d tossed the black rose onto his coffin. I’d watched the gravediggers set about their grisly task. He’d risen from the dead? Tread quietly into my house like he’d been working night shift and didn’t want to wake me.
‘It really is me.’
I’ve never seen a ghost. But like they say in the old cliché, there’s a first time for everything. I’d heard there are two types of ghosts – benevolent and malicious. If this was Drew’s ghost, it’d be malicious. After what I’d done.
‘Sheila.’ He mouthed my name again, his voice wavering like he spoke underwater.
Far from oblivious to the threatening tone, I grabbed my throat. ‘Drew? How … why … whaaat?’
‘I had no time to give you your birthday gift. Sorry. Death came to me … so suddenly.’
Did he know I hired the assassin? Did he know about Leopold? Had he come home early one night and caught us? Maybe in that place where he’s gone, he’d figured out his sudden demise.
He stepped out of the shadows.
I gasped. Clutched the bedclothes to my throat. He looked the same but different. Was I expecting blood dripping from his slit throat?
He smiled his kind Drew smile. ‘I came back to give you something for your birthday. I don’t want you to go to your grave thinking I don’t care.’
Grave? A strange turn of phrase? I shuddered. Did he have foreknowledge? Did he know the time and hour of my death? Was I dreaming this whole creepy episode? I just wanted him gone. ‘Please don’t worry yourself. Go back where you came from. I, er, know you care. Or did. Once.’
And he did care. He was the best husband a woman could want, but not the one I wanted. I wanted glitz and glamour. Nights on the town. Not nights sleeping alone waiting for my husband to finish night shift.
Leopold gave me the glitz and glamour I craved, but he stressed I had to deal with Drew.
I rubbed my fingers over the gold necklace I never take off. So much better than those cheapo chains Drew gave me. Did he make the onerous journey back from the grave to give me another cheapo chain? I chewed the sheet so I wouldn’t laugh out loud.
Closer and closer he came. His shape grew bigger and bigger. His black presence filled the room. Or had a black moon stumbled through my bedroom window?
I flicked my eyes around the room. There was no escaping this looming presence standing between me and the door.
He opened the curtain that hid the safe, exposing the shiny steel. Flicking the dial, he said, ‘Someone’s changed the code.’
I didn’t miss the flash of anger in his voice.
Drew had been locking the safe when the assassin broke through the window and slit his throat.
I’ve since torn up the carpet. Repapered the walls. Hung new curtains. But like Lady Macbeth, I can’t get the blood off my hands. The smell of Drew’s death lingers.
By some magic, he wrenched the safe open. Apparently where he came from, you don’t need a code.
His shape turned to me, holding another, more concrete, shape in its hands.
‘Sheila. Your belated gift. I hid it in the secret compartment no one knows about, not even you.’
Walking to the side of the bed, he threw aside the filmy curtain I liked to sleep behind. Gave me a sense of mystery. Tonight, seeing his shapeless face, I’d had more mystery than I wanted for a lifetime.
‘Take it.’ In his cloth-covered hands he held out a small, sparkly box.
There was something vaguely Aladdin-ish about the scene. If I obeyed his wishes, maybe he’d disappear into the miasma from which he’d appeared. If he didn’t hurry and get this over with, Leopold would return. I crossed my fingers. I touched one the wooden posters of my four-poster bed.
Ghosts killed.
The box was smooth, satin to the touch. Jewels studded the lid and sides. They looked like precious jewels, but, no, Drew never gave me precious jewels.
‘Open it.’ His shape leaned closer, but stepped back when I gasped in fright. He wandered aimlessly around the room seeking distraction while I examined his gift. When he picked up our photograph where I’d slashed him out of the picture and added Leopold, I nearly vomited.
The phone rang. I lay the box aside. If it was Leopold, I’d warn him to stay away. "Hello," I said, "Hello." No one there. I hung up at the same time the lights went out ...
Beside me, I heard faint music. What the? I picked up the box and lifted the lid. Loud music crashed around the room like out-of-tune violins played by a cat.
Then it stopped. Like my heart was about to.
‘Ghosts don't exist!’ I screamed as the horrific visage gurgled, approaching my bed.
Drew’s hand reached into the box and chose a shining emerald necklace. ‘Your birthday gift, Sheila. I came back to put it around your throat.’
I struggled. I screamed. I twisted. But he was a ghost. A malicious ghost. He ripped off Leopold’s necklace and replaced it with his. His ice-cold hands bunched it behind my neck. He pulled … and pulled ... tight … tighter. I gurgled louder ... louder... I was vaguely aware of the door opening and Leopold’s chilling scream.
‘Sorry.’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks for reading my entry. If you like it, please leave a comment and press my buttons.
WORDS: 1024FCA
If you'd like to join us for JEWEL BOX, please sign up HERE or in my sidebar. We'll be around to read. Go HERE for ideas for JEWEL BOX. CLICK on entries in the list in my sidebar with DL (Direct Link) after their name and read more entries.
April 3, 2019
#IWSG April post -- Story Genius
Here we are gathered around the IWSG campfire again, swapping war stories! And it's April! Time for the A -Z Challenge for those of you who participate. For the WEP/IWSG, it's time for the April Challenge. (See end of post for details).
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the April 3 posting of the IWSG are J.H. Moncrieff, Natalie Aguirre, Patsy Collins, and Chemist Ken!Visit these awesome peeps when you can!
April 3 question: If you could use a wish to help you write just ONE scene/chapter of your book, which one would it be? (examples: fight scene / first kiss scene / death scene / chase scene / first chapter / middle chapter / end chapter, etc.)
That's easy. The opening scene of my Paris novel where so much has to happen to set up the story. I've been going through the Story Genius with a friend. This how-to book isn't for the faint hearted. It takes two, baby...
Most of you are way ahead of me in the published author game, but that doesn't mean I haven't created an arsenal of stories and novels in various stages of dress or undress that will be published soon. I know what stories I like to read. It can be hard to write those stories. Just read a quote by Lisa Cron in her earlier book, Wired for Story - '...most people know what a story is until they sit down to write one.'
[image error] Story Genius: How to Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste Three Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere)
After writing another 12 pages of notes fleshing out my MC's life before page one, I feel like I'm getting somewhere. After plotting and writing this story for about three years, LOL. Perhaps I'll be much quicker when I apply the principles to my other novels setting myself up for a quick launch. Right now I'm back to a Chapter One rewrite. The rest of the novel should fall into place now...
Here's the blurb for Story Genius in case you're interested:
It’s every novelist’s greatest fear: pouring their blood, sweat, and tears into writing hundreds of pages only to realize that their story has no sense of urgency, no internal logic, and so is a page one rewrite.
The prevailing wisdom in the writing community is that there are just two ways around this problem: pantsing (winging it) and plotting (focusing on the external plot). Story coach Lisa Cron has spent her career discovering why these methods don’t work and coming up with a powerful alternative, based on the science behind what our brains are wired to crave in every story we read (and it’s not what you think).
In Story Genius Cron takes you, step-by-step, through the creation of a novel from the first glimmer of an idea, to a complete multilayered blueprint—including fully realized scenes—that evolves into a first draft with the authority, richness, and command of a riveting sixth or seventh draft.
Here's to writing with authority, richness and command.
Speaking of which, sign ups started for the WEP/IWSG April challenge, Jewel Box, on April 1. Rub your Aladdin's lamp, and come up with a flash fiction, non fiction or poem that fits the challenge -- or fits your letter of the day if you're in the A - Z Challenge.
Have a great month! Hope to see you signed up at the WEP website! Even if your writing is not yet at genius level, we'd love to read it!
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the April 3 posting of the IWSG are J.H. Moncrieff, Natalie Aguirre, Patsy Collins, and Chemist Ken!Visit these awesome peeps when you can!April 3 question: If you could use a wish to help you write just ONE scene/chapter of your book, which one would it be? (examples: fight scene / first kiss scene / death scene / chase scene / first chapter / middle chapter / end chapter, etc.)
That's easy. The opening scene of my Paris novel where so much has to happen to set up the story. I've been going through the Story Genius with a friend. This how-to book isn't for the faint hearted. It takes two, baby...
Most of you are way ahead of me in the published author game, but that doesn't mean I haven't created an arsenal of stories and novels in various stages of dress or undress that will be published soon. I know what stories I like to read. It can be hard to write those stories. Just read a quote by Lisa Cron in her earlier book, Wired for Story - '...most people know what a story is until they sit down to write one.'
[image error] Story Genius: How to Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste Three Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere)
After writing another 12 pages of notes fleshing out my MC's life before page one, I feel like I'm getting somewhere. After plotting and writing this story for about three years, LOL. Perhaps I'll be much quicker when I apply the principles to my other novels setting myself up for a quick launch. Right now I'm back to a Chapter One rewrite. The rest of the novel should fall into place now...Here's the blurb for Story Genius in case you're interested:
It’s every novelist’s greatest fear: pouring their blood, sweat, and tears into writing hundreds of pages only to realize that their story has no sense of urgency, no internal logic, and so is a page one rewrite.
The prevailing wisdom in the writing community is that there are just two ways around this problem: pantsing (winging it) and plotting (focusing on the external plot). Story coach Lisa Cron has spent her career discovering why these methods don’t work and coming up with a powerful alternative, based on the science behind what our brains are wired to crave in every story we read (and it’s not what you think).
In Story Genius Cron takes you, step-by-step, through the creation of a novel from the first glimmer of an idea, to a complete multilayered blueprint—including fully realized scenes—that evolves into a first draft with the authority, richness, and command of a riveting sixth or seventh draft.
Here's to writing with authority, richness and command.
Speaking of which, sign ups started for the WEP/IWSG April challenge, Jewel Box, on April 1. Rub your Aladdin's lamp, and come up with a flash fiction, non fiction or poem that fits the challenge -- or fits your letter of the day if you're in the A - Z Challenge.
Have a great month! Hope to see you signed up at the WEP website! Even if your writing is not yet at genius level, we'd love to read it!
March 5, 2019
#IWSG post. Those critical critique partners.
Hey all, another month rolls around and here we have the IWSG post again. I confess I'd forgotten it, so swamped am i with writing projects, but someone just reminded me. So this is a quick in and out.
Click HERE to find the list of participants
Thanks to Alex J Cavanaugh and his team of awesomeness for the opportunity to talk about our insecurities or offer help to others who're going through something we've already mastered.
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the March 6 posting of the IWSG are Fundy Blue, Beverly Stowe McClure, Erika Beebe, and Lisa Buie-Collard! Visit if you can!
I'm ignoring the question for the month and posing a quick question of my own - I'm sure most of you have faced this and come to your own conclusions.
How much store do you place in suggestions from critique partners?
I confess I tend to believe everyone knows better than I do, but I'm learning the hard way to trust myself more.
An example. I shopped a manuscript to two big publishers and received positive feedback, nearly making it with one of them, but after several editorial meetings, they decided to pass. Why? I was told that it needed a first chapter to set up the heroine's ORDINARY WORLD and then the rest would have flowed more. I had this first chapter written, but removed it on advice from two trusted critique partners. So now I'm rewriting it with this original first chapter included and improved. But the what if? nags...
This is happening a lot lately. It happened with the vampire series I'm writing where my critters wanted me to jump right into the story with action, action, action. I know where they're coming from with this, but it meant so much relied on backstory. A big no no.
I'm starting to believe in myself and my decisions more. For me, that's a big thing. Critique partners are awesome, and I hate to think of life without them, but in the end, it's our story and we need to be comfortable with what we write.
What do you think?
Please share your thoughts. I'd appreciate it.
The combined WEP/IWSG enjoyed a successful challenge for the prompt, 28 Days. Please consider challenging yourself with our next prompt, Jewel Box, which happens in April during the A-Z Challenge.
Click HERE to find the list of participantsThanks to Alex J Cavanaugh and his team of awesomeness for the opportunity to talk about our insecurities or offer help to others who're going through something we've already mastered.
Alex's awesome co-hosts for the March 6 posting of the IWSG are Fundy Blue, Beverly Stowe McClure, Erika Beebe, and Lisa Buie-Collard! Visit if you can!
I'm ignoring the question for the month and posing a quick question of my own - I'm sure most of you have faced this and come to your own conclusions.
How much store do you place in suggestions from critique partners?
I confess I tend to believe everyone knows better than I do, but I'm learning the hard way to trust myself more.
An example. I shopped a manuscript to two big publishers and received positive feedback, nearly making it with one of them, but after several editorial meetings, they decided to pass. Why? I was told that it needed a first chapter to set up the heroine's ORDINARY WORLD and then the rest would have flowed more. I had this first chapter written, but removed it on advice from two trusted critique partners. So now I'm rewriting it with this original first chapter included and improved. But the what if? nags...
This is happening a lot lately. It happened with the vampire series I'm writing where my critters wanted me to jump right into the story with action, action, action. I know where they're coming from with this, but it meant so much relied on backstory. A big no no.
I'm starting to believe in myself and my decisions more. For me, that's a big thing. Critique partners are awesome, and I hate to think of life without them, but in the end, it's our story and we need to be comfortable with what we write.
What do you think?
Please share your thoughts. I'd appreciate it.
The combined WEP/IWSG enjoyed a successful challenge for the prompt, 28 Days. Please consider challenging yourself with our next prompt, Jewel Box, which happens in April during the A-Z Challenge.
February 17, 2019
#WEP/IWSG Challenge - 28 Days. My #flash fiction, Steps to Freedom.
Welcome to my blog! Today I'm posting a little early for the February WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) challenge, 28 Days.
I struggled to come up with an idea for this prompt.
Finally, it hit me and I began to write faster than I've ever written before.
I began to imagine this refugee trudging through Africa heading for an imagined freedom. I come from a country where the boats are turned back, not a good look. Nor my belief. My argument is - what did I do to be lucky enough to be born in Australia? Nothing.
I want to share the fictional Abioye's story. But I'm not sure how fictional it is...
Steps to Freedom
He took another step.
Abioye looked down. He saw red dirt, swollen, ripped feet, and his lengthening shadow. Miles behind him was his village, burned and looted, everyone he loved, dead. Ahead of him lay freedom.
He took another step.
As he walked, he kept his eyes on the roadside. Already he'd been lucky enough to find a rolled-up mattress, a cringing dog, a goatskin of water to add to his swag. He'd been getting his swag together for weeks - a few tins of supplies the warlords dropped when they swooped into his village and drove off into the hills, automatic rifles over their shoulders. They stole the UN dried milk tins from the mothers’ tents, taking from the babies' mouths. They stole all the rice, showing not a whit of conscience for the starving villagers.
Then they took more than supplies.
When there was nothing left to steal, one day they returned and took the lives of everyone - all the old men, all the women, all the children. The only survivors were the young men like him, young men who roamed the sparse land, looking for edible herbs and grasses in the desert-like landscape. He'd returned at nightfall to the devastation. He ran. If they found him, he'd be forced to become a boy soldier like so many others who'd disappeared.
He took another step.
Abioye felt the sob in his throat. But he was a man. He refused to cry despite what he'd lost.
He took another step. Then another. And another.
It was the only way forward to the north. To the boats. To the sea. To freedom.
He'd heard stories of boats that left from Tangier in Morocco. Boats to take him across the water to another land. A free land. A land with food. A land with jobs. He'd work in Tangier until he saved enough to board the boat. He'd heard stories of a man who hired young men to escort tourists through the medinas*. He'd heard it took 28 days of working 7 days a week to save enough for his trip to the new land. To Utopia.
He took another step. His feet pained so much he was surprised when they moved. One step. Then another agonizing step.
The sun beat down mercilessly. He sipped from his meager water supply. He must make it last. He might walk for months and find no village, no water, no food.
The dog cried. What could Abioye do? He carefully poured a mouthful of water into his palm and the dog lapped, not wasting a drop. It licked his leg in gratitude. Abioye reached down and patted the mutt’s head.
He took another step.
Every few steps he had to adjust his belt. He'd lost so much weight in the past few days, the belt kept slipping down over his hips. Once he'd forgotten and the next thing he knew his trousers were flapping around his ankles. He laughed at the ridiculous situation, then stopped, afraid he was hysterical from the horror he’d seen. But it didn't matter if he laughed, cried or screamed. There was no one to hear him. He was crossing the Sahara Desert. Alone.
The road became rocky. He stumbled. Landed on his knees. He was sobbing now. He couldn’t help it even though he was wasting moisture. The sun. The rough road. The hunger. The thirst. The vision of his parents' burned bodies. His young sisters. His beloved -- How could he go on?
The dog licked his face. Abioye dragged himself to his feet. He had to go on. In memory of his father, his mother, his two sweet sisters, his Candis who’d been promised to him when they were both three years old. They were all alive in his head.
Abioye took another step.
He felt like he was falling, not walking. Falling, falling, falling, but never hitting the ground.
How long had he been on the road? Was it 28 days already? Surely, soon, he must pass by the green plants that leaked water. Then he and the dog could drink their fill. He felt the moisture on the tip of his tongue as he dreamed of it.
I'm so tired. I need to sleep. On my mattress. Just for a little while.
He took another step.
Toward the edge of the road.
He mustn't stop. To stop was death. Then there'd be no one to remember his family. No one to remember his Candis. He saw her in his mind – her wide smile, her red lips, her teeth pearly white, dazzling him, her short black hair cropped close to her scalp, her graceful long limbs, her colourful dresses that brushed the ground when she walked.
I will never forget you, my eternal love.
He took another step.
Whether it took 28 days or a year, he would press on. He would make a new life. Away from his cursed land. The land that God forgot. Maybe God had turned his back on Africa but still lived in that new land where the boat would take him. Maybe God would welcome him to its shores and surround him with love and plenty. Instead of sobbing, he smiled.
He'd seen mirages in the desert many times. A mirage was coming toward him. A big green tank shimmering through the waves. Surely it was full of water.
He took another step.
The mirage came closer. No!It was a jeep. Soldiers in the back. Soldiers in the front. Guns pointed. At him.
He spun around and took another step. Away. Away from the killers. Away from bondage. Away from death.
He heard the dog yelp. His throat closed over. Turning, he saw its head a bloody mess and its eyes stared sightless into the searing sky.
'Stop or you're next!' One of the soldiers waved his gun, then shot a round into the air. Crack! Crack! Crack!
'Don't take another step, boy. Or you're dead.'
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
* Medina - the old walled part of a North African town.
WORD COUNT: 976
FCA
Thank you for reading. Please join us if you have an entry that would fit 28 Days. If not, please consider joining us for April's WEP challenge - JEWEL BOX.
I struggled to come up with an idea for this prompt.
Finally, it hit me and I began to write faster than I've ever written before.
I began to imagine this refugee trudging through Africa heading for an imagined freedom. I come from a country where the boats are turned back, not a good look. Nor my belief. My argument is - what did I do to be lucky enough to be born in Australia? Nothing.
I want to share the fictional Abioye's story. But I'm not sure how fictional it is...
Steps to Freedom
He took another step.
Abioye looked down. He saw red dirt, swollen, ripped feet, and his lengthening shadow. Miles behind him was his village, burned and looted, everyone he loved, dead. Ahead of him lay freedom.
He took another step.
As he walked, he kept his eyes on the roadside. Already he'd been lucky enough to find a rolled-up mattress, a cringing dog, a goatskin of water to add to his swag. He'd been getting his swag together for weeks - a few tins of supplies the warlords dropped when they swooped into his village and drove off into the hills, automatic rifles over their shoulders. They stole the UN dried milk tins from the mothers’ tents, taking from the babies' mouths. They stole all the rice, showing not a whit of conscience for the starving villagers.
Then they took more than supplies.
When there was nothing left to steal, one day they returned and took the lives of everyone - all the old men, all the women, all the children. The only survivors were the young men like him, young men who roamed the sparse land, looking for edible herbs and grasses in the desert-like landscape. He'd returned at nightfall to the devastation. He ran. If they found him, he'd be forced to become a boy soldier like so many others who'd disappeared.
He took another step.
Abioye felt the sob in his throat. But he was a man. He refused to cry despite what he'd lost.
He took another step. Then another. And another.
It was the only way forward to the north. To the boats. To the sea. To freedom.
He'd heard stories of boats that left from Tangier in Morocco. Boats to take him across the water to another land. A free land. A land with food. A land with jobs. He'd work in Tangier until he saved enough to board the boat. He'd heard stories of a man who hired young men to escort tourists through the medinas*. He'd heard it took 28 days of working 7 days a week to save enough for his trip to the new land. To Utopia.
He took another step. His feet pained so much he was surprised when they moved. One step. Then another agonizing step.
The sun beat down mercilessly. He sipped from his meager water supply. He must make it last. He might walk for months and find no village, no water, no food.
The dog cried. What could Abioye do? He carefully poured a mouthful of water into his palm and the dog lapped, not wasting a drop. It licked his leg in gratitude. Abioye reached down and patted the mutt’s head.
He took another step.
Every few steps he had to adjust his belt. He'd lost so much weight in the past few days, the belt kept slipping down over his hips. Once he'd forgotten and the next thing he knew his trousers were flapping around his ankles. He laughed at the ridiculous situation, then stopped, afraid he was hysterical from the horror he’d seen. But it didn't matter if he laughed, cried or screamed. There was no one to hear him. He was crossing the Sahara Desert. Alone.
The road became rocky. He stumbled. Landed on his knees. He was sobbing now. He couldn’t help it even though he was wasting moisture. The sun. The rough road. The hunger. The thirst. The vision of his parents' burned bodies. His young sisters. His beloved -- How could he go on?
The dog licked his face. Abioye dragged himself to his feet. He had to go on. In memory of his father, his mother, his two sweet sisters, his Candis who’d been promised to him when they were both three years old. They were all alive in his head.
Abioye took another step.
He felt like he was falling, not walking. Falling, falling, falling, but never hitting the ground.
How long had he been on the road? Was it 28 days already? Surely, soon, he must pass by the green plants that leaked water. Then he and the dog could drink their fill. He felt the moisture on the tip of his tongue as he dreamed of it.
I'm so tired. I need to sleep. On my mattress. Just for a little while.
He took another step.
Toward the edge of the road.
He mustn't stop. To stop was death. Then there'd be no one to remember his family. No one to remember his Candis. He saw her in his mind – her wide smile, her red lips, her teeth pearly white, dazzling him, her short black hair cropped close to her scalp, her graceful long limbs, her colourful dresses that brushed the ground when she walked.
I will never forget you, my eternal love.
He took another step.
Whether it took 28 days or a year, he would press on. He would make a new life. Away from his cursed land. The land that God forgot. Maybe God had turned his back on Africa but still lived in that new land where the boat would take him. Maybe God would welcome him to its shores and surround him with love and plenty. Instead of sobbing, he smiled.
He'd seen mirages in the desert many times. A mirage was coming toward him. A big green tank shimmering through the waves. Surely it was full of water.
He took another step.
The mirage came closer. No!It was a jeep. Soldiers in the back. Soldiers in the front. Guns pointed. At him.
He spun around and took another step. Away. Away from the killers. Away from bondage. Away from death.
He heard the dog yelp. His throat closed over. Turning, he saw its head a bloody mess and its eyes stared sightless into the searing sky.
'Stop or you're next!' One of the soldiers waved his gun, then shot a round into the air. Crack! Crack! Crack!
'Don't take another step, boy. Or you're dead.'
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
* Medina - the old walled part of a North African town.
WORD COUNT: 976
FCA
Thank you for reading. Please join us if you have an entry that would fit 28 Days. If not, please consider joining us for April's WEP challenge - JEWEL BOX.
