Amber Laura's Blog, page 2

What’s in a Name?

When setting up characters for a story, one of the first things a writer usually decides upon is their name. The choice should not be undertaken too lightly. The name is, after all, their most significant unifying, identifying marker. For me, I always want to make sure it fits the personality type, the image that I want to project.

For example: When I think of the name Stacy I think of a popular girl. Blond, wavy hair. Aqua green eyes—large, doleful even. Perhaps not academically intelligent, but gifted with a unique magnetism that draws people in, makes them like her, whether they really want to or not. She’s not terribly kind, but this is done in a thoughtless, selfless manner, which makes her a little less of a formidable enemy. She favors peach-colored lipstick and is known for her coconut-smelling shampoo….

See how much detail I envisioned on the name alone? Given how connected I feel toward her based solely upon that fact, it would be quite easy for me to convey those traits believably (thoroughly) to my readers, and as such, probably difficult to aptly present her as a kind, loving, dark-haired and curvaceous stay-at-home wife who spends the better part of her days caring for the needs and wants of others…. Not impossible, of course, but not instinctive, either.

 Try it on for size. Take the name  Logan : what does that name inspire within your mind’s eye? Write a small, 750-word story based upon it. Who is he? What kind of story would he be part of? Write it!

*ALTERNATIVELY, if you want to REALLY stretch those writerly muscles, do the inverse. For example, I would take Stacy and actually write her AS the kind, loving, dark-haired and curvaceous stay-at-home wife who spends the better part of her days caring for the needs and wants of others… and make it BELIEVEABLE. As I said above, it’s certainly not impossible, rather it’s a more deliberate and conscious creation–one that you’ll have to craft so well that you’ll shift your own instinctive image.

Okay, have fun!

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When to Tell (and NOT Show)

It’s commonly whispered that a good writer will show and not tell, and that’s true…sometimes. Telling has its own useful merits in writing. For instance: dialogue. Dialogue is a fast, quick format for telling the reader what’s going on without paragraph after paragraph of hefty, (noisy), and sometimes downright overwhelming showing.

Sometimes, writing is about decluttering.

The Exercise: Think up a uniquely original short conversation (or borrow from my own example below) which SHOWS an emotion, a piece of description, etc. via TELLING.

The Example:

            “I asked him what color his shirt was and he said it was green.” Abigail’s accompanying laugh gave credit to her disbelief.

            “Yeah?” Graham murmured absently, not bothering to left his gaze from the television screen.

            She tittered. “Well, you saw John’s shirt. Tell me it wasn’t blue?”

            Graham yawned. Lounging more deeply into his recliner he closed his eyes, a practiced show in concentration. “Yup,” he seconded, “it was blue all right.”

             “So you agree then—with my decision to call the doctor?”

            A beat of silence and then Graham shrugged. “I don’t know what color has to do with it…”

            “It has everything to do with it! He’s losing his sight!” Abigail wailed, her voice rising insistently in pitch. “Whatever next?”

            “Maybe he’s just color blind.”

            Abigail chewed on this for a moment. “No, that’s not it. He always knew colors before.”

            Graham remained quiet.

            “I had to call the doctor, surely you agree with me? Perhaps it’s time John thought about moving into one of those homes…he’s almost eighty you know.”

            “As long as we’re clear, he’s not moving in here,” was all Graham said in response.

            Now it was Abigail’s turn to grow silent.

***

Okay… less than 1,000 words and already, a reader has been bombarded with emotional undercurrents (and even a bit with descriptive context).

They’ll be wondering: why is Abigail so hung up on John’s inability to distinguish colors—why is that such a pivotal tipping point in her calling the doctor? And why does she keep laughing? Is she nervous? Is she excitable by nature? And why does she keep pestering Graham over her thoughts? Does she crave the validation of her decision? Does she feel guilty? It’s almost as if she’s hoping that Graham will agree that she’s right to be concerned, that of course, John should be put in an assisted living home…or is there something else? And Graham, what’s his deal? His responses are so indifferent, uncaring…

Writers: did you notice that all of those emotions, all of those readerly questions, came from not only what the characters said, but how they said it? The very words, clipped phrases, laughing tags, etc. all created a tense, stark atmosphere without an excessive amount of showing. I didn’t need to describe, in minute detail, what John saw regarding the color of his shirt and what Abigail saw in comparison. It’s not overly relevant. The fact that they saw different colors, different hues, is all that matters.

Dialogue has a way of telling you what you need to know succinctly while action tags help emphasize and highlight (ahem, they help show the emotions and feelings behind the speech), all the while moving the story along at a nice, steady clip.

Good writing is just like anything else. A careful, delicate balancing act. Choose when to show. Choose when to tell. And choose how to blend the two together, rotationally, simultaneously, artistically.  

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Story Prompt: Winter, Window Wonderland.

Okay, it’s time for another Writerly Inspiration exercise…

Read the paragraph below and, using it as a jumping-off point, build a short story based upon its setup. This is a great way to initiate writing—without fear, without overthinking it. Just write, for fun, for stimulation, for whatever.

Note, the paragraph can be placed anywhere within the narrative—use your imagination. Consider: Where is she? Who is she? Why is she scared? Where does she have to go? And why?

The snow fell from the sky in heavy, sloppy plops. Her nose pressed up against the chilled windowpane, her balled-up fist swiping in a circular motion, she cleared away the condensation. Hot breath, cold glass. Fog. Hot breath, cold glass… With a deliberation born out of necessity, she checked an impulse to cry. The ground was no longer discernible, just a puffy white expanse, accumulating five—maybe six—inches in depth. The sun was hidden behind grey cloud cover. If this kept up—she gulped. It would ruin everything.

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Writing Recipe: Location, Characters, and Theme

Set your timers for this WRITERLY INSPIRATION exercise!

Reminiscent of a cookbook, use this style of writing prompt to come up with a new story idea….

PLACE: You have 3 minutes to decide upon a location. Just for fun, pick a place you haven’t written about before. Utilize all three minutes to learn just a little bit about the locale—food, accent, architecture, etc. You’d be surprised what you can discover in just 180 seconds….

CHARACTERS: You have 5 minutes to create your main characters. For an extra workout, try to flesh out at least two of them. This will really stretch your creativity in that short time constraint—but give it a try anyway. Who are they? Where are they from? Favorite food/color/band? Don’t forget to give them details!

SITUATION: You have 7 minutes to figure out why these certain characters are meeting together in this particular area. What is the story about? Hurry up, seven minutes isn’t that much time to detail the What and Why.

STORY: You have 30 minutes to write out the story. Don’t take a break. Don’t stop. Just write. See how much you can achieve in half an hour.

PREP TIME: 15 minutes

WRITE TIME: 30 minutes

TOTAL TIME: 45 minutes

Ready? Set…Go!

The post Writing Recipe: Location, Characters, and Theme appeared first on LitLiber.

Literal Story Prompts

Need some inspiration to get those writerly fingers typing away, flying across the keyboard? Need some help getting out of your own head-space, getting the kinks unraveled, preventing (or maybe curing) writer’s block?  

Well, try this exercise on for size…

Write a piece of fiction that incorporates all of the elements displayed in the accompanying picture:

The Rules.

The story has to implement one of each of the three articles: cup of coffee, stapler, tube of lipstick. It can be about anything at ALL—just make sure it ties into the prompts and it works.Have fun, be imaginative. See what kind of storyline you can create from with this! If you want, submit the finished piece back to LitLiber—you never know, it just may end up getting posted right here for the week. (Include an author bio (with website/social media platform if applicable) so people know who wrote it!)

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I call this one, “The Faux Re-remember.”

FICTIONAL WRITERLY INSPIRATION TIME!

Need a jumping-off point to get your writing off the ground? We’ve all been there. Which is why I’ve compiled (and will continue to compile) fun exercises or games to play for just that purpose….

The ‘Faux Re-remember’

This one is a bit silly. So have fun with it. It’s also about changing perception. A whole new world of possibilities arise when you do.

It goes a little like this….

Go through the family photo album and nab up a picture or two from within; ideally, you should be included in the snapshot and, if possible, it should be of a candid nature; however, this can be modified to include any photograph—whether it’s of family, friends, or relative strangers…etc.Look at the photo and come up with a plausible recount of what was happening when it was being documented. Who are the people captured within its glossy film, and why do you want us to know about them, about this particular moment in time? Of course, don’t simply repeat the story of what really happened; rather, make up an alternate narrative (an alternate universe). Pretend.Let your imagination take you aware from reality, and instead reinvent it!

The post I call this one, “The Faux Re-remember.” appeared first on LitLiber.

Five Minute Read: I’ll Stay

*(By the by: this story is being added to month-by-month on my newsletter. To subscribe, click here: https://bit.ly/3flHShN.)

Reba didn’t bother to knock on the office door. She knew Erik was in there—she’d spied him going inside not five minutes earlier; hell, she’d known where he was all night. It was like radar with her. Scurrying down the service line, she’d taken herself to his door with unconscious delight. Now, her fingers settling over the knob, she pushed it open.

    The office was small, cramped. There was just enough room for a corner desk, two computers, a metal filing cabinet and one chair. Sitting atop the scarred, cheap veneer of the desk sat an adding machine, keyboard, a roll of printer paper, and a few random check presenters.

Turning at the sound of her entrance, Erik glanced up at Reba. She wasn’t sure what to do with her eyes when he looked at her that way—so intently, questioningly. If she avoided his gaze, it would only make her conspicuous. Then again, if she looked at him too long….

    “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

    In answer, Reba held out her hand. Gripped inside her fist was a wad of credit card receipts, restaurant coupons, and cash from her customers that evening. “I’ve got my drop ready.” Her voice was even, controlled. For that, she could be proud.

    “Done for the night?” He asked mildly, reaching out to grab the items out of her hand. Reba held her breath as his hand neared. Her thumb jerked a little to the right, careful to keep out of his reach. If he touched her—her fingers trembled a little at the mere thought.

    Erik, however, didn’t appear to have any such reservations. Taking her bank, his hand was gone as quickly as if it’d never been there at all. Turning back to the desk, he laid everything out in organized piles. Pulling the adding machine closer, he moved on autopilot—bending forward slightly, he quickly counted out her check totals.

    Reba stood there uneasily, her back pressed tightly to the door. There was hardly enough space for two people and she was wary of moving any closer. She didn’t want to be any more obvious than she feared she already was.

    Samantha had noticed. The restaurant’s lead bartender, Samantha had copious opportunity to watch the goings-on of the wait staff. And apparently, Reba had brought Erik up into conversation one too many times.

    “…let me guess,” the brunette had asked cheekily only the night before, her voice ruthlessly interrupting Reba’s story about an irascible customer. “And then you got Erik?” It had been the raise of her eyebrows, the suggestive note to her voice which had caught Reba up short. She’d nodded knowingly at Reba’s expression. With a flick of her wrist, she’d poured a shot of whiskey. “Yeah. I thought so.”

    So now, standing in his office, waiting as he tallied up her night’s deposit, Reba wasn’t sure how to behave, what to do with her face. She kept her eyes trained on the filing cabinet just left of him. The second drawer was slightly dented.

    Keep it together.

    Be cool.

    He’s your boss.

    For goodness sakes, he’s your boss!

    “Staying after for a drink?”

    At the question, Reba’s eyes jerked. Erik was glancing over at her again. Finished with the cash count by now, he was leaning back in his chair, that lopsided grin spreading out across his face.

Reba blinked stupidly “Wha-what?”

    But she needn’t have acted so surprised. It was something of a Friday night ritual at the Coppo’s Bar & Grill—after work the staff huddled together at the end of the bar and had a few libations.

    Only Erik didn’t usually work in the evenings. So she’d never had the opportunity to sit beside him outside the normal constraints of work, relieved of the burden of the employer-employee relationship. She’d never had cause to consider the possibility.

    Until now. There had been more than a hint of invitation in that question.

    “After the dinner rush tonight, I probably owe you one anyway,” he offered freely

    She laughed. It sounded a little rushed. “Yeah. It was hectic all right.” Ugh. Terrible conversation.

    “So, what do you say?” He flicked a glance down at his watch. “I’ll be done here in half an hour. You in?”

    His look was expectant yet casual.

    Which was why she should tell him no. Politely decline. It was a disaster in the making. Cocktails made for loose lips; relaxed conversation made for sober regrets. She’d never had the opportunity to be with him outside of work. Which was precisely why she should tell him no.

    “Yeah,” she heard herself saying instead. Although she told herself it wasn’t, anticipation thrummed through her body. “I’ll stay.”

    Who had she been trying to kid, anyway? She’d never had any intention of telling him no. Perhaps she should have, but then that was undoubtedly part of the allure.

    He was off limits.

    Her boss.

    God, she wondered what his lips tasted like?

    He winked. “Good.” With that, he turned back to the computer. “Save me a spot at the bar, huh?”

    “Yeah.” That breathy quality was back in her voice. Her fingers reached blindly for the doorknob. “Okay.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

The post Five Minute Read: I’ll Stay appeared first on LitLiber.

Ten Minute Read: I’ll Stay

*(By the by: this story is being added to month-by-month on my newsletter. To subscribe, click here: https://bit.ly/3flHShN.)

Reba didn’t bother to knock on the office door. She knew Erik was in there—she’d spied him going inside not five minutes earlier; hell, she’d known where he was all night. It was like radar with her. Scurrying down the service line, she’d taken herself to his door with unconscious delight. Now, her fingers settling over the knot, she pushed it open.

    The office was small, cramped. There was just enough room for a corner desk, two computers, a meal filing cabinet and one chair. Sitting atop the scarred, cheap veneer of the desk sat an adding machine, keyboard, a roll of printer paper, and a few random check presenters.

Turning at the sound of her entrance, Erik glanced up at Reba. She wasn’t sure what to do with her eyes when he looked at her that way—so intently, questioningly. If she avoided his gaze, it would only make her conspicuous. Then again, if she looked at him too long….

    “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

    In answer, Reba held out her hand. Gripped inside her fist was a wad of credit card receipts, restaurant coupons, and cash from her customers that evening. “I’ve got my drop ready.” Her voice was even, controlled. For that, she could be proud.

    “Done for the night?” He asked mildly, reaching out to grab the items out of her hand. Reba held her breath as his hand neared. Her thumb jerked a little to the right, careful to keep out of his reach. If he touched her—her fingers trembled a little at the mere thought.

    Erik, however, didn’t appear to have any such reservations. Taking her bank, his hand was gone as quickly as if it’d never been there at all. Turning back to the desk, he laid everything out in organized piles. Pulling the adding machine closer, he moved on autopilot—bending forward slightly, he quickly counted out her check totals.

    Reba stood there uneasily, her back pressed tightly to the door. There was hardly enough space for two people and she was wary of moving any closer. She didn’t want to be any more obvious than she feared she already was.

    Samantha had noticed. The restaurant’s lead bartender, Samantha had copious opportunity to watch the goings-on of the wait staff. And apparently, Reba had brought Erik up into conversation one too many times.

    “…let me guess,” the brunette had asked cheekily only the night before, her voice ruthlessly interrupting Reba’s story about an irascible customer. “And then you got Erik?” It had been the raise of her eyebrows, the suggestive note to her voice which had caught Reba up short. She’d nodded knowingly at Reba’s expression. With a flick of her wrist, she’d poured a shot of whiskey. “Yeah. I thought so.”

    So now, standing in his office, waiting as he tallied up her night’s deposit, Reba wasn’t sure how to behave, what to do with her face. She kept her eyes trained on the filing cabinet just left of him. The second drawer was slightly dented.

    Keep it together.

    Be cool.

    He’s your boss.

    For goodness sakes, he’s your boss!

    “Staying after for a drink?”

    At the question, Reba’s eyes jerked. Erik was glancing over at her again. Finished with the cash count by now, he was leaning back in his chair, that lopsided grin spreading out across his face.

Reba blinked stupidly “Wha-what?”

    But she needn’t have acted so surprised. It was something of a Friday night ritual at the Coppo’s Bar & Grill—after work the staff huddled together at the end of the bar and had a few libations.

    Only Erik didn’t usually work in the evenings. So she’d never had the opportunity to sit beside him outside the normal constraints of work, relieved of the burden of the employer-employee relationship. She’d never had cause to consider the possibility.

    Until now. There had been more than a hint of invitation in that question.

    “After the dinner rush tonight, I probably owe you one anyway,” he offered freely

    She laughed. It sounded a little rushed. “Yeah. It was hectic all right.” Ugh. Terrible conversation.

    “So, what you say?” He flicked a glance down at his watch. “I’ll be done here in half an hour. You in?”

    He look was expectant yet casual.

    Which was why she should tell him no. Politely decline. It was a disaster in the making. Cocktails made for loose lips; relaxed conversation made for sober regrets. She’d never had the opportunity to be with him outside of work. Which was precisely why she should tell him no.

    “Yeah,” she heard herself saying instead. Although she told herself it wasn’t, anticipation thrummed through her body. “I’ll stay.”

    Who had she been trying to kid, anyway? She’d never had any intention of telling him no. Perhaps she should have, but then that was undoubtedly part of the allure.

    He was off limits.

    Her boss.

    God, she wondered what his lips tasted like?

    He winked. “Good.” With that, he turned back to the computer. “Save me a spot at the bar, huh?”

    “Yeah.” That breathy quality was back in her voice. Her fingers reached blindly for the doorknob. “Okay.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

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Five Minute Read: Cheap Glass of Wine

Bemused wasn’t quite the word. Sitting around a wrought-iron table with a group of women she’d only known a matter of weeks, Katherine was utterly stupefied. Feeling the slight breeze of the evening descending on her flushed cheeks, Katherine was glad for the enveloping darkness.

    She should have never mentioned that she was single.

    She definitely shouldn’t have followed that up with a question about the local contractor, Dave, who’d recently asked her out.

    The women around her had hooted at the mere suggestion.

    “Dave? Good Lord, honey, you can do better than that,” Shannon had responded quickly.

    Beside her, sipping on a fresh glass of lemonade, Marianne chuckled, her chin wobbling merrily as she brought the beverage up to her lips. “Hell, my eighty-year-old grandmother can do better than Dave.”

    Katherine shrugged self-consciously. “Well…I mean, he does seem like a bit of a—”

    “Desperate man-whore?” Abigail interceded. Nearing the age of fifty, the words sat ill on her matronly nature. Nodding, she smiled in consent. “Oh, he’s certainly that.”

    “Right. Guess it’s a good thing I fobbed him off then, huh?” Swallowing past a surge of embarrassment, Katherine was more than interested in changing the subject. She’d asked the question and now they could all move on…

    Only, no one else seemed to agree.
    “Ladies.” Holding up one hand in a powerful gesture, Shannon commanded attention. All three heads swiveled in her direction. “Clearly, we have a duty to help our new friend here. I think Katherine’s question alone makes that obvious.”

    Opening her mouth, not sure where Shannon was headed but unnerved all the same, Katherine wasn’t given so much as the option to interrupt.

    “I mean, it would be shameful of us, not to give her the necessary ins and outs of the local dating pool.” With a sidelong glance at Katherine, she grinned. Her eyes, shadowed now, all but twinkled across the table. “And let me tell you, sweets, we got some doozies here.”

    Abigail whistled in agreement.

    Marianne only chuckled again.

    “Oh, please, you don’t need to…I doubt I’ll be dating much, at least not right away,” Katherine tried again.

     Her plea fell on deaf ears.

    “A good-looking gal, new in town? Oh honey, you’ll be batting ‘em away with a mosquito swatter.”

    Katherine wasn’t so sure. She’d only been divorced for six months, after all; the last thing she was looking for was another romantic spectacle to jump into. But these women wouldn’t know that. They only knew that she’d recently moved to town. By herself. Ringless. It was a point of attention that apparently the whole town had noticed.

    Then again, maybe Shannon was on to something about batting people away. Katherine had done little more than sign her new hire paperwork at St. Mary’s hospital in the small down of Cricket Bay, before these ladies had descended upon her. Fellow nurses on the maternity unit, they’d been almost overwhelming in their welcome.

    Which was how she’d found herself more or less coerced into their weekly girls’ night.  

    Normally, Katherine would have said no. An introvert by nature, she wasn’t usually big on social groups like this, which appeared to be nothing more than women happily gossiping about…well, whatever struck their fancy at that particular moment.  

    But she’d been lonely since the divorce, lonely since the rash decision that had sent her taking a job in a city halfway across the country from her hometown. So she’d said yes when Shannon had ordered Katherine’s attendance that evening.

    To her detriment now.

    Tapping one finger against her chin, Shannon seemed to be in deep thought. “I think it would be best to tell you who not to date.”

    Marianne nodded. “Help you wade out the losers.”

    “Course, it’d probably be a shorter chat if we listed off the actual eligible bachelors,” Abigail added, throwing out a gentle elbow to Katherine’s side.

    “Well now…” Not to be distracted, Shannon was plowing ahead with her plan. Holding up one finger, she went on: “There’s Jake Mathews.” She shuddered for effect. “Spare yourself.”

    “Mathews can out-stink a dead skunk,” Abigail agreed.

    “So I’d probably have figured that one out on my own,” Katherine murmured.

    Shannon grinned. “Unless it’s cold season. He’ll sneak up on a body then.”

    “Oh! Oh! Don Peters.” This came from Marianne, who seemed awfully proud of her contribution at that moment.  

    “Mmm. Yes, he’ll come off as suave in the beginning, but mix a few beers into the equation—”

    “And there’s always a few beers,” Marianne muttered.

    Shannon nodded. “Anyway, picture a wet noodle at the end of the night.”

    “Speaking from experience?” This came from Abigail who wiggled her overly-painted eyebrows knowingly.

    Shannon smirked. “Hey, I wasn’t always a married lady.”

    At the laughs circling the table, even Kathrine found a grin gracing her face. The imagery alone was rather amusing, if slightly poor in taste.

    “Then there’s Caleb Mackowski.”

    Abigail giggled behind her hand. “Great in the sack.”

    “Phenomenal cook, too,” Marianne added. “

    Katherine cocked her head to one side. “So, what’s the problem with him?”

    The other three women shared a look. Then, as if on cue, they all shouted, their voices low in timbre, clearly mimicking that of the man, himself: “Get it, baby! Get it!”

    Chuckling despite herself, despite the cloying sense of personal invasion, Katherine found herself rather enjoying the conversation now. Or maybe it was the feeling of camaraderie she sensed in the other woman. There was no judgment, no snipping. Just fun.  

    Abigail held up another finger. “Carl Hanberg.” This was followed by a caricature of snooty upturned noses all around.

    “Talks a lot about his wealth. Like a lot.”

    “And yet, how can I say this?” Abigail took a long drink off her glass. Her eyes glinted when she spoke: “Man pairs well with a cheap glass of wine.” She winked at Katherine. “If you know what I mean.”

    Katherine was terrified to admit that she did not. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to, either. At that moment all she felt was a momentary regret that she didn’t have a pad and paper in which to document these names. She’d never remember them all.

    “Then there’s Marty Pips.”

    Marianne grinned. “Might as well move into his mother’s house. She’s always nearby. In his ear.”

    “Oh and let’s not leave out…”

    As the voices of these women rang out across the wide-covered verandah of Shannon’s home, Katherine reached for her glass of lemonade. Next time she was invited over, she’d be bringing a stronger drink with her.  

The post Five Minute Read: Cheap Glass of Wine appeared first on LitLiber.

Ten Minute Read: Cheap Glass of Wine

Bemused wasn’t quite the word. Sitting around a wrought-iron table with a group of women she’d only known a matter of weeks, Katherine was utterly stupefied. Feeling the slight breeze of the evening descending on her flushed cheeks, Katherine was glad for the enveloping darkness.

    She should have never mentioned that she was single.

    She definitely shouldn’t have followed that up with a question about the local contractor, Dave, who’d recently asked her out.

    The women around her had hooted at the mere suggestion.

    “Dave? Good Lord, honey, you can do better than that,” Shannon had responded quickly.

    Beside her, sipping on a fresh glass of lemonade, Marianne chuckled, her chin wobbling merrily as she brought the beverage up to her lips. “Hell, my eighty-year-old grandmother can do better than Dave.”

    Katherine shrugged self-consciously. “Well…I mean, he does seem like a bit of a—”

    “Desperate man-whore?” Abigail interceded. Nearing the age of fifty, the words sat ill on her matronly nature. Nodding, she smiled in consent. “Oh, he’s certainly that.”

    “Right. Guess it’s a good thing I fobbed him off then, huh?” Swallowing past a surge of embarrassment, Katherine was more than interested in changing the subject. She’d asked the question and now they could all move on…

    Only, no one else seemed to agree.
    “Ladies.” Holding up one hand in a powerful gesture, Shannon commanded attention. All three heads swiveled in her direction. “Clearly, we have a duty to help our new friend here. I think Katherine’s question alone makes that obvious.”

    Opening her mouth, not sure where Shannon was headed but unnerved all the same, Katherine wasn’t given so much as the option to interrupt.

    “I mean, it would be shameful of us, not to give her the necessary ins and outs of the local dating pool.” With a sidelong glance at Katherine, she grinned. Her eyes, shadowed now, all but twinkled across the table. “And let me tell you, sweets, we got some doozies here.”

    Abigail whistled in agreement.

    Marianne only chuckled again.

    “Oh, please, you don’t need to…I doubt I’ll be dating much, at least not right away,” Katherine tried again.

     Her plea fell on deaf ears.

    “A good-looking gal, new in town? Oh honey, you’ll be batting ‘em away with a mosquito swatter.”

    Katherine wasn’t so sure. She’d only been divorced for six months, after all; the last thing she was looking for was another romantic spectacle to jump into. But these women wouldn’t know that. They only knew that she’d recently moved to town. By herself. Ringless. It was a point of attention that apparently the whole town had noticed.

    Then again, maybe Shannon was on to something about batting people away. Katherine had done little more than sign her new hire paperwork at St. Mary’s hospital in the small down of Cricket Bay, before these ladies had descended upon her. Fellow nurses on the maternity unit, they’d been almost overwhelming in their welcome.

    Which was how she’d found herself more or less coerced into their weekly girls’ night.  

    Normally, Katherine would have said no. An introvert by nature, she wasn’t usually big on social groups like this, which appeared to be nothing more than women happily gossiping about…well, whatever struck their fancy at that particular moment.  

    But she’d been lonely since the divorce, lonely since the rash decision that had sent her taking a job in a city halfway across the country from her hometown. So she’d said yes when Shannon had ordered Katherine’s attendance that evening.

    To her detriment now.

    Tapping one finger against her chin, Shannon seemed to be in deep thought. “I think it would be best to tell you who not to date.”

    Marianne nodded. “Help you wade out the losers.”

    “Course, it’d probably be a shorter chat if we listed off the actual eligible bachelors,” Abigail added, throwing out a gentle elbow to Katherine’s side.

    “Well now…” Not to be distracted, Shannon was plowing ahead with her plan. Holding up one finger, she went on: “There’s Jake Mathews.” She shuddered for effect. “Spare yourself.”

    “Mathews can out-stink a dead skunk,” Abigail agreed.

    “So I’d probably have figured that one out on my own,” Katherine murmured.

    Shannon grinned. “Unless it’s cold season. He’ll sneak up on a body then.”

    “Oh! Oh! Don Peters.” This came from Marianne, who seemed awfully proud of her contribution at that moment.  

    “Mmm. Yes, he’ll come off as suave in the beginning, but mix a few beers into the equation—”

    “And there’s always a few beers,” Marianne muttered.

    Shannon nodded. “Anyway, picture a wet noodle at the end of the night.”

    “Speaking from experience?” This came from Abigail who wiggled her overly-painted eyebrows knowingly.

    Shannon smirked. “Hey, I wasn’t always a married lady.”

    At the laughs circling the table, even Kathrine found a grin gracing her face. The imagery alone was rather amusing, if slightly poor in taste.

    “Then there’s Caleb Mackowski.”

    Abigail giggled behind her hand. “Great in the sack.”

    “Phenomenal cook, too,” Marianne added. “

    Katherine cocked her head to one side. “So, what’s the problem with him?”

    The other three women shared a look. Then, as if on cue, they all shouted, their voices low in timbre, clearly mimicking that of the man, himself: “Get it, baby! Get it!”

    Chuckling despite herself, despite the cloying sense of personal invasion, Katherine found herself rather enjoying the conversation now. Or maybe it was the feeling of camaraderie she sensed in the other woman. There was no judgment, no snipping. Just fun.  

    Abigail held up another finger. “Carl Hanberg.” This was followed by a caricature of snooty upturned noses all around.

    “Talks a lot about his wealth. Like a lot.”

    “And yet, how can I say this?” Abigail took a long drink off her glass. Her eyes glinted when she spoke: “Man pairs well with a cheap glass of wine.” She winked at Katherine. “If you know what I mean.”

    Katherine was terrified to admit that she did not. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to, either. At that moment all she felt was a momentary regret that she didn’t have a pad and paper in which to document these names. She’d never remember them all.

    “Then there’s Marty Pips.”

    Marianne grinned. “Might as well move into his mother’s house. She’s always nearby. In his ear.”

    “Oh and let’s not leave out…”

    As the voices of these women rang out across the wide-covered verandah of Shannon’s home, Katherine reached for her glass of lemonade. Next time she was invited over, she’d be bringing a stronger drink with her.  

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