Reesa Herberth's Blog, page 16

Tell Me Tuesdays – November 29, 2011

Tell me about this picture. What it makes you think of, who took it, what you see that someone else doesn't. Write a story, a poem, a comment, an essay. Leave a picture of your own.

Tell me something.

(If you write something on your own blog, leave a link here so we can all enjoy it.  Or, if you prefer, go crazy in the comments.)

Tell Me Tuesdays – November 22, 2011

Tell me about this picture. What it makes you think of, who took it, what you see that someone else doesn't. Write a story, a poem, a comment, an essay. Leave a picture of your own.

Tell me something.

(If you write something on your own blog, leave a link here so we can all enjoy it.  Or, if you prefer, go crazy in the comments.)

Random Interview – Connor Wright

Today we're pleased to welcome a friend of ours, author Connor Wright.  Connor has gamely tackled a Random Interview, and provided an excerpt from the brand new Dreamspinner Press novella, First Flight.

Tell us a little about yourself.  What do you like to write?  What's your latest release about?  What have you read recently that knocked your socks off? (Note: Feel free to talk about your body of work, not just your most recent release.  Don't feel limited by genre lines when talking about what you like to write and/or read.)

I enjoy sleeping, looking at pretty people, and walking on the beach—Oh. Right. My name is Connor Wright and I like to write all kinds of things. I tend to stay on the light-and-fluffy end of the shelves, though; while I can appreciate a good thriller, I'm so not good with blood and gore. Mostly what I write is best classed as either Alternate Reality or Magical Realism, because I tend to have characters who essentially wake up in a normal day, but by the end of it, there's something decidedly other happening. Someday, I really really want to write an actual mystery, with a detective (amateur or pro, I don't care) and everything.

In my latest release—First Flight—for instance, Jesse Swanson's day starts out like any other day in the last year: he gets up, goes to work, has an argument with his boyfriend (which is getting to be an annoyingly regular occurance), and instead of going straight home, he heads for his usual spot for sitting and thinking. Once he gets there, he finds what seems to be a dead raven on the side of the road, so he stops to pick it up… And ten minutes later, there's this naked guy in the back of his car.

It goes on from there and involves stalking, more ravens, more eggs than any doctor wants you to eat, shiny things, and transformations.

As for my other titles… I have three contemporaries, an Alternate Universe Quasi-Historical (in a 1920s that never was), and a sci-fi/speculative fiction piece, links to which (and excerpts of) can be found here on my site.

I like to read a little bit of everything, too, with the caveat that again I'm not a huge fan of gore. The last book I read was Mike Carey's Thicker Than Water. It's the fourth book in a series that starts with The Devil You Know, and features Felix Castor, an exorcist who lives in a very ghost-and-zombie-riddled London. It's one of the few books that involves zombies that I actually want to read, to be honest.

What is your ideal writing environment? – Submitted by Carl

My ideal writing environment is, basically, propped up against a pile of pillows in bed. I seem to work best when my feet are up, for some reason. Music or a familiar TV show/movie is nice for background noise, though I've managed to get a fair amount done with nothing more than an steady ambient hum of fans and/or goats and a rooster. (The goat(s) and the rooster belong to someone up the hill from where I'm currently staying.)

What deep-seated psychological issue are you trying to work out with all of this obsessive scribbling?

One of the biggest recurring themes in my writing is fairness. All your life you get the same litany: "The world's not fair." "The universe isn't fair." "Life's not fair." It may be true, but let's face it. The truth sucks.

In my writing, there is often a gap—class/social status, financial, education levels, etc—between the protagonists, and there is just as often at least one attempt made on the part of one to reassure the other that that gap just doesn't matter. So what if, in 'real life', Benny would never ever have had anything to do with Phil? In Benny and Phil's world, it doesn't matter a jot that Phil's speech patterns are enough to make any editor worth their salt weep tears of bitter defeat, Benny loves Phil. It's fair, because Phil earned his place in Benny's heart and home on his own merits, not by being exactly like Benny. And Benny won Phil's heart forever by simply treating Phil like everyone else they know, right down to reflexively mumbling "anyone" or "anything" when they use "nobody" or "nothing" incorrectly. (He apologizes, too. He can't help it! Phil actually likes it, now.)

Another recurring theme in my writing is that of reaching out to someone else and having them reach back. The connection of I see you and you see me and we like each other anyway. I don't know about anyone else, but that moment that usually happens in high school? Yeah, it didn't, for me. Moving right along from there…

The last thing about my writing isn't really a psychological issue, per se. No one really tells me stories, anymore—generally citing my advancing years (30+) as a reason not to—so I have to tell them myself. Of course, being old enough, it's now my turn to tell them. I'm the next generation, so it's up to me to pass the stories along to the one that comes after me.

I like telling stories. I especially like knowing that I can take a bunch of words, put them into a particular order, and they will make people smile or grimace or laugh or even get turned on. That's power, and it's pretty damn spiffy power too.

Do you remember the first time you told a story and knew it was something you wanted to keep doing?

Mm… Not the exact second, but I'm pretty sure it was somewhere in either '97 or '98. I can remember the moment I decided that I was going to pursue becoming a published author, which was in 2009.

In the first instance, I got an email from someone I didn't know, telling me she really liked reading the transcripts of the role-playing sessions I'd been putting up. She wanted to see more! It only took the once—I was hooked. Now, almost fifteen years later, Michelle is still asking me when I'm going to have more for her. (Soon. Promise.)

In the second, it was after someone—Michelle or Reesa, I can't remember who—said something about submitting a short story to an anthology. I'd kind of given up on ever being published, because every time I'd tried to write A Novel, I'd gotten bogged down in the fact that I could never come up with a plot. Fortunately, the offhand remark was more or less a wet fish to the back of the head: novels aren't the only form of writing out there. I started writing, researching, polishing, revising, and finally, nervously, submitting. I've had seven accepted, and I'm still working on getting more done and out there.

Do you prefer tv or movies?  What's your favourite?

It depends on what I'm in the mood for. Over the last few weeks, I've watched nearly all of NCIS (seasons 1-8; I didn't finish a few episodes for various reasons) and nearly all of A&E's movie adaptations of C. S. Foresters' Horatio Hornblower books. Ioan Gruffudd is my new celebrity crush, sigh.

Generally, I put the TV on for background noise or to help distract the two under-fives that currently share my home. I have a profoundly greater appreciation for both series writers and voice-actors than I ever had before, thanks to TV aimed at pre-schoolers. Wow Wow Wubbzy is pretty good; Ni-Hao Kai-Lan would be better if it was just Kai-Lan, Hoho (the monkey), and Yeye; Pocoyo is fun; The Upside Down Show is great.

What misconception of adulthood did you have as a kid that you secretly wish had been true?

That a day job is always fun and awesome and filled with fun and awesome people. That was a disappointing discovery, and it's one of the big reasons that I'm not traditionally employed at the moment. At least dogs appreciate you, even when you're talking to them about people who don't exist doing things that aren't necessarily legal.

 Connor has been kind enough to give us a peek at First Flight.  Enjoy the excerpt below. -R

First Flight is typical of my stories: I set out to write one thing, but by the time I'm done, I find I've written something else entirely. In this case, I was inspired by a call for submissions centering on Trickster characters (like Coyote, Kitsune, or my favorite, Raven). I got sidetracked thinking about urban ravens, and how one might find itself interested in a human being… And from there, I was further distracted thinking about how the interested bird's family might react. Eventually, I realized that whatever idea I'd originally had was now completely uninteresting.

The following is the first part of the first chapter of First Flight, where Jesse meets Chris — and contains one of my favorite metaphors ever, even if I do say so myself.

The music really couldn't go any louder, mostly because the crappy little speakers in the doors would start cutting out. Jesse Swanson flicked the knob anyhow, just a bit, pushing the sound system to its limit and reveling in the angry clashing-thrashing sound of the music. What the hell was Kevin's problem, anyhow? Edie and Lucas had invited both of them to go to the movies, and Kevin had said no. And then he'd gotten pissed off because Jesse had gone without him.

Jesse shouted along to the song, as loud as he could, keeping an eye on his speed as he steered his car down the unplowed length of Collins Road. It was mostly wet and sloppy, but slush turned to ice on the edges, and he didn't want to go into the ditch. The music trailed off into something that sounded like metal garbage cans being thrown down concrete stairs, and his hand flashed out to skip to the next screamy track. A quarter of a mile ahead, an old oak tree stood at the side of the road, its dark branches wide against the sky. Jesse decided to just drive, now; to yell along with his music and get his annoyance out of his system before he went home. If it had been warmer, or if the sky had been less threatening, he would have stopped to bask in the isolation of the area while his music poured over him.

Something dark lay on the side of the road, just the other side of the tree. As he got closer, Jesse realized that it wasn't the garbage bag he'd assumed it was. No, it was a dead bird, lying on the shoulder. The sight of it pulled him out of his little bubble of indignation; feeling strangely sorry for it, he turned the music off as he pulled over.

He picked his way through the slush to the bird. It was a raven, lying on its back with its eyes closed and its feet curled tightly on nothing. Maybe someone had hit it—a half-dozen pigeons usually met the same fate every summer. Jesse returned to his car and dug around in the space under the hatchback, finally finding his gloves under an old towel burned through in places by spilled bleach.

He gingerly put his hands on either side of the slightly outspread wings and scooped it up, frowning as its head lolled. It seemed both strangely heavy and strangely light at once, and he wondered briefly if it was the fact that it was dead that made it heavy. Then he shook his head and dismissed the thought, gently placing the bird on the towel. It was impulse, really—probably something left over from when the raven's ancestors used to eat his own—but Jesse folded the towel over the dark form before dropping his gloves and closing the hatch.

Ten minutes later, squinting through late-spring sleet and wondering what he was going to do with the bird once he got home, Jesse heard an odd sound. Kind of a shuffling noise, and then a kind of patting, like someone feeling around in the back. As he came to a stop at a red light, he glanced into his rearview mirror, just to see what he could see—

He was… cold. Warm and cold, both at once, but mostly cold. And moving, without wanting to move. He opened his eyes. The world was stranger than he'd expected it to be; the colors were different and the scents were all wrong. Something inside him got his body moving; he shoved himself upright, his head turning this way and that. The cold, boxy metal things were all around him, and he was inside one! Had he been eaten? He recognized the sound of a man, ahead of him, and tried to speak.

"Keh," he said.

"What the hell?" Jesse turned around in his seat, staring at the head and shoulders he could see. Dark hair, wet and sticking to his forehead, skin so pale it was almost blue, dark eyes. "Who the hell are you and how did you get into my car?"

The words didn't mean anything to him, but he tried to respond anyhow. Some little thing inside him, voice or sensation or a combination of the two, told him that it was important. Very important. "Uh." The young man blinked, opening and closing his mouth a few times as if he wasn't sure how it worked.

"Who are you? What's your name? Do you—Damn." Jesse settled back into the driver's seat as people honked at him. He turned in at the first parking lot he came to, pulled across two spots, and nearly fell out of his car in his haste to get around to the back.

When the cover over him rose, he got his first close look at the man. The voice (it had a whispery quality to it) said: Yes. This is the right one. Maybe the man could explain, could tell him the right what. With this hope in mind, he looked up into the man's face.

Jesse was ready for a lot of things: apologies, lies, even laughter and an explanation of some kind of weird prank. He was not at all ready for the look the guy gave him, a look that clearly said I am possibly more helpless than a newborn opossum. Once he was past that, however, the guy was naked, wet, and shivering, the old towel draped across his lap. The towel reminded him that there had been a dead bird in the back; was the guy sitting on it?

"What happened to"—to hell with the stupid bird—"you? Are you all right? What's your name? Why are you wet and naked and more importantly why are you wet and naked and in my car?" Not that Jesse objected, generally speaking, to guys being naked around him. Or wet. Or wet and naked; however, he preferred to get to know them beforehand. Besides, the guy was in his car without so much as an "excuse me", which was the pimento olive on top of a very weird sundae.

He remained silent, just absorbing the sound of the man's voice.

"Okay. Uh…. ¿Usted habla español? And that's about all the Spanish I know, sorry." After another minute of being stared at like there was nothing else to see, Jesse sighed. "Here," he said, taking off his jacket and offering it to the guy, "at least you'll be a little warmer."

The thing that was offered to him was warm. It smelled good, too, and he pressed it to his face, trying to sort out and memorize the notes that made up its scent. The smell made him want something, but he didn't know what it was.

"Uh, don't—Well, I guess it would have gotten wet anyhow, but…." Jesse tugged at his jacket, mildly surprised when the guy let go of it. "Here, like this." He draped it around the other young man's shoulders, carefully keeping his eyes on the fabric as he fastened the middle three snaps. "There. That's better, right?" No answer but that same constant gaze.

"Okay, you know what? I think we should go see a doctor or something, make sure you're really okay. So, um, you just stay right there and we'll do that," Jesse said, then sighed as the guy tilted his head. "Watch your head."

Tell Me Tuesdays – November 15, 2011

Tell me about this picture. What it makes you think of, who took it, what you see that someone else doesn't. Write a story, a poem, a comment, an essay. Leave a picture of your own.

Tell me something.

(If you write something on your own blog, leave a link here so we can all enjoy it.  Or, if you prefer, go crazy in the comments.)

What We're Working On – Project Status – 11/14/11

This is the project list as it stands on November 12, 2011.  We reserve the right to have a better idea, get hopelessly sidetracked by other things, or throw our hands in the air and declare a story dead at any point.  Curious?  Got questions? Drop us a comment.

Writing:

Novel-length

Peripheral People – Ylendrian Empire novel, space opera paranormal/mystery, m/m, with mostly offscreen m/f – approx. 100,000 words, 70% completed  – And what a ride it's been.  We started this book with four POV characters, wrote 70,000 words that way, and then realized it needed to be a two person POV.  After much whimpering and heavy re-writes, Peripheral People is back on track, and we're looking to close it out by the end of the year.  This book has really stretched our plotting skills, and expands the Ylendrian Empire in ways that will drive it in interesting directions in future stories.  I think it's our best yet.
The Memory Keeper (Or whatever the hell I'm calling it now) – Reesa – Post-nirvana fringe rebels trying to save their friend from a disease must use their hidden, mutated powers to infiltrate the corporate city that offers their only hope of salvation. Post-apocalyptic, created family, futuristic, fantasy powers, m/f, m/m – approx. 90,000-110,000 words, 70% completed – This book continues to make me feel like the luckiest girl with a keyboard.  I'm thrilled that I get to write it, and I believe I'm doing it justice.  Crossed fingers, this should also be tied up and ready for firm second draft/fine detail/pre-submission edits by the end of 2011.
Who Remembers – Michelle – Journalists putting together a book about America's abandoned places stumble across one with a personal connection neither of them is expecting, and their only hope might be a reclusive innkeeper.  Paranormal, ghost stories, historical creepiness, m/m/m – Approx. 80,000 words, 70% completed – I got to read this story as Michelle wrote it, during NaNoWriMo 2008, and you're in for a treat.  Creepy, atmospheric, funny, and unexpected.  No current deadline, but I would guess early Spring of 2012 for completion.

 

Short Stories

Far From the Tree – Ylendrian Empire short story/novella – Post-Peripheral People, Inspector Corwin Menivie is called home to Kaleia, where between the family who disowned him, the "help" of Agent Westley Shears, and the restrictive society that doesn't play by Imperial rules, he finds the murder of an anthropologist is about the least of his problems.  Space opera paranormal/mystery, m/m, – approx. 30-40,000 words, 25% completed

Outlining/Researching:

Novel-length

Lew/Jess/Denny novel - Ylendrian Empire novel, space opera romance with paranormal elements, m/f/m, potentially 80,000-100,000 words

Short Stories

Something About Dancing – Ylendrian Empire short, Kellen/Tal/Vanya, post-The Slipstream Con, Kellen's got a job to do, and a shaky notion that the discomfort he's feeling about it might be a conscience. The horror!

Editing:

Nothing at this time.

Fifteen Minute Fiction – Inkling, pt. 14

Finally, new Inkling.  In which Grays brings a stranger home– or is it that his home is stranger?

(If you need to catch up, you can always read the full story (for free!) here: Inkling )

Inkling

by S. Reesa Herberth

Copyright 2011

*~*~*~*

"You live in a coffee shop."  Collin raised his eyebrows, glancing from Grays to the incongruous Victorian bungalow tucked amidst the stucco grandeur of downtown Mesa.  The pale yellow siding had faded in the sun long ago, and the gingerbread trim must have been white at some point, but was edging closer to dusty clay now.  Wrought iron café sets graced the brick courtyard leading up to the steps, many of the seats taken by people sipping from huge mugs while they read or talked to friends.

"Yup.  There's a pretty roomy cabinet under the espresso maker, and it makes it easy to run the I.V. coffee that gets me up in the morning."

Collin looked, at least to Grayson's unfamiliar eye, like a man who wasn't sure whether to believe what he was hearing or not.  "Technically, I live behind a coffee shop.  Which, as soon as you've wished in the fountain, you can see for yourself."

Through the white picket fence, under the arbor that cast more doubt than shade, and the second Grays breathed in the honeysuckle, he felt home.  Fairy lights twinkled from every tree, an effect Grays remembered disparaging in his dorm, but one that works here, because the place is an anachronism, a slice of Wonderland grown out of a prairie dog hole.

The fountain is a sculpture made of stacked and broken flower pots, copper hammered out to look like broad leaves, tea pots, coffee pots, porcelain pitchers, clumps of quartz and amethyst the size of fists.  In a fit of superstition, and knowing the money got scraped up for the local food bank, Grays tossed a coin in it every time he came home, just a tiny thanks for the ambiance.  Some days he wished, some days he didn't, but today he threw a quarter up into the air, watching it land in the bubbling water at the top before pinging back down the side of the fountain, and he wished for safety.  It seemed like it couldn't hurt.

He didn't ask what Collin wished for, but they both stood there a second too long, breathing in the honeysuckle and listening to the water.

"Come on, I'm starving."  Entering through the wide front door, Grays sucked in a lungful of coffee fumes.  The main room was empty, but he could see a short line at the counter, and he led Collin around the side, into the sun porch that had long ago been turned into a library and game room.

Chandeliers made of inverted teacups hung from the ceiling, along with a fully set table, suspended upside down from the rafters.  A white rabbit, or at least the back half of one, disappeared into a dark hole cut in the wall, and the entire floor was a mosaic made of broken plates.  It crept up the walls to about waist-high, a forest of crockery and china shards, and a few mug handles stuck out from the wall, threaded through with strings of fairy lights and bells.

"Sometimes when the shop is closed, I come in here to draw.  I can never decide if it's beautiful or creepy, but I've settled on thinking they aren't mutually exclusive."

"This place is kind of ridiculous.  In a good way, but still.  I don't even know what to look at."

Grayson nodded, heading towards the back door.  "I have a friend who comes here to write, for just that reason.  She says there's so much to look at, she can't process it, and it forces her to pay attention to her story."  Down a short set of steps, and into another courtyard, this one a little more sedate.  The inlaid labyrinth in the brickwork had been worn smooth by hundreds of seeking feet, and he noticed Collin walking around the edge, rather than straight across it.

Once upon a time, his apartment had been a summer kitchen, and maid's quarters.  Since then, it had been everything from a storage shed to a yoga studio.  Brick, glass, bright painted windowsills fronted the tiny cottage, and an equally tiny garden grew in the beds that set it back from the courtyard.  Sliding his key into the deadbolt, Grays opened the door with more flourish that it probably required, and stepped side to let Collin enter.  "Here we go.  Home, sweet home."

11-11-11

Thanks to my Dad, and Sheryl Nantus's husband, and Myke Cole, and all the other veterans out there.  Your service and dedication are appreciated.

 

Tell Me Tuesday – November 8, 2011

Tell me about this picture. What it makes you think of, who took it, what you see that someone else doesn't. Write a story, a poem, a comment, an essay. Leave a picture of your own.

Tell me something.

(If you write something on your own blog, leave a link here so we can all enjoy it.  Or, if you prefer, go crazy in the comments.)

Fifteen Minute Fiction – Inkling (pt. 13)

Last time on Inkling:

"You shouldn't have brought your friend.  He can't see what he's seen, even if he doesn't understand it.  It's been a long time since I devoured a memory."  Emygdia leaned in close, and Grayson didn't know whether to look at her eyes or her teeth, both equally terrifying, and equally near.  "I remember what youth tastes like, though, and he'll do."

(If you need to catch up, you can always read the full story (for free!) here: Inkling )

The worst part was knowing that no matter what happened, he'd gotten himself into it.

No, scratch that.  The worst part was her teeth, the way she seemed to inhale him, like she was taking in his life breath by breath.

"Stop it.  He's under my protection."

Emygdia smiled, and watching her features smooth back out into something almost human made Grays want to flinch, except he'd forgotten how to move, or she wasn't letting him anymore.  He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, the throbbing whooshwhoosh of it almost painful as he stared at her.  If he wasn't going anywhere, at least he was going to meet her eyes, no matter how uncomfortable it made him.

"That's all I wanted to know."  Grays refused to slouch away once her hold on him was gone, glaring as he shed the feeling of her compulsion.  Her laughter was sharp, but not so pointed that it didn't seem real.  "It's okay, shake off that scruffing, puppy.  I won't think less of you."

"Could you?"  The words escaped him without thought, and for a second he swore he could see them hovering in the air, letters and syllables like soap bubbles before he blinked and they were gone.

"There's room."  Waggling her fingers towards the door, Emygdia watched him, but when she spoke again it was to Collin.  "Have a care with him, Bastion.  He's got a bite lurking in there, I think."

When the world around him changed, Grays expected there to be some sign.  He expected a flash, a bang, maybe a little sparkle, but definitely more than finding himself in the parking lot with no warning at all, and the store they'd just been in abandoned and dark.

The world turned with him when Grays moved.  He swore the asphalt swirled under his sneakers when he moved, rippling out like he'd stepped in a puddle.  "Why is the sky purple?  Why—"  He couldn't finish his questions.  Collin's eyes weren't right, and the smudge of shadow between them stretched wide, obscuring the sickly green rays of the oxidized copper sun.  Fireflies darted across the parking lot, but there were no fireflies in Phoenix.

"It's magic afterburn.  You're seeing the shell of Emygdia's spells as they collapse.  It'll fade in a few minutes."

Grayson laughed, and there were the soap bubbles again, oil-sheen rainbow and drifting up into the sky.  He didn't realize he was following them until Collin grabbed his foot, holding him still as he hovered five feet above the ground and giggled uncontrollably.  "The world tickles."

Collin grinned at Grays, his teeth bright as he laughed.  "Oh my god, you're so spell drunk right now.  You know if I let you go, you'll fly higher and higher, right up until you don't float anymore, right?"

"Splat."  The giggling was only making it worse, each golden sound tingling like champagne in his throat.  "I did that once.  For a project.  Covered myself in paint and fell on the canvas.  Splat."

Collin pulled the leg of his jeans, tugging him back and forth like a helium balloon.  "I bet you didn't do it from fifty feet up, did you?"

"My Mom would kill me.  You know, if the blood loss didn't do it first."

"Your Mom has good sense."  Using the hand not wrapped firmly around Grayson's ankle, Collin fished in his pockets for something, coming up with a tin of mints and popping the lid.  He offered the tin up to Grays, shaking it like a bag of cat treats.  "If you come down, you can have candy."

He didn't even know he liked mints, until they started marching through the air towards him, ants on the wing, or the dance of the wintergreen fairies.

Collin rolled his eyes, snapping the tin shut.  "As charming as this Mary Poppins interlude is, I need to get going.  So could you come down here and hold onto something, so I can head out?"

It was hard to grumble when you felt like you were made of spun sugar and breeze, but Grays had worked retail long enough that he could grumble at the drop of a hat.  Taking one final look around from a height he wasn't likely to achieve again without stilts, he sort of aimed towards the ground, guided by Collin's hand, and managed a nearly-graceful landing, even though his shoes kept trying to leave the earth again.

"Where are you going?"  He smiled, a sloppy sort of thing that stopped just short of a laugh.  "It might be the, you know, potential head injury, or the sixteen impossible things I've seen in the last two hours, but if you need a ride somewhere, I could be convinced to give you one."

Pushing up his sleeves, Collin ran his hands over his arms, obscuring and revealing his tattoos by turns.  "I shouldn't get you any deeper into this than you already are."  A quick glance back at the empty shop, and he turned his attention on Grays again.  "I can't guarantee it, but I think she liked you.  If anything happened, if I screwed it up and something came after you, you could probably come here and seek shelter."

"Why won't she give it to you?"

"It's complicated.  Ancient history, most of it.  She can't give me shelter without bringing me into her homestead, and because my uncle's blood claim takes precedence over the rights of a guest, he's basically have a free pass into her realm."  He didn't seem to realize he'd started chewing his thumb, worrying the corner between words and looking over Grayson's shoulder.  "It could wind up hurting a lot of people, and I don't want that."

Grays nodded like he understood, but his reply was cut off by the roll of thunder, out of nowhere.  It was late for monsoons, late enough that he glanced up to see which direction the clouds would roll in from.  "How long does this magic hangover stuff last?  Those clouds are… What the hell?"

The clouds were coming in from the west, but he would have sworn that tiny bits of them were breaking off, zipping away lightning fast as they sank towards the ground.

"Shit.  You need to go home, and stay in your house, okay?  It'll be over by tomorrow.  I have to go, I have to find somewhere to hide."  Collin grabbed Grayson's arm and shoved towards the car, but his attention remained on the sky.  "It's not a cloud, it's an illusion.  He must have sent the flock out looking for me, when the dogs didn't come back."  The grip on Grayson's sleeve went slack, clearly forgotten.  "Thank you for everything you've done."  Tearing his attention away from the sky, Collin's smile was rueful.  "Normally that would count for a little more, but I don't think I'm going to be around long enough for you to cash in."

More than anything, the resigned fear was what prompted Grays to latch onto Collin and drag him to the car, though he wasn't getting very far.  "Just come with me.  Maybe we can make it to my house before… Uh.  What's going to happen?  What flock?"

"Demons.  You can't.  You don't even know me."

Grays, hardly the most physically capable of young men, managed to shove Collin into the front seat, and pixie dust hangover or not, this time his quiet laugh was faintly bitter, the taste of almonds and stupid decisions at the back of his throat.  He snorted, slamming the door to make sure it latched.  It was probably better that Collin was sealed away from his bemused muttering.

"Yeah, like you're the first stranger with demons I've taken home.  Please."

What's Up With Inkling

First off, if you've been reading Inkling, my urban fantasy serial, thanks!

Second, if you've wondered where the heck it went, the answer is: work.

Inkling, and the entire Fifteen Minute Fiction project, was begun as a way to get myself into a writing headspace on short notice.  To jump into a story and run with whatever idea came to me next.  I think it's largely been a success on that score, until I reached the current transition point and a pretty hefty work crunch at the same time.

While it's been on the back burner for a few weeks now, Inkling will return tomorrow, and we're edging towards the middle of the story, before the crash bang fall into the end.

The good news is, I'm going to be updating the story on a regular basis again, until it's done.  I'm going to compensate for a lack of extra time in which to write huge chunks of it by working on a section all week, and posting everything I've got on Friday.  So it'll be Fifteen Minute Fiction Fridays, which, I won't lie, appeals to my sense of alliteration.

So there you go.  New Inkling tomorrow.  In the meantime, if you want to refresh your memory, or read it for the first time, you can find it all here:  Inkling – A Fifteen Minute Fiction Serial