Heather Marie Adkins's Blog, page 13

Steven King – On Writing

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BIGGEST NEWS OF THE WEEK:  THE HALLOWEEN COLLECTION IS FREE!!!!

Click the cover to go download it at Amazon.  For FREE!

I recently finished a little book called "On Writing" by Steven King.

What an eye opener!

I DID learn a few things.  Like passive language – had NO idea what that was until good ole Steven said it needs to me banished from my books like dirty underwear (my quote, not his).

What is passive language, you ask?  Yeah, so did I.

Mike opened the door.   – active voice

The door was opened by Mike.  – Passive voice

Just by reading those two sentences, you can tell there is a difference in the strength of the active voice.  For writing that is strong, clear, and concise – you want to utilize the active voice at all times.  The passive voice acts like a limp wrist in a man's handshake.  No good.

He also gets on the reader for adverbs – one of MY biggest crimes.  BUT, I love adverbs.  I try to cut those that are just hanging out with no purpose, but for the most part, I lurrrve them.  Ahem.

While I felt the book as a whole was phenomenal, there was one tiny little thing I disagreed with – he states that a bad writer can't learn to be a good writer.  Okay, I can agree with that.  You  have to had a little bit of gods-given talent.  But then he goes on to say that a mediocre writer can't become a good writer and a good writer can't become a great writer.

Um.  I disagree.

Writing isn't a stagnant art form.  With practice, you can increase your abilities.  So, we'll have to agree to disagree, Mr. King.

In OTHER NEWS… I bought a KINDLE!

I had been thinking about buying one because of the ebook formatting.  I'm actually picking up a little bit of business formatting ebooks for other indies, and I HATE not having a Kindle to drop the final mobi on to check for errors.  But, poor girl and all…then, a couple days ago Amazon did a press release on the soon-to-be-released Kindles – YES, PLURAL!  www.amazon.com/Kindle-Wi-Fi-Ink-Display-Screensavers/dp/B0051QVESA/

So, my Kindle should arrive sometime today or tomorrow! So excited.

Friend and fellow (talented!) author Michelle Muto has released her second YA book, a horror with the awesome title "Don't Fear the Reaper" – and the cover is TO DIE FOR.   I can not wait to read it.  I adored her first novel, "The Book of Lost Souls" – I expect this one to be just as fabulous!

And to round off this week's Fictional Friday, my favorite quotes from King's "On Writing":

"If you write, someone will try to make you feel lousy about it."

"Life isn't a support system for art.  It's the other way around."

"There is absolutely no need to be hidepound and conservative in your work, just as you are under no obligation to write experimental, nonlinear prose because The Village Voice or The New York Review of Books says the novel is dead.  Both the traditional and modern are available to you."

"You can't please all of the readers all of the time; you can't please even some of the readers all of the time, but you really ought to try to please at least some of the readers some of the time."

"…it's all on the table, all up for grabs…Try any goddam thing you like."

"Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler's heart, kill your darlings."

Teaching Myself to Be Thankful

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This past Friday was Mabon – the Autumnal Equinox.  It is a time of reaping the harvest of the seeds we've sown this year; of being blessed and counting our blessings.  Mabon is the Witch's Thanksgiving – much like the North American tradition of Turkey Day, the Autumnal Equinox is a time when witches recognize the blessings in their lives and are thankful.

2011 has been a year that has brought me many blessings.  My family is in good health and happy.  My relationship is stable and life-affirming.  My circle of friends has grown to encompass talented authors around the world.

I do find a hard time staying thankful.  Maybe it's just me, but I have difficulties  seeing past the negative to the positive most days.  What is it about the negative that paralyzes me?

An example of "sympathetic magick" is that of visualization.  To bring about the change you wish to see, you can visualize your goal.  You want to win that soccer game?  Meditate on it and visualize winning it.  Not just an overall "Oh, look we won the game" – in-depth.  See the sun shine.  Feel the warmth (or chill).  Visualize that winning goal-kick, the subsequent happiness of your teammates.  Play the entire scene in your mind so that it happens exactly as you hope.  This is visualization – sympathetic magick.  And it can be used for nearly everything.  Not all ritual needs candles, incense, and a fire-lit cauldron.  Sometimes, you just need an imagination.

When I started publishing my work, I took down my old job at Facebook and put my new job as "Author".  This is another instance of sympathetic magick.  By already SEEING it as so, I'm willing it into existence.   And who can argue that it isn't true?  Yes, I'm still working at the old job.  But my books are out there for anyone to buy – 5 ebooks in the ether.  I have professional covers.  I have reviews.  I am an author.

But, that doesn't mean I'm successful.

As of tonight, I've sold 33 books this month.  This number is UP from last month's 26, but it's down from July's 38.  With two days left to go, I can hope I'll break that 38, but chances aren't good.

Now, I'm not complaining.  Marathon, not sprint, etc.  But like any true human being, it is disheartening.  And unfortunately, the disheartening stuff messes with my muse big time.  I'm having a hard time focusing on the book I'm working on.

So, I'm going to work on my visualization.  I want to win this game.  And any lil ole Witch worth her salt will tell you – it's all about visualization.

Cue visualizing.

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I found a GREAT new site in my email box this week -

The Young Witches

Just another place for witches to hang out

New Release!

Martin's existence has centered on his wife, Sophie, for thirteen years.  Their tumultuous, explosive relationship ends in adultery and her abrupt death, leaving Martin to pick up the pieces of the life she built for them – and a daughter he barely knows.  With the touching insights of his little girl and memories of Sophie to keep him going, Martin navigates the year after her death in a series of lists, finding that happiness is something to create, not expect.

Read an Excerpt!

Purchase Cause & Effect -

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

New Cover for Abigail!

 

Isn't it GORGEOUS?  My cover wizard, Stephanie Mooney, just finished it yesterday.  I am absolutely IN LOVE with it.  I'm running the races around my various platforms to get it uploaded.

Sigh.  I could stare at it all day.

#3 for "Best Local Author"

So, I got 3rd place under Arts and Entertainment for "Best Local Author".

Best Local Author

1) D.A. Madigan

2) Wendell Berry

3) Heather Adkins

WHAT?!!

That's insane.

I'm not even sure how it happened!  Because let me tell you, it's not like my books are flying off the shelves (metaphorically speaking as they are currently only in E-format – flying off the E-shelves?).  Since I published "The Temple" in June, I've yet to even hit 100 ebook sales between it and "Abigail", my two published books.  At the molasses rate I'm moving this month, I'm not likely to make it to 100 before the 30th.

I'm shocked.  Astonished.  Drooling while wearing a dingy white straightjacket and rocking in the corner.  Honored.  Stunned.

So how does a 26-year-old girl who has sold only 80 e-books make it onto a list with the likes of Wendell Berry and D.A. Madigan??

I don't know.  But, I'll take it.  Maybe it bodes well for my future career.  Maybe it was an ego-boost during a bad time and the Powers That Be deemed it necessary to give me some props.

Whatever happened to get my name on that list, I'll take it

Ask & Tell – Finally

Don't Ask, Don't Tell has been repealed and for what seems like the tenth day in my lifetime, I've witnessed history in the making.

The new law ends the 17-year-old "don't ask, don't tell" policy that forced gays to hide their sexual orientation or face dismissal.

"I couldn't be prouder," Obama said. MSNBC

Word is Obama signed this into law with a huge grin on his face – LOVE IT!  Score One Obama in my book.

I complain often and loudly about how backwards this country is.  The hard truth is that conservative Americans CAN NOT face the idea that homosexuality is a fact of life.  As I'm sure I've preached many times over, it is impossible to know who you're going to fall in love with and what gender they're going to be.  It is genetically hardwired into one's hormones who turns you on and strikes your yummy bone.

So what this repeal means for the nation is that men and women from all 50 states can openly be gay and serve in the US military.  This is AMAZING and it is one more step towards a future I want to live in.  A future where the hate associated with sexual orientation, religious path, gender, or skin color will have nearly disappeared.

"As one Special Operations warfighter said during the Pentagon review [...] 'We have a gay guy in the unit. He's big, he's mean, he kills lots of bad guys. No one cared that he was gay.' And I think that sums up perfectly the situation," Obama said in remarks preceding the signing. (MSNBC)

I am an active, active supporter of gay rights.  There are several people in my life who are gay and who mean the absolute world to me.  Also, allow me to be candidly honest for a moment because this is MY blog and I'm a candidly honest individual – I find women beautiful (much, much more beautiful than men).  Given the chance, I could have seen myself falling for a woman.  But, then I found Andrew and you know, happily-ever-after-eww.

So, when I hear of gay bullying, gay bashing, or conservatives nomming on about "marriage is between a man and woman blah blah blah" I want to rampage.  I want to storm small villages and throw lit torches atop the thatched roofs of homes…

Wait.  Wrong part of my brain.  That's a book I recently read…

Love is Love is Love.  Get over it.

To move this conversation into my Women's Wednesday theme, I think of my books.

Nearly everything I write has underlying gay themes or openly gay characters.  Whether this is because I'm such an avid gay rights supporter or because I UNDERSTAND that this world is one equally divided in sexual orientation.

In "The Temple", protagonist Vale's little sister Macy is a lesbian.  In my upcoming novel "Constant State of Disaster", two of protagonist AnnRee's friends are lesbians.  This same theme tends to run through my future books, as well.

As a witch who has herself been subjected to derogatory comments and hate because she is a woman of alternative faith, my world revolves around finding peace and understanding among all of us.  We should judge people by their actions and attitudes, not by their choice of lifestyle or faith or skin color or gender.

I shall leave you with this new and amazing girl group, Pistol Annies.

 

 

Julia Crane "Conflicted" Available Now!

Conflicted

by Julia Crane

My good friend Julia Crane has released the 2nd in her "Keegan's Chronicles" series, Conflicted!

In the Elfin world, magic and destiny determine who will be together. "Chosen" pairs are fated to meet at the age of 18.

Keegan, however, is an anomaly. Having fallen in the battle between the Light and the Dark, she is only alive now due to Black Magic, and her bond with her Chosen is broken. She cannot remember Rourk at all.

For the first time, she feels like a normal teenager. She is dating Donald, her long-time crush, and everything seems perfect. But Rourk still feels their bond, and despairs for the woman he was always meant to love.

Keegan's best friend Anna is determined to find a way to use her powers to return Keegan's bond, no matter what it takes. The question is does Keegan even want it?

My review of Conflicted:

Fans of Book 1, "Coexist", know that Crane left us with a cliffhanger of an ending. In "Conflicted" the story continues where it left off and takes the reader's heart along for a wild ride. "Conflicted" is heartfelt and tense from beginning to end with the characteristic teenage drama and love we've come to associate with Crane's name. Fans of "Coexist" will NOT be let down by this second novel and for anyone who hasn't read the first – go now! Then come back and gobble up this one

Julia is a fabulous YA author.  Go check out her new release!

Amazon

Smashwords

Barnes & Noble

Introducing – Fictional Fridays!

Me & David Foster Wallace

and "Chosen" by Jolea Harrison

 

So, there's this really cool website where you can pop in an example of your writing and get told who it is among famous writers that you most write like. The badge wouldn't work here at the blog, but I got "David Foster Wallace."

I sez…who the hades is David Foster Wallace??

David Foster Wallace was born in New York in 1962. He received a Master in Fine Arts for Creative Writing at the University of Arizona in 1987. He published numerous short fictions and nonfictions in his lifetime, but only two novels — The Broom of the System (1987) and Infinite Jest (1996), the latter of which made Time magazine's All-Time 100 Greatest Novels list, 1923-2006. He committed suicide on September 12, 2008 after a twenty-year battle with depression.

Wallace's novels are said to be saturated in irony. He experimented with different voices and incorporated jargon and vocabulary that was sometimes made up. He made use of endnotes and footnotes, supposedly to interrupt the linear flow of his work and show his own perception of reality. In his words, "fiction's about what it is to be a fucking human being."

The novel Wallace was working on at the time of his death, The Pale King was published posthumously in April of this year — unfinished.

Bruce Weber from the NYT calls Wallace's books "prodigiously observant, exuberantly plotted, grammatically and etymologically challenging, philosophically probing and culturally hyper-contemporary novels, stories and essays." He goes on to say Wallace "wrote long books, complete with reflective and often hilariously self-conscious footnotes, and he wrote long sentences, with the playfulness of a master punctuater and the inventiveness of a genius grammarian."

But, "Wallace was a temperamentally unassuming man, long-haired, unhappy in front of a camera, consumed with his work and its worth, perpetually at odds with himself. Journalists who interviewed him invariably commented on his discomfort with celebrity and his self-questioning. And those who knew him best concurred that Mr. Wallace was a titanically gifted writer with an equally troubled soul."

When he died at 46, he had only been married to his wife, Karen, for four years

This is a long article by The New Yorker about David Foster Wallace.

A BBC documentary (45 mins) on Wallace

Plus, hey, he's HAWT.

And supposedly, according to this crazy online thing, I write like David Foster Wallace. I'm okay with that. Now, I just have to read his books

Chosen

by Jolea M. Harrison

Even though I'm reading MUCH less now than I used to, I feel like I'm reading BETTER.

Indie writers are a wealth of new ideas and talented writing.  I won't argue — there IS crap out there.  But when you find the gold, it rises to the top and waves lazily with a smirk on its face.

"Chosen" by Jolea Harrison is one of those books.

 

For everyone else in the world, getting stabbed in the heart means instant death. All it does for Dynan Telaerin is send him to hell.

In Chosen, Jolea M. Harrison transports us to a world on the cusp of destruction, caught in a thousand year cycle of ever-repeating time, trapped between the warring Gods and the demon, Belial, with one young hero chosen to save not just the world, but the Gods themselves.

Dynan finds himself on a corpse-strewn hillside, uncertain if he's dead or alive, charged with saving the soul of his ancestor, the most powerful telepath to ever exist. Dynan has telepathic powers of his own, only he doesn't know how to use them. With monsters and minions trying to eat his soul, the demon's lair isn't a place conducive to learning anything, except how to run and how to hide.

Can Dynan find his ancestor before the fabric of time is torn beyond repair? Will courage alone be enough to face the greatest evil to exist? Will he lose his soul to save everyone else?

The running starts, and doesn't stop to the end of this action packed adventure of a young man coming to terms with his life while he's barely a spirit, through horrors he thought existed only in dreams.

Chosen is the first book of a 7 book series, entitled The Guardians of the Word.

This book literally blew me away.  Like I was sprawled against the wall.  Melted into a puddle of Jolea fan-girlness.  I highly recommend it.  And I don't really read fantasy!

Desperately awaiting book two!!

Find Chosen at Amazon

Also in this week's book news…

Dear friend, fellow author, talented Zombie King Jack Wallen has finally been able to get his debut Zombie novel "I Zombie I" FREE at Amazon.  Go grab your copy and find out just how awesome sauce he is.

Talia Jager, another member of the Indie Eclective, has uploaded her 5th book, Secret Bloodline, a 2.99 Young Adult paranormal romance.  I was lucky enough to beta read this book and I definitely recommend it.

The Eclective is seeing quite a few downloads of The Halloween Collection.  We hope to see it take off even more towards the holiday itself

That wraps up Fictional Friday for now!  Come back soon.

Even though no one ever comments when I ask a question, I'm still going to end with one…who do you hope you write most like?

Introducing – Witchy/Women's Wednesdays!

One Woman's Promotion
and Simplicity in Ritual

Today marks the first day of my new blog plan!  A la Shea MacLeod (who is a la Kristin Rusch), I'm implementing "theme blogs" to help me post a specific number of times a week.  As you can tell from the above title and image, welcome to Witchy and/or Women's Wednesdays!

This post has both themes, though some Wednesdays may only have one

My mom has been a police officer for almost 25 years on our local force.  Last week, she was promoted to Major in a fancy ceremony where our Mayor gave the oath of office.  She is now the 2nd highest ranked female on the department! 

This was a long time coming for her.  The majority of years she spent as an officer were during the 80s and 90s when being a female officer was akin to having leprosy.  The kind of difficulties she must have faced trying to prove herself — I can only imagine

Mom has a Master's degree in Criminal Justice from the University of Louisville and has attended the Southern Police Institute and the FBI Academy.  She was crazy well qualified for the position.

Plus — I got to meet the mayor!! WOOT!  (I'm a total fangirl)

And now for the WITCHY portion!

This past Sunday, as we all know, was 9/11 and it happened to fall on my monthly meeting with Ann and Bev.  I've been meeting with these two wonderfully witchy ladies for a year-and-a-half and they are so important to me.

It was my turn to bring the ritual.

How do you create a ritual meaningful enough for something so tragic?  To commemorate such an awful piece of our national history?

One thing I realized was YOU CAN'T.

There is something to be said for simplicity in ritual.  Simplicity brings deeper commitment to what you are thinking rather than doing.  It's like meditation — what do you need to meditate?  Nothing, generally.  You may put on some tinkly music, light a single candle, or burn some incense, but nothing is needed other than your little body.

I thought it would be amazing to just honor 9/11 by sharing — just me, Ann, Bev, and a single white candle, lit in remembrance.

I brought along poems written by family members of those lost.  And "The Fireman's Prayer", a poem I've known since I was a little girl. I also brought a letter written from one New York City writer to her pastor back home, 5 days after the attacks.  And "Remember" — a poem by the Native American writer Joy Harjo.

And we shared.  Where we were for the attacks.  What or who we associate with that day.   How we felt, what happened after.  It would seem those are simple ideas, but what they initiated was a long, moving conversation between the three of us.

And all it took was a candle.

Sometimes, the most meaningful rituals don't involve every tool in our witchy arsenal.  Sometimes, what makes a ritual great is simply…

You.

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Do you know a woman who has beaten the odds to climb the ladder?  If you're of the magickal arts persuasion, do you use all your magickal tools for every ritual, or do you enjoy simplicity?  What often feels the most meaningful?

Chapter 1 of "Abigail"

A New Cover is Coming Soon!!

"Abigail" is my second novel–a fantasy romance that was published in late July.

Blurb:

When Abigail's supposedly immortal faery mother is found murdered, her human father sells her in to slavery. Bought by a young and wealthy landowner named William, she is whisked away to a Grecian island to play caretaker for his baby sister.

However, the island has a deadly secret connected to Abigail's past. Her budding romance with William is shattered by Abigail's intimate, unwanted connection with the island's faery prince.  Meanwhile the faery king plans revenge upon the family. Abigail must join forces with the very race she's sought to deny, to save the humans she has learned to love.

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Chapter 1.

My father was selling me into slavery.

No manner of pressure could fix the uncomfortable tick caused by the throbbing behind my closed eyelids. I alternated between digging the palms of my hands into my eyes and seeking solace from the earth.

Sliding my right hand behind me between my back and the wall, I pressed it firmly to the moist stone. With just a little mental push, I sent myself into the ground beyond, feeling the worms crawl and the dirt shift. For a moment, I was able to forget the dank cell and let the Mother's arms wrap around my shoulders, the earth's strength seeping into my skin like a much-cherished blanket.

A burst of girlish laughter brought me back to myself, leaving me bereft. My skin was chilled beneath my thin, muslin dress; a stark contrast to the way the earth had brought me warmth. Bringing my hand back around, I pulled the shawl tighter around my shoulders—even though it was riddled with holes—and tucked my bare feet under my knees.

Perching on an old barrel that smelled of stale wine and piss, I surveyed the scene around me feeling oddly detached. It was the kind of dark that made one sluggish and miserable, from where nightmares originated. There was not a single window, or even a crack in the earthen walls to bring us comfort from the outside world; we were lucky to have the pale yellow glow of the oil lantern hanging by the only door.

We swam in the scent of feces, its source a crude hole in the floor where we relieved ourselves. The stench hung in the air like another entity, stagnant and unhealthy. From where I sat, I could feel two women with illness creeping through their bodies.

Fourteen women, some of them but children, in a room barely big enough to house eight.

The little girl sitting to my right leaned against the wall with her knees pulled up to a face so covered in filth she looked like an animal. I caught her eye, a vivid green shiny with unshed tears but hard with lessons learned much too early. She couldn't have been nine years old. I tried to give her a comforting smile only to find the muscles in my face weren't responding.

How do you comfort innocence destroyed?

Matilda, the one person I counted friend in my five weeks locked away, was in a puppy pile of teenagers in the corner, telling stories she shouldn't. I knew from previous conversation that she had once belonged to an older aristocrat who had raped and mutilated her in ways beyond imagination. How she continued to exist day to day with the memories of such…even more so that she told the tales so easily.

If I know anything now from my own experiences, humans tend to practice selective memory.

I closed my eyes once more, attempting to rein my thoughts. With nothing else to do—no books to read, no garden to plant—my mind tends to run wild.

"You seem very calm today, Abigail."

Pretty Matilda, finished traumatizing the young ones, was settling beside me on an old wooden crate, tucking her dingy blue dress around her knees. Her chestnut eyes were sparkling with good humor in her pale, simple face. I gazed down at her, and cocked my head in contemplation as I counted her freckles. "To feel anything right now is redundant. What comes will come despite thought or hope."

She rolled her eyes, leaning back against the wall. "Could you at least try to speak as if you are only twenty?"

Breaking eye contact, I focused on my usual meditation point, a black knot in the wood wall directly across the room. It was nearly invisible in the flickering lamplight. I closed my eyes once again in an attempt to shut out reality. "I'll try. It's harder when I'm upset."

One of the consequences of appearing young when my body is much older than it seems. Sometimes what comes from my lips doesn't match what others see.

I felt her lean close on the little stool, her wild red curls brushing my bare knee below my dress. I cringed away from her so slightly that she didn't notice. Five weeks I'd gone without touching her and delving into her mind; I refused to give in. "It's almost over. We are almost out."

I straightened imperceptibly, drawing in a deep breath, comfortable in the darkness behind my eyelids. "Yes."

"We can hope our new masters are good—"

"Matilda," I cut in sharply, eyes flying open. When she jumped back slightly at the sight, I knew I had lost my glamour. I closed my lids on the lavender fire that glowed there, and steadied myself. Sometimes she made me lose my temper. The downside of keeping human friends, I suppose. I took a few deep breaths before opening my eyes and going on in a lower tone. "False hope will only make the little ones worse in the long run. I wish you would put an end to it."

"What is life without hope?" Her voice was small and I felt a pang of regret. Good intentions never go without punishment.

"Life is a long, terrible thing," I whispered, more to myself. I couldn't meet her eyes.

The door creaked open like a scream in the hushed room, pivoting outward. Every face around me, nondescript and identical to the one beside it, turned to see who was on the other side. The big one with the bushy red beard stood in the doorway, dressed in rags fit for no better than a pirate. His dirty white shirt had short sleeves and barely covered his rotund belly, while his black vest hung open over his loosely draped black pants. Scuffed brown boots tapped on the floor as he gazed around in disdain.

It was time.

"1, 4, 8, 9, and 13," he said sharply. Thirteen; that was me; it was crudely tattooed on the inside of my right wrist. I slid from the barrel, my heart beating wildly. Matilda followed me, her fingers clutching my shawl and her eyes wide.

The room was silent as we were shackled together. I brought up the rear, stepping lightly and slowly so as not to walk all over the little one in front of me: the green-eyed girl. I could see every bone in her little shoulders. She looked like a beaten dog.

Torches lined the hallway outside our cell, casting evil, wavering shadows on the dirt floor. Mine, as usual, was absent, a by-product of my abnormal heritage. The young man walking somewhat behind and to the left of me, obviously new to the guard, kept glancing from the floor to me as if I might disappear.

Too bad that wasn't within my range of powers. If that was the case, I'd be harvesting my potato patch instead of walking towards an unknown destiny.

Dry dust swirled around my ankles, the hallway steadily getting warmer as we ascended the steep hill. A sharp corner brought us into blinding sunlight and fresh air. I felt unwelcome tears sting my eyes and choked down a sob of gratitude for the warm rays that caressed my shoulders. I let go of my shawl outside the door, where it trailed from my fingers to the ground without a thought; it had never been mine, anyway. Already I could feel my strength returning, the sun filling my reserves with its loving energy.

We came out of the jail tunnel behind a raised platform crudely constructed of wood and haphazardly sewn burlap sacks. I could hear the noise of the crowd on the other side as we were lined up with our backs to the stage.

The first girl was a teen with shorn brown hair and slumped shoulders, her spirit in tatters on the ground. Her hands were shaking so much I feared she was going into shock. A man with muscular arms and an almost invisible neck unshackled her from the community chain and led her away.

So the waiting began.

The big guard walked by tapping his sword to the side of his beefy leg. His black belt strained with the weight of his belly, a wild patch of red hair sprouting from above the loose ties of his shirt. He leered at me from the center of a head full of dirty, rust colored curls.

"Glad to see you've survived, pretty thing," he murmured, brushing a thumb down my cheek. The offensive finger continued to my neck, and even further to the crest of my breast.

Disgust flooded me. I gave him my best glare and emptied my eyes of emotion. The human color remained, but he was seeing the inhuman inside, the part of me that is connected to the Earth, to the things that bump and crawl in this world.

Confusion darted across his countenance and he inched away.

It was entirely too tempting to do something stupid, like zap him with a single touch. My cover would be broken and the people who knew what exactly I was. They'd slap a steel cuff on my ankle so fast my head would spin…if they didn't hang me first.

"How is it you see out of those pig-like, squinty eyes?" I retorted with a sneer.

Slap. Colors exploded. One of his hands was the size of my head; the force threw me to the ground where I landed hard in the dirt. I sucked in a couple of deep, centering breaths with my chin tucked to my chest. I kept my eyes and palms to the ground, spitting blood as he walked away laughing.

One by one my companions were unchained and led to the stage I couldn't see. The sting of my cheek eventually ebbed. Matilda gave me a cautious smile and a lighthearted good-bye wave as she shuffled to the stairs. I watched until she rounded the corner, her ankle chains leaving lines in her wake. It wasn't clear to me whether I would miss her or be glad to be rid of her.

The young guard, handsome in a childish sort of way, waited until we were alone before coming to me. Lacing my fingers before me, I tried to appear as easy and approachable as possible, despite the chains weighing me down like a criminal.

"Why do you cast no shadow?" If I hadn't already been prepared for the question, I might not have understood the whoosh of air that escaped him in the form of words.

I regarded the Italian thoughtfully, all dark coloring and confidence. The physical closeness of his body to mine would allow me to read him, and I conceded to the temptation. When my eyes caught his, he froze; prey. I could imagine the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he watched the dark brown of my eyes fade to be replaced by irises so bright purple they could burn. With a decent amount of effort, I focused on not allowing my skin to revert to its natural form; I didn't want to scare him away. One, two, three…I charged in.

I can't explain how the thoughts come. A series of pictures, words uttered in my head; also scents, colors, emotions, and sensations. Flashes of insight into the life of the person I choose to read. Physical touch isn't necessary, just proximity, although with touch sometimes it comes unbidden.

His wife's name was Theodora and his daughter, Victory. They lived in a one bedroom shack above a butcher's shop. I could smell the blood. His daughter was sick…tuberculosis. She was going to die; it was in her stars. Mere man can't fight the fate set forth by the universe. He was a good man, who took care of an elderly mother and gave to the poor…I saw an empty pantry and a deteriorating marriage.

"Why are you here, Marcello?" One might have thought I'd hit him. I saw the questions pass over his face. I placed a hand to his bare arm, my skin like fire next to his human temperature. "You don't belong with these men."

"I need the money," he stuttered. Even unsure, he didn't shake me off. I let his dark eyes study me, his other hand coming up to cover mine on his arm. "My daughter—"

"The butcher needs help," I told him watching the elderly man in that sacred place of my mind. His wife was passing away as we spoke, her hold on life threadbare. The timing was impeccable; how grand the Universe is when it demands intervention. "You will make much more money. The old man has no child, and his only will to live is leaving soon. He will leave you the shop if you take a job with him. You have a choice to make. Your current path will end your marriage and result in suicide."

The poor man was shaking, his skin ice beneath my hand. His brown eyes resembled that of a doe, flashing around in panic beneath the archer's gaze. I could feel his indecision on my skin.

"Number 13, your turn." The brute was back, abruptly ending my connection to the sweet, naïve Italian. My hands twitched to wrap themselves around the big man's neck.

I've killed before. I wouldn't hesitate to do it again.

* * *

Praise for "Abigail":

"Abigail" is a story of slavery and freedom and of lessons learned much to young – some of which should never have to be learned at all. You will suffer with Abigail as her father sells her into slavery and joy in her newfound hope. Heather brings the world of faery alive and (if you are like me) you will wonder if she is giving herself to the wrong man. Her descriptions of the locales will have you there. Is is an enchanting tale – well-told and will have you waiting for the author's next treat.

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Kathy B. Green

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