Daniel Cotton's Blog, page 2
March 1, 2014
Punks just jealous cuz they can't out-write me
So, you’ve published your masterpiece, put yourself out there no matter what anybody thinks…or so you think. No matter how many glowing, gushing reviews you have received that have you walking on air, there will be that one person that just doesn’t like it and feels compelled to tell the world. The bad ones hurt, regardless of how thick skinned you think you are. They are a punch to the gut that will shake your confidence in your craft.
Some places make reviewers write a blurb before they post, others allow anonymous star ratings. I’m not sure what I prefer, is it better to hear what someone thinks is wrong with your story or wonder what it is you did to incur their negative evaluation. Sometimes you can trace the person’s library and find out they aren’t actually into the genre you’re wading in and feel better--it was an unfair assessment and shouldn’t be taken into consideration. I received one 1-star rating with a blurb ‘not a good book’ on Goodreads (of all places)posted by a fellow writer. I don’t think it’s a good idea for authors to negatively comment on the work of others. It makes them look bad, what will make you look bad is firing back. Never respond! One of my loyal Betas saw it and became irate. He posted his personal thoughts regarding the scribe’s actions. The rating remains but the man pulled his jibe. I had to be stern with my test reader, but couldn’t be prouder. I did reward him by making him a character in book 3 of Life Among the Dead.
Use the bad comments as a way of becoming a stronger writer (the constructive ones) If the person mentions that you accidentally used ‘to’ when you mean ‘too’ too many times, or you wrote ‘then’ when you meant ‘than’ then go back in a fix it, make them look like the dumbass. If they point out a plot hole, fill ‘er up! The beauty of self-publishing is the ease of revising. Above all, never give up.
The negative comments will still bother you. Develop a mantra. I always paraphrase the immortal words of Cypress Hill and consider them to be ‘punks just jealous cuz they can’t out-write me’.
I hope this helps fledgling writers and encourages all of you to take the plunge. Now I invite any who may
be reading this to play reviewer, how am I doing with this whole blog thing? Let me know.
Some places make reviewers write a blurb before they post, others allow anonymous star ratings. I’m not sure what I prefer, is it better to hear what someone thinks is wrong with your story or wonder what it is you did to incur their negative evaluation. Sometimes you can trace the person’s library and find out they aren’t actually into the genre you’re wading in and feel better--it was an unfair assessment and shouldn’t be taken into consideration. I received one 1-star rating with a blurb ‘not a good book’ on Goodreads (of all places)posted by a fellow writer. I don’t think it’s a good idea for authors to negatively comment on the work of others. It makes them look bad, what will make you look bad is firing back. Never respond! One of my loyal Betas saw it and became irate. He posted his personal thoughts regarding the scribe’s actions. The rating remains but the man pulled his jibe. I had to be stern with my test reader, but couldn’t be prouder. I did reward him by making him a character in book 3 of Life Among the Dead.
Use the bad comments as a way of becoming a stronger writer (the constructive ones) If the person mentions that you accidentally used ‘to’ when you mean ‘too’ too many times, or you wrote ‘then’ when you meant ‘than’ then go back in a fix it, make them look like the dumbass. If they point out a plot hole, fill ‘er up! The beauty of self-publishing is the ease of revising. Above all, never give up.
The negative comments will still bother you. Develop a mantra. I always paraphrase the immortal words of Cypress Hill and consider them to be ‘punks just jealous cuz they can’t out-write me’.
I hope this helps fledgling writers and encourages all of you to take the plunge. Now I invite any who may
be reading this to play reviewer, how am I doing with this whole blog thing? Let me know.
February 22, 2014
To be or not to be
I have lived all over the country. I was born and raised on the east coast, spent about four years in San
Diego when I was in the Navy, I’ve lived briefly in the Chicago area and San Antonio. And now I am in Iowa. Anywhere you go in America you will notice people speak differently, not just their accents but in their colloquialisms and what they call certain items. It is said that Eskimos have over fifty words for snow, in America that can be said about soda—or ‘pop’ as they call it here in the Midwest. In Massachusetts some call it ‘tonic’. In the south many refer to it as ‘coke’ no matter what brand or flavor it really is.
To make my characters and dialog more believable I try to incorporate the fact that folks may differ in
how they speak even when using the same language. I’ve made note of the soda phenomenon in
Life Among the Dead a few times. Recently I’ve noticed a new one here, many people I work with have a tendency, even in writing, to drop the words ‘to be’ from what they are saying. For example, if they want to say ‘this floor needs to be mopped’ they are more likely to say ‘this floor needs mopped’. I’m having trouble incorporating this into my stories, I figure both my spellcheck and editor will blow a grammatical fuse. I can’t just insert such a manner of talking without making note of it somehow lest it be ruled as a typo on my end.
I’ll figure it out. I’m still in the initial phase of writing Life Among the Dead 4, this will be the fourth and final installment. It’s weird to say that when so many haven’t been able to read parts two and three yet. Soon, I promise.
Speaking of making characters believable, it helps to have a real person in mind when crafting them. Many of my bigger characters have been conceived by thinking of what actor I’d like to see in the role, and just getting their voice in my head while I work on the dialog. Uncle Bruce, this may come as no surprise, was inspired by Bruce Campbell of the Evil Dead movies. Once I had his voice in my head the one-liners came easy. You will see many examples of this as the other LATDs come out. I actually changed a character to fit an actor. Book three will introduce you to a man named Brass that I know you will all love. After I was all done
with the first draft I was watching the Daily Show and there was one of my favorite actors, Peter Dinklage from Game of Thrones. As a man of average height it doesn’t come natural to write a little person, but that actually works wonderfully for the character, it adds so much and I can’t wait for everyone to meet him. Peter Ds influence on Brass gives him an underdog quality yet the strength to overcome all the obstacles life has for him.
Believability is important for a book, even in the most unbelievable situations your characters should react and speak as humanly as possible. How often have you read a book or watched a movie and thought that the characters were doing things that no person in their right mind would. Or, thought a character was too badass or weak. I love writing tortured badass male characters and then deconstructing them, Like
Bruce in Life Among the Dead’s third section. When you can show ‘weakness’ in such a strong character it just makes them more real and in a way stronger. That’s just my opinion, read it for yourself.
Interesting fact about Life Among the Dead. There is a small boy character in the first part, on West 8th street, named Damian that is actually based on an actual kid I once watched while working in a Psychiatric ward. Since I don't wish to ruin any of the story for anyone, I'll let people ask to know more after they have read the book.
So, that's my first bit of writing advice from someone who shouldn't be giving writing advice. Please let me know if this has been helpful, and feel free to ask questions about any of my stories including my newest Fortune Cookie.
February 16, 2014
First Entry
I'm not sure how often I will be able to add to this new blog but I will definitely do my best to keep it interesting. I'd like to share my experiences as a writer, offer writing advice from a person who has no right to give writing advice. Feel free to ask me questions regarding any of my books, I would love to tell folks where the inspiration for some characters and scenes have come from. I also plan to post free reads here of my smaller indie works.
Here is a freebie. Originally appearing as bonus material at the end of my dark romantic comedy She Hates Me: Now and Then. Tell me what you think, and please forgive the typos since it was written so long ago.
Ten long years
Just an hour past dusk, along the shore of a South American beach, a man and a woman are running. Their feet sink into the wet sand as the gentle tide laps at their ankles. Their footprints fill with pools of moonlight in their wake.
The pair doesn’t run hand in hand, or arm in arm. They aren’t even running side by side. The woman is in the lead. Her luxurious black hair bounces with every stride. Her thick curls are tossed outward as she turns her head to peek at her pursuer.
The man is still back there, but looking rather tired. They have been at this for a very long time. The cold, salty air numbs his lungs as he brings up the rear. She has always been faster than him.
The woman’s white dress billows in the breeze like a specter as she gains ground. It doesn’t matter that he is losing her. He can see they are nearing the finish. This is a fact unbeknownst to her. Their race may finally be at an end.
The exotic beauty disappears into the Earth with a startled shriek. Her screams of agony overshadow the sound of the trap’s lynch pin, the sharp snap of steel.
The man slows his pace, panting. He knows from the anguished cries that he can take his time since he had planned ahead. He has dreamt of this moment for so long a few more minutes won’t matter.
The woman looks up at him. Her dark, haunting eyes glare daggers through intense pain. He had intended for them to arrive here from the other direction as he corralled her into his snare. Her legs are held firmly by the bloody grin of a bear trap that was meant to remove her head.
Any hunter worth his salt has contingencies in place, this man is no exception. He kicks deeply into the sand around the pit searching for his marker, and the weapon buried beneath.
The woman struggles fruitlessly against her restraint. Her thin arms cannot open the metallic jaws, the man had gone to the trouble of rigging a device to lock them closed. She can feel the broken ends of her bones scrape against the sleek steel. She lies back onto the sand and awaits the inevitable.
The man’s hands shake as he seats a bolt into the groove of his crossbow. It takes him three attempts to draw back its powerful string. This ambush had been set just five hours ago as the sunbathing tourist departed the beach for the day. He can’t believe it’s almost over. Ten long years of running, so close to an end.
The man and the raven-haired woman have been locked in a game of cat and mouse all this time, he hasn’t always played the role of cat. The positions changed as frequently as a child’s game of tag.
He takes a breath to calm himself and to slow his heart. The weapon is aimed directly at the woman’s chest. Its wooden projectile is one of the few known things that can kill her kind. He should feel exhilarated to be through with her, but all he feels is his exhaustion.
“Ten years.” He says aloud mainly for his own benefit. “And, for what? I’m a decade older and you haven’t aged a day. Through our endless feud I have laid countless of your kind to rest as you have slaughtered countless of mine. All the while we remained obsessed with one another.”
“Because, you robbed me of my husband,” she growls.
“Because, you killed my wife on our wedding day,” he retorts. “It took me until now to realize: Our score had been settled long ago. I don’t know about you, but I can sure use a drink.”
He shoots the device he had welded to the bear trap that very morning. “You are more than welcome to join me.”
The man takes a few steps into the ocean and hurls his silent weapon into the black water. He doesn’t wait for her to accompany him. He just slowly plods through the sand towards town and the nearest cantina he can find. His head is bowed and his arms swing like lazy pendulums.
In the pit, the woman’s slender arms display incredible strength as they pry opens the trap. She gently removes her mangled legs, hissing through clenched teeth. She sits in the hole as the fragments of bone locate one another, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. The spaces between the shards re-calcify, accomplishing months of healing in mere
minutes.
The man continues his trek towards the promise of tequila, not knowing why he couldn’t pull the trigger. He hears her leap from her unused grave and doesn’t look back. He doesn’t quicken his pace, or so much as tense a muscle. He welcomes any outcome at this point. He’s done running.
Heads turn as the black haired woman enters the tavern that the man had staggered into moments earlier. She passes the bar like a lioness on the prowl. All of the men watch her swaying hips as she heads straight to the table that a scruffy gringo occupies. The women instantly hate her for the attention she draws from the males.
The hunter watches her approach over his shot glass. Her lithe body moves like something out of a dream. He recalls the first night he had seen this creature in Vegas.
She had moved with a similar grace as she rampaged through the casino, tearing the throats out of anybody that stood in her way. She slashed and gnashed in a feral frenzy, working her way to him. He stood there in dumb awe as she put her fist through the feather-laden head of a showgirl. It was a veritable ballet of blood and chaos that he was powerless at the time to stop.
That was then. Things are different now. The man has more experience. She may have him beat when it comes to strength and speed, but he is more cunning, and is always well prepared.
None of that seems to matter now. She exhibits no violent tendencies. She disregards the humans around her as her eyes stay locked on those of the hunter. He feels like the prey at that moment.
She sits across from him without a word. He slides her a glass and pours the shot. She shows no sign of wear from the night’s chase.
“I hope tequila is all right,” he speaks first. “They don’t carry your usual.”
“It looks to me they have plenty,” she purrs, indicating the other patrons. Her Czech accent gives him the chills. He had forgotten how melodic her deep, smoky voice is. It’s no wonder to him how she can so easily lead men to their doom. She is the very embodiment of sexuality.
The man raises his glass with a sigh. “To peace.”
“Peace?” she asks.
“I propose a truce. I will no longer come after you. You will no longer come after me.”
“How do I know you won’t just wait until I have dropped my guard?”
“You don’t.” He answers. “Just as I don’t know you won’t do the same.”
She ponders the thought for a second and raises her glass. “I accept.”
“After tonight, we’ll never have to see one another ever again. We will just go our separate ways.”
“Killing each other's kind.” She adds.
“But, of course. You stay out of America…”
“And, you stay out of the rest of the world.”
Their glasses are refilled so they can close the arrangement with a toast.
“That starts tomorrow,” he tells her with a mild slur. “Tonight, we act as normal people.”
“Normal people doing what?” Her brow crinkles. She hasn’t been a normal person in so long she doesn’t know how.
“Hanging out. We can just be age-old friends, out on the town. Or, we can be like two people on a blind date.”
She remains silent and just nods.
“You’re going to miss me.” He says pointing a wavering finger at her.
“As the fisherman misses the one that gets away.”
“It’s better than nothing.” He laughs.
“Perhaps, since we are going our separate ways, we can spend this last night as lovers.”
He stares at her blankly for a moment stunned. For the past ten years he hasn’t thought of any woman other than the monster that sits across from him, let alone bedded one. He thinks about it. The worst that can happen is that she can kill him. He would die in her arms. He has been living 50/50 odds of dying that very way anyhow.
“Sure. Why not?”
His room at the hotel is paid up for the rest of the week. He hangs a do not disturb sigh on the knob as he invites the beast in. He shuts the door and turns to find she has already shed her white dress. He body is a masterpiece. The man stands in awe as his eyes worship her.
Before the man can blink she tosses him onto the old mattress. She is on him before his second bounce. Her fingers become talons that rip his clothes to ribbons leaving the flesh below unscathed. The eastern European goddess starts to move rhythmically on top of him.
The man is torn between the exquisite pleasure, and the anticipation of betrayal. He expects her to strike him at any moment, or just snap his neck like a mantis. Ultimately he gives in to her cold flesh, allowing himself to enjoy it.
She raises the man up to her and meets him halfway so she can kiss his neck. He has dropped his guard completely. The delicate fluttering of her lips becomes a searing flash of pain. Her teeth have suck deep into his throat.
The man winces, but only holds on tighter. It is the woman who fights to get away. She falls to the floor, crawling into the corner of the room. Her naked body is coated with his blood. Smoke wafts from her mouth as his donation scalds her throat like acid.
“I start every morning with my coffee, toast, and a tall glass of fresh squeezed holy water.” The right side of his body is plastered with blood like a matador’s cape.
“Join us.” She rasps through corroded vocal chords. “Join me forever.”
“And, be a monster?” he scoffs.
“And, be free.” She says. Her voice is already returning to its sultry self.
“And, be evil.”
“And, be accepted, wanted… Loved.”
“We’ve been at this for so long. At each other’s throats. Now, you want me to let you into my heart.”
“Yes.” She opens a gash in her hand and lets the blood pool in her palm like a challis. She knows he wants it. “What is there for you in a world without me?”
He doesn’t have an answer for her as he watches her advance to him on her knees, still holding the cupped grail of blood. He takes her dead hand in both of his and drinks. He savors every last drop she has to offer.
They embrace falling back onto the bed. She holds him, stroking his hair as he dies. She watches his still, peaceful body. She is waiting for his eyes to open once again, when he will be like her. He awakes and they kiss until morning. Heavy curtains hold the rising sun back.
There has never been true hatred between them. They need one another. They need one another to keep going, to keep running. They are one another’s reason for living. Can that be love? Neither has felt the emotion in so long they can’t tell.
The hunter had felt love escape him when his new bride was taken away. The woman had lost it when she had lost her husband. They have each other now and no longer have to run.
A good hunter is always prepared. The man reaches behind the headboard and pulls a rope. The curtains fall to the floor letting in the midday sun. The lovers don’t release their embrace as the light turns them to ash. They caress each other’s flesh as it flakes away until they are nothing.
The chase had begun years ago when the man’s new bride had disappeared and came back to him changed. It had begun when the woman’s husband could not accept her for what she was, after seeing what she did in the casino. Their honeymoon has finally been consummated, after ten long years.
Check out some of my other works! the Gifted, Life Among the Dead, Fortune Cookie, and Anthills,
Here is a freebie. Originally appearing as bonus material at the end of my dark romantic comedy She Hates Me: Now and Then. Tell me what you think, and please forgive the typos since it was written so long ago.
Ten long years
Just an hour past dusk, along the shore of a South American beach, a man and a woman are running. Their feet sink into the wet sand as the gentle tide laps at their ankles. Their footprints fill with pools of moonlight in their wake.
The pair doesn’t run hand in hand, or arm in arm. They aren’t even running side by side. The woman is in the lead. Her luxurious black hair bounces with every stride. Her thick curls are tossed outward as she turns her head to peek at her pursuer.
The man is still back there, but looking rather tired. They have been at this for a very long time. The cold, salty air numbs his lungs as he brings up the rear. She has always been faster than him.
The woman’s white dress billows in the breeze like a specter as she gains ground. It doesn’t matter that he is losing her. He can see they are nearing the finish. This is a fact unbeknownst to her. Their race may finally be at an end.
The exotic beauty disappears into the Earth with a startled shriek. Her screams of agony overshadow the sound of the trap’s lynch pin, the sharp snap of steel.
The man slows his pace, panting. He knows from the anguished cries that he can take his time since he had planned ahead. He has dreamt of this moment for so long a few more minutes won’t matter.
The woman looks up at him. Her dark, haunting eyes glare daggers through intense pain. He had intended for them to arrive here from the other direction as he corralled her into his snare. Her legs are held firmly by the bloody grin of a bear trap that was meant to remove her head.
Any hunter worth his salt has contingencies in place, this man is no exception. He kicks deeply into the sand around the pit searching for his marker, and the weapon buried beneath.
The woman struggles fruitlessly against her restraint. Her thin arms cannot open the metallic jaws, the man had gone to the trouble of rigging a device to lock them closed. She can feel the broken ends of her bones scrape against the sleek steel. She lies back onto the sand and awaits the inevitable.
The man’s hands shake as he seats a bolt into the groove of his crossbow. It takes him three attempts to draw back its powerful string. This ambush had been set just five hours ago as the sunbathing tourist departed the beach for the day. He can’t believe it’s almost over. Ten long years of running, so close to an end.
The man and the raven-haired woman have been locked in a game of cat and mouse all this time, he hasn’t always played the role of cat. The positions changed as frequently as a child’s game of tag.
He takes a breath to calm himself and to slow his heart. The weapon is aimed directly at the woman’s chest. Its wooden projectile is one of the few known things that can kill her kind. He should feel exhilarated to be through with her, but all he feels is his exhaustion.
“Ten years.” He says aloud mainly for his own benefit. “And, for what? I’m a decade older and you haven’t aged a day. Through our endless feud I have laid countless of your kind to rest as you have slaughtered countless of mine. All the while we remained obsessed with one another.”
“Because, you robbed me of my husband,” she growls.
“Because, you killed my wife on our wedding day,” he retorts. “It took me until now to realize: Our score had been settled long ago. I don’t know about you, but I can sure use a drink.”
He shoots the device he had welded to the bear trap that very morning. “You are more than welcome to join me.”
The man takes a few steps into the ocean and hurls his silent weapon into the black water. He doesn’t wait for her to accompany him. He just slowly plods through the sand towards town and the nearest cantina he can find. His head is bowed and his arms swing like lazy pendulums.
In the pit, the woman’s slender arms display incredible strength as they pry opens the trap. She gently removes her mangled legs, hissing through clenched teeth. She sits in the hole as the fragments of bone locate one another, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. The spaces between the shards re-calcify, accomplishing months of healing in mere
minutes.
The man continues his trek towards the promise of tequila, not knowing why he couldn’t pull the trigger. He hears her leap from her unused grave and doesn’t look back. He doesn’t quicken his pace, or so much as tense a muscle. He welcomes any outcome at this point. He’s done running.
Heads turn as the black haired woman enters the tavern that the man had staggered into moments earlier. She passes the bar like a lioness on the prowl. All of the men watch her swaying hips as she heads straight to the table that a scruffy gringo occupies. The women instantly hate her for the attention she draws from the males.
The hunter watches her approach over his shot glass. Her lithe body moves like something out of a dream. He recalls the first night he had seen this creature in Vegas.
She had moved with a similar grace as she rampaged through the casino, tearing the throats out of anybody that stood in her way. She slashed and gnashed in a feral frenzy, working her way to him. He stood there in dumb awe as she put her fist through the feather-laden head of a showgirl. It was a veritable ballet of blood and chaos that he was powerless at the time to stop.
That was then. Things are different now. The man has more experience. She may have him beat when it comes to strength and speed, but he is more cunning, and is always well prepared.
None of that seems to matter now. She exhibits no violent tendencies. She disregards the humans around her as her eyes stay locked on those of the hunter. He feels like the prey at that moment.
She sits across from him without a word. He slides her a glass and pours the shot. She shows no sign of wear from the night’s chase.
“I hope tequila is all right,” he speaks first. “They don’t carry your usual.”
“It looks to me they have plenty,” she purrs, indicating the other patrons. Her Czech accent gives him the chills. He had forgotten how melodic her deep, smoky voice is. It’s no wonder to him how she can so easily lead men to their doom. She is the very embodiment of sexuality.
The man raises his glass with a sigh. “To peace.”
“Peace?” she asks.
“I propose a truce. I will no longer come after you. You will no longer come after me.”
“How do I know you won’t just wait until I have dropped my guard?”
“You don’t.” He answers. “Just as I don’t know you won’t do the same.”
She ponders the thought for a second and raises her glass. “I accept.”
“After tonight, we’ll never have to see one another ever again. We will just go our separate ways.”
“Killing each other's kind.” She adds.
“But, of course. You stay out of America…”
“And, you stay out of the rest of the world.”
Their glasses are refilled so they can close the arrangement with a toast.
“That starts tomorrow,” he tells her with a mild slur. “Tonight, we act as normal people.”
“Normal people doing what?” Her brow crinkles. She hasn’t been a normal person in so long she doesn’t know how.
“Hanging out. We can just be age-old friends, out on the town. Or, we can be like two people on a blind date.”
She remains silent and just nods.
“You’re going to miss me.” He says pointing a wavering finger at her.
“As the fisherman misses the one that gets away.”
“It’s better than nothing.” He laughs.
“Perhaps, since we are going our separate ways, we can spend this last night as lovers.”
He stares at her blankly for a moment stunned. For the past ten years he hasn’t thought of any woman other than the monster that sits across from him, let alone bedded one. He thinks about it. The worst that can happen is that she can kill him. He would die in her arms. He has been living 50/50 odds of dying that very way anyhow.
“Sure. Why not?”
His room at the hotel is paid up for the rest of the week. He hangs a do not disturb sigh on the knob as he invites the beast in. He shuts the door and turns to find she has already shed her white dress. He body is a masterpiece. The man stands in awe as his eyes worship her.
Before the man can blink she tosses him onto the old mattress. She is on him before his second bounce. Her fingers become talons that rip his clothes to ribbons leaving the flesh below unscathed. The eastern European goddess starts to move rhythmically on top of him.
The man is torn between the exquisite pleasure, and the anticipation of betrayal. He expects her to strike him at any moment, or just snap his neck like a mantis. Ultimately he gives in to her cold flesh, allowing himself to enjoy it.
She raises the man up to her and meets him halfway so she can kiss his neck. He has dropped his guard completely. The delicate fluttering of her lips becomes a searing flash of pain. Her teeth have suck deep into his throat.
The man winces, but only holds on tighter. It is the woman who fights to get away. She falls to the floor, crawling into the corner of the room. Her naked body is coated with his blood. Smoke wafts from her mouth as his donation scalds her throat like acid.
“I start every morning with my coffee, toast, and a tall glass of fresh squeezed holy water.” The right side of his body is plastered with blood like a matador’s cape.
“Join us.” She rasps through corroded vocal chords. “Join me forever.”
“And, be a monster?” he scoffs.
“And, be free.” She says. Her voice is already returning to its sultry self.
“And, be evil.”
“And, be accepted, wanted… Loved.”
“We’ve been at this for so long. At each other’s throats. Now, you want me to let you into my heart.”
“Yes.” She opens a gash in her hand and lets the blood pool in her palm like a challis. She knows he wants it. “What is there for you in a world without me?”
He doesn’t have an answer for her as he watches her advance to him on her knees, still holding the cupped grail of blood. He takes her dead hand in both of his and drinks. He savors every last drop she has to offer.
They embrace falling back onto the bed. She holds him, stroking his hair as he dies. She watches his still, peaceful body. She is waiting for his eyes to open once again, when he will be like her. He awakes and they kiss until morning. Heavy curtains hold the rising sun back.
There has never been true hatred between them. They need one another. They need one another to keep going, to keep running. They are one another’s reason for living. Can that be love? Neither has felt the emotion in so long they can’t tell.
The hunter had felt love escape him when his new bride was taken away. The woman had lost it when she had lost her husband. They have each other now and no longer have to run.
A good hunter is always prepared. The man reaches behind the headboard and pulls a rope. The curtains fall to the floor letting in the midday sun. The lovers don’t release their embrace as the light turns them to ash. They caress each other’s flesh as it flakes away until they are nothing.
The chase had begun years ago when the man’s new bride had disappeared and came back to him changed. It had begun when the woman’s husband could not accept her for what she was, after seeing what she did in the casino. Their honeymoon has finally been consummated, after ten long years.
Check out some of my other works! the Gifted, Life Among the Dead, Fortune Cookie, and Anthills,
