Sharon Joss's Blog, page 15

On Rejection

Sharon Joss Writes

Six months ago (man, seems like yesterday!), I got my first personal rejection (from an editor who didn’t know me). Since then, I’ve begun receiving personal rejections regularly, including several recently which encouraged me to continue to submit other material in the future.

I like to think of these warmer rejections as encouragement, and a confirmation that my writing is improving. Every one of the short stories I’ve got making the rounds right now has at least one encouraging rejection from a professional market behind it.  I also know that I’m getting better at submitting my work to editors / markets more receptive to my work.  My whole attitude about submissions and rejections has changed drastically in the last few months. I’m no longer bothered by how long it takes to hear back from an editor; I like to think I’m still in the ‘possible yes’ queue until the very last cut. Rejections (even form rejections, or personal rejections from first readers and assistants) don’t bother me any more. Really.

Rejections are a fact of life for writers. I’m working toward the point where I’ll start making sales more often than not. Until then, I like thinking I’m moving up; getting a better class of rejections.  I can see the yesses from here…

The post On Rejection appeared first on Sharon Joss Writes.

Fourth Friday Free Fiction – Flight Risk

Sharon Joss Writes

                                      FLIGHT RISK

 By Sharon Joss

 Cal settled his four-year-old into his car seat and clicked the safety harness in place.  He smoothed back the child’s soft black curls and kissed his forehead.  The boy smelled faintly of baby shampoo and peanut butter.  “I guess it’s too late now to get you a haircut.”

“Are we going to Ganymede now, Daddy?”  Aiden’s dark eyes sparkled with excitement.

He paused to watch Evelyn make a final safety check on Zack’s seat.  “What do you think, Mom?  Are we ready to go?”

She stared at him with a frightened intensity; the whites of her eyes stark against the warm caramel of her skin.  “What do you want from me?  You want me to say you were right?  Fine.  You’re right.  Can’t we just–.”

Zack cupped his little hand to her cheek.  “Don’t worry, Mama.  I’ll protect you from the bad men.”

She closed her eyes and kissed his tiny palm.  “Thank you sweetie.  You’re my good big boy.”  She took a deep breath, shut the door and crawled into the front passenger seat of their armored Urban Utility Vehicle.

Cal did the same.  He double-locked the doors, lowered the concussive shields, and flipped the ignition switch.  The silent hum and array of green lights on the display panel reassured him they were good to go.

“I’m scared.”

They’d been through all this before. “Trust me, honey, we’ll be fine.”

In 2214, when the terrorists stormed the White House and shut down the capital, he tried to talk her into leaving the country. She resisted; saying they were safe in California. She told him she was pregnant, and he agreed to wait.  A year later, the Drug Cartels claimed Texas and Arizona as their territory. He showed her advertisements for the new gated communities in Antarctica.  Again she refused; saying the boys were too young.  Against his better judgment, he agreed to wait.

“The airport is less than forty minutes away.  If we run into a mob, this baby is equipped to handle anything they can dish out.  Once we’re in, the National Guard controls the airport; it’s the safest place Los Angeles. I’ve already forwarded our passport documents, paperwork and all our medical histories, so we’ll sail right through customs.”

“What if we get pulled over?”  Tremors shook her slim frame.

She’d lost her entire extended family in the Culver City riots eighteen months ago; hadn’t left the protection of their fortified bunker since the funerals. He tried to remember the last time he’d heard her laugh. Or sing. Good heavens, she used to sing all the time.  This pinched and fragile creature bore little resemblance to the woman he married.

“I’ve got plenty of cash stashed in my money belt for bribes. Think about it, Evvie.  In six hours, we’ll be on board the shuttle; ready to start our new lives.  No more crime.  No more gangs.  No more violence, ever again.”

“On Ganymede,” the twins shouted in unison.

“You promised to wait until after their birthday.”

“I’m not having this argument with you.”  He’d been so certain the lure of homesteading on Ganymede would finally convince her to leave. The program offered colonists a new home, free healthcare, and enough subsidies to last a lifetime. Ganymede was safe.  “We’re on our own now. No one is going to help us.”

Last week’s announcement by the governor, the mayor, and the DA officially revoked Torrance’s city charter. The police would no longer cross disputed gang boundaries to enforce the law.

They’d both grown up surrounded by dire predictions of the downfall of democracy. Like the big earthquake which never came, the ‘Chicken Little’ prophecy never moved out of the boogey man category.  Neither of them believed this day would ever come.

For him, everything changed the day his parents were murdered in a home invasion robbery. At the trial, the killer’s lawyer successfully argued the ‘bad seed’ defense.  He claimed his client was predisposed to violence because a fall in childhood resulted to damage in his pre-frontal cortex.

Frustrated by the miscarriage of justice for his family, Cal researched everything he could find in the fields of criminal psychology and behavioral genetics; the study of the impact of environmental factors on human behavior.

Geneticists searched unsuccessfully for the ‘bad seed’ gene, only to come to the conclusion that criminal behaviors and the corresponding social decay could not be attributable to a single chromosome. Environmental elements also played a critical role. In particular, loud, unexpected noises such as the sounds of gunfire affected fetal development and resulted in physical abnormalities of the brain in the fear and impulse centers of the brain.  From experiments conducted over the past two centuries, researchers had been able to track a correlation between insensitivity to fear and a reduction in empathy in successive generations.

“What if we don’t like it there?”

He called in every favor he could think of to arrange their transport.  Yesterday, he gave her the ultimatum: emigrate to Ganymede with him or he would take the boys and go without her.

“This is not our home any longer, Evvie.  We can’t come back.  I swear upon my life and the lives of our children to keep you safe, but I cannot keep my promise here on Earth.  It’s time to go.  Are we partners on this or not?”

Tears filled her eyes. He yearned to reach for her, but they were about to risk their lives to reach safety on Ganymede.  Nothing; certainly not a few tears, would stop him from keeping his family safe.

She appeared to reach a decision.  She sat up straighter and nodded her expression firm.  “Let’s go.”

One last time, he released the security locks on his home. Overhead, the lift gate motors engaged, and the iron portcullis rose before them like the curtain in a theatre.  He slipped the power drive into gear and they barreled out of the garage and into the street.

* * *

A cacophony of sound assaulted them from all sides.  Scattered gunfire and the blare of competing public announcements, prayer services, and the amplified threats of gang banger trash talk blasted through loudspeakers placed at every corner.  Cal barely heard the noise anymore, but Evvie and the boys all clapped their hands over their ears. The air quality indicators glowed red on the dash; the sensors detected dangerously high levels of smoke and particulates in the environment.  The smell of wood smoke and burning petrochemicals filled the interior of the vehicle. He sealed the airlocks and switched on the air filtration system.

The few remaining stockades on their street offered a blind farewell salute as they drove past.  Gone were the trees and flower beds of the Torrance neighborhood of his youth; instead, windowless facades, barbed wire, and barricades kept both the curious and criminal at bay.  He scanned the streets relentlessly, alert for any movement.  The only sign of life was an old man seated on his graffiti-tagged porch; an assault rifle held across his knees.  The man gave the car a wary nod, but Cal didn’t slow.

The GPS hologram flared to life.  He’d plotted the best route to the airport last night, but the situation must’ve changed.  A red shadow overlay a six-block area of Sepulveda.

“Display alternate route Sepulveda.”

“What’s wrong?”

He glanced in the rear-view mirror as he turned onto Redondo Beach Boulevard. Both boys stared solemnly out the windows, alert to any movement.  Zack held two fingers of his right hand in his mouth, while Aiden sucked his thumb.

“I need you to stay calm, Evvie.  We’re going to have to take a little detour is all.”  He reprogrammed the route, but didn’t like the results.  No way would he drive through Compton; not even in broad daylight, not even in this armored tank.  He tried again.  “Display alternate.”

The second route looked better.  He selected the alternate and took the freeway exit heading north.  He accelerated into the sparse traffic, turned on the autopilot, and rested his hands on the dual sidearm triggers.  The feel of the textured metal grips beneath his fingers reassured him.

“Two o’clock, Daddy,” the boys shouted in unison.

Cal switched on the targeting system, but held his fire. Just ahead of them, an armored Mercedes panel van with a custom surfer paint job, much too expensive to belong to a citizen, slowed to match their rate of acceleration. The throb of the van’s stereo base penetrated even their sealed cocoon with an unsettling vibrato.

He moved the UUV over a lane and punched the power.  The boys hooted delightedly as the vehicle responded and leapt forward, and the thump of the base beat faded.

“Freeway exit approaching in thirty seconds.” The navigation system began to count down the time to their exit in five second intervals.

A blast of automatic gunfire slammed against the armored window of the passenger seat. His wife flinched, but made no sound.  Good girl. 

“It’s all right, everybody hang on.” The panel van was equipped with three gun ports on each side of the vehicle. No point in engaging such superior firepower at such high speed.

“Fifteen seconds.”

With a quick glance in his side mirrors, Cal sliced the car across two lanes of light traffic to position them for the off-ramp.

“Ten seconds.”

“Dad!” Aiden kicked the back of his seat.

“I see him, son.” He stood on the brakes, just as the front of the bus drew parallel with his window.  He got a good look at the kid in the driver’s seat; a mophead of blond dreads and ornamental scarring. Not even old enough to shave.

“Five seconds.”

The bus passed him as he turned off onto the exit, relieved, even as their departing gunfire missed them completely.  He shook his head in disgust.

Beside him, Evvie blew her nose into a tissue.

He forced himself to unclench.  “It’s just a bunch kids on their way to beach honey.  We’re almost there.  Look, we’ve got green roads the rest of the way.”

“Yeah, it was just a bunch of bullies, Mama.”

They roared up the 105 west and merged onto Sepulveda without incident.  At the Century exit ramp leading to LAX, he was forced to reduce speed and maneuver around a makeshift barricade.  Two men stepped out in front of the vehicle and began firing; directing their aim at the engine block. The car shook with the impact, but he drove right between them without stopping.

“Less than a mile to go, folks.  We’re almost there.”

They approached the road leading to the departures airfield. Evvie pointed to a rising column of black smoke. A moment later, the GPS status changed.  All the entrance and exit routes to the airport glowed brilliant red.

“Destination status red. LAX now closed to vehicle traffic.  Please advise new destination.”

Cal pulled the vehicle to the side of the road, and put the power drive in idle; instantly aware of how vulnerable and exposed they were.  He scanned the rooftops of the faded yellow buildings around them, looking for movement.  Their immediate area was surrounded by airport office buildings, secured apartments, and a few hotels, but they were sitting right on the edge of Mordoc gang territory.

“LAX status.” Evvie’s voice sounded surprisingly calm.

“Explosion in domestic arrivals lounge. Standard TSA investigation in progress. LAX in mandatory vehicle lockdown until 2100 hours.”

She shot him an accusing glare.  “Turn around. We’re going home.”

He stared at the hologram, his mind racing.  “We can’t go back. We agreed.”  He enlarged the detail view of the airport.  “We’re less than half a mile from the entrance to the airfield. He pointed at the road illuminated on the hologram in front of them. “If we follow this road, we can leave the car at the checkpoint and walk right in.”

She turned in her seat to face him, her expression grim.  “You’re mad. I told you something like this would happen.”

“Three o’clock, Dad!”

He spotted two lone figures casually strolling toward them from two blocks away.  Both shirtless, both heavily tattooed.  Both carrying automatic weapons.

A quiver of fear clenched his gut.  “I’m not going to argue with you. We’ll be fine.  I’ll get us as close as I can, and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

She grabbed his hand.  “We have to go back!”

“Evvie, I know you’re scared, but we are not going back.  I left the house unlocked and the garage wide open when we left.  There is no back, there is only forward.  Our new life, remember?”

He slipped the power drive back into gear.

The engine died. Immediately, he initiated the reboot sequence.

“Dad! Three o’clock, Dad!” Zack’s voice held a tremor of fear.

A third man had joined the other two.

Without a word, Evvie slipped into the back seat and began to unbuckle the boys’ safety harnesses. While he waited for the system to initialize, he caught a glimpse of Zack’s pale face.  His heart flubbed uncomfortably in his chest.

The system lights glowed green.  “Here we go. Nothing to worry about.”

He shifted the power drive into gear.  The system light flickered amber for a moment before all the lights in the cabin went out. The acid taste of bile crawled up the back of his throat.

Evelyn tapped him on the shoulder and pointed toward 0900. “Isn’t that the launch pad?”

He stared. In a gap between two buildings, separated by only a barricaded fence, he could see the entrance to the customs hall. “Hells bells, we’re practically there.”

He threw open the driver side doors and got out. In a single motion, he snatched Aiden from his car seat in one arm and grabbed Zack from his wife in the other.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve got the boys.  Let’s go.”

“What about the car?”

Through the passenger side windows, he noticed the men had picked up their speed.  The abandoned vehicle would distract them, he hoped. The thick smog stung his eyes.

“Forget about it.” He hunched protectively over the boys, who clung to him like a pair of monkeys, their eyes wide in fear. The car would only block the gang bangers view of them for a few precious seconds.  “Come on, Evvie, RUN!”

They ran.

Each of the boys weighed over thirty pounds, but they felt no heavier than feathers to him.  Evvie reached the barricade first, and immediately began to climb the wall of dusty truck tires.

She stopped six feet from the ground, just as he made it to the tires.  He practically threw Aiden up to her. She grabbed Aiden by the arm, and hauled him up behind her.  Aiden started to cry, but she didn’t stop.

A quick glance over his shoulder told him only one of the men had decided to pursue them, but he was coming up fast.  Zack never said a word; he just hung on like a tick.  Cal expected a bullet in the back with every passing second. The shots, when they came, were aimed at his hands and feet.

Each time a bullet thwacked into the rubber, he flinched.  Twice, the bullet hit within an inch of his hand, and he nearly lost his grip on the dusty, filthy mountain of ancient rubber.  Desperation fueled his agility and determination.

Like a cat to a mouse, the guy was playing with him.

The top of the barricade stretched another four feet above him when Evvie reached down for them.  Zack grabbed her hand and he pushed his son up to her.

The bullet caught him high on the thigh as he swung his leg over the top of the barricade; a grazing firebrand that left him hissing.  Had Evvie not grabbed him by the shirt, he would have fallen.

He waited for Evvie to descend the chain link; his eyes glued to the sniper. In his early twenties, the young man stared back at him with all the emotion of a cobra. The sly smile curling at the corner of his mouth did not reach his eyes.

A shiver raced down Cal’s spine.  He feels nothing.  No hate, no rage, no anger.  We are nothing to him.  Bitter tears blurred his vision.  What broke inside of you to make you like this?

He looked out across the dismal vista of burned-out buildings and urban decay encircling the airfield. Where we’re going, we’ll never have to experience any of this again.

They climbed down the other side of the barricade fence under the watchful eyes of four well-armed National Guardsmen.  Evvie and the boys’ presence persuaded them to hold their fire until he managed to reach the ground and give them the confirmation numbers for their seats on the shuttle flight.

Filthy and bloodied, Cal led his shell-shocked family into the crowded customs hall for their departure check-in.

* * *

They made it through the security screening, and sank gratefully into the orange plastic chairs for the four-hour wait for boarding.  After all the excitement, the boys were nearly comatose with fatigue.  He held a sleeping Zack against his shoulder, while Evelyn cradled Aiden in her lap.

He continually glanced over at his wife, amazed at the change in her demeanor.  In the matter of a few hours, she’d transformed from a helpless, needy woman into this magnificent lioness. A renewed strength and wary alertness shone in her face, reminding him of the girl he married.

When the TSA agent tapped him on the shoulder he jumped.

“Mr. Williams?  Calvin Williams?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry sir, there seems to be a problem with your insurance.”

Cal choked back a hoot of hysteria.  “Insurance? Are you serious?”

“Just a precaution sir.  I’ll you’ll come with me, I’m certain we can clear this up right away.”

Panic flooded through him.  He exchanged a helpless look with Evvie and shrugged.  “I’ll be right back.”

She took Zack from him and cradled the boys protectively on either side of her. “Whatever it is, Cal, I trust you. Just fix it.”

Her calmness gave him confidence.  “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

But it wasn’t a mistake.

The immigration project manager, Doug Fenton, and the actuarial analyst, Robert Heflin, both agents of Universal Equities Insurance wanted to show him the Positron Emission Tomography scans of both boys’ brains.  Fenton had the ruddy complexion and thick neck of an ex-jock, while Heflin had a pale, almost anemic appearance, which reminded Cal of the famous painting, The Scream, by Edvard Munch.

Fenton had the scans posted on a light box, side by side.  “These PET scans were taken a year ago, when the twins were three.  As you can see, the scans look different.”

The statement sounded like an accusation.  “Of course they are.  The boys are not identical twins.” Cal shook his head in confusion.

Fenton circled a small, almond-shaped area in the scans with a pen.  “This is an area known as the amygdala.  It is responsible for the emotional aspects of brain function.  And this here,” he indicated a different area of the scans. “Is the prefrontal cortex, which governs decision-making.”

“I am familiar with the terms. What’s your point?”

“These areas are a smaller in one boy than the other.”

Baffled by the imperiousness in Fenton’s tone, an uneasy feeling came over him; as if he’d somehow forgotten something important. Neither man would make eye contact with him.  Whatever it was, these two seemed to have control over his family’s fate.  “Zack has always been a little slower than Aiden.  The doc says that’s normal.”

Fenton placed two more scans on the light box.  “These are the results of the boys scans taken a month ago, which were included in your emigration package.  We received them this morning as part of your pre-boarding security check. The difference in those areas is now quite startling.”

Cal struggled to remain calm.  “Yes. They’re both bigger.”

“Yes, but how would you characterize that growth, Mr. Williams?” Heflin’s mouth seemed abnormally small for his large head, giving him a disquieting, alien appearance.

“I’m not a doctor, sir.” Cal gripped the arms of his chair until his fingers hurt. In the scans taken a year ago, there was a noticeable difference in size between the two.  In the most recent scan, the difference was much more pronounced.  In fact, the amygdala of one looked to have doubled in size over the other.  “I’m not qualified to characterize any of this.  Are you?”

“I’m an analyst.” With his military haircut, Heflin’s strawberry blonde hair appeared as thin and pale as to be transparent.  “A statistician.”

A cold numbness settled over him. “Let’s cut to the chase.  Are you saying one of my boys has brain cancer? Is that why you’re holding our tickets?  You’re worried about treatment on Ganymede?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.  I’m sorry, Mr. Williams. You misunderstand.” Fenton exchanged a glance with Heflin.  “Studies in 2010 on criminals and young children proved conclusively a 75% link between the size of certain elements in the brain and later criminal behavior.”

Cal sat bold upright. The image of the boy driving the panel van flashed in his head.  “You’re talking about the bad seed gene.”

“No single gene has yet been identified. But researchers are now able diagnose and predict future criminal behavior with better than 95% accuracy. Underdeveloped portions of the brain in the amygdala and prefrontal cortex are now recognized as the physical markers for the criminal mind. Short of the proverbial smoking gun,” Heflin tapped the PET scan.  “We know it when we see it.”

“Are you telling me that one of my boys will grow up to be a criminal?”

“We don’t make predictions, Mr. Williams. We use statistics, algorithms and actuarial tables to ascertain risk for our company our clients, and in this case for the future of Ganymede.  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your afflicted child will not be allowed to emigrate.”

Cal put his head in his hands and struggled to breathe. He stared at the scans in the light box.  It wasn’t that one of his beloved boys had an abnormal growth, but that the other had nearly none at all.

“They’re just babies!”  He remembered the sounds of automatic gunfire hitting the shields of their vehicle; the thwack of bullets as they slammed into the rubber near his hand.  He dug his fingers into his palms to distract himself from the agonizing pain of his breaking heart. Surely they were mistaken. “How can you possibly predict something like that?”

“The numbers don’t lie, Mr. Williams. We cannot risk the safety of our colonists by sending future criminals to Ganymede.  No one wants to worry about being murdered in their sleep.”

The memory of the sniper’s face swam before him. The idea that one of his children was even now, destined become one of them…

“We can’t go back.”  He ran his hand through his hair, as he wracked his brains for a solution.  “Isn’t there something we can do? Some sort of fee or penalty to pay?” His own voice sounded desperate to him. “I’ve got money. I can pay.”

Hinton frowned.  “This is not solicitation for a bribe.  The standby list for seats on this flight is quite considerable. You will be refunded the cost of the boy’s seat.”

“I am not leaving my son behind!”

“No one wants that,” Fenton put his hands out appeasingly. “We have a compromise solution.  You would have to sign an addendum to the colonization contract, agreeing to have the boy sterilized prior to reaching puberty. We have facilities on Ganymede which can perform the procedure as outpatient treatment.”

He rubbed his jaw. At least they’d be together.  They’d be safe.  Wasn’t that more important than anything?  Evvie would be furious, but they had no choice.  Eventually, she’d have to accept it.  He nodded, numbly.

“The boy will also be required to undergo a surgical procedure prior to boarding. We have board-certified medical professionals standing by. The procedure is painless to the patient, and can be performed in about fifteen minutes.   You would be able to leave as planned tonight.”

“What kind of procedure?”

“In simple terms, a laser is used to excise certain portions of the cerebral cortex.”

He began to shake. “You want to lobotomize my son?”

“Your terminology is archaic, Mr. Williams, although in the interest of full disclosure, some cognitive impairment is to be expected.”  Fenton sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest.  “I am told the brain is an extremely plastic organ.  Eventually it rewires the neural connections, and the patient can live a long and healthy life.  Isn’t that what we all want?”

* * *

Cal pulled the electric cart up to the front of their new home in the Aurora sector; a sunny yellow dome with white trim, a stone-walled garden, and of all things, a flowerbed filled with fragrant, blooming lavender.

“Here we are, gang.  Our new home!”

The boys hopped out of the cart, almost before they stopped. He glanced over at Evvie, suddenly uncertain about asking whether she liked it.  She’d changed so much since their final hours on Earth.

She sighed, but kept her eyes on the boys.  “His limp is getting better. He hardly drags his leg at all anymore.”

The boys twisted the doorknob. “Door’s locked, Dad!”

He dangled the shiny key in front of her.

She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time in a very long time. The moment stretched.  “Cal, I–.”

“Three o’clock, Dad!  Three o’clock!”

The moment died.  She took the key and stepped out of the cart. “Come on boys, let’s go pick out your bedrooms.”

“I want the biggest one!”

“Three o’clock, Dad! Three o’clock!” Cal closed his eyes.  The doctors told him he would eventually relearn how to string words and sentences together, but this constant reminder of what they’d done to him was almost more than he could bear.

“Can we get a puppy, Dad?  You said we could get a puppy!”

“Three o’clock Dad!  Three o’clock!”

 

 END

Copyright © 2014 by Sharon Joss

Cover and layout copyright © 2014 by Aja Publishing

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

The post Fourth Friday Free Fiction – Flight Risk appeared first on Sharon Joss Writes.

Counting the Days – Writing to a Schedule

Sharon Joss Writes

Hard to believe the year is already half over.

At the beginning of 2014, I committed myself to a production schedule for the first time. I made myself a 30-day, 60-day, and 360-day list of GOALS I felt I could control, and a short list of accomplishments I hoped to achieve by accomplishing those GOALS.  The highlights of that schedule included writing two short stories a month, completing two novels and at least the first draft of a third novel.  My desire in sticking to that sort of schedule would enable me to have a continuous stream of new short fiction out on submission out in the pro publication market.  Although I have only recently come to enjoy writing short fiction, one of the big advantages of the short form is that I don’t get bored.  It takes me two or three days to write a typical short story; the regular activities of dreaming up the topic, planning out the plot and characters, and then writing the story feels fresh and exciting; and when I’m done, I’ve got the fabulous new thing I’ve created out of nothing but the ideas in my head.  On the other hand, the challenge in a short story is that you have limited real estate (word count) in which to tell the tale, which can limit the kinds of stories I choose to write.

Now that I’m at the year’s midpoint, I thought I’d review my status against my goals and if necessary, make some adjustments:

2014 GOAL: Complete 2 Novels                       √ Aurum and Legacy Soul complete

2014 GOAL:  Write 2 short stories per month   √ 10 shorts and 1 Novelette complete

2014 GOAL: Complete 1st draft of 3rd novel          On track. Researching novel #3

2014 GOAL:  Write 375K words                           117K words written

Although the third novel is right on track, my word count has dropped a bit.  I did not anticipate how tired I would be after completing Legacy Soul (while writing the 16K word novelette at the same time), and the thriller outline I’d planned to turn into my next novel wasn’t exciting enough for me to want to spend the next 4 months eating and sleeping and dreaming about.  So I’m reading and researching the genre I do want to write in, and analyzing the work of some of a couple of my favorite authors to see what I can learn from their writing.  I have no doubt that I’ll be able to complete the first draft of whatever I decide to write by the end of the year.

But both my word count and my short story production are at risk of falling behind.  As the quality of my short stories has improved, so too has the time it takes to get rejections from editors.

I’m not complaining!  I’ve started getting some wonderful / encouraging rejection letters, saying my stories have been in the running right up until the very last moment.  As a result, instead of getting rejections in days or a matter of weeks, I’m waiting months and months for personal rejections from editors who tell me they wish they had room for this one and look forward to seeing it in print elsewhere.  I’m learning that (in many cases, especially pro anthologies),  the longer it takes to get your rejection, the better they liked my story.

The byproduct of that paradigm shift is that it’s taking much longer for my stories to get through the submission process. And the personal rejections often offer valuable insight that I can use to improve the story.  This month, for example, I rewrote the ending for a story I wrote back in January, and re-sequenced  the chapter order in another story.  This redrafting effort takes time away from my new short story development.  I do not believe I will be able to continue to write two new short stories every month; especially until I get the new novel outlined and started.  At this rate, I’m hoping to write at least another six short stories by the end of the year (instead of the 12 I’d originally planned).  Accordingly, I think I’ll be lucky to make 300K words this year, although my goal of 375K words is still reasonable and achievable).

So as I move into the second half of the year, I’m giving myself a little breathing room on the short story production front.  I’ve already written more shorts in the last six months than I have in the previous five years,  but even as I write this, I don’t like the idea of it.  I’m determined to make that quota.

Such is the power of the schedule.

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Feathersight and Inspiration

Sharon Joss Writes

One of my Beloved Sisters, who is a biologist, told me once that there are two kinds of people in this world: feather finders, and everyone else.

She says feather finders cannot help themselves—they find feathers wherever they go.

I don’t know if there is some kind of field biology folklore around the subject, but I, for one, do seem to have this feathersight. When I moved from Idaho to Oregon 18 months ago, I threw out a large collection of feathers I’d found while living in that rugged state. It was a pretty impressive assemblage that included wing and tail feathers from great horned owls, red-tail hawks, and even a raven. It just didn’t seem right to hang onto them.

And yet this morning, as Rowan and I were out on our morning stroll, an idea started pecking at me for my next story. Just an image, really; for one scene. I started to get excited; the edges of the idea are peeling, and I can see glimpses of a greater story beneath that image. Story ideas come to me that way (sometimes). One image comes to me and excites me; pulling me into a bigger world. I’ve come to recognize the trigger now. It pushes all my other story ideas into the background. I must tell this story next (whatever my previous intentions might have been).

Anyway, as soon as the scene came to me, I found a feather. A long and lovely crow feather. Its an omen, I think. Follow the feather.

When I went to add it to the (new) collection, I was a bit taken aback that the new collection had already grown to fill a small vase.

I moved the vase into my writing room.

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SQUEEE HTTYD2

Sharon Joss Writes

 Everything good you’ve heard about How To TrainYour Dragon 2 is true.  The visual effects are stunning, the sound and animation are off the charts,  but mostly, it’s even better than the first one. A lot better.

I had very high expectations, because I loved the first one so much (almost as much as Despicable Me), but this one had tears rolling down my face through most of the last third of the movie.  No spoilers here, but I love Toothless. I love Hiccup. I hope this film becomes the monster hit it deserves to be.

Go. See it. Today

 

 

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And So It Begins…

Sharon Joss Writes

Time to start a new novel.

Every new novel feels like the beginning of a whole new life, and in some ways, it is. I’ve got new people to discover, new adventures to plot, new risks to take. And while it feels very good indeed to have completed my 4th(!) novel, I’m not one to sit back and take time away from writing. Basically, I can’t not write.

This will be my first ‘new’ novel start in over a year (I finished the first draft of Aurum in June 2013). I like to think that I’ve learned a lot since then. I finished the soon-to-be-released, Legacy Soul and wrote a dozen short stories since that time, two of which have sold to pro markets.

This one will be a new genre for me: a thriller. No speculative elements at all. I developed several thriller plot outlines at a recent workshop, but I haven’t decided which of those I’ll use (or if I’ll come up with something new). I learned a lot of techniques on how to deal with multi-threaded plot lines and pacing–I can’t wait to try them.

So over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be fleshing out an outline, developing backgrounds and goals for the main character(s), making lists of technical details I need to clarify with experts, and charting out the scenes and pacing. I expect to start writing the first scenes before the end of the month. Brothers of the Fang took nine months from the first idea to the completion of the first draft; Aurum took seven. I’ve said it before: I’m not a fast writer, but I am consistent. I expect to complete the first draft of this novel (and again, I don’t yet know much more than the genre yet) by the end of October. At the same time, I’ll continue to try to write two short stories a month, as per my goal for the year.

And so it begins.

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Cover Reveal: Legacy Soul

Sharon Joss Writes

Some days I never thought it would happen, but today is not one of those days. The second volume of the Hand of Fate series, LEGACY SOUL will be released this month (squee!) and here’s a sneak peek at the cover.

Mattie Blackman is the last living descendent of the Goddess Morta.  As the new Hand of Fate, she soon discovers her powers over the undead can’t help solve her problems with the living.   But when Lance and Mimsy disappear, Mattie  faces an enemy more dangerous than death itself–one who wants nothing less than her immortal soul.

 

Destiny Blues (2013)

 

 

DESTINY BLUES

“…amusingly off-beat…fun…romp.”

– Locus

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Final Friday Free Fiction: Marriage is a Four-Letter Word

Sharon Joss Writes

MARRIAGE IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD

Seated amid the warm candlelight and gleaming crystal of their favorite restaurant, Naomi Ramirez basked in in the quiet adoration of Derrick’s attention. He had truly outdone himself this evening. From the moment he arrived in the Ferrari (the black one), to the best table at Escargot (which required reservations four weeks in advance) to the Dom Perignon sparkling in her champagne glass, every moment of their dining experience had been a delight.

She gazed into her fiancé’s azure blue eyes and smiled her promise of the coming entertainment for the evening. She stroked her neck and cocked her eyebrow suggestively. With less than a week to go before the wedding, tonight would be their last night together before the honeymoon.

She took one last bite of her soufflé (which had to be ordered an hour ahead), and savored the rich flavor of bittersweet chocolate as the rich dessert rolled across her tongue. Derrick knew what she liked, and paid attention to those little extra details that surprised her and made her happy. Sometimes, she felt as if she had to pinch herself to make sure he wasn’t just a dream. You’re a lucky girl, her mother told her. Don’t let this one get away.

In the beginning, she’d thought he was too old for her. The twelve-year age difference wasn’t the problem; he’d been married twice before and that ancient history seemed to intrude at the worst times. But he’d charmed her, wooed her family, and somehow wormed himself into her heart in a way that made it impossible for her to imagine her life without him.

In anticipation of this evening’s antics, she’d spent the morning being waxed and plucked and exfoliated within an inch of her life. Beneath her creamy white sleeveless sundress (which showed off her warm skin to its best advantage), she was braless, and except for a heady spritz of Eau de Sin and the teensiest zebra-patterned thong, totally naked.

Hidden by the cover of the white damask linen tablecloth, she reached out with her bare foot beneath the table. He loved it when she revved him up in public, as long as she wasn’t obvious about it.

His reaction surprised her.

He frowned; his mouth a tight line. “We need to talk.”

She pulled a few strands of her long dark hair across her mouth. “Is that really what you need?”

He shook his head dismissively, and pushed her questing toes away. “This is serious, Naomi. My parents want to stop the wedding.”

Naomi stiffened. Oh God, here it comes. Of course Derrick’s parents didn’t approve of her. They thought she was just some gold-digging Latina trying to trap herself a rich husband. Her mathematics degree and job at Cal Tech meant nothing to them.

Her friends had been right, after all. They warned her he might bring up the pre-nup, but now that the wedding was so close, she thought he’d decided not to ask her for one. Everyone told her she’d have to sign it, but she wasn’t about to do any such thing; not even if it meant walking away from the man of her dreams.

“We love each other, honey. We aren’t teenagers; and since when do you allow them to tell you who you can marry?” The last thing she wanted was to miss out on the church wedding and reception (which Derrick had agreed to pay for and made her mother and grandmother ecstatic), but she wouldn’t let his parents drive a wedge between them. “If they’re going to make a big stink about it, let’s just elope.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid they can. They’ve threatened to cut me off. They’ll fire me and blacklist me out of the business.”

Derrick’s aging parents were big-time Hollywood producers.

“You can walk away; start over somewhere else. Your name will get you a job anywhere in Hollywood. People will be all over you.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “A little independence could be the best thing for you.” She reached across the table for his hand. “I believe in you. They can’t stop us. Together, we can do anything.”

He pulled the folded papers out of the inner pocket of his tan silk jacket and laid them on the table.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“I’m afraid it’s a deal-breaker, babe.”

Tears welled in her eyes. Silhouetted by the candles behind him, he looked like an angel. Her hero. How could he even think of hurting her like this? “You said you trusted me with your life. How can we say our vows with something like this standing between us?”

He shrugged. “I’m a two-time loser at love, babe. Both my exes lied and cheated on me from day one. When it came right down to it, they married me for my money. My family’s money. You gotta understand; without the pre-nups, I’d be living in a cardboard box on Skid Row right now.”

Her lips trembled. “We both know I am nothing like those women. You and I have no secrets, Derrick. You are the only man I have ever truly loved. I will never lie to you.” He thinks he is better than me. “You are putting a piece of paper between our trust; before our love.”

He wouldn’t look at her.

She noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands. This was hurting him too. Huh. Neither of them wanted to walk away, but unless one of them could come up with a compromise, she would be forced to do just that. If only she could make him see that she was different…

The silence between them stretched.

An idea, wild and desperate, came to her. “What if I could prove to you that I would never lie or cheat on you?”

He kissed her hand tenderly. “Everybody lies, darling.”

“Not parolees.”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

She leaned forward, her excitement growing. “My cousin Romeo is a Parole Officer for L. A. County. All felony parolees now receive implants as a condition of their release.” She grabbed his rough hands between hers.

“They’re embedded just below the skin at pulse points; smaller than a grain of rice, and there’s a display implanted beneath the thin skin on their neck. Every time they make a false statement, the implants work like a lie detector, measuring unconscious changes in blood pressure and adrenalin. If the parolee makes a false statement, the display at his neck illuminates, so anyone close enough to see it can tell they’re lying. They cannot lie. Ever.”

He made a face. “I wouldn’t want my wife to be a walking billboard.”

“No, silly. The display can be inserted almost anywhere; it doesn’t need to be obvious. It could be hidden beneath clothing or covered by a watch.”

A slow grin spread across her lover’s face. “You would do that for me?”

She shared his relief. “I would. Would you do the same for me?”

“In a skinny minute.” He tucked the paperwork back into his jacket pocket. “Maria Naomi Consuela Rodriguez, would you do me the honor of marrying me next Saturday at three o’clock in the afternoon at Our Lady of Angels Cathedral in front of all our families and friends?”

She heaved a sigh of relief and the tears came, but she made no move to stop them. “Yes, my love. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.” Oh my God, yes.

“You’ve made me the happiest man on the planet.”

“What about your parents?”

“They’ll get over it. From now on, it’s just you and me. Come on; let’s get out of here. This is our last night together until we’re man and wife. Let’s make it memorable.”

* * *

The problems began on their honeymoon.

Not from the implants, of course. Romeo had been right; the insertion procedure had been completely painless. The implants were injected just beneath the skin with a hollow needle, without even a scar to mark them. And as far as the display strip, they were able to customize the size and style of font. She and Derrick both opted for a small, discreet, twelve-point font size at their wrists, which remained hidden beneath Derrick’s watchband. Naomi opted for a diamond-encrusted platinum tennis bracelet, which complimented her wedding band.

And just as Romeo demonstrated, every time one of them lied, a four-letter word appeared on the surface of the skin of their inner wrists. It lasted for ten seconds, and looked like a tattoo:

LIAR

“Did you come?”

“Of course, darling, it was wonderful.”

LIAR

“It doesn’t matter.”

LIAR

“Don’t worry about it, it happens sometimes.”

LIAR

“I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I don’t expect fireworks every time.”

LIAR

After a few weeks, he stopped talking to her, except for the questions. He never looked at her face anymore, and wouldn’t let her wear her bracelet at home. She only agreed after he agreed to remove his watch.

He stopped touching her. The more she tried to initiate their lovemaking, the more he brushed her off. When she pushed him to tell her why, he told her he had a lot on his mind.

LIAR

“We have to talk about this, Derrick. I’m your wife, remember? You can tell me anything.”

“I don’t have time for this right now. We can talk later.”

LIAR

He jerked his hand away from her and was gone, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Even without the implant, she knew he was lying when he called to tell her he’d be working late. She waited up for him, but fell asleep before he came home. At the breakfast table in their sunny white kitchen the next morning, she bared her wrist to him and told him the truth.

“These implants are ruining our lives. We barely speak any more. You never look at me anymore. Good heavens, Derrick, we haven’t made love in a month! At this rate, we’ll never make it to our first anniversary.”

He stared at her wrist, as if willing the word to appear. “If you can’t be honest with me, how can I trust you? If I can’t satisfy you in bed, how long do think it’ll be before you start looking around for someone else?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You never needed a lie detector to know how I felt before we were married. Why must you constantly ask me how I feel now? It’s like every time you touch me, I feel like a criminal. If I tell you the truth, you make a big deal out if it, when it isn’t. If I try to avoid hurting you, I’m a big fat liar. Oh, how I hate that word! If you don’t like the answers I give you, then stop asking the questions!”

“That’s the thing, babe. I can’t stop.”

“Fine. Then let’s take them out. This was a terrible idea.”

He glared at her. “No way.” He drained the last of the coffee from his cup and headed toward the front door. “Don’t wait up for me.”

He slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Derrick stayed away for two days.

The first day, Naomi called in sick. She roamed the condo restlessly, drinking cup after cup of that special Ethiopian coffee he was so fond of, wearing one of Derrick’s old tee shirts. She thought he might come home after he knew she’d left for work, but he didn’t. She wished she’d never bought up the idea. Their marriage had become a nightmare.

The second day, she called her cousin Romeo.

* * *

That night, Derrick came home early, bearing a dozen yellow roses (her favorites).

“I’m sorry babe; I’ve been an ass about this. You’re right. This is my problem. I want you to know I’ve started seeing a therapist to help me work through my trust issues.”

She took the flowers and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “Oh darling, I could never stay mad at you. Come with me into the kitchen, where the light is better. I want to show you something.”

She could sense his bewilderment, but he followed her. She laid the roses on the slate-topped center island and held her wrist out to him.

“Ask me if I love you.”

He pushed her hand away. “No, no. Dr. Stevens told me I have performance anxiety. I’m not supposed to ask those questions anymore. I’m trying babe, really I am.”

Her heart swelled with emotion. What a good man he is. I don’t deserve him. She shoved her wrist at him. “No, please, Derrick. Just this once. Ask me.”

Reluctantly, he held her wrist, but kept his eyes on her face. “Do you love me?”

“Yes! With all my heart, yes!”

TRUE

He glanced at her wrist and his eyes widened. “Hey! What did you do?”

She blushed proudly and wrapped her arms around him. “I asked Romeo to reprogram the protocol to detect the truth. I don’t know why we didn’t think of this in the first place! In a marriage built on honesty and trust, we should never go looking for the negative.”

She noticed he wasn’t wearing the watch she’d given him as a wedding gift. “Hey, what happened to your watch?”

He froze, for just a second. “Ah, gee. I must have forgotten it at the therapist’s office.” He pulled away from her, but not before she saw the blue image appear at his wrist.

LIAR

Her stomach tightened. “Did you throw it away? I mean, I can understand how frustrated you’ve been lately, but look darling, we can fix all that. You don’t need to keep seeing that therapist.”

He rubbed his jaw. “No, I, I didn’t threw it away. I took it off, and forgot to put it back on, that’s all.”

“Why would you take off your watch for a therapist visit?” Her gut clenched. What kind of therapist…? She grabbed his wrist and chose her words carefully.

“Did you have sex with this so-called therapist?”

“Hell no! Look babe–.”

LIAR

THE END

Copyright 2014 by Sharon Joss

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City in Bloom

Sharon Joss Writes

Portland is known by many names (Rip City, Stumptown, and Beervana, to name a few), but since the term was first used in 1888, it’s been known as the City of Roses, and it’s been the city’s official nickname since 2003. The first Portland Rose Festival was held in 1907, and it’s the second largest all-floral parade in the US (after Pasadena’s Tournament of Roses parade). The cool thing about living in Portland (or thereabouts) is that when the roses bloom, it’s like the whole city wakes up.

This week the roses started blooming in my neighborhood, as well as all over the city. On my walk this morning, it seemed as if every garden had roses in bloom. Last year I made my first trip out to the International Rose Test Gardens, and spent a blissful afternoon strolling through the most beautiful and scenic gardens I’ve ever been in. This year, I plan to go again.

Although the Parade isn’t until June 7th, the general activities kick into high gear next weekend, and last through July 11th.  The roses keep blooming until fall.

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Horrific

Sharon Joss Writes

The World Horror Convention  is in Portland this weekend.  Time to get your fangs sharpened and your ghouls groomed.  It’s the first time I’ve ever attended a World Horror Con, and since this is on my home turf, I couldn’t wait to see what it’s all about.

I saved some $$ by registering early, and even managed to snag a spot in the writers workshop. I love both reading and writing horror, so I was hoping to get some tips that might help me moved into the professional rank of horror writers.  I submitted my very best horror short story and to my surprise and delight, I got the luck of the draw: pros Nancy Holder and Steve Perry agreed to give me feedback.  Insightful, engaging, and absolutely spot-on with their comments, I learned a ton in less than an hour.  Their advice was positively priceless to me.

After my critique session with Nancy and Steve, I headed over to the dealers room.  Several swipes of the AMEX later, I had a new baseball cap and a couple of other too-cool-to-live-without items to add to the bag of swag I got when I picked up my registration badge.

Tomorrow is the big day for me; there are a couple  of panel sessions I want to sit in on and a couple of books I’d like to get signed.  Maybe it’s still early, but I didn’t see any particularly um, ghastly costumes, and no gratuitous blood whatsoever.

Of course, I stayed away from the dark corners, just on general principal.  Bwa-ha-ha.

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