Madi Merek's Blog, page 5
February 25, 2014
FlashFic Results week 7
All right! Here are the results from the flashfic contest! I’d like to shout out a big thanks to our judge,
Ginger Green!!!!
on picking a great prompt.
Here’s the results:
1. hardwurkindaddy – the imagery is used in a clever way, which gives this story a cool edge. The ending really packs a punch.
2. Tinsley Warren – I love the sweetness of this, and the protagonist is very true to life & the era. Endearing and lovely.
3. Ana Lisbeth Tejada – highly engaging, sexily descriptive language, clever and subtle ending that changes your perspective of the whole.
4. Warren C. Bennett – very original concept, funny and out there – leaves us wanting more.
5. Femme Malheureuse – poignant story, gracefully portrayed in subtle and beautiful language.
6. glin23 – a creative stream of consciousness, rather James Joyce-ish.
7. UnconsciousConsciousness – wonderful use of vocabulary, accomplished, witty and slick. Love the ending.
8. James Ollerenshaw – captivating and insightful, a rich, mature story that says so much about the protagonist in a few words.
The almost impossible to choose winner is Ana Lisbeth Tejada, for the intensity, the language, the wit, and the best use of the pic prompt.
Ana Lisbeth Tejada, send me a DM on Twitter and we’ll get you rolling to pick the next prompt and ju
February 23, 2014
The 2014 “Our Writing Process” Blog Hop
Writers write, that’s what we do. Find out why and how in this new Blog Hop for 2014:
Happy Sunday!
I’d like to thank Jami Denise for tagging me on Friday in her blog.
Check out Jami’s writing. Her Jayne series rocks!
It’s fascinating to read about how other writers approach their art, and I’m so excited to invite you into the world of my own process! With this blog hop, I’ll be answering the same four questions as prior participants. Here’s my gist:
1)What am I working on right now?
My first novella, Hello LAlaland , is due to be released on April 1. I’ve debuted myself with a contemporary romance/erotica book.
This is my breakthrough into the world of being a published author, and, while I enjoy the erotica and sexiness it brings, my writing has grown to something much deeper and am now considered a literary fiction novelist. My writing certainly lends itself toward a classic read instead of contemporary.
Currently, I’m working on a literary fiction novel, Message to New York , which is book one in a four book series. I have the outlines done for the sequel, Washington Epistle, the third book, Letters in Los Angeles , and the final book (a prequel) called Moscow Memorandum .
I also have a dystopian trilogy in the mix for whenever I have the time and chance to work on it. The Ravage Trilogy is an amazing story following a family through a Second American Revolution and the aftermath it brings.
Here’s a teaser for Message to New York and an introduction to the main characters:
The stars of Message to New York
She scrubbed the dishes in silent musing, alight on her thoughts and wistful in her unawareness when Maxim stopped her hands in the sink, spinning her around with a sloshing of bubbles. He pushed her silk-seamed nylon clad legs against the white wooden surface with his shins, and placed his hands on the countertop on either side of her.
Ginny’s breath escaped her with his name floating in it. “Max . . .”
Bending and running his nose along her ear, he murmured, “We can’t do this.”
“I know.” She turned her head away from him, glancing about with the awareness of a lark to make certain they were alone and no hawks lurked.
“Then why don’t you stop me?” he asked, uncaring whether they were alone or not. “You pulled me in when you should’ve pushed me away. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, settling her eyes on him when none had happened upon them. “I wanted to feel something. To feel human again.”
“And that’s all I am?” he questioned, leaning back with a frown marring his face and hurt tarnishing his thick baritone voice. “I make you feel human? Shouldn’t I make you feel less than that, Your Royal Aryan Highness?”
She slapped his face before realizing she’d lifted her hand. “You’re a terrible ass sometimes, Maxim Schneider. Why don’t you go in there with Miriam and the other Juden if you feel so strongly against my intentions. I don’t owe you any—”
“You do owe me, Elsa,” he declared in a surging promise centimeters from her lips. “You’ve awoken a warrior in me who won’t let someone—anyone—tear this new piece of my world away. I’m driven to destroy those barbarians because I want to prove to you that I have it in me.”
Her heart stuttered and slowed and sped and swirled—a million emotions at once. “I’m not a damsel in distress whom you have to rescue and ward off dragons for.”
“The Nazis are a dragon.”
“Ja, but you’re no knight in shining armor, Herr Schneider,” she declared, allowing her voice to raise enough so he’d understand the full implication of what she said. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of on my own. You want to be a warrior and prove something to me? Prove to me that you’ve kept your humanity in tact. Read to me again. Show me the depth of knowledge you possess, and that, Max, is how you defeat dragons.”
Ginny walked away, leaving him standing in the kitchen and leaning against the counter. If he wanted to wage war on the will of the Germans, he’d have to grasp the fact that she’d be leading the battle; it wouldn’t be won with swords and spears, but with an unsurpassed desire for betterment.
And here’s an excerpt of Hello LAlaland, debuting April 1st:
“Mmm,” I moaned as I ground my pussy harder against him. God, he was good. Even my dirtiest teenage fantasy could not hold a candle to the real thing. But fuck all the make-believe. He wanted me now.
“Shit,” he cried out. Suddenly, I found myself on my back as he took the upper hand, hovering above me and slamming into my body. “Fuck, Wini . . . I’ve waited so long to do this to you.”
My writhing stilled. What?
“What do you mean?” I asked, pulled from the carnality of the moment by his shocking confession.
“I’ve wanted you for years.” His reply came through gritted teeth. He’s . . . what? No. No. No! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I was here to take what I wanted—what I couldn’t have back then. I was the seducer now, and he was my toy. He wasn’t allowed to have desired me before and was certainly not allowed to speak of it if he had. He’d had so many opportunities back then. This was all for me.
I used my force to roll us back over. When he was underneath me again, I pressed as hard as I could against him, forcing my hips down to meet his. The tightness was forming deep in my belly, readying itself for explosion. A teenage girl’s fantasy of making love with a boy she craved would be translated into a woman fucking and climaxing and squeezing around the gorgeous man’s cock—taking.
Tony reached down to where our bodies met, touching my wet flesh as it swallowed his body, and rubbed my swollen clit. Fireworks exploded around me. It was unlike any orgasm I’d ever experienced, and it was far better than my vibrator had ever produced. Perhaps it had been the years of pent-up sexual frustration, or maybe my natural attraction to him, but this climax was phenomenal.
I was vaguely aware of my name leaving his lips over and over again as he spilled into the condom. We stilled, slowly coming down from the euphoria and bliss.
Gingerly, I climbed off his relaxed body, and he whimpered at the loss of contact with my warmth. I was nearly lost to the orgasmic haze, but I forced myself to focus on the task at hand—getting the hell out of his room. Scooting off the bed, I bent to gather my clothes. My suit was wrinkled but wearable, and my right shoe was halfway under the bed.
“Wini? Please . . .” he mumbled, trailing off incoherently and reaching out for me. “Stay. Please?” I glanced down at him. His eyes fluttered closed and his extended hand dropped to the bed.
I rolled my eyes. Men. So tired after sex. At least it helped make the escape a bit easier. Quickly and quietly, I exited the room, marching down the long hallway and as far away from him as possible. It wasn’t a walk of shame, but of triumph. I’d won the battle.
The summary from Sanctum Prime, book one in the Ravage Trilogy:
Sanctum Prime
Raine James grew up in an period of prosperity. The United States had entered an era of peace that lasted for twenty years. After resurfacing from a devastating deficit at the beginning of the 21st century, the country has been experiencing a golden age. But, when the first female President is elected and she decides to take on Wall Street and the corporate tycoons, a large organization of conservative militia decides the time has come to overthrow the presiding liberal government.
From the first shots fired in a Texas courtroom, to the assassination of the President, America changes irrevocably.
Raine’s parents gather her and her little brother and make a midnight escape into the mountains above the city of Boulder, Colorado. For several months, they hunt and fish in the wilderness as they witness the battles below. Continually, they make their way deeper into the backcountry.
When more refugees happen upon them, a community of dissidents is formed. One of these refugees is Grayson Brádach, the son of her father’s closest advisor. Raine and Grayson discover the need for companionship, though Raine refuses to fall in love with him, convinced that they won’t live much longer. When Raine discovers a secret at the most inopportune time, will she change her mind and let herself fall into his strength?
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
A great question that may be impossible to answer. I think the telling piece is that I’ve become a “genre buster” as my dearest friend, Kimberly, calls it.
I have an obsession with angst; perhaps it’s an enchantment – a possession by the demons of the foreboding and trepidatious world of writing pain and suffering. I even hold an Angst workshop – Angst: 101 – for aspiring writers and authors alike to develop their characters and their characters’ emotional traumas/worries/fears/stresses/depression.
I’m the Queen of Angst, or so I’ve been told, and I cherish the title.
Will there be a coronation, I wonder?
3) Why do I write what I do?
Now, don’t take my debut novella, which is a completely different genre than I associate with, as my style or “what” I really write. It was written for the love of writing, for the love of sex, and for the fun it brought into my life.
My true writing – the words that make worlds spin – is heavily influenced by writers like Plath, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and this lovely little lady we like to call Honeybee. All of these listed here were/are masters of words, and I am happy to find pieces of myself in them.
Literary fiction calls to me like nothing ever has before. It allows for a deepening growth for characters I haven’t seen in other genres, but also provides for wondrous plot development. I write what I do because, as Plath said, “…there is a voice within me that will not be still.”
There’s a deep love of history bred and born into me from a strong family heritage of nationalism and ancestral knowledge, and I have a fixation with the early 20th century in particular.
4)How does my writing process work?
What a fantastical question.
My process begins with an idea – usually beginning with a song (for example, Hello LAlaland was inspired by the songs “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and “Love The Way You Lie” by Eminem and Rihanna; Message to New York was inspired by “Savior” by Ally Rhodes and “Mad World” by Gary Jules [not the Tears for Fears version]; The Ravage Trilogy was inspired by “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons).
I move from my wild imagination into a world of strange names and interesting faces. I like to know whom I’m writing before I put a face on them. I’ll create their basic features, generally, OR I’ll flip in a completely different direction and write a dramatic scene with them before I even know what they look like, feel like, taste like.
Character personalities MUST evolve. The most basic drafts rarely see good character(s), and that’s because characters are beautiful creatures – fetuses in a womb of your pen and fingers and paper – who develop and grow over time. Characters are like ogres (I know some of you just read “orgies” . . . naughty people, you), and as Shrek said, “Ogres are like onions.” I often claim I’m adding layers to my character’s literary onion; instead of peeling and chopping them, I’m the soil and water they’re growing in.
Putting words to paper or typing on a computer is rarely the daunting part. Hell, in the past two weeks, I’ve written over 30,000 words, doubling the length of my manuscript. However, if you don’t force yourself to do it each day, be it 100 words or 10,000, you’ll never get anywhere. As I always say, “Words don’t write themselves, and masterpieces seldom fall from the sky.” At times, I’ll write dialogue between characters to give them a voice before I create the bigger of context of what they’re speaking about. It can be a great catalyst for furthering your story.
Writing a novel is like labor.
It’s always a great idea to have a writing partner and a pre-reader, as well as an editor at your beck and call.
For me, Eryn LaPlant, is the one holding my leg as I’m on the delivery table, screaming at me to “Push!” as I get the masterpiece out of myself. Morbid, right? Welcome to my angst.
Kimberly, my dearest twinsie is my brainstorm partner and my co-parent for these beautiful writings. She’s had as much a part in this creation as I have.
And there’s Honeybee, of course, my birthing coach, reminding me of the beautiful creature that will be born when I make it all it can be. Or maybe she’s the DNA helix, helping the words build from plain to spectacular.
Editing: Once that bloody, fluid-covered, goopy first draft is out and your fingers are cramped from squeezing so hard, the best part comes. The skin to skin contact of your newborn manuscript, nuzzling your breast as you nourish and provide for its growth. Edit ruthlessly, however. Cut words as though they were sharp little fingernails, and pack fat on that baby manuscript so it can survive the winter of publishing criticisms.
Enjoy.
You’ve created something new, something spectacular and beautiful. Cherish every moment of your majesty. Not everybody can create what you’ve done. You. Are. A. Superhero.
Well, I hope that was equally as informative as it was nauseatingly angsty (I’m sorry, I can’t contain the disturbing world inside me).
May your writing be as beautiful and perfect as the world in your head.
Be sure to check out the writers next week. I’ve tagged five amazing writers to find out what they have to say about the same questions!
These are very talented and creative goddesses.
Give them some love!
Eryn LaPlant
Hello to the world! I am Eryn LaPlant, a former slave for the working world and presently a woman of many trades. I am a wife, a mother, an antiques collector, a painter, a baker, a gardener, a photographer, a historian and my favorite by far a novelist (well except the first two in my list)! I feel like I have a lot to talk about and hopefully I can keep an interested following. Thanks for checking me out!
http://novelisterynlaplant.wordpress.com
Rebecca Grace Allen
I have been enamored with the written word since I first learned how to put sentences together. As a child, Creative Writing was my favorite part of the day at school. There was nothing better than dreaming up imaginary worlds for the characters I’d come up with. In the years since then, I’ve gotten a Bachelor’s Degree in English with a double concentration in Literary Criticism and Creative Writing, which I did little with until I started writing derivative adult fiction in 2009. Now I’m finally an author, soon to be published with Samhain in January 2015. I’m also an avid reader, a caffeine addict and incessant gym-rat. I live in New York with my husband and a cat with a very unusual foot fetish.
http://www.rebeccagraceallen.com
Mia Madison
Aspiring author of romance and suspense, working on my first novel. Avid reader, ocean lover, daydreamer. Wine, cake, coffee, books, in no particular order.
http://www.miamadisonauthor.wordpress.com
Honeybee Meadows
Fangirl loves tutus and pink hair.
Sad boys with guitars and little feminists with taped up fingers. Bad words and good food. Things that sparkle and things that don’t. Righteous Emo Cowboys and closet lesbians. Tart lemons and Jaw Porn. Liquored up jello and fan fiction. The ocean, even though it terrifies the fuck out of her and remembering the perfect song lyric and the perfect, poignant moment.
She hates your shitty tattoo, and assholes.
http://honeybeemeadows.blogspot.com
Lore Ree
I began exploring my love for writing as a child, when I started penning original poetry.
However, it wasn’t until early 2012 that I picked up a pen to write my first full length story, inspired by a close friend’s evolving relationship with her best friend.
I like reading things that are on the sexier side. So that’s what I try to write, too.
At the end of the day, I guess you can say I’m a daydreamer and a word mixologist hoping to serve my readers up stories they can enjoy.
Born in New York, raised in Florida, and matured in Massachusetts, I consider myself a bit of an East Coast baby without limitations on a specific region. At the moment, however, I reside in Florida with my family.
http://lorereepens.wordpress.com
February 18, 2014
All the Flashy-Flashes Go Here. (Week 7)
Welcome to week 7 of the retro-inspired/sexy flashfiction extravaganza. Our judge this week is
GingerandGreen.
Here’s a little about our her:
Gingerandgreen lives to listen to, watch, read, discover, tell, share and write stories. She also teaches, mothers and hides from attention.
The rules for the flashfic are the same as always: 100-200 words, must use both the photo and the word prompt, post in comments with word count and twitter handle/website.
You’ll have until Saturday at 11:59 PM (MST) to get your pretty words in. Share with friends, bring fellow writers to exercise their brains.
Good luck!
Sat·ur·day
(săt′ər-dē, -dā′)
n.
1. Abbr. Sat. or S The seventh day of the week.
2. The Jewish Sabbath.
February 17, 2014
FlashFic Results for Week 6
Here’s what she had to say:
@babiesbrown — Phew, that’s a wicked flashback to the 1980s. Okay, maybe the 2000s, too. Nice use of both prompts, especially the fifth version of “party.”
@TinsleyWarren — Another doozy making good use of the prompts. I love the way my stomach flips with hers at the end.
@Gingerandgreen — Wow, so did not expect a terrorist angle. Excellent work!
@sandyquill — Heh. That Susie character is a pretty sharp cookie. Wish I’d thought of that approach when I was in party activism.
@jdifrans — Nice one to wrap up the submissions; we go from party hacks and Congressmen to White House. Nice.
Great job, really excellent use of the prompts as well as meeting our host Madi’s suggestion. This is a tough batch to choose from, but I have to go with @Gingerandgreen because of the completely unexpected twist — not merely corrupt, partying Party men, but ones that meet an untimely end. Boom.
Congratulations,
Ginger Green!
The new prompt will post tomorrow, and Ginger, you get to pick it. Please message or tweet me your email and we can discuss the prompts.
Thank you all for participating and sharing your AMAZING words.
When fingers hurt and coffee doesn’t work, but your writing buddy pushes you further:
I started last Monday off with 34,531 words in Message to New York.
I ended the week last night with 54.631 words.
In five days of writing, that’s absurdly enormous.
There’s something to be said about writing with a partner – a person with a similar goal in mind and a plate full of wordage for their own masterpiece. Eryn LaPlant, my writing pal and one of the best friends I could ever ask for, has been a huge help to me. We push each other to be better. We challenge each other. While there’s no *real* competition, it’s a constant “I did 1054 words” versus “I did 1103,” and it’s a hell of an adventure.
So, I say a gigantic THANK YOU to this awesome woman who keeps me working my ass off.
And she isn’t alone. I have this editor, this BEST TWINSIE in the world, who is my brainstorm partner and an enthusiast for my writing. Kimberly, I thank you so much for the bluntness, the encouragement, the unending drive to make me write better. The time spent with you was amazing, and I can’t wait to get a chance to do it all the time.
I was supposed to be writing in Message to New York right now. Eryn, you can yell at me if you want, but my coffee didn’t wake me up and the tylenol hasn’t helped my fingers yet.
Maybe I wasted 300 words here, praising the ladies who push me further and further to be better? Perhaps. But more likely, I paid a well deserved due to their wonderful friendship. Three hundred words would never be enough to say thanks for all the encouragement.
Now, I’d better get back to it. Words don’t write themselves and masterpieces rarely fall from the sky.
On second thought, I need a macchiato.
February 14, 2014
Special Guest: Author Sandi Layne
I was born in Southern California in the 1960′s – yes, I’m a California Girl! Though I have lived in Arizona and Florida and now reside in Maryland, I still carry my linguistic roots and occasionally drag out my inner Valley Girl. With a bit of “y’all” and “hon” additions for good measure.
Married for more than twenty years to an amazing guy, I have two sons. My elder is officially an adult and my younger is twelve. I have one degree in English and one in Ministry, and I claim Theology’s crimson Master’s collar, too. My employment has spanned a vast spectrum, but now I prefer to work at home.
I spend my days writing books and short stories, and even some fanfiction from time to time, deriving inspiration from Pride and Prejudice, True Grit and The Last of the Mohicans. If I’m not writing, I’m probably editing something or catching up with my favorite shows on Netflix or Amazon Prime Video. Reading is a given. I think I’m on my third Kindle, now, and I still have hundreds of paperbacks and numerous bookshelves.
I received a Liebster Award and finally got around to claiming it in June of 2013.
Sandi wrote a fun and fascinating article for our enjoyment about Irish legends.
Irish Legends
by Sandi Layne
When I was a girl, I would read stories about a man called Cuchulainn (or Cú Chulainn), the Hound of Ulster. He was a warrior of legend, with a fierce temper. He was renowned, too, for being very handsome!
He was called the Hound of Culain because he killed the guard dog of a lord named Culainn. He said, as a point of honor, that he would take the place of the dog until a replacement could be trained. Thus, he became the Hound of Culain, or Cuchulainn, which is what that translates to. This name suited him so well, he adopted it as his own.
One of the things I remember most about the Hound was something that is called the Warp Spasm. Now, I have written about a berserker before (Cowan in Éire’s Captive Moon), but what the Hound did was something even beyond that. The Spasm was what happened when he was angry. It is said that his whole body contorted with battle rage, making his hair stand up on end, his muscles to pop and extend and so on. It was a fearsome thing to behold! Still, if you’ve ever been THAT mad over something, you might have felt that you, too, were enduring a Warp Spasm.
The Hound had a best friend, that I remember. They were sworn brothers, mighty warriors both. The friend’s name was Ferdiad. They had been sworn companions for years, but one day, due to circumstances beyond their control, they were enemies. The two men fought, both being grievously wounded, for neither truly wanted to kill the other. Day after day, they fought, sending food to one another in the evening, and so on. For they were dear friends, and only a strange compulsion and vow involving Queen Medb could make Ferdiad turn upon his friend.
But, it had to be, for such is the way of tales like this. Using his magic spear, The Hound slew his friend, and then had to retreat naked, for his entire body was covered with wounds.
G.K. Chesterton perhaps said it best:
The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad.
- The Ballad of the White Horse.
A Note From Madi:
Sandi and I are represented by the same publishing house, but we’ve known each other through the fiction world long before I knew of her books.
I recently started her Éire’s Viking Trilogy. I finished the first book, Éire’s Captive Moon, within a handful of days, and quickly moved bought the second book in the trilogy, Éire’s Viking, which was just released. The books are captivating and beautifully written, and I highly recommend you read them.
Here are some ways to find Sandi’s work:
https://twitter.com/sandyquill
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/authors/detail/51
http://www.amazon.com/Sandi-Layne/e/B004QE48BI
http://www.pinterest.com/sandyquill/eire-s-viking/
February 12, 2014
Fix You by Carrie Elks: Release Day!
“Richard,
we had a baby.”
31st
December 1999. Seventeen-year-old Brit, Hanna Vincent, meets New Yorker,
Richard Larsen; a Columbia student and step-son of scion Leon Maxwell. Divided
by wealth, distance and a common language, an unconventional friendship grows
between the two.
From
London to New York, from 1999 to 2012, Fix You follows the story of quirky,
music-loving Hanna and handsome, driven Richard as they fall in love and are
torn apart. Their tempestuous relationship leads to an explosive revelation
that threatens to destroy them both.
Emotional and touching,
this is a story of second chances. Is
their shattered love beyond repair?
EXCERPT
Prologue
May
12th 2012
Richard had filled out nicely since she had
last seen him. The thin cotton of his shirt clung to his biceps, skimming his
taut abdomen as it tucked into his dress pants. His hips were still lean and
tight, and she closed her eyes as she tried not to remember how they had felt
between her thighs, as he had moved inside her, breathing softly in her ear, as
she had moaned and whimpered and—
She shook her head.
She wasn’t standing in his large, oak-panelled office just to take a trip down
memory lane, as pleasant as that might be. She had flown here, over three
thousand miles, to tell him what he deserved to know.
Inappropriate
laughter bubbled up in her throat as she considered the ridiculous melodrama of
the situation. Her 17-year-old self would be rolling her eyes, wondering how
this 29-year-old woman had managed to turn a seemingly promising life into a
soap opera.
She glanced up at his
face, looking at his lips, which had turned down into a deep scowl. His eyes
had narrowed beneath his brows, and his straight, patrician, nose was slightly
crinkled in response to her presence.
The contempt he felt
toward her was radiating from him.
Hanna tried to keep
her breathing steady, reminding herself that although she was in his
office, on the penthouse floor of his building, this was her
show.
She was in control.
If he viewed her with
contempt now, God only knew how he would feel once he’d heard what she had to
say. He had been an integral part of her life for so long—as a friend, a
confidante, even a lover—but never before did he have the power to break her.
“As nice as it
is to see you,” he drawled, the tone of his voice making it patently clear
that her being in his office was anything but nice, “I have a meeting in
five minutes. Exactly what is it that you want?”
He had no idea, but
this was it. Time to open her mouth and tell him what he needed to hear. Her
arms suddenly felt heavy, and her fingers trembled; a physical manifestation of
her nervousness. Her laughter was replaced by something more unsettling, as she
tried to take in a deep breath and form the words that she had travelled all
this way to say.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She watched his gaze move down to her mouth, staring at it with dark eyes, as her teeth drew in her bottom lip.
“Richard.” Her voice was surprisingly strong. She could do this. She could tell him the
truth, and then get the hell out of here.
Back on a plane.
Back home.
Back to him.
“Richard, we had a baby.”
Carrie Elks lives near London, England and writes contemporary romance with a dash of intrigue. At the age of twenty-one she left college with a political science degree, a healthy overdraft and a soon-to-be husband. She loves to travel and meet new people, and has lived in the USA and Switzerland as well as the UK.
An avid social networker, she tries to limit her Facebook and Twitter time to stolen moments between writing chapters. When she isn’t reading or writing, she can usually be found baking, drinking wine or working out how to combine the two.
Links:
Twitter: www.twitter.com/carrieelks
Facebook: www.facebook.com/carrieelksauthor
GoodReads link for the book: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19236365-fix-you
Get the book here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ICXD842
February 11, 2014
Excerpt from The Edge of Darkness Series, book two: Broken
The Edge of Darkness Series
Book Two
Broken
By
Vanessa Skye
Prologue
The assassin lay concealed in the dark shadow cast by the huge, silent air conditioning stack on the flat roof of the old high school. The blistering summer sun had been baking the dark roof all day, and even early in the evening, the asphalt was still hot and slightly sticky to the touch. It gave off a nauseating tarry smell that she could taste in the back of her throat.
Sweat formed on her upper lip and even more rolled down between her shoulder blades to wet her black sleeveless tee.
The nine-pound, bolt-action hunting rifle felt cold and smooth in her hands. She rested her flushed cheek against the Teflon-coated stainless steel of the barrel for a moment.
The magazine had a five-round capacity but she had only inserted two. Her initial plan had been to use accelerator cartridges, but identification no longer mattered—getting out alive was not the aim.
Her fingers trembled and she took a few deep breaths to calm her hammering heart and steady her hands.
It didn’t work. If anything her shaking seemed to worsen and the intake of air made her chest ache. More sweat beaded across her forehead and on the backs of her hands under her black leather gloves.
What’s wrong with me?
She looked at her watch. The target would be visible in the next five minutes, like clockwork.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and tried to calm herself. Her head was pounding. Every time she moved, the motion surged through her skull, pain spiked in her belly, and she felt dizzy.
Sweat was pouring down her face now, stinging her eyes.
Any moment now . . .
Just as she’d expected, the target jogged into view at the end of the street. She gripped the rifle firmly, nestled the black synthetic stock into the crook of her shoulder, and rested her finger lightly on the trigger—waiting . . . willing her heart rate to slow.
Now!
But her trigger finger didn’t obey.
The cops will be here soon. Take her out! You’re gonna miss the shot!
Her head throbbed incessantly as she argued with herself—the pain almost unbearable. The pounding in her skull was so loud. It seemed to be coming from outside her body, near the jammed stairwell door.
She felt unconsciousness coming as the edges of her vision went black.
No! You have to save the baby!
One thought played over and over as she sank into nothingness:
Don’t take another child from him!
Chapter One
You’re just like time.
Except you can still feel the shame.
All hands on deck now.
The sea is getting rough again.
–The Black Keys, “All You Ever Wanted”
Detective Alicia Raymond, better known as Berg, looked down into the glassy, staring eyes of the dead woman lying in front of her on the cool, unforgiving concrete.
She was crumpled like a paper doll on the downtown Chicago parking garage floor, shot in the back of the head, execution-style, in broad daylight.
Berg noticed the woman’s eyes were brown, similar to her own, in fact. She tried to shake off the strange realization, but she couldn’t stop staring into the glassy chocolate gaze of the poor woman in front of her.
There was an unspoken bond between them now, and she wouldn’t rest until this woman’s killer had been brought to justice.
It was her promise to all of the victims whose cases she worked on.
She looked one last time into the woman’s eyes. Soon, they would cloud over with a milky film, the pretty irises existing only in photographs and in the memories of her friends and family.
Berg flicked a glance down to the woman’s impressive engagement and wedding rings.
Yeah, there’s definitely a family involved.
“What do you think?” Detective Marco Arena asked. “No one saw anything; she can’t have been offed in public in the middle of the day. She must’ve been killed overnight.”
“No. Her eyes are open and clear. If she had been dead for more than a few hours, they’d be cloudy by now.”
“Shit, you’re right,” Arena replied.
Berg refrained from stating the obvious to her new partner: she was almost always right.
“Carjacking?” he asked, running a hand though his thick, black hair in a move Berg had come to realize over the last two months was a sign of exhaustion and frustration.
Lately, it seemed the number of murders in Chicago was out of control. Thanks to growing gang crime, their city was nearing the top of the murder capital list. Neither of them had had a full night’s rest for weeks. For Berg, it was standard operating procedure—even on a good night she never caught more than four solid hours—but Arena was fraying around the edges. Sad part? This latest murder of what appeared to be an innocent shopper didn’t even reach the top of the list of the macabre and violent deaths they had seen in the last two weeks alone.
“Car’s still here,” Berg muttered as she stooped to get a better look at the body, blowing away a loose strand of long, dark brown hair that had somehow escaped her tight ponytail. It was getting so long and thick as to be unruly, and it was getting on her nerves, but she resisted the urge to yank out the disobedient strand by the root and concentrated on the victim in front of her.
The top of the dead woman’s head was a matted mess of blood and gray matter—the bullet had passed straight through the back of her head and out through her shattered upper forehead. Berg moved the caked, dyed blond hair aside as best she could with her gloved hands—there were contact burns on the scalp. The gun had been pressed hard against the back of her head when she was killed. She looked to be in her midfifties, and was lying on her side in a pool of blood, facing the rear tires of a very expensive, custom built, black SUV.
Definitely not something straight off the lot.
“The killer probably didn’t want it seeing it’s splattered in goo,” Arena replied.
The vehicle’s cavernous trunk, which was open, had borne all the blood, bone, and brain from the killing. The bullet was likely lodged in there somewhere as well, and Berg had tasked the forensics team with finding it.
“Possibly.” She moved the woman’s head slightly—it still moved easily. She fingered the red streaks on ether side of the neck. “Looks like a necklace was ripped off here,” she said. “But the wedding ring is still there.”
Arena crouched down next to Berg and tried to wiggle the woman’s wedding rings off with his latex-gloved fingers. After several seconds of maneuvering, they came free. “He might not have wanted to wait around to get them off,” he said.
Berg frowned but didn’t answer as she looked away from the victim and took in more of the scene.
Groceries were scattered in a four-foot radius around the woman’s body, the brown paper bags spewing their contents on the cold, hard concrete like a college student at their first pledge. The woman’s purse lay where it had fallen, seemingly untouched. Her nearby shopping cart was still half-filled with bags.
Something’s off.
“Looks like she was transferring her bags from the shopping cart to the trunk of the car when she was ambushed from behind, killed with a single shot to the back of the head, execution style. My guess is a handgun, possibly a nine-millimeter. We’ll need to find the bullet to be sure. Blood and gray matter sprayed the car, she dropped the groceries, and fell to the ground,” Berg said.
“No witnesses have come forward.” Arena double-checked his notebook. “Which is strange since the gunshot would have echoed through the parking deck. You think it would have gotten someone’s attention, but no. A fellow shopper found her like this an hour ago and called 911.”
Berg watched the forensics team from her Harrison Street precinct, the 12th, as they combed the scene, photographing, and then bagging and tagging anything in the vicinity.
She frowned again.
“Oh no.” Arena sighed. “I know that look. Please, don’t sa—”
“This whole thing stinks,” she said. “It makes no sense.”
“In what way?” he asked, his dark eyes—darker than hers by several shades—flashing with both annoyance and curiosity.
“If it was a carjacking, why is the car still here? Along with her purse and jewelry. And what’s this ring? At least five carats?”
“Don’t ask me. You ladies are better at the bling,” he replied before blanching.
Berg glowered at him. She hated when he spoke in clichés, and he knew it. “I care as much about diamonds as I do about dresses and makeup, you Neanderthal.”
“I know, I know. Sorry.” He ran his hand through his short hair again. “I haven’t slept in several centuries.”
He hadn’t been able to stop the glance at Berg’s simple pantsuit at the mention of her wearing a dress. She caught him leering just like she did so many of the other officers she worked with, and shot him a look that left no doubt just where he could stick his leer.
“This looks more like an execution, not a carjacking.” She turned from the body to the surrounding area. “And, if no one heard the shot in this busy parking garage in the middle of the day, then the killer may have used a silencer. What carjacker does that? For that matter, what carjacker kills a woman, renders the car unsellable, then takes off without stealing everything else he can get his hands on?”
Arena shrugged.
“There is more to this,” Berg muttered.
“You think there is more to everything.” Arena said and wandered toward the car grumbling.
Like what you are reading? Preorder now at http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/120
Or visit www.vanessa-skye.com for more information.
Broken is the second book in The Edge of Darkness series. Get the first book http://www.amazon.com/Enemy-Inside-Edge-Darkness-ebook/dp/B00EEAYOCM/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1391639463&sr=1-3&keywords=the+enemy+inside
Follow Vanessa Skye on Twitter @vanessaskye
February 10, 2014
Flashing All the Pretty Pieces of You (week 6)
Thank you all for waiting so long for the next flashfic! Our trip to LAlaland was restful and nice; I don’t know that I’m happy to be back. **sigh**
But let’s get down to business!
This week’s judge:
Femme Malheureuse
par·ty
[pahr-tee]
noun, plural par·ties.
1.
a social gathering, as of invited guests at a private home, for conversation, refreshments, entertainment, etc.: a cocktail party.
2.
a group gathered for a special purpose or task: a fishing party; a search party.
3.
a detachment, squad, or detail of troops assigned to perform some particular mission or service.
4.
a group of persons with common purposes or opinions who support one side of a dispute, question, debate, etc.
5.
a group of persons with common political opinions and purposes organized for gaining political influence and governmental control and for directing government policy: the Republican Party; the Democratic Party.
Be SURE to use both the picture AND the word prompts. Entries need to be between 100-200 words. Post your twitter handle and your word count.
You have until Friday night at 11:59 PM (MST) to post your flash.
PS. I’d love to see someone pay special heed to the 5th definition. That may rock this prompt.
February 3, 2014
FlashFic Week 5 Results
Here’s what Sandi Layne had to say:
Author: @TinsleyWarren
I can feel a whole sense of family in the mention of six cousins who lived on the same street as the speaker. Her determination to capture their attention reminds me, cough, of my own youthful adventures into trying to capture notice so I am both wincing a little and grinning hugely. Thank you for the nostalgia. I really want to know what happens with this!
Author: @DasBaiyo
This sounds like a pulsing obsession. The pacing of your words is visceral. (didn’t use word prompt)
Author: FemmeMal
This cracked me up. Of course in my head, I see the guys talking about the car, but then when the Big Reveal happens (heh) it made me laugh out loud. Nicely played!
Author: @JdiFrans
The irritation in this one snapped right off the screen, making ME squirm. VERY nice.
Author: @lovelybrutal
CREEPY. Wow. I’m reading through it and thinking…Kind of bland, really, for an obsessive post…and then “she’d really like best of all is for me to untie her and let her go home.” Wow.
Author: @warrencbennett
The weighty effort and just-missing often felt by a writer is nicely portrayed, here.
Author: @hardwurkindaddy
[Used too many words, too] “Don’t you fret.” GREAT pun. Yes, I enjoyed that.
Author: @lakermom37
Love the gender-based-norm role reversal, here. And that the sexy new husband is also an RN speaks very highly of his flexibility. (Didn’t use prompt word.)
Author: @Deebelle1
This is so about obsession. I love that her focus on the car is all about using it to go shoe shopping. Made me smile!
I kind of want to give honorable mentions to those who actually followed the instructions this week…
But. The winnah is: *drumroll*
@Femme_Mal
for the careful crafting of her flash so that the big reveal was appropriate and humorous.
- Sandi Layne
From Madi
Thank you SO much to Sandi Layne for judging this week’s flash fiction contest. Thanks, also, for all the new flashers, but be sure to read the rules so you can be included in the running for winners. 
We’ll post another in a day or two, with FemmeMal as the judge (if you’re up for it)!
See you soon, and happy flashing!
