Welcome to Wordless Wednesday. This month, we get to choose what we wish to post, so sit back and enjoy a photo account of ~ SNOWSHOEING….
And that’s it for me. I had an awesome summit panorama, but freaking WordPress won’t import it so…. have fun with all the other ladies. And yeah, it wasn’t exactly wordless 🙂 No one is surprised.
Bronwyn | Jessica | Siobhan | Torrence | Jessica DLR | Paige | Gwendolyn
Welcome to 2018! it’s a new year and a new opportunity to make things happen. So, let’s start off the year of the dog right with a new flash fiction. Love the photo below. So pretty. Though, I’m over the snow. We usually don’t get too much, but we have several inches and I’m done, already, lol. It needs to just stay on the mountain where it belongs.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story. It’s a bit of insight into a side character in my upcoming release Midnight Ranger. Russel will be getting his own story… soon. Not sure when, but… And it’s short. No, seriously. Short. Really short. I know, I’m surprised, too.
Snow. Christ, how long had it been since he’d driven in snow?
Russel “Ice” Foster stared at the expanse of white powder covering the lonely road, wondering if he’d ever seen anything so pristine. So pure. Growing up in the Deep South, he hadn’t encountered snow until his PJ training. Oh yeah, he’d learned about the fucking cold pretty damn quickly. Nothing like a week in the Arctic to make those neurons fire—create permanent pathways that went on high alert whenever the temperature dropped below freezing. He couldn’t walk into an ice rink without having a few flashbacks of that training session.
Not that he’d been in an ice rink recently. Been anywhere other than where his next mission had taken him. And for the past decade, it had been the desert. The Sandbox, as it had been affectionally termed then on to Afghanistan. Heat. Sand. Dust that caked every damn inch for years on end. He’d had the occasional mountain rescue. Donned the odd parka and gloves. But nothing compared to the endless fields of snow he’d been driving through for the past few hours.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, shifted his truck into four-wheel drive, then started down the road. He hadn’t seen another vehicle since he’d pulled off the main interstate and onto some shit backroad in the middle of nowhere. Montana. Not exactly nowhere, but it felt like it. Endless miles with nothing but the odd ranch opening up the forest on either side. He’d checked the map a dozen times, even inputted the address into his GPS. He was definitely on the right road, even if he felt lost.
Lost.
Russel cursed the thought. He’d never imagined he’d ever feel that way, not after making a living out finding people. A life dedicated to the military. A lifetime’s worth of blood, sweat and determination to make it through Combat Rescue training. He’d been in the one percent of candidates that had actually reached the finish line. Had been on more covert rescue missions than he could count—dragging men back from places no one ever heard of. Missions that wouldn’t make the evening news. He was the guy who went in when special ops went down. Their only chance at a getting back alive. Sometimes with a team. Often, alone. Armed and ready to kill in order to bring his comrades back alive. He could navigate by the stars, some moss on the side of a tree. Hell, he’d once made his own sundial to get his bearings when a mission had gone sideways. And here he was, in the middle of Montana feeling lost.
He’d never considered a life beyond the service. Never imagined he’d have to learn how to integrate back into civilian life. He’d planned on rescuing guys until he either got old enough to retire, or got himself killed. Either was fine by him. He’d never been afraid of dying. Had made peace with it right from the start. And now he was faced with a life so foreign to him, he didn’t know where to start. How to fit in. All it took was one fucked up mission, and here he was. Out.
He glanced at the GPS, again. Just another ten miles and he’d reach Eagle Rock. A blip on the map. A town he’d miss if he closed his eyes for longer than a couple of seconds. And yet, it might be his only chance at salvation. A Hail Mary in a lifetime of rolling sevens.
He laughed. Out loud to the empty cabin. He’d been lucky he hadn’t landed up in jail. His ass rotting in some military prison for the next twenty years, so getting ousted—yeah, it had been the best option in a list full of ugly alternatives. Not that it had been justified. It hadn’t. And given the same situation, he’d do it all over, again. Exactly the same. He didn’t pull punches and he didn’t let his teammates down. Period. If saving that soldier’s life meant Russel had to make a new one for himself, it had been worth it. He had enough blood on his conscience. He didn’t need anymore.
The voice on his GPS broke the silence, calling out the next turn. He was nearly there. His last chance. One he needed to make count.
And that’s it for me, folks. Please hop on over and visit the other wonderful ladies.
The last song flash fiction of the year. How it is the week before Christmas already? I’m still shopping, but no one is surprised. This month the song is Chances by Five for Fighting. I love love love this band. Love them. The Riddle is one of my fave songs. Anyway, if you haven’t heard the song, please give it a listen. I’ve shared the video below. And I hope you enjoy the accompanying short (lol, I even laughed myself) story.
“What are you doing? Seriously, man. What the fuck are you doing?”
Kane stared at his reflection in the mirror, listening to the last of his words slowly fade. He must be losing his shit if he’d resorted to talking to himself. Out loud. But…damn. He needed to hear the words. Watch the way his mouth formed them as he tried to make sense of why he was standing there, getting ready for another date with Justin. The same man Kane had told himself, a million fucking times not to get involved with. Because Justin—he was made for leaving.
Kane knew it. Had watched the man fall in and out of relationships, and sure, probably love, more times than Kane could count. It was as if Justin had a revolving door in his chest where he could let guys in then turn them around and shove them back out without ever being fazed.
Kane was fazed. He as the king of fazed. Maybe because he was always the guy on the receiving end of getting hurt. The one who never saw it coming. Who was continuously picking up the shattered pieces of his heart off the damn floor, knowing he’d never find every tiny shard. That he’d lost another bit of himself in another fucked up relationship with another wrong guy.
He should have “we can still be friends” tattooed on his forehead. Or maybe his ass because that was the last thing all his boyfriends saw of him as Kane walked out the door. Generally after finding his partner in bed with another man.
So why had he ever thought hooking up with Justin was the right call? Regardless of the fact he’d been halfway in love with the guy for the past three years. And by halfway, he meant ridiculously in love. Border line obsession. And not the good kind that entailed healthy habits or going to the gym everyday. The kind that messed with Kane’s head.
And his heart.
Fuck, his heart. He wasn’t sure it was even beating right now. Or maybe it was beating too fast. So fast he couldn’t even feel each individual thump in his chest. It was more like one long, never-ending thrashing against his ribs he just attributed to the crushing feeling any time Justin was in the room. Or inside Kane’s head. Which was basically 24/7, now that they’d started dating.
“You’re an idiot. Setting yourself up for another fall. You’d think you’d have learned your lesson by now. Justin’s way out of your league, not to mention not the settling kind. You’d be better off just stopping before you tell him just how far you’ve fallen. How long you’ve been waiting for a chance at…”
At what? And why didn’t it sound anymore convincing when he made it echo off the walls? He was in his last year of med school. He could stitch people up. Surely, he could figure out how to pick a guy who wouldn’t use him as nothing more than a safe place to fall for awhile. Someone who wanted him for…him.
Kane turned on the taps then splashed cold water over his face. The problem wasn’t Justin. It was him. The fact he was in love with Justin. That Kane didn’t want to play it safe. He wanted to be reckless. To kiss as if it was the first time. To love as if he’d never had a broken heart. And he wanted it believe it would last. That this time, they’d beat the odds.
He scrubbed his hand down his face. Him? Beat the odds? It’d take a miracle.
Or a way to cheat. To cheat love.
“Kane!”
His name mixed in with an obnoxious amount of banging on the bathroom door. He glanced at it in the mirror, silently flipping his roommate off.
“Kane! Dude! Get stop talking to yourself and get your ass out here. Justin’s been waiting for ten minutes, already.”
Kane groaned. Great. Now, Justin knew he’d been talking to himself in the bathroom. That was fucking perfect.
Kane towelled off, then ran his fingers through his hair one more time before heading for the door. He opened it, stopping dead when he nearly ran into Justin. The man had both hands on the doorframe, boxing Kane in if he tried to leave. He’d taken off his coat and shoes, standing there in a form-fitting long-sleeved shirt and jeans that outlined every firm muscle in his legs.
Kane swallowed. Shit, he knew exactly how Justin’s ass looked in those jeans. He’d watched the guy walk away more times than he’d admit to, and those pants didn’t do the man’s butt justice.
He sighed. “Sorry. I just need to grab my coat and—”
Justin kissed him. No pre-amble, no hesitation, just slipped one hand off the doorframe and into Kane’s hair before dragging his face forward. Justin’s lips slid over Kane’s, then his tongue was inside, tasting. Tangling with Kane’s before easing back.
Kane stared up at the man. They’d kissed, but nothing like that. Just polite, good night maybe we’ll go out again kind of kisses. Not the kind that set fire to Kane’s skin. Made him feel as if he was melting into the floor.
Justin thumbed the corner of Kane’s mouth as he gave him a devastating smile. “You are definitely one of a kind.”
“Did I miss something?”
“Just the part where you’re not the only one feeling out of their league.” He chuckled at Kane’s furrowed brow. “You do know that there’s a vent in the living room, right? it pretty much echoes everything you say in here.”
Kane’s mouth gaped open. “So, you heard—”
“Every word.”
“Shit. Look, Justin, I—”
“You’re wrong, you know. I’m not the one who’s out of your league. You’re the one who’s out of mine. You’re in med school. You play the guitar like it’s an extension of your arm, and I swear you can bench more than anyone else I’ve ever seen. And if that’s not enough…you’re a fucking nice guy. Too nice for the likes of me.”
Justin traced Kane’s lip. “You were also wrong about me, though. True, I’ve been a player, but not because I’m not the settling kind. But because the one guy I wanted was out of my league, and I didn’t know how to tell him I’ve been insanely in love with him for the past two years. Until now. So…how about we stay in tonight, and give this…give us…an honest chance. Because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s beating the odds. And you’re definitely worth rolling the dice.”
And that’s it for me. Please join the rest of the ladies playing along this week.
Yeah, I’ve made a Wednesday blog. Time is so not my friend right now. I’m at the very end of my next book—releasing in January—and I tend to get caught in that time warp that happens when you’re on a deadline.
Anyway, the post is pretty self explanatory. The top 10 gifts for writers. So, without further delay, and in no particular order. It’s hard enough coming up with 10 without trying to rank them.
1 — A journal to keep yourself organized. I’ve been given a handmade one, and I love it. I’m guilty of not using it enough lately, but that’s going to change. And I think most writers would appreciate it.
2 — A colourful pen set for the journal. Hey… colour makes everything better.
3 — One of those colouring books of their favourite subject or theme. Because we all need down time and sometimes losing yourself in something else that’s creative helps other areas.
4 — Something sentimental regarding one of their favourite book or books that they’ve written. Maybe a picture frame with some of their covers displayed. Or a mug with a cover or logo. Something that celebrates their accomplishments.
5 — An ebook gift card. Writers are readers, after all and what better way to help them enjoy other works than by giving them the means to order a few of the favourite authors.
6 — A subscription to a reading venue like Scrib’d. Or another online reading subscription. I know… very similar to the first, but kinda different.
7 — A coupon redeemable for a cover on you. Especially for self published authors. Getting a good cover isn’t always cheap, so surprising them with an offer to pay for their next one would be a nice gesture.
8 — A clone. No really. I want one. I need one. I’m sure everyone else, does, too.
9 — A bubble enclosure where family can’t constantly intrude to ask where the peanut butter is or if you’ve washed their skinny jeans.
10 — A shiny new laptop or iPad Pro. Tablet. Whatever their preference it. I know this isn’t on the books for most of us, but damn, I’d love an iPad Pro. A new keyboard or mouse might be a good option, too.
I thought about including large boxes of ibuprofen. Endless carafes of caffeine laden drinks. Those energy drinks for when you have to squeeze out one more page. And chocolate. Just because. Honestly the list is endless.
Now hop on over and see what the other ladies have on their list of ideal presents.
Bronwyn | Jessica | Paige | Gwendolyn
December…how does it manage to sneak up on me every year? I’m sure lots of you are done your Christmas shopping. I haven’t started. I work better on a deadline. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
This month’s picture flash fiction is an interesting one. I had hope the story would be super short. I’d intended for it to be super short. It’s pretty much the opposite. Not super long, but… definitely not short. Anyway, here’s the photo and the resulting story.
Grace stood next to the table, staring down at the place settings. They weren’t anything special. A knife. A fork. She’d included a small sprig of evergreen and tied it with a bow. But it wasn’t special. Special didn’t exist. It had been put on hold. Placed in limbo until Kurt walked back through the door. Until he came home. Alive. Whole.
Whole. She wasn’t sure that existed anymore, either. Not for him. Them. He’d been deployed for over two years, the brief furloughs barely long enough to get reacquainted, again. To reconnect. It was more a mashing of bodies and souls in a whirlwind that left her feeling twice as empty once he’d returned to his unit.
How the military thought a few days would be enough to keep their marriage alive baffled her. Not that she’d give up. She hadn’t made her vows lightly. She’d known marrying a soldier had risks. Sacrifices. She just hadn’t counted on feeling so…
Lost? Alone? Angry?
She glanced at the shiny silver-plated cutlery. Twelve days. That’s how long she’d been waiting for him to come home. For good this time. Or at least, for longer. Twelve days. Like that annoying Christmas song. Only she’d gotten the same present each day—silence.
His team had been hit. There were massive casualties. She’d spent endless hours trying to get an update. To see if her world had been reduced to a casket and a folded flag.
Nothing. Not one damn word.
Be patient, they’d told her.
Patient.
That word didn’t exist, either. Patient was waiting in line to return a gift. Patient was knowing she couldn’t take the pregnancy test until she’d missed her period. This…
This was torture. Cruel and unusual.
So she’d taken what little control she could. She’d gone to work, come home, made dinner then set the table. Every night with the same wrapped up silverware. The only thing in the house remotely Christmas oriented. Because without Kurt…
The doorbell rang.
She turned, hands fisted at her sides, stomach threatening to heave at any second. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Which could only mean one thing.
Bad news.
Good news didn’t come with a bell or a ringtone. It walked through the door. It welcomed her into strong arms with a long, slow kiss. A doorbell meant pain. Sadness. Meant her world was crumbling around her, and all she had were those stupid ribbon-wrapped place-settings.
It rang, again, the tone lingering on inside her head long after it had cut off.
She walked toward the door, feet shuffling. No need to rush. Whether she ran there or crawled, she’d get the same answer.
I’m sorry for your loss. He gave his life valiantly. He’s a hero.
She didn’t care because it wouldn’t bring him back. Make her whole.
Her hand shook as she reached for the doorknob. It felt cold. Heavy. And she wasn’t sure she’d be able to turn it without someone else helping her. Taking some of the weight off. She clamped her fingers around the smooth surface then willed her hand to turn. Face what had been hanging over her the past twelve days.
A man stood on the porch, hat clasped between his hands. He looked old. Tired. Though she doubted he any older than she was. His grey gaze met hers and held. He clenched his jaw, breaking eye contact as he stared at the wooden planks beneath his feet.
This was it. The moment where hope vanished like the morning mist. There one second, then gone, with nothing but lingering drops as proof it had existed.
He nodded. “Mrs. Harris? Mrs. Grace Harris?”
She nodded back. No use talking when nothing would come out. Her throat was frozen. Clamped shut. It was a miracle she was still conscious since she was positive she wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t doing anything but staring at the stranger about to destroy her life.
He swallowed. He looked nervous. “I’m Captain Grier. I know you’ve been waiting to hear news about your husband’s unit. I’m sorry it’s been so long in coming. It’s been…hard.”
Hard. He had no idea.
He waited to see if she’d say anything, but she didn’t. Just stared. Waiting.
He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I wanted to tell each family personally. That’s why it’s taken so long. I made the difficult visits, first. It’s never easy. Not for any of us.”
She frowned, trying to process his words. “You made the difficult visits, first?”
He startled, as if he hadn’t believed she could actually speak. She didn’t blame him. She hadn’t thought she’d be able to, either.
He wet his lips. “It only seems right that way. To give families closure as quickly as I can. But, there were so many. Spread out. It’s taken me this long to get around to you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. I’ve been waiting twelve days. How is that giving me closure quickly?”
His brows furrowed. “Closure?”
“Where’s his body?”
“His body?”
“I’d like to see it. I need to see it.”
Captain Grier looked at her as if she’d spoken another language. Maybe she had. Everything was mixed up. Moving at a different speed. She just wasn’t sure if she was going faster or slower.
He put on his hat, giving her a smile. “His body should be here in about a minute, ma’am.”
It as her turn to stare at him.“You’re bringing his body here? To the house? But…”
She paused as another car pulled up. Big. Dark. The kind that brought death with it. It stopped beside the curb, the setting sun glinting off the windows. She shaded her eyes against the glare, watching as the car doors opened. Three men got out, faces hidden in the shadows from the backlit sunlight. They looked big, strong.
They’d have to be. Kurt was—had been a large man. Firm. Muscles that made women drool and other men jealous. Some thought he was too big. Jarhead, she’d heard him called. But it had made him seem invincible. Had helped her believe he’d come back.
They’d have trouble carrying him. Wasn’t there something about dead weight?
Dead.
She swallowed, nearly choking, as the men headed for the door, their footsteps echoing around her. They weren’t carrying anyone. Hadn’t opened some other door to retrieve Kurt’s body. In fact, she doubted the car could carry a body. Not without it being strapped in.
Her stomach dropped. What if there wasn’t anything left of him? If she’d have to bury an empty coffin? Always wondering. Hoping they’d made a mistake. Live the rest of her life with a piece of a knife stuck in her heart, slowly bleeding her out.
The men climbed the four steps to the porch, obscuring everything but the dark color of their uniforms. The wide width of their shoulders. They saluted the captain in unison. One body with three arms. That’s what it looked like.
One of the men stepped forward, removing his hat like Grier had done. “Ma’am.”
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Not a breath. Not a whispered word. Just emptiness, like her heart. The rest of her life.
He glanced at the captain then continued. “We wanted to come here to tell you, we’re all alive because of Rachet…Lieutenant Harris.”
She couldn’t help the smile that lifted her lips at his nickname. Kurt could fix anything with a socket set and some spit.
The man’s face lightened a bit at her reaction. “We got hit. Bad. The three of us were trapped under rubble. There was gunfire and explosions sounding around us. But Rach—the Lt. He stood his ground. Dug us out then dragged us back to the LZ.”
Landing zone. God, she hated that she knew the terminology. Hated that it would haunt the last memories of her husband.
“Anyway, we begged the captain to let us accompany him home. Tell you, ourselves, how grateful we are. And that we’re sorry we made you worry. Made him late.”
She stared at them, hearing the words but not quite understanding them.
The men saluted her, this time, then parted. A shadow fell across her face and she looked up. Another man limbed through the ranks, a heavy scruff lining his jaw. Bruises colored his left cheek, a slash of white gauze covering part of his head. He looked lethal. Weather-beaten.
He moved forward out of the shadows, and her heart stopped. Just stopped, as if someone had flicked a switch.
Brown eyes gazed at her, his mouth curving into a smile. “I hope I didn’t miss dinner, tonight, sweetheart. I told the captain you didn’t like it when I missed dinner.”
That’s it for me. Please join the rest of the ladies by clicking on the links.
Almost the last song fiction of the year. That’s crazy. This month it’s Flaws by Bastille. I haven’t heard this one before and wasn’t fond of the regular, radio version. But dear god, the acoustic one—his voice. You really should give it a listen.
Anyway, you can watch the video below and I hope you enjoy the resulting story.
“You don’t have to do this, Izzy. You know that, right?”
Isabel McClaren glanced over at her brother. Ryan’s brows were furrowed, his left eye twitching slightly with ever other breath. He’d tightened his grip on the steering wheel to the point the flesh over his knuckles had bleached white. And there was no mistaking the slash of red on his cheeks.
She took a steadying breath, burying her hands in her lap so he couldn’t see the way they shook. “I know.”
“If you’re having second thoughts, all you have to do is tell me.”
Second thoughts? She was way past second and on her way home.
He turned to face her, unclipping the seatbelt when it caught on his shoulder. “They can’t make you testify against Zack. It’s called Spousal Privilege. I had a buddy at JAG double check.”
“So I’m just supposed to what? Walk away? Pretend I didn’t see him kill that…” Bile caught in her throat, making her gag. She forced herself to swallow—meet Ryan’s gaze. “That woman? That I haven’t spent the last five years married to a monster?”
Ryan’s jaw clenched, jumping the muscle in his temple. “I think the beatings you took from the bastard more than clears your conscience.”
“My conscience? I should have found a way to stop him.”
“You didn’t know.”
“But I should have! I should have seen it. In the way he treated me. Treated any woman he saw. And I should have left him the first time he hit me. Put a restraining order on his ass and had him charged with assault.”
Ryan cupped her hand, holding it gently in his. “Izz. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Why not? You would have pressed charges. Anyone with half a brain would have. And maybe if I’d had the balls to do that, they would have figured out he was the psychopath roaming the streets, killing those prostitutes. Instead, I believed the lies.” She shook her head, punching her other hand against her thigh. “I wanted so bad for them to be true. Christ, I’m pathetic.”
She bowed her head. Tears threatened, but she knew she wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t. Not another tear for that bastard.
Ryan sighed. “You’re not pathetic. You’re brave as hell.”
She snorted, glancing at him. “I’m not brave. You are. You were always were. The golden child.”
“Golden child?”
“You know. The perfect kid. Got good grades. Never gave dad a hard time. Joined the army, and served your country for ten years. You have a shit ton of medals to prove just how great you are. And what have I done? Made a lifetime’s worth of poor choices.”
“We all make mistakes.”
Her chin quivered before she glanced at him. “You don’t. You’re flawless. Like a sculpture carved out of ice.”
“You’re wrong. The only difference between us is that you wear them on your sleeve.”
She frowned. This was a side of Ryan she hadn’t seen before. “And where are yours?”
“Buried. Deep. But still there.” He looked away. “And for the record, Zack isn’t on you. He was messed up long before you ever met him. I guess he’s really good at hiding his flaws, too.”
“It’s funny. I used to think that Zack was my redemption. The one thing I hadn’t fucked up since I was born. How it’s all played out? It’s poetic, really.”
“Then stop making bad choices. Starting now.” He grabbed her other hand, again, waiting until she met his gaze. “I have…a friend. Someone I knew overseas. He can make us disappear. For good. And we can start over. Anywhere you want. Another state. Hell, another country. Just say the word, and we’re out of here.”
“You’d leave everything for me?”
“In a heartbeat, sis.”
Izzy stared out at the courthouse, the rain creating tiny rings in the puddles lining the steps. It had rained the day she’d married Zack. Then, again, the night she’d stumbled upon him in the cellar. She’d heard the drops beating against the wooden door as she’d stood in horror, unable to move. Zack’s hands covered in blood. The woman’s lifeless eyes staring out at Izzy. Pale. Pleading. Bruises had bloomed around the dead woman’s neck, the same shades as the ones Zack had left on Izzy’s body.
Not, again.
“I want to disappear…” She grabbed Ryan’s hand before he could turn over the engine. “After the trial. After they lock Zack’s ass up for the rest of his miserable life.”
After I did something good. Something—flawless.
Ryan stared at her, his face unreadable, before he nodded. “After you hand that bastard his ass. Then, we’re gone.”
And that’s it for me. Just the amazing Bronwyn and Siobhan playing along today. So, go check out her masterpiece.
Welcome to November. Not that it’s been very welcoming out West. Can you say snow, snow and more snow. We went from 12 degrees, sunny skies and running in a tank and shorts to below zero and seven inches of snow overnight. The only plus is that it’s pretty, and likely won’t last. Rain, rain and more rain is forecast this week, so hopefully the white stuff will melt away. I’m starting to see why people want to live in Hawaii. I’d move there in a heartbeat.
Anyway, here is this month’s visual aid. No reoccurring story for me this month, just a new, short piece. Okay, it didn’t turn out to be short, but damn it, I tried.
You can never go home.
One of the oldest cliches in the books, and one Tabatha Knight knew all too well to be true. Yet, here she was, standing at the edge of her parent’s property, looking at the darkened shadows blanketing the rundown shack she’d once called home. Though, home was a loose translation. It’d been a prison—one that hid its bars and dingy walls behind cheerful wood paneling and splashes of colourful pillows. No one would have guessed that the welcoming fire flickering in the hearth had been used to burn away her individuality—her gift. That the scars of her parents’ lessons were covered by her black jeans and overly large hooded jacket. And despite all she’d done to leave her past amidst the leafless trees and scrubby brush by the pond that occupied the back corner of the yard, the marks were still there—the only vestige left from those days.
She’d changed her last name, bleached her hair blonde, and disappeared. Vanished into the faceless crowds in the city she’d always been told was the harbinger of evil. She’d made a new life for herself there—one that didn’t involve cringing in the darkness, hiding from the very people who were supposed to protect her. One where she could be free.
She laughed, the sound hollow and raw. Freedom was just another form of prison. The only difference was that it was one of her making. Her fears. Her weaknesses. At least in her world, she didn’t have to pay for mistakes she hadn’t made. For beliefs wrought from paranoia and fear. Where the only person who her hurt was herself.
Tabatha gave herself a mental shake. God, she sounded like a pathetic, whiny child. So, she’d had a rough upbringing. So, she was afraid to let anyone see her body in more that just muted light. She’d escaped, which in the end meant—she’d won.
And now…now she’d returned to reclaim the one regret she’d left behind.
Tabitha marched up the gravel driveway, the crunch of the rocks beneath her feet echoing in the cold air. A tiny, white cloud followed her every step, hovering around her face like a halo as her breath misted with every exhale. On an evening this cold, they’d have the fire roaring. Yellow and orange flames would dance along the wood, gleaming on the poker her father kept braced against the hearth. Before the night was over, the tip would glow with the same bright colours, extinguished only after another lesson had come to a close.
Not tonight. Not ever, again.
She bounded up the porch, took a deep breath, then walked inside. No knocking. No asking permission to enter. She hadn’t come her as their daughter. She’d returned a warrior. What had once seemed like a curse destined to destroy her had become her greatest alley. Her salvation. And tonight, she’d save her brother.
The door rocked against the wall, leaving a small indent in the wall as it bounced partway back. Just another scar, she supposed. Another mark in a house that had seen more sickening violence than a hundred homes put together. But it was all about to stop.
Her father spotted her, first. He was in his usual chair in the living room—the one she’d considered a throne. Each night he’d sit in that same spot and rein down his judgment. And she’d always been found lacking. But tonight, he’d be the one being judged.
He stood as she stopped in the entrance, his hands fisted at his side, a belt already clasped in one. He smacked the leather against his leg as his lips curled into a grin.
He took a step toward her, rhythmically hitting his thigh. “I always knew you’d come back. That you wouldn’t last long without that evil being beaten out of you. If you’re lucky, I might just agree to treat you one more time.”
She didn’t talk. Didn’t have to. There weren’t any words to describe what she was feeling. To justify what he’d done. Instead, she channelled her power into the strip of leather in his hand. It stopped mid-strike, wavering in the air before forcing up his arm. His eyes widened, and he tried to lunge at her, only to get jerked back when his hand refused to move.
He growled at her. “You fucking bitch. I’ll teach you where your place is.” He turned toward the fireplace, reaching for the poker.
“No.”
One word. That’s all she could get out before she focused on the belt, wrapping it around his throat. Her father’s eyes bulged wide, and he clawed at the strap, going onto his tiptoes when she forced him back against the wall. Wheezing gasps filled the room, mixed in with the sound of his boots kicking against the worn wooden floors.
Frantic footsteps clattered in from the kitchen, her mother’s high-pitched scream cutting through the other noises. “Repent evil witch. As God is my witness I cast you out!” She held out a cross, brandishing it at Tabitha as if the sight of it would make her fall to the floor.
Tabitha stood her ground, her father’s desperate gasps fading into the background. “Where is he?”
Her mother sneered at her. “Get out!”
“Not without Troy.” She took a single step forward. “Tell me where he is, or I’ll burn this hellhole to the ground.”
Her mother’s gaze shifted to her husband, rounding her eyes until barely a hint of brown remained. She faltered, crying out when the man’s face turned red and his eyes rolled back in his head. “Stop this.”
“Where. Is. Troy?”
Her gaze skittered to the basement door.
Tabitha waved her hand, pinning her mother against the wall as Tabitha headed for the small door. The hinges creaked as she yanked it open, quickly descending the stairs. Flickering candle light illuminated the damp space, dancing shadows across the wall. She didn’t need more light to find her way. She’d been locked up in the belly of her parents’ home for days at a time.
A soft groan drew her to the far corner. Her brother hung from the wrists on the hard brick, the bruising on his skin like bursts of purple flowers. Pain shot through her heart, her anger snapping the cuffs and lifting him toward her.
Troy groaned, again, blinking several times before giving her a small smile. “Tab?”
She smoothed his sweat-dampened hair out of his face, cursing the tears that fell onto his skin. “I’m here. Let’s go home.”
He frowned, barely able to stumble beside her as she braced most of his weight, slowly climbing back up the rickety stairs. She didn’t look at her parents as she helped Troy out the front door. Gasping pleas followed her, but she kept walking until the effort of maintaining her hold made her stumble. She stopped, took a deep breath, then let her power sink beneath her skin. Troy glanced over his shoulder, but she urged him forward.
“Forget them. It’s over.”
He nodded, once again moving forward. “Are they dead?”
“Not quite. Do you want me to finish it?”
He stared at her, then shook his head. “I’d rather they spend the rest of their lives knowing we won.”
That’s it for me. Sorry it wasn’t as short as I’d hoped. And please go check out the other ladies…
It’s time for another Top 10 post… and it’s November. I don’t even know how that happened. But what’s really crazy is that I’ve still be running in a tank and shorts! The occasional need for gloves. Hey, my hands get super cold. But I have never experienced this kind of weather in October since I moved west, ages ago. And I’ll take it. I hope the entire winter is like this.
Anyway, this week’s blog is about 10 things I believe to be true. So… here we go, and in no particular order. That would be far too much work.
That’s it for me. I don’t even know if I did this right but… bam. Jump over and see how the other ladies faired.
Bronwyn | Jessica | Deelylah | Gwendolyn
Another Wednesday random post and this week we’re digging #deep folks. The topic is My Writing Process and has it changed/evolved. Honestly, this image pretty much sums up my entire writing process…
So post done!
Okay… maybe not quite that blunt, but… I’m pretty sure I’ve done a writing process blog before. No, I didn’t search for it. Searching, like writing, is hard… but… to be honest, not too much has changed. I’m still a ‘pantser’ gal. If I waited until I knew the entire book, they’d never get written. I try to trust in the bits that I do know and pray (or, yeah, crossroad demon deal) the rest will come. It’s actually a pretty sweet moment when you figure out how the whole thing ends! Kind of like having a baby and finally discovering whether it’s a boy or a girl.
I might try to figure stuff out more, now… but it’s not a guarantee that it’ll happen. More likely, I’ll just get vibes for a different book, I’m not currently writing, which is so maddening. Because you know once you move to that book, I’ll get stuck there the exact same way.
So for me, the process is still the same…
An idea—whether it’s from something I saw, heard, read, lived. Somehow, conversations start happening inside my head. For me, it’s generally at night when I’m trying to find a way to fall asleep. But it’s enough to make me want to dig deeper.
Start writing—yup. Once I have an idea, and hopefully it’s the beginning, I just jump right in. The first few chapters are usually not too bad until I reach the end of my idea. That’s where I spend endless time staring at the screen. Until either I figure out the next step, or sometimes… I gotta put the story away. If it’s too forced, it won’t flow or sound natural, so…
Keep writing—Assuming bits are still coming to me, I just keep writing, and trust it’ll all unfold on its own. There usually comes a time where it’s so stuck in my head, it becomes all consuming.
Plan a bit to the end—This last bit…if all goes well, I will know enough I can make a couple of notes for each of the remaining chapters so I have a rough idea how much longer it will be. This is not a synopsis or plotting. It’s seriously a sentence or two. Just so I stay on track. Especially if the book is getting long. I know… me? Long? Surely I jest!
And that’s really it. I do go back through and update bits as they become clearer or change. Or I think of a piece that needs to go between others, but I don’t do endless drafts. That first one is pretty much the book with some bits tweaked upon my read through. And the edits of course. That’s the polish… when someone else points out all the stuff I missed 🙂
Now… for you amusement, my process in a series of gifs….
The beginning…
When I start to run out of what I know…
About halfway through….
At any given point during this ride….
When I just want to finish it but I don’t know the damn ending, yet….
Pushing through toward the end….
YATZEE!
Now go check out my amazing friends and see how they create their masterpieces…
I love this song. It’s epically sad, but it’s such a great song. And we get a taste of new country in the mix. I’m sure some of the other ladies are cringing, but… that’s the beauty of the song fic—you never know what you’re going to get as the motivation.
For this one, I’m diving into a prologue for the book I’m writing for the KW Brotherhood Protector series. Now that I’m into it, I kinda wanted my hero, Sam, to reveal a bit more about his time with the Army Ranger Battalion. So, here goes…
“Hey, jackass, you ready?”
First Lieutenant Samuel “Midnight” Montgomery grunted as his buddy punched him in the shoulder, nearly knocking his compass out of his hand. He fumbled with it, shoving the guy back once he’d clipped the unit onto his vest. “You are such a mother fucking pain in my ass, you know that, Grey?”
Grey laughed. “Fuck off. We both know you love me.”
“Yeah, like a freaking STD.”
He turned but grinned. Lieutenant Rick Samson—or “Grey” as everyone called him because of the white scruff of hair on his head, despite being twenty-nine—was a thorn in Sam’s side. And the closest thing to a brother he’d ever had. They’d been together from the start, and he couldn’t imagine a mission without the other jerk having his back.
“They’re called STIs now, you ass. Speaking of which…” He kicked at Sam’s ruck sack. “Did you pack your spare pair of boxers? We both know you’re gonna shit your pants on this one.”
“Got’em right beside your special cream.” He motioned to his buddy’s crotch. “Doesn’t look like it’s making anything bigger, though, bro.”
“Good.” Grey grabbed his junk. “Because if this gets any bigger, I’ll be splitting the ladies in half.”
Sam chuckled, checking his straps then closing his sack and tossing it over one shoulder. “I swear this shit gets heavier with every jump.”
“Just wait until you get the rest clipped on.” Grey’s smile faded as he pressed his lips together. “So…thirty big ones tonight.”
“Is there even air that high up?”
“That’s why we have oxygen tanks. But yeah, it’s kind of crazy. Can’t the plane avoid detection enough at twenty-five? Do you know how fucking cold it is at thirty-thousand feet?”
“Minus forty.”
Grey rolled his eyes. “I know how cold it is. I was in the same briefings. Been doing the same training. It was a rhetorical question.”
“I just hope the intel’s worth it. The last couple of missions have been a bust.”
“On the plus side…two weeks off after this one. I say, we head to Vegas, grab us some pretty little college babes that think military guys are hot as fuck and do all those things we dream about.”
Sam grinned, moving in beside Grey as they headed for the plane. “You know half of what you want to do is illegal in most states, right?”
“Only if I get caught, brother.”
Sam gave the guy another shove. “Let’s just get through this mission, then you can brag about how you’re a master between the sheets.”
“You know, haters are just gonna hate…”
“Jerk.”
Grey just kept on talking, ribbing the other guys once they’d taken their seats. The easy banter helped pass the time until they were standing in front of the open door—wind eddying through the space, nothing by inky darkness beyond the doorway. Grey looked back at him, giving him a guarded nod, before moving forward. Just another minute, and they’d be out the door.
Sam steadied his breathing in the mask, frowning when Grey stumbled on his next step forward. He nudged his buddy, motioning to him. “You okay?”
Grey arched his brow. “Are you smoking something? Of course, I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s not like you to stumble.”
“These packs don’t exactly make walking easy.”
“Still…” He grabbed Grey this time. “Is your hand shaking?”
Grey tugged his arm free. “I’m fine, Sam. Done this a hundred times before.”
“Doesn’t matter. You know it’s different every time. Any one of us could have adverse effects to the altitude on any given mission.” He held up his hand. “How many fingers.”
“Would you stop it? I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. Now, let’s do this.”
Sam looked over to the PT tech going down the line, nodding at Grey. The man focused on his friend, checking his gear then rattling off some questions. He gave Grey a nod, then shifted over to Sam.
“Lieutenant Samson’s fine.”
Sam narrowed his gaze, watching Grey take another unsteady step. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. If you think…”
His words died beneath a series of shouts as their commander motioned for them to go. Grey shuffled forward as the men in front stepped out, disappearing into the clouds as Sam moved to the door. He clenched his jaw, hoping he’d only been imaging things, then jumped, inhaling at the sudden rush of adrenaline that coursed through his body. There was a few moments of weightlessness then he was jerked upward, the force of the chute opening stealing his breath. Damn things packed a punch, and he knew he’d be sore for days after.
Sam gathered his bearings, using his night vision to pinpoint the rest of his team. He headed toward them as they sounded off, nothing but silence when Grey’s turn came. Same scanned the area, catching a glimpse of movement below him. A chutes billowed upwards, the tangled strings keeping it from properly deploying.
He hit the button on his headset. “Grey! You’re tangled. Release the main chute and deploy your backup. We’ll adjust our descent rate to meet up with you.” He waited, but Grey didn’t answer him. “Grey!”
A beep sounded in his ear. “I don’t see any movement, Midnight.”
“Shit. Okay, I’m releasing my main chute. I’ll head for Grey and we’ll tandem down. We’ll adjust the plan once I’ve got him.”
“Roger.”
Sam muttered a curse then released his chute, dropping into free fall. He fanned his body out, then drew his arms together, increasing his speed as he angled toward his friend. He did his best to slow his descent as he neared the other man, hoping he didn’t hurt Grey when he grabbed him. Grey’s head was bowed to his chest, his body limp.
Sam opened his arms, catching the other man around the waist and propelling them forward. He grunted as the impact knocked their heads together, blurring his vision for a bit before he managed to shake it off. He released his friends chute, clipping them together before pulling his reserve. The material fluttered out behind him, once again jerking him up. Grey moaned, squirming against Sam’s hold.
“Easy. You’re suffering from hypoxia. Just…hold still.”
Grey mumbled something Sam couldn’t make out but relaxed. Sam talked to the others, doing his best to follow behind them. But the added weight altered their path enough he knew they wouldn’t make it to the landing zone.
The land rushed past, every minute drawing them closer to the ground. Sam cursed under his breath, doing his best to calculate their new arrival zone, when lights flashed from the ground.
His radio buzzed a second before one of his teammates sounded in his headset. “Incoming. Defensive manoeuvres.”
Sam angled them to the right, hoping to get clear, when bullets ripped through the canopy above him, dropping them toward the ground. He pulled on the ropes, slowing them as best he could. Jagged rocks rushed up toward him, the rocky landscape filling his view. He made one last attempt to veer clear before parts of the chute caught on an out jut, halting their descent and slamming them against the cliff. Pain ricocheted through his head, then the straps gave way and they fell.”
“Sir!”
Sam jolted back, blinking against the wash of scenery until it stabilized. A young woman stood beside the booth, coffee pot in one hand, a slice of pie in the other. Lines creased her forehead as she stared at him, her fingers white-knuckled around the plate.
He glanced around the diner, the few people still in there looking over at him before turning away. Sam swallowed hard, nodding at the woman. “Sorry. I guess I dozed off.”
She gave him a timid smile. “You were talking. Calling for someone named Grey. I wasn’t sure…”
“It’s fine. I could use some more coffee, though. And is that my pie?”
“Sure.” She placed the plate in front of him as she refilled his mug. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine, just…tired.”
She nodded, but it was obvious she didn’t quite believe him, as she wandered off, moving to another table.
Sam stared down at his hands, hating the way they shook as he took a swig of his drink. Six months and the damn dream still haunted him—used every opportunity to chip away at what little sanity he had left. And god knew he didn’t have any to spare.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, catching a hint of movement in the window beside him. He looked out, inhaling at the silhouette wavering by the lamp post next to his truck. A familiar set of eyes stared back at him, the ghosted echo of his name curling around him.
Sam closed his eyes. It wasn’t real. Just a figment of his imagination. A by-product of guilt and pain that manifested as the image of his dead team mate. He’d been told it would go away—fade like his buddy’s voice had faded from Sam’s memory. He just needed to be patient.
Sam stood, tossing some money on table before heading out into the snowy night. Another six hours and he’d be in Montana. The one place he swore he’d never go back to, and the only place that might save what was left of his soul. A new job, a new beginning. He only hoped there was enough of him left to save.
That’s it. I’m sure the other ladies have some amazing stories waiting for you.
Bronwyn | Jessica | Gwendolyn | Deelylah | Siobhan