A snippet

Image courtesy of [thaikrit] / FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

Earlier today I was thinking that nobody would really care if I were gone. They would eventually get over it because their lives would go on. I would be forgotten over time and just allowed to drift out of memory. Everyone would forgive and forget and I wouldn’t have to deal with anything anymore. I wouldn’t have to be a disappointment or a shitty parent or shitty girlfriend or whatever else it is I am to everyone. I could just go and do whatever it is we do after death.

But something happened. People started talking to me on twitter. Having conversations with me. They recognized, out of hundreds of thousands of people, that I was there and speaking. And they spoke back.

That was when I got up and made tea and thought of you and sat down to talk to you. Because I think you would miss me a little bit, too.

Friday Snippets – NSFW

Image courtesy of [thaikrit] / FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

This one is a little NSFW: I’m trying to write something that’s due out in January. I don’t think I’m going to make it. I haven’t been writing as much as I need to. I’ve been too busy doing every other thing this December. Ugh.

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“Face down, ass up,” Rhys ordered. The flat black riding crop swished the air. He imagined it hitting his intended target with a sharp snap of leather against skin. He stalked around his invisible slave and lusted over a tight backside tight-pressed ankles. His cock hardened just thinking about someone giving themselves over to him to bend to his will. He would kneel behind them, grab that presented ass and fuck it hard.

Favorite Word – Monday Blog Game

Reading the prompt today on Susan’s blog and the subsequent guest post threw me for a loop. I have refrained from comment about the shooting in Connecticut and I don’t really want to think about it. When I first heard the news, I was shocked. I started to think something was wrong with me. Then today my emotions turned into Mike Tyson and clobbered me. Cheap shot, emotions. Gutshots should be illegal.

Outside of that, selecting a favorite word is kind of a challenge. I can’t say I really have a favorite, although I do drop the f-bomb a lot. I don’t have a catchphrase or repeatable word I use anymore. I know I had two or three in high school and when I’d catch myself doing it all the time, I would force myself to stop using it.

I’ve always prided myself on having an expansive vocabulary and not using a thesaurus in my writing. It seems, though, as I’ve gotten older, my vocabulary is condensed, forgotten, relegated to a shelf in the back of the pantry behind the pickled herring we got in a gift basket one year and beside the packet of instant pudding that tastes like the box. I can’t come up with half a dozen words for another like I used to. When we would edit in high school, I was always the one to catch repetition and suggest a fix. Now I’m lucky if I can come up with a substitute for something simple. Like “he” or “blue”, although my most colorful word substitutions now come through on the interstate during heavy traffic.

I suppose my favorite word would be diversity: both in written word and in life.

When I first transitioned to Columbus, diversity was the biggest selling point. In my little hometown, it was normal to see white, straight, Christian cispeople. Gays and lesbians didn’t happen. Transgendered people were something you heard about in big cities. I only met ONE transperson and he was in my sister’s class. My sister is eleven years younger than me. She went to a bigger high school than I did. Black people were a rare commodity. I only knew ONE black family in our town. There were two Mexican families and they were related. There were no other cultures there other than in the university and most of them stuck to themselves and stayed on campus. Any religious diversity was allowed by ignoring the problem so it would go away.

When I worked at the coffeehouse, I thought I worked in a diverse environment. All the people we hired were white except for one very spunky lady from England whose mother, I believe, was Japanese. She, unfortunately, was as diverse as the staff got.

Then I came to Columbus.

People here are of all races, cultures and countries. There are people of many different faith, practice and religion. They have Unitarian churches here. I walk down the street, awash in a sea of diversity. We are a gay friendly city. One of the gay friendliest cities in the United States. And the best part about all these things?

Nobody cares.

That’s right. Nobody cares when I walk down the street with my girlfriend, holding hands and singing a silly song. Nobody cares if I dress in baggy jeans and an old tee shirt with a ratty ponytail to keep my hair out of my face. Nobody gives a shit that the guy next to them on the bus is black or Mexican or Indian. We’re all one big city and everyone here is doing their own thing.

I’m spoiled. And I know it. Every time I read the news and a Transperson is incorrectly gendered, each time I hear of a gay or lesbian youth being beaten for their sexual preference. Even in my diverse city, black and Mexican workers are turned down for jobs based on the color of their skin because they’re not “permanent”. Because they’re “lazy” or “don’t speak good English”. Even in my diverse city where a young woman with tan skin and black hair is sent back to get another manager because the complaining customer “wants someone who speaks English”.

We have a long way to go to be as diverse as I would like to see us, but at least some places are making progress.

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The “rules” for the Monday Blog Game are simple – Everyone is invited to play along, and I hope you do! Here’s how: Write something about the weekly topic, either in the comments or on your blog (if you write on your own blog, link back or comment to Susan’s blog so they know how to find you!)

Monday Blog Game: Candy

In high school, I had a weekly ritual. Every afternoon after school, I would stop off at the corner convenience store in the little town I passed through on my way home and bought a Snickers bar and a Pepsi. It became a tradition for my best friend. It was enough of a tradition, some of our friends started calling us Snickers and Pepsi. I was active. I danced. I didn’t eat most of my school lunch because it was disgusting. So my snack before I started in on homework got me through until mom called for dinner.

Surprisingly enough, I’d forgotten about it. She found me on facebook and reminded me after her dad bought her a Snickers and a Pepsi the day she missed her class reunion. He buys the tiny bottles of Pepsi and the snack size Snickers bars for her kids. Somehow I think if I showed up with my son to visit, he’d get one as well.

My son developed a taste for Snickers this Halloween. They were left over in the candy bowl when the trick or treaters didn’t show in full force like I’d expected. He’s never been a fan of crunchy candy or anything with nuts. He asked to try one on the promise I would eat it if he didn’t like it. Needless to say, I now have to share my Snickers. The tradition lives on.

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The “rules” for the Monday Blog Game are simple – Everyone is invited to play along, and I hope you do! Here’s how: Write something about the weekly topic, either in the comments or on your blog (if you write on your own blog, link back or comment to Susan’s blog so they know how to find you!)

Instant prologue: just add crit and edits

I put my first bit of work for my crit group to dissect. I looked for obvious errors, then set it loose in the wilds of other writers and waited. Within a week, five people posted. For your perusal, I will post my first draft as it was submitted to my crit group. Once I’ve gone through my edits, I will post the updated version. Said version will be re-submitted to be sure I’ve gotten what needed done. Sometimes when you crit, you’re so tripped up by certain aspects you miss others.

Here is the first draft:

Rose tripped over an overturned dresser drawer, the duffel in her hand skidding across the floor and dumping contents like a breadcrumb trail toward the doorway. Leaving it behind, she skittered through the bedroom and into the upstairs bathroom, crawling quietly into the bathtub. Making herself as small as possible, she hid behind the shower curtain, every tiny sound echoing through the empty house. No heater hissed, no pipes clanked. Only the dull thunk of boots against worn carpeting, the creaking stairs as her pursuer came closer, the hiss of his jacket as it brushed the door frame when he passed. Just as she breathed a sigh of relief, his steps neared, slowed and stopped just as his heels clicked against the thick white tile. The surprisingly loud click flooded the room with the overhead light and Rose shrank back, trying to stay out of sight. Why hadn’t she hidden under the bed? She could have run when he came into the bathroom. Instead she was stuck inside with no way out.

Slowly he advanced, every step echoing until he snatched the shower curtain away. Rose cowered, arms wrapped protectively around her body. He lashed out, grabbing her arm hard enough she cried out. There would be bruises in the morning. Putting all her weight behind her, she tried to keep her backside against the shower wall. Another thick hand grabbed her other arm and hauled her up to her tiptoes, his breath hot on her cheek when she turned away. He inhaled, short stubble scratching tender skin. Her head hit the shower wall and a tear slipped free, the whimper uncontrollable as she forced her mouth further from his.

A figure loomed in the doorway, shadows darkening his skin. Its spine stood out, the skin sunken around the processes and between his ribs. It paused on all fours, its back too long, its arms to narrow and its legs bent at strange angles. Her eyes locked with ebony pools and she shuddered.

“Help. Please,” she whispered, watching the strange being cant its head and lean closer.

Her aggressor turned to face the creature. “What the fuck is that thing? Some kind of fucked up dog?”

Its face was too human as it loped into the bathroom and looked up at the man. Its dark eyes swiveled from him to her and back again.

The man dropped her, turned toward the creature and puffed his chest. Brandishing a knife from his belt, he advanced. The creature pulled back, brow drawn and cheeks pulled taut.

Rose summoned her voice. “Run!”

The angular face turned to her just as the leather-clad man struck, drawing a started cry from the creature. Its face contorted in rage and it took a pair of steps back, rising to its full height. Its arm oozed thick black from the thin gash across his bicep. With a hiss, it grabbed him by the throat and snarled in his face, long canines bared and glistening in the light. The creature grabbed the robber’s arm, twisting it back until it crunched and the knife dropped from his hand. A shadowy forked tongue traced the man’s neck as he spit obscenities. The noise stopped when sharp fangs touched skin. Despite fighting the creature before, the robber now held very still. Rose crawled over the tub edge and grabbed the weapon, every movement slow to avoid the creature’s attention.

With a crush of strong jaws, the man’s howls echoed against tiled walls. The creature’s mouth closed and its throat moved, swallowing as the man first struggled and then went limp. Dropping the lifeless body to the floor, the creature turned to Rose and crouched down, red-black eyes watching her intently. Long ebony nails clacked as they settled against the stark flooring, its hands between its feet. Rose shivered, expecting it to attack. She clutched the knife, the hilt against her solar plexus.

Instead of coming toward her, the creature circled the corpse, snuffling his neck and shoulder. Giving a quick glance back at Rose, it nosed the head toward her in a macabre offering. When she didn’t respond, it picked up an arm and hauled it toward her. A squawk of terror rose from her throat and she violently shook her head. With its brow drawn, the creature took a large bite of flesh, then shook the limb at her. Rose screamed, turning away from it and covered her head with her hands. The knife clanked against the tub floor and settled near the drain. A heavy thunk was all the response she received. Rose peeked over her shoulder at it. With a shrug, the creature hunkered down and licked at its hands like an overgrown cat, the ends of its tongue cleaning the crevice of its nail. When she shifted, its long, pointed ears flicked but it otherwise ignored her. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt her. She stared at it, watching as it worked from one finger to the next. It made a face as the pungent scent of human excrement filled the small space, but returned to its grooming.

Something was familiar in its face. Despite the hard angles, she could see human features. As if sensing her stare, it turned and looked at her, watching her for a moment before returning to its tongue bath. Something in its eyes reminded her of someone she knew.

No. It couldn’t be.

Slowly reaching out to him, she called him by name.

National Novel Writers Month is creeping in

I’m sure everyone has seen a post or thirty about NaNoWriMo coming around again. Every November catches me with my pants down around my ankles as I scramble to try and find venues for write-ins and plot-ins. Thankfully my fellow Municipal Liaison has done some of the footwork already for write-ins she’s holding. I’m the one lagging behind! Monday will be my big phone call day in which I chase down those in charge of places for people to do things and get them to confirm dates.

I’ve seen several posts about how to be successful during NaNo, how NOT to be successful, some books that will help and people’s general thoughts on how they make November successful. One of the girls on our forum said she’s NaNo Nesting. It’s a really good term for preparing for the month. People are plotting, jotting scene ideas, making premade meals so they can just toss them in the microwave and have dinner for the family when they need to write… anything it takes to make navigating November more successful. I, personally, eat more takeout and spend a LOT of time at write-ins. I spend lunch breaks at work furiously writing either on the laptop I bring with me or in Googledocs on the work computer. My house looks like an absolute disaster, usually just before Christmas. I let laundry go. I let dishes go. I let showers go. Yes, I said it. I forgo one shower a week in order to write more.

The biggest thing it comes down to is writing. Just write. Sit down, bang out some crap and call it done. It doesn’t matter if it’s good. That’s why you edit later. You should be aiming for 1667 words a day every day for 30 days. If that works, great. If you have to sit down on a Saturday and beat out the week’s worth of words, do it. Whatever gets those words down on a page, do it. Create a general road map, sit down and write. Make time.

And that’s the biggest hurdle. Make time. That’s really the secret to writing at any time of year. Sit down and write. Put words on page and WRITE. Yeah, yeah, stop calling me Pot, Kettle.

If you want someone else’s strategy, you can always check out Kevin Kaiser’s NaNo 30 day survival guide. Chris Beatty, the guy who started all this insanity, has a few books on sale in the NaNo store about writing. All the proceeds go to funding future NaNo goodness. Savvy Authors is doing a NaNo Boot Camp and it’s free for their premium members. Blog writers everywhere are starting their posts (like this one) and are gearing up for the insanity. The wonderful Chuck Wendig has a really sound blog post about NaNo with a lot of links, so make sure you’re ready when you open this one.

I’m going to take my happy ass onto the forums now so I can see what else is going on. See you all on the other side of November.

Surprise!

Although I don’t know the exact path I followed to get here, Susan Spann has a weekly writing prompt on Mondays on her blog. Since I don’t blog very often, I thought perhaps it might be interesting to play along. Therefore, this is my first response. Her prompt was “surprise”.
I have always wanted a surprise party. A group of my friends getting together on my birthday to have cake and ice cream and chit chat about who knows what and possibly play video games. For awhile, when I was between the ages of fourteen and twenty, I got my hopes up every year that someone would have a surprise party. I was surprised every year by disappointment when no one had a party for me. One year I even thought my mom had done something for me because she kept telling me she wasn’t doing anything for me, hadn’t gotten a cake, didn’t intend to…

She meant it, though. She didn’t do anything for me. There was no cake, no ice cream, definitely no surprise party. They were surprised when I showed up at their house for traditional cake and ice cream. She offered to go get me something when I looked crushed, but by that point I was inconsolable.

I gave up on the idea of surprise parties after that, but secretly, somewhere down in the depths of my heart, I still hope for a surprise party every year, that friends I didn’t expect will show up for dinner. The closest I’ve come was last year when a pair of friends came down for a write-in and went with us to dinner. Thanks to their generosity with the sangria, I couldn’t drive home. My sister bought dinner for me. It was a nice dinner.

Maybe someday someone will know. I can’t tell them, you see, because that would be cheating. It won’t be a surprise if I tell anyone, right?

Six Sentence Sunday

“He’ll die if you don’t,” Meredith prodded, sensing his indecision and worry. Every second he hesitated was a precious second lost, the storm around them growing heavy and black. The sky tinted green and red and clouds drew near. She flicked her gaze back to Baby, holding onto a thin thread of patience. She had forced enough onto him, she wanted him to make this choice, but if he hesitated too much longer…

A large black clawed hand shot out with a speed that amazed her and grabbed her by her face.

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There’s an entire hop dedicated to Six Sentence Sundays. Check it out and add yours, too. Mine frequently posts to Twitter thanks to WordPress.

Six Sentence Sunday

“Use me,” she commanded, her fists balling at her sides. She was slightly surprised to see Baby blink in shock.

“That will kill you,” he enunciated slowly, the full mouth of sharp teeth and elongated vocal cords making his voice raspy and speech more difficult. It did, however, make the demon language easier. She switched tongues easily.

“I know the risk,” she explained, looking back to their foes with chagrin, “and I know Maki uses you like a battery, uses your power to fuel his own. With mine, we can end this. Use me. Envelop me. Let me thank you for my freedom.”

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There’s an entire hop dedicated to Six Sentence Sundays. Check it out and add yours, too. Mine frequently posts to Twitter thanks to WordPress.

Happy Mother’s Day!

My neighborhood is full of little crotch fruit their parents apparently don’t care enough to watch. The little lawn goblins run amok around a couple of street blocks with other neighborhood kids of various ages. When the older kids are out, most of the time they keep the younger ones from killing themselves and each other. When they’re not, however, you have to drive about ten miles an hour because the little heathens will come darting out from the woods beside the collection of houses like the Children of the Corn. They run right out in front of your car and then stand looking at you like you should have been watching for them. How dare you be driving down this public street! A pair of the boys, who can’t be more than ten, like to ride their bikes out and see how fast they have to go to get in front of the car before the cars hit them. In the middle of the street and not at the stop signs. They like to throw rocks at cars. They try to see if they can get them in through my open windows as I drive by. So far they’ve been unsuccessful and only managed to chip the paint on my already pock-marked hood. That earned me stopping and yelling at them to stop doing that before they hit someone in the head with a rock and hurt them. I didn’t go into property damage.

Now they’ve stopped throwing rocks and are instead throwing mulch. I guess they figure that’s softer somehow. At least it’s softer than a baseball.

The kids throw balls across the street, right in front of the car as it’s driving through. They run after it into the street as they’re playing. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve scared the hell out of myself when a football bounced off my hood and I thought I’d accidentally hit one of them. Some of the littlest ones are barely three or four and they could easily dart out in front of my car and I wouldn’t see them until I’d run over them.

At least most of the time they don’t form an unmoving horde of kids in the middle of the street and stand talking while I’m trying to drive through. Most of the time. They’ve done this two or three times before.

One summer, their parents set up bike ramps for them to use so they could teach themselves to use trick bikes. This would be an awesome idea if they would have done it in the driveway or even along the driveway between their house and the next door neighbor’s house. Instead, they set them up in the middle of the street. They ride and flip their bikes, dump themselves across the pavement and pick themselves up to do it again. Then they leave the ramps out in the street where we have to swerve to miss them as we’re coming home from work at ten o’clock at night when it’s dark. My car doesn’t really like going over the double one. Neither did the ramp. I think the car was too heavy for it. I saw it in the trash pile the next morning. At least the ramps were kept picked up out of the street from then on. I don’t think I was the first to run over one, but I apparently was the last. You’d think these kids would learn to stop playing in the street. When my dad told me to go play in traffic when I was little, he didn’t really mean it. I wonder if these kids, like me, took their parents literally. It would explain a lot of their behavior.

Anyway– Happy mother’s day to anyone who has children rather they be your own born children, your raised children, your fur-kids or your nieces and nephews. Happy mother’s day to the fathers who play both roles or, like my son’s father, plays the role of mother better than his biological mother.

Call a mom, rather it be yours or someone else’s and tell them thanks for not killing us when we were children and not freaking out too badly when we almost managed to do it ourselves.