Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Precipice Is Here!

Bannerwing and the editorial staff at Write On Edge proudly announce the availability of this magnificent collection of short fiction and creative non-fiction pieces written by members of the Write On Edge community. The Kindle format is ready at Amazon, and other formats can be found at Smashwords.com. A hard copy will be released soon for those who prefer to have physical pages to turn. I have links set up under my new "Publications For Sale" tab above.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Write On Edge: Misinterpretation Challenge

Red Writing Hood challenged this week to use a misinterpretation of a letter or conversation to heighten tension. Word limit is 300.

Back in April I wrote a piece for the Choice and Consequence challenge about a Puritan woman scorned, Lamenting the Tempest. My dad thought it was a story about witchcraft. Soooo I thought, what if the cousin thought the same thing?

I offer the following in response: Betrayal

Deliverance paced at the edge of the Amesbury marketplace while she awaited her cousin. Over the transient noises drifting in the heavy marine fog, the town crier announced the hour. The clamor of his bell summoned the image of her false-hearted lover’s ship. Sweat moistened the hair beneath her cap and trickled down her neck. Her anger amplified the heat of pregnancy so that she thought her woolen dress would burst into hellfire.

Hours passed, slow as maple sap, as she stewed in her own skin. The crier’s bell thrice knelled but Esther had yet to return. Deliverance set her jaw and walked the muddy path into town, ignoring the gaping mouths of those with whom she once sought fellowship. No longer a part of the community, she was forbidden to trade in the marketplace publicly. She passed the chapel and blanched as someone gripped her arm, dragging her bodily forward.

Esther stood before the magistrate’s office and pointed an accusatory finger her direction. Magistrate Whitson sneered at her approach. “And what happened then, Mrs. Lovejoy?”

Esther twisted a handkerchief into a noose about her fingers. “She called upon the fiends of Hell to sink her lover’s ship.”

Deliverance wanted nothing so badly than to reach across the empty space and throttle her cousin’s dainty neck. “I called for the Lord God Almighty to loose his hellhounds in righteous vengeance against a defiler of virtues. I have no truck with Satan or his demons!”

Whitson growled, “Deliverance Redd, you are hereby accused of witchery, and through filthy fornication with demons summoned the storm that downed the Goodship September, drowning all her hands. You are to be brought before the Court of Oyer and Terminer to be examined and tried. May God have mercy upon your soul.”

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Today's Spotlight


As previously mentioned, I am one of three guest hosts featured this autumn at Write On Edge. Today's topic Are All You're Indians Extinct? challenges stereotypes in character development. Check it out!

Friday, October 12, 2012

Write On Edge: Inside Joke Challenge

Red Writing Hood gives us 400 words this week to tell the back story or inside joke behind a bizarre hashtag: #secretpiefridge. 

Last week, I was not able to link up for the bought challenge as I did not have access to the internet. I wrote the challenge, just had no way of posting it. If you're so inclined, feel free to check it out. 

With the first issue of Precipice releasing at the end of this month, I'd like to tell another back-story, Sticky-Tagger and his sister Sellamina are pixies from the Sundial Clan and are featured in one of the stories. They were also main characters from last year's NaNoWriMo which is still unfinished.

I offer the following in response: Figerie Pie

Sticky-Tagger flew into their tree-house flushed and excited, cradling a bundle in his arms. “Sellamina! I got pie!”

Sellamina stirred in her nest of leaves, but said nothing. Instantly crestfallen, Sticky shuffled across their floor. His wings drooped, feeling ten times their normal weight. His sister still suffered from the effects of balinog poisoning. He was so sure that pie would somehow help.

“Sella? Did you hear, I have pie?” He held his breath, listening carefully for any response.

It was a long moment before her voice, weak from her illness, whispered into the room. “Yes, Sticky, I heard you.”

“Well?” He placed his bundle on the salvaged wooden spool which acted as their kitchen table. Peeling back the edge of the towel, he inhaled the sharp aroma of unfamiliar spices. “Do you want some?”

Her golden eyes peered over her ledge at him, “That doesn’t smell like pie.”

“I watched the farmer lady make it. It’s definitely pie. Look! It’s got a crust and everything!”

The golden eyes narrowed. “Humans? You stole a tiny pie from humans? Sticky!”

He folded his arms. She never understood. “She had a – a whole flock of pies, in the chilly cupboard where she keeps vegemettles. She’s not going to miss this piece. You want some or not?”

“No.” Her eyes disappeared. “Stay away from humans. They’re dangerous.”

A tear streaked across his cheek. He didn’t believe humans were as dangerous as their cats. Pesky things, cats are. “I thought it would make you feel better.”

“I have balinog poisoning, Sticky. I’m not going to get better overnight.”

“But it’s special pie.” His mouth watered while his stomach begged for a small bite. It took all his self-control not to eat the whole pie before he got home. “The farmer lady hid it behind the vegemettles in the chilly cupboard. It’s secret pie.”

“The humans call the chilly cupboards figeries, don’t they.” Her beautiful golden eyes were back, though she still didn’t look as interested as he thought she should.

He nodded. He really wanted to eat, but he wanted his sister to get better. “And this is magic pie from the secret pie figerie.”

“If it’s a secret pie figerie, what’s it doing with the vegemettles?” she challenged.

“It’s made from punkins.”

She leaned out from her loft, lips smacking together, “Punkins?”

He grinned and flew a crumb to her waiting hands.

Write On Edge: Bought Challenge

Red Writing Hood gave us the following for last week:

Write about money, using the provided lines:

Beginning line: “Not everyone can be bought,” she said.

 Ending line: He let the money fall onto the table and walked out.

So I played with the lines a little bit, and I worked with the story until I realized I didn't have internet access. I'm returning to Mitch and his path of vengeance.

I offer the following (late) in response: Cafe Borracho

“Not everyone can be bought,” Her hushed voice leaked from her grin.

Mitch smirked. Eva only ever looked out for Eva. She must’ve received a better offer. He leaned back in his chair, hand over his scotch glass. “That’s a shame,” he uttered. He watched two men enter the cantina and make their way to the back, charging the atmosphere with a sharp tension. “Are you losing your touch?”

She snorted and knocked back her tequila. “The Game has changed, Mitch. Someone else is making the rules now. Rumor is Marston is backed by someone the locals call Tobago. Nobody seems willing to double cross him.” Her hazel eyes drifted, losing intensity. “Remember that night in Bucharest?”

He nodded. Forgetting wasn’t an option. Too many lives were lost due to bad intel. The Agency never found the leak. Her tone, though, spoke of their hotel room, not the botched assignment. All that infernal waiting, stuck without backup for hours. He remembered she smelled of lilacs and opportunity. “What of it?”

She flinched like a battered cat. “Asshole. You just scratched an itch, that it?”

He raised an eyebrow as movement in the back caught his attention. The barmaid delivered drinks to the two men and scurried away, a little too rushed for his tastes. “Rich, coming from you.”

Her cold look slapped him. “I lost my innocence in Bucharest.”

Mitch groaned, “I’ll buy you lost your car keys once, but innocence? I don’t think so.”

“Okay, fine. I can’t fool you,” she hissed. “What game are you playing, coming down here? You’re burned. Your country abandoned you.”

“I’m going to kill Marston,” he leaned close, sliding his hand gently down her cheek. “I’m giving you the chance to be someplace else, for old times’ sake.”

“Spare me.” He felt the distinct pressure of a blade pressing against his inner thigh as she added more teeth to her grin. “You’re simply a means to an end.”

“I know.” He flicked his wrist, plunging his sleeve-concealed syringe into her jugular. She resembled a deer trapped in headlights, eyes wide with fear. “But the Game’s changed, remember? For me, this is personal.”

She slumped in her chair, the clatter of her knife resounded across the wooden floorboards. The two men in the back rose from their seats, but Mitch drew down. “Stay put,” he barked.

The tall one twitched.

The muzzle flashed, bright in the smoky cantina. The two men were thrown to the floor as the hollow points ripped through their heads. “Sorry about the mess, Pedro,” Mitch told the bartender. He pulled money from his wallet and tossed a generous handful to the table before he walked out.