Precipice 2014 - Save the Date!

Precipice III is now available for pre-order!

If you don't want to pre-order, mark November 17th as the day you will buy this third volume of Precipice, the literary anthology of Write On Edge. 

If you want to have a physical, dead-tree, paperback copy because you think your e-book reading device is eating your brain, your date is December 1st. 

If you just want a paperback copy as a companion for your other paperbacks, that's good too. Your date is still December 1st. 

Precipice 2014 will make an ideal Christma-solsti-hanu-kwanz-akkah gift for those of you who participate in the gift-giving festivities of December.

It'll make an even better "I just had to get this for you because I love you that much" present for any of the other days of the year.

The point, honored guests, that I am trying to make is that you don't want to miss adding this volume to your Precipice collection. 

And if you're a Shelton Keys Dunning fan, you'll want to add this volume to your collection of Shelton Keys Dunning works, because, yes this is a shameless plug, I AM IN THIS BOOK! 

If you're tired of all things Shelton Keys Dunning, Precipice 2014 is your chance to check out amazing authors from the talented Write On Edge community. There is something in this volume for everyone!

This is an immoral imperative. This is mandatory fun.

This is a basic human necessity.

So go get it.

Come the Storm (WoE week 21)

Write at the Merge challenge this week is themed with Abandonment.

First the quote:

"Go off to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path." Ralph Waldo Emerson

and now the photo:

photo by Liam Andrew Cura courtesy Unsplash

Now, this scene is going to be weird. I wrote a short scene some time ago for a WoE prompt (week 20 of 2013) starring new characters: Sofie and Tiko. That scene to me felt like something post-apocalyptic but I didn't give it much thought until this prompt. I promise you, there is a ton of backstory for this scene, but it won't fit in 500 words. Well, to be honest, I'm a tad over that because I didn't want to chop anything out.

If I haven't completely befuddled you yet, read on. But. Since I've only written about Sofie and Tiko once before, and since it doesn't explain anything, I'll give you the Cliff Notes version.

Sofie and Tiko are on their way to Amarillo. (previous installment) Sofie's father, at some point in the past, released something horrible into the world and he died. (not included in previous installment)

I offer the following in response: Come the Storm

Turbulent clouds choked the sickly-green sky. Sofie shivered despite the heat, remembering how the sirens echoed through her hometown under such a canopy. The hairs on her arms and neck stretched in the charged air acknowledging the power in the brewing storm. She stepped up the pace in her hunt for shelter, moving through the derelict businesses of Downtown McCormick.

Each building was branded with the FEMA search and rescue code, though the orange paint was starting to fade after…had it really been fifteen years? Sofie paused to read the symbols on a condominium complex: 13/5/76, TX, 25 DOA, NE. Every possible entrance, windows included, was boarded up.

“Find one?” Sofie barely heard Tiko over the wind.

“No,” she shouted back and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Dead-on-arrival. No entry.”

“What?”

Sofie drew her finger across her throat – her own perverted sign language – and moved on to the next building, and then the next, and the next, trailing orange x-boxes and DOAs in her wake.

“Sofie!”

She turned. Tiko formed a W with his fingers and tapped his chin before pointing to a crumbling cement structure on his side of the street. Sofie ran best she could through the driving wind, light-headed with joy as she read the symbol for herself: 13/5/76, TX, 0-0, F/W. The Texas Home Guard finally identified an unoccupied building with both food and water.

Sofie giggled. Even if after 15 years, the food and water was gone, it was still a building unscarred by death. It meant shelter for the night and with any luck, a functioning storm-cellar. Tiko helped her navigate through the hole in the chain-link fence and over the rubble of the building’s crumbling exterior. With a little effort, they pried the boards off a window cavity and climbed inside.

Tiko turned his flashlight on. “Office building, maybe? Condemned long before the plague hit, I think.”

Sofie crossed through the amber light and peered through the blackened solar window at the other end of the hall. “There’s a courtyard. And there’s ivy or moss or something climbing up the sides.”

“Woot! Green means water source. Now we can weather the storm.”

They found the lobby. Exposed concrete floors told the story of missing carpet, but Sofie sighed with relief. She preferred cold seeping through her sleeping bag to bugs infesting her slumber. As she unrolled her pack,  Tiko pulled out his salvage bag and began preparations for a salad of dandelions and wild onions, the fruits of their many stops along the abandoned roadway.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, Tiko, honestly.” She averted her gaze from shame. “People try to avoid me, or hurt me, because of what my father did.”

“People are jackasses. You are not your father. You don’t know a virus from a volleyball.” Tiko selected a fungus from their salvage salad and chucked it across the room. “Or a mushroom from a toadstool, apparently.”

“They’ll never forgive him, will they.” The words tasted bitter across her tongue. For all his sins against mankind, Dmitri Kerov was still her father.

“No.” Tiko shook his head. “They never will. But I hope I can. Someday. When I can exchange my anger for peace.”

Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it.

Fading Luxury (WoE week 20)

After a brief hiatus, Write at the Merge is back again and so am I! With 500 or fewer words, we are challenged to create a story or part of a story that explores either or both of the provided topics. First: a quote:

"Are you really sure that a floor cannot also be a ceiling?" M.C. Escher

and then the photo:

photo by Keith Misner courtesy Unsplash

I love wood floors of all varieties. Each plank has a character all its own, perhaps a memory of the tree from which it is hewed. So that's the aspect of the challenge that I've decided to focus on this week.

Now, I want to return to characters I introduced here, although I will need to warn you there is a giant chunk missing from last time we saw them. Patience is still on the path to get her sister back, but this scene comes after her time with the Natives from the last scene. Jeb Grayson is preparing for a showdown against the Lassiers.

If you're new to the story line, and you would like to start at the beginning, follow the Label: Patience.


I offer the following in response: A Fading Luxury

Patience sucked a breath of private pleasure as her feet, unhindered by house-shoes, connected with the wooden floor. She couldn’t remember when last she walked barefoot across planks polished to a shine. Her trials took her all over the wild and uncivilized territories to rescue her sister, and Boston, once a part of her very blood, seemed a distant memory.

A wooden floor, creaking beneath her weight, was pure luxury.  She appreciated it even more than she did her cavalry hosts stationed at Fort Atherton.

A light rap sounded at the door, followed by Jeb’s graveled voice. “Boston, you awake, girl?”

Patience reached for her dressing gown and opened the door just enough to converse through.  “Mr. Grayson, you’re early. I am not yet presentable.”

He averted his eyes and removed the hat she had come to believe was permanently affixed to his head. Jeb appeared nervous, anxious, coaxing concern from the pit of her heart. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this and I’ve never been one to dance about a subject. I came to tell you goodbye.”

His words stung. She tasted bile in her throat and pulled the door inward. “Goodbye? I don’t understand. Where are you going?”

He ran his fingers around the brim of his hat. “Look, I promised to help you git yer sister back, but where we’ve gotta go next…where I gotta go and what I gotta do…a lady like yerself shouldn’t be any part of.”

His tone was so earnest. Panic seized her soul. “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Grayson. I’m coming with you.”

“Now the captain said yer welcome to stay here, or there’s a stage arrivin’ tomorrow that could take you home.”

“No, I can’t go. Not without Charity.”

Her protests ignored, Jeb continued. “Now if I succeed, Miss Charity and I will be back before long.”

“If you succeed. If?” Patience flung the door wide on its hinges and gripped her dressing gown tightly about her shoulders. “What do you mean if?”

“Whatjya think I meant?” he barked, fire flashing in his eyes. He took a breath and his tone softened. “Look Boston, I told you a hunnard times the Lassiers ain’t for messin' with. I kick that hornet nest and there’s a very real chance that the devil’ll be there to collect what I owe him.”

“I can help—“

“I don’t doubt that. I’ve seen you shoot. But we’ll be outnumbered thirty to one and there’s no use in gitting us both shot full of holes, or worse.” He finally met her gaze. “They take you, like they took yer sister? No. This is where we part ways. You stay safe, Boston.”

Jeb turned, leaving her alone at the doorway. “How could I ever be safe without you?” Patience whispered as he retreated, his silhouette dark against the rising sun. She held her breath until he cast a long look back from the fort gates. In one fearful beat, her porcelain heart shattered.

Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it. 

Evensong Requiem (WoE #7)

Write at the Merge gives us 500 words to explore the concept of Time.

Alongside a picture of an alarm clock, which didn't spark anything for me, we are provided this quote from The Glass Menagerie:

Time is the longest distance between two places.

--Tennessee Williams 

This quote screams "measuring time" for me and it calls to mind the ringing of bells to mark the canonical hours of religious devotion. I wasn't prepared for where I went with the final product, so I thought I should warn you, this isn't a happy piece. (My Precipice/Bannerwing entry wasn't happy either. I think I need some vitamin B-12 or something.)

Anyway, I offer the following in response: A Evensong Requiem.

The None Bells rang and Brother Gwen set down his quill. He worked the blood back into his hands and slid from his wooden stool to follow the other monks to office. His broken gait pained him, sending burning pulses through his crooked back with each clumsy step. Forty years hunched at his station, with only a single candle to illuminate his work, Brother Gwen prayed for the day he could pass his mantle on.

He joined his brothers in the chant, saddened at his crackled voice. He reached the notes he could with the power he could, but he feared he was failing his office. His mind wandered, remembering his eager days as an initiate. There was infinite possibility under heaven’s watch when his calling was new. Now, he was conquered by his age.

With the None Office concluded, Brother Gwen hobbled to the infirmary instead of returning to the library. Brother Gregory waved him over before he could speak, sending one of his novices to fetch supplies. “Brother Gwen,” the monk helped Gwen onto the straw-thatched bed, “I had not expected you back so soon.”

“Thank you, Brother Gregory. God tests me with the cold and I fear he will not find me worthy.” Gwen allowed the monk to disrobe him to his waist. He had little strength left to manage on his own.

The novice returned with the familiar vial of pungent elixir that had been Gwen’s saving grace these many winter months. Brother Gregory handled the vial with extreme care, tilting the liquid into clean cloth in small dabs, never once touching it with bare fingers. “Monkshood is powerful, and although I have taken steps to reduce its poison, we cannot be overly careful, Brother Gwen.”

Gregory had said this before, Gwen remembered, but as of late, only the ointment relieved any of his pain. He prayed in silence for forgiveness, for being so weak and frail, while Gregory applied the small amount to his sore back. It numbed and soothed, and tingled up his spine. Gwen relaxed, but his breathing became labored and Death's rattle crept into his voice. “Thank you, Brother Gregory.”

The monk frowned and set aside his cloth and vial. “Gwen, you did good to see me. I do not think you will rise again this night.”

Gwen coughed. “That would be the cruelest office of all. I have not finished my last book. God will not receive me as a failure.”

Gregory smiled, “Oh my brother, you are the gentlest of us. You have given us a glimpse of God in the love you bear our order. It is your flesh which fails your soul, not your unfinished deeds.”

“Is it so simple as that?” Gwen gasped a short-lived chuckle and lay down on the bed. “I pray ‘tis so.”

--//--

Brother Gregory promised to wake him for Vespers, but when the bells of Evensong called the brothers to mass, Gwen was already gone.



Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it. 

It Takes Two: A WoE writing contest.

So, Write on Edge has a special contest going to celebrate the upcoming volume of Precipice. The editors are being tight-lipped about the theme for 3rd year submissions, but this contest is designed to wet our whistle. We have 1,000 words and the following quote from the Great Gatsby:

"It takes two to make an accident." - F. Scott Fitzgerald.

For the record, I'm not a fan of the Great Gatsby. While this literary classic had genius moments, I thought it lacked a defined plot and it certainly head-hopped point-of-view too often for my tastes.

But that has nothing to do with the price of tea in China, or with the rules of engagement concerning this contest.

In addition to the 1k word limit, we can use the quote as an opening/closing line, or simply to draw inspiration from it, then we link up as we usually do. Out of the WoE community who participates, one story will be selected by the editors and another story will be selected by a vote of participants. The two selected stories will be featured in Precipice, volume 3, theme yet to be announced.

Exciting, right?

So I would like to offer the following as my entry.

Taps

  Gone the Sun

The trumpet sounded. Taps haunted the living. The flag was folded with military precision and the captain walked the triangle of starry cloth to an elder woman clad in black. She sat expressionless in a row of crying adults as she received the colors with gloved hands.

Melissa kept her distance, knowing she wasn’t welcome, especially now that her future husband was gone. His mother said the vilest things at the engagement party. Zach promised that it didn’t matter, that his mother’s opinions were base and ugly, but she would eventually come around. And none of it would change how he felt about her.

There was no benefit for Melissa. The Marine Corps didn’t consider her as next of kin. It was the cruelest trick of fate, to dangle the possibility of forever before her eyes, only to rip it away two weeks before the wedding.

Afghanistan couldn’t kill him, though it tried. The heat during the day, the cold during the night, the rabble with a penchant for locking their own in suicide cages, all of it and he still managed to come home well-adjusted and strong. Zach was supposed to be safe in the States. Gunfire disturbed the silence. Melissa forced a breath through her tired lungs, wiped a tear from her cheek, and counted.   Seven rifles times three rounds equaled twenty-one.  

And it was over.

The shadow clad family and friends wore their grief like a shroud and dropped ruby roses after the rosewood casket lowering into the ground. Her vantage point grew stale, yet she remained, numbness returning to her veins. Melissa watched Zach’s mother rise and depart in a sea of supporting arms. She sucked in another breath and whispered her silent argument to the sun for another hour with Zach. Just one more hour, she begged.

“You’re Melissa, right?”

She lowered her head, preparing for the avalanche of ill-will from a tongue under the employ of her would-be-mother-in-law. “I am.”

“I’m Bricker.” He sounded nervous. “Well, my name is Anthony Brickman, but everyone calls me Bricker.”

The name was familiar. She looked up and caught a pair of melancholy eyes, gray like an ocean of storms. “Zach’s…cousin.”

“Yeah.” He flinched. Something was troubling him.

“Nice to meet you. Zach told me a lot about you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’re sorry for my loss?” He gave a humorless laugh. “No wonder he loved you. You were too good for him, you know.”

“You’re wrong.” Her tongue was sharper than she wanted it to be. “He was bloody perfect.”

“He was a better man than me, that’s for sure.” Bricker sniffed and looked away. “It’s my fault you know. My fault he’s gone.”

“That doesn’t make sense. It was an accident.”

“I know it’s not my fault in that respect. But I’m the reason he was there at all. He wouldn’t have been on that bridge if not for me.” His weight shifted on his crutches. “You know that’s enough reason for Aunt Addie to cut me out.”

His tears drew more tears of her own from hiding and fished anger from her soul. “Zach’s mother, she blames you?”

“Can’t say I blame her for that. I mean, I blame myself too, so it’s only natural.”

“It’s not fair that Zach’s gone. I’ve begged every deity in history for a glimpse of what we could’ve had together.” Melissa shook her head. “But you didn’t make that accident happen. And he is the only one gone because the two of you together worked to get everyone out. Time just ran out for him. Time just ran out for us both.”

He was quiet for a long time, which was okay. She needed to process what she had just said. As her emotions tugged at her thoughts like taffy, she watched the Cat scoop earth into Zach’s final resting place. Zach saved thirty-two people that day, twenty-eight of them children, completely emptying the bus before the fire consumed him. Pointing fingers at anyone seemed petty in comparison.

“Look, Bricker,” she reached out and touched his arm. “Zach isn’t the sort – wasn’t the sort – to stand by and watch children perish. The others on that bridge were too busy catching the wreck on their smartphones. But you and Zach…I don’t want Zach to be gone, I want so bad to have my wedding and to live happily after. All those parents though, they all get to wrap their arms around their babies for one more hour. Why on earth would I ever wish this pain on them? No, you did good, Bricker. You both did.”

“It should have been me.” His voice crackled and sputtered. “Zach had so much more to contribute to this world. Can you ever forgive me?”

Melissa wiped the waterfall from her eyes and tried to smile. “There’s nothing to forgive. But if you need to hear the words, I forgive you and I hope someday you can say it to yourself.”

His crutches clattered to the ground. Strong and sudden, his arms engulfed her in a cocoon of a hug. They stood clinging to each other’s warmth in the shadow of Zach’s grave-site. “I’m so sorry, so very sorry,” he repeated like a child over a broken toy.

She began to overheat, feeling sweat bead at the nape of her neck. She kept the hug as long as she dared before giving him a gentle push. “I don’t want to keep you. I know the family is having a small reception at your aunt’s house. But I’m hoping…”

His gray eyes locked her gaze. “Hoping what?”

“Your aunt isn’t the type to be forgiving, no matter how wrong she is, and it’s going to take a long time before she’s willing to budge. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me? Maybe some lunch? I’d very much like not to be alone right now.”

He nodded. “I’d like that, too.”

City Traffic (WoE 3)

Write at the Merge gives us 500 words for our limit and the following picture and quote.

"Sometimes legends make reality and become more useful than the facts."

-Salman Rushdie

image by Tom Quackenbush courtesy Unsplash

I don't know where in the dusty recesses of my mind that this scene was hiding, or even where it's planning on going. It feels like more should be done with it, but with the 500 word limit, it'll have to stay put as a work-in-progress.

I offer the following in response: City Traffic

The wind tossed a stray newspaper page like a lazy football, carrying it a small distance and disposing of it with an incomplete pass. Waste clogged gutters and alleyways in drifts inches thick. The nearby park, enclosed in a prison of cold chain-link and razor wire, did little to inspire comfort and the tired playground equipment stood silent and broken. Architectural details of the multi-story buildings hinted at a time when everything was new and pristine but any denizens who would have remembered that time disappeared decades ago.

Crime didn’t hide in the shadows on unsavory corners anymore. Dealers and junkies completed business transactions in broad daylight near the overworked hookers plying their trade like fishmongers. Flash cars were common on G Street, driven by those seeking a fix away from their ivory towers or by the successful crime bosses evaluating job performances of those in their employ. The established circus of anti-social behaviors and criminal intentions performed daily if less intense in the cold, winter months.

Sara strolled up the sidewalk at dusk with slow, measured steps. The stench of urine and vomit assailed her nose as she passed dumpster riddled alleys. She loathed this part of the city. There was a taint to the air that lingered in her hair and clothing she could never be rid of. She intended to cross Leffingwell when she was accosted by a prostitute, angry at the encroachment into her territory.

“Hey, Matrix! Get your own corner!” screamed a brassy blonde in a sequined tube top from across the street.

“Relax, I’m not here to turn a trick,” Sara called back.

“Ah shit, you the fuzz? You down the wrong street yo.”

Sara debated approaching the blonde, but the prostitute was her best option for information.  This is going to be expensive, she thought, pulling a wad of cash from her pocket. “I’m not a cop...tonight.”

“You fuzz at any time, you fuzz through and through. You keep walkin’.”

“Look, I’m willing to buy your time. Easy money. All you got to do is point me in the right direction.” Sara smelled a mix of fear and temptation. The greenbacks in her hand reflected in the blonde’s eyes like a flame.

Her voice dropped low and serious. “You wastin’ you Benjamins ‘cuz I don’t know nuttin’ an’ I ain’t about to wake up in no pine box.”

“I can play this game. For each ‘nothing’ you tell me about, you’ll get another hundred, starting after an automatic two-hundred just for showing up.”

Cat-like claws snatched up the money and stuffed it without ceremony into the crevice of her tube top. “I know what you after, yo. There’s lots that goes down on Leffingwell, but I spect you here about a missin’ little girl. Ain’t none of us okay wit dat, yo.”

Sara flipped out another hundred, “Understood. See? Easy money.”

The prostitute smiled, wide and toothy. “Sure, so long as my boss don’t show up. Let's play, yo.”

Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it. 

A Past to Forget (WoE #2)

Write at the Merge gives us 500 words this week and the following quote and picture for inspiration. 

Wood Snake provided courtesy Unsplashed

"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."

LP Hartley, The Go-Between (1953)

There were several directions I wanted to go, but in the end I decided to return to Essie Dorely and her heavenly new career as a reaper. She just met her partner. If you have the opportunity and you want to get caught up you can start here first, and then here next.

I offer the following in response: A Past to Forget

“Now, please follow me. We’ll start Essie’s training.” Reaper and his silent flip-flops floated over the platform.

Abilene twirled her stole, her eyes following Reaper. “Mmm, mmm but that man can rock a suit.”

Essie tugged at her sleeves and rocked her shoulders back. “After you Miss Fortesque.”

The vixen snorted a laugh, a trail of smoke escaping from her nostrils. “Honey, do please call me Abilene. Miss Fortesque was probably my mother.”

“Probably?” Essie stopped before she started. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did she die before you were born?”

She responded with a casual shrug. “I don’t know but to be honest, I don’t ever give it much thought.”

Essie quickened pace when she caught Reaper turning to wait at the end of the platform. “But aren’t you curious?”

“Aren’t you as precious as a lollipop? You figure out what I am yet?”

Words stuck in Essie’s throat, so she gave a dumb nod and tried to focus on Reaper’s flip-flops.

Abilene uttered a cruel sigh, “So you do know what I am. Well, then you should probably know that my kind tend to avoid our pasts whenever it can be helped. History, you see, is a creature all its own, one, I should add, that won’t hesitate to blackmail you so you spend the rest of eternity in the bloody basement, darning socks with razor blades and…that analogy got away from me I think.”

Essie smiled. “A bit.”

“The point is, the past is what keeps me in fire and brimstone, get me? I live through it enough downstairs, I don’t want to think about it on my off time.”

“Okay, got it. No questions about your past.”

If Reaper was impatient, he didn’t show it. “Making friends?”

Although Reaper’s tie didn’t need straightening, Abilene stepped close to him and made a show of smoothing his tie into submission. “Of course, darling. We were having a lovely, intimate intercourse, negotiating our boundaries.”

He stepped back and the silkiness slipped through her gloved fingers. Abilene turned and winked at Essie. “Oh, before we go any further, I should let you know that my safe word is Armageddon.”

Reaper shook his head, his twilight eyes sparkling, “Miss Fortesque, please behave yourself or you won’t get to go.”

“Ash and rot, we’re not going to Gilroy again are we? It took forever to get that garlic stench out of my hair.”

He smiled, broad and teasing. “Paris.”

“France?” Abilene squealed and held up two fingers in a salute. “I’ll do anything you want for Paris. The boutiques, the food, the Frenchmen…”

Essie brightened, excitement coaxing goose-flesh to her arms. She remembered getting lost in Paris. She was so twisted about she ended up at the l’Arc de Triomph when she was supposed to be at the Eiffel Tower, but she didn’t care. She loved the City of Light.

“I call shotgun.” Abilene snuffed her cigarette against the wall.

The ash dripped off the wall without a trace of evidence left behind.



Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it. 

Beginning of January

First half: Click Here

A New Regime, Part Two.

Rising, her Grace crossed the stone floor. Her shadow crawled onto Elise’s skin. “Shall I send you to the front as well? I’m sure the men would love some female…companionship.”

Elise cradled Brenna’s head with sweaty palms, willing her mistress to come to. The vile retort Elise wanted to say lodged in her throat. “If, if it is your wish, Your Grace.”

A fire burned bright and hot in the duchess’s eyes. Elise could almost taste brimstone in the stale air. “You’ve been a thorn in my side, Elise, since before your whore mother birthed you Know this now, I will be rid of you soon enough, and you will kiss my feet if I allow you to live.”

Elise felt the shudder though Brenna's shoulders as she stirred. “Mother, please. Please, may I retire?”

A long moment passed between them. “Of course, my sweet thing. But you will need to develop a stronger stomach in the coming days. Your skin is far too thin for the royal politic.”

It felt like escaping a dungeon. Elise and Brenna tripped down the hall to the east wing, clutching each other for support. They did not risk speaking until the door to Brenna’s bedchamber was securely fastened, and even then the words were slow in coming. “It’s a bad dream,” Brenna paced, a caged animal waiting for slaughter. “I’ll wake up tomorrow and Papa will still be alive and…and…” She wiped tears away with a trembling hand. “What do we do?”

“We take a deep breath, and we think.”

“I don’t know what to do. Papa always, always knew how to handle Mother.” Her tremor worsened.

“We can’t panic,” Elise grabbed her lady’s shoulders. “We keep our heads. We figure this out.”

Brenna’s sobs subsided, but her voice still quivered. “I wish I could see Pierre one last time. To tell him, I don’t know…”

Elise felt a jolt pass through her soul. “You can.”

“What? But my mother-“

“No. Ignore her.” Elise tore open the doors on her Lady’s armoire. She pulled traveling garments from the side shelf. “We’re running, Brenna.”

“But, where would we go?”

Elise spun Brenna about to unbutton her corset-cover. “We go to Fernwood.”

“It’s too far…”

“Well I can’t stay here, Brenna. When Fa- when His Grace died, my life became forfeit. My family’s lives are in danger. Your mother could have sent her soldiers already.” Her lungs failed her and she struggled to breathe, bringing a shaky hand to her abdomen in feeble attempt to steady her nerves.

“Why is she so against you?” Brenna eased the corset cover off in delicate fashion and grabbed her simple woolen travel cote-hardie. “I’ve never understood.”

“I tell you,” Elise gripped her mistress’s shoulders, locking eyes with severity. “But you cannot breathe it to a single soul. Swear it Brenna!”

Fear tinted her features. “I’d cut my own tongue out first, I swear it on Papa’s grave.”

“I am your half-sister. I was conceived under the law of Prima Noctem. First Night rights, Bren. Have you never wondered why we look so similar?”

“No, Papa, he wouldn’t…” But understanding flamed in her eyes. She ran to her chamber pot and vomited.

December's End (WoE week 53)

Write at the Merge gives us 500 words as usual, but in honor of saying goodbye to 2013 and hello to 2014, there's a bit more to this week's prompt.

The first challenge is to experiment with the concepts of goodbye and purgatory.
The second includes the song Goodbye by artist Alicia Keys, and the following quote:

Never let the future disturb you. You will meet it, if you have to, with the same weapons of reason which today arm you against the present. 

Marcus Aurelius Antonius Meditations 200 A.D. 

I love the concepts and the images that are colliding in my mind, even now, after my response is completed. There's a lot to work with here, and so many directions to go. The grit of the grim appeals to me most, perhaps due to the films I've watched recently. The fire-breathing dragon in the old dwarven mountain, the corrupt capitol and the mandatory games designed to keep the population enslaved, even the epic struggle between angels and demons conducted in the shadowy underground of New York City, all these dark stories are bubbling in my creative cauldron.

This week, I had too much muse, my piece weighing in with over a thousand words.It doesn't even feel complete yet. I think there's potential for it to develop into a novel or two of some length. Which both excites me and frustrates me, because I've already got four fantasy trilogies in the works, and they all have to take a back-burner to the paranormal mystery sequels that I'm hoping to publish in 2014.

So I thought I'd cheat a little. This post carries the first 500 words. If you choose to, you can move on to tomorrow's post.

I offer the following in response:  A New Regime, Part One

The duke was dead. His ambitious widow claimed regency for her adolescent son that very hour, but the duchy council knew it was only a matter of time before she made a bid for Mad King Herold’s throne. The uneasy councilmen watched from the purgatory of palace shadows, waiting for the inevitable declaration of war.

Elise had more immediate concerns. As she helped her lady dress in mourning shift, she pinched her fingers twice in corset lacings and fumbled with the sleeve ribbons.

Brenna twisted her hair out of the way, “Mother insists I be rid of you.”

She sounded uncertain, distant. Elise paused, “Her Grace has insisted that for years.”

“But without Father,” Brenna’s eyes flickered in her looking glass reflection. “I have no idea how to protect you.”

They shared a disquiet silence. “Well, to supper,” Elise choked on the lump in her throat. “We will know our fates soon enough.”

Brenna hugged her tight, “Whatever happens, I’ll see to your family. Father made you a promise and I intend to keep it.”

“Thank you,” Elise closed her eyes against rising doubt. Brenna meant well, but the duchess would have her own way. Whispers existed in the darkest corners among the bravest servants that murder had been the duke’s untimely end. The rumor carried the threat of the gallows.

Supper was a tense affair. Already relegated to the sideboard like a memory discarded, the duke’s chair sat empty. Elise kept to her station, distress clenching her stomach so tight the smells of food soured her appetite. She could tell from what remained on refused plates that Brenna wasn’t hungry either.

The duchess noticed as well. “Brenna, you’ve barely touched your meal. Is something amiss?”

“Grief has made me unwell.” The silence amplified Brenna’s trembling voice.

The duchess tapped the knife she held, a sign of her displeasure. “It will pass. I have received the contract for your engagement, from House Glassen.”

Elise surrendered a captive sigh. It was no secret that Brenna and Pierre were fond of each other. The duke approved of the match despite Pierre’s lower title, placing his daughter’s happiness first. And they could be safe in Glassen’s traditional seat in Fernwood.

Brenna straightened. “I’m pleased to-“

“I’ve had to send our regrets, of course.”

Elise stiffened. Brenna’s voice was full of fear. “Regrets?”

The duchess nodded, “Well I don’t know what your father was thinking, accepting such a contract in the first place. But don’t you worry. I’ve corrected all that.”

“Corrected?”

“Is there an echo?” The duchess tisked. “Besides, I need Sir Pierre de Glassen to fill in the ranks I’ve promised to deliver to Mad King Herold. He needs fodder soldiers for his silly war against the Northmen.”

Brenna pushed back her chair, half-rising, and passed out. Elise darted, catching her mistress and the wrathful glare of the duchess.

“Now, what to do about you…” Rising, her Grace crossed the stone floor. Her shadow crawled onto Elise’s skin. 

Week of Thanks and Giving (WoE #48)

Write at the Merge gives us 100 words to explore the word Gratitude.

I could not eloquently list everything I'm grateful for and keep it to 100 words.

Therefore, I will keep it simple, as if I received an award and had 30 seconds to give a speech.


Among other things, I am most grateful for the opportunity to participate in the stories each dawn brings.


Happy Thanksgiving!

Autumn's Death (WoE #43)

Write at the Merge gives us the word pine and the following picture for inspiration.

Photo courtesy unsplash by way of Write On Edge

I have a renaissance faire to attend this weekend, in Escondido, California. With the recent weather and my thoughts colliding with another century, I wanted to return to my Anastasia and Arik, the Count of Monteschell. We last learned what a true beast Anastasia's brother is. The stakes of the game of power and royal favor are about to get more risky. This week's post, more than the seasons change.

I offer the following in response: The Death of Autumn's Reign

Trees pined for winter and dropped their scarlet and golden tears on the weathered gazebo deck, in requiem for its forgotten ash grove. Children played nearby under the scrutiny of the waning sun, oblivious to the end of autumn as if seduced by a piper clad in a pied cloak. Anastasia knew the moment autumn died; she felt the seasons shift in her bones. She drew her shawl closed and tasted snow on the eastern breeze.

A bad omen, withal. The season turned too early.

“M’Lady,” her footman said, leading her steed to her. “We should return.”

“We are waiting.”

He shook his head, “Twilight is approaching. His Grace will not come at this hour.”

Anastasia shivered. The footman was right, of course, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Something felt off. “We are waiting.”

“M’Lady, your teeth are chattering.”

Her breath rose in smoke-like tendrils. “We are still waiting.”

The children abandoned their games in a slow exodus from the field, the heartiest soul among them the last to leave. The footman bounced in his place. “M’Lady, this cold isn’t good for the horses. Will you not think of them?”

Ground-born thunder rolled through the meadow before the royal standards appeared through the tree line. “Damn,” she whispered as the King’s horsemen rose into view. One soon broke from the train, leading the others in formation and panic squeezed her heart as she realized the men had been sent for her. And her Arik rode among them. “Please, don’t leave me, Cullen.”

The footman was a beacon of fear. “Yes, m’lady.”

A nobleman dismounted and joined her count as he crossed the empty space between Anastasia and the circled soldiers. She dropped into a low curtsy, at their approach, uneasy at the display of force. Why was Arik riding with the King’s men and why were there so many of them?”

“My Lady Dumarche,” Arik extended a hand to help her rise. “I apologize for the show of force. I bring you grim news.”

Blood pumped in her ears. “I am your servant, Your Grace.”

“I am on King’s Business,” he continued. “His majesty has taken ill and your father has been arrested. Your brother is acting on behalf of your lands and requests that you return to your home at once.”

If her brother controlled her fortune, she could very well end up the next morning dead of poison, or worse, discarded in the old oubliette. She sucked in a stiff breath and stared against Arik’s hard gaze, seeking silent his guidance. “Your Grace, I beseech you,” she said, choosing her words carefully. There were too many witnesses to be informal. “As it is a long journey back to my father’s palace, and as the cold is unbearable, might I impose upon your custody and weather the night at Monteschell?”

Arik’s face relaxed, a spark of hope danced in his eyes. “That is a reasonable request. Come. Mount your horse. We will to my father’s stead.”

Precipice 2013 is HERE!

Announcing Precipice 2013!

"You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from."  

Cormac McCarthy, "No Country for Old Men" 

 In the second volume of Precipice, twenty-four authors from the Write on Edge community explore the concept of luck in twenty-six works of poetry, short fiction, and memoir.

I am proud to be a part of such a wonderful, supportive community and I am equally proud that my work has been selected for this publication. My sincerest thanks goes to the dedicated editorial staff at Write on Edge, whose encouragement and advice help me improve as a writer. 

Check out Precipice 2013, available from these fine retailers:

• Amazon for Kindle/Kindle apps
• Amazon for print:
• Smashwords for all ebook/digital formats:

The ebook will become available on iTunes, Kobo, B&N over the next few weeks, and at some point in the next week, the two editions on Amazon will be merged. Watch the FB and Twitter feeds for updates.

Anticipation of Autumn (WoE week 42)

Write at the Merge gives us two words this week: Anticipation and Leap.

I'm going with Anticipation, and I'm going to give you something a bit different this week.


I offer the following in response: Autumn Means Pumpkins!

I have been sitting on edge for the last few weeks. Autumn is a season of preparation. We anticipate winter’s approach like loyal subjects for their queen, festooning trees with brightly hued leaves of gold and rust. The world seems to me like a child that cannot sit still at the midnight hour in wait for Saint Nick, watching the starry skies through frost covered windows, afraid to sleep because it might miss something.

For me, the wait begins with the planting of the pumpkin vine. I’m a bit obsessed with pumpkins, mostly because they each have their own personality, with warts and scars and farmer tans from sitting on the ground too long during their development. When no one is watching, I hug them.

Who am I kidding? I hug them even when people are watching. Don’t judge me. I never said I was normal.

Anyway, I thought I’d share the reason why I’m hovering over my pumpkin vines in wait for their perfect orange fruit. The following is my absolute favorite pumpkin recipe. 

Pumpion Pye
AKA: Baked Whole Pumpkin

Variations of this dish has been around at least since the colonies were established in the Americas, and was a known favorite of our founding fathers. George Washington himself was especially partial to Pumpkin Pie and requested it often from his own kitchen. Of course, the concept of pie has evolved over the centuries, from the waste not/want not use of yesteryear leftovers to the flaky crust and sweet fillings that we all know pie to be today.

For a very special holiday pumpkin dessert, give this flashback a shot:

WARNING: This is not for anyone on any form of diet for any reason. If you or someone you serve develops heart disease, diabetes, or other dietary malfunction, DO NOT BLAME ME. It is solely your responsibility to ascertain if you or those you serve are healthy enough to partake of this dish.

Now that the public service announcement has been issued, let’s begin.

Preheat the oven to 350*

Gather the ingredients:

·         A small pumpkin, 3 or 4 pounds, guts removed

·         3 whole eggs

·         1 cup heavy whipping cream

·         ¼ cup brown sugar

·         ½ Tbsp molasses

·         ¼ tsp nutmeg (freshly grated is best)

·         ½ tsp cinnamon

·         ¼ tsp ginger

·         Fresh Vanilla bean, scraped, or a few drops of extract, to taste

·         1 Tbsp butter (real butter please, no skimping)

After guts have been removed from the pumpkin, mix all remaining ingredients except the butter and fill the pumpkin with the mixture. Top the mixture with the butter. Place the top back on the pumpkin and place in an oven-safe dish (this is to keep leakages from spilling out into the oven) and bake for 1-1 ½ hrs or until the mixture as set like a custard.

If you can wait for the pumpkin to cool before serving, you win bragging rights for self-control. While amazing at cool, this pumpkin is positively sinful while hot. Serve from the pumpkin directly at the table, scraping the pumpkin meat off with each scoop of the custard. Family style suggestion: hand everyone a spoon and announce “dig in”. 

For those of you who are trying to do the vegan thing, some friends have suggested that cream of coconut works for the whipping cream, but I have no idea what to do about the eggs. You guys are on your own, but I wish you the best of luck. 

The Interrogation (WoE week 39)

Write at the Merge gave us two pictures for inspiration this week. One is of a crate of what looks like peaches (maybe apricots?) and another is of two loaves of bread.

The idea behind it is to have something from scratch. Something new that leaves one with the same feeling of contentment that freshly baked bread can bring.

Well, I wanted quirky this week. So guess what. Yup, I'm going somewhere completely different.


I offer the following in response: If Interrogation Rooms Could Talk

“And what happened then, Miss Leipsing?”

Lola stopped twirling her hair between her fingers. She wasn’t getting far with femininity. The officer was all flatfoot and no stooge. But, for the first time in her life, she didn’t care. She pushed her chewing gum to the other side of her mouth with her tongue. “He placed a hand where it didn’t belong.”

The officer cleared his throat. “Where did he place his hand, Miss Leipsing?”

She lowered her eyes. “Where. It. Didn’t. Belong. Are you deaf or somethin’?”

“Miss Leipsing,” he growled through a rack of snarly teeth, “I can’t help you if I don’t know specifics. ‘Where it didn’t belong’ doesn’t tell me much.”

“Ain’t you got an imagination, Flatfoot?” Lola smacked her gum. “Do I really gotta spell it out for you?”

“Yeah, I’m dumb. Feel free to treat me that way.”

“Huh, sarcasm. Maybe you've got some imagination after all.” Leaning back in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, she blew a bubble to the point of explosion. “He reached across the couch and he squeezed my real estate.” She cupped her breasts for emphasis.

“No way it could be an accident? Maybe he was reaching for his drink and you-“

“I under-estimated you, Flatfoot, you got an amazing imagination.” Lola leaned forward and tapped her fingernail on the table. “Let me make this crystal clear. He said, ‘nice peaches, baby’ and he man-handled me like he was tuning a radio to Tokyo.”

“And you explained that his touch was unwarranted?”

She coughed and her gum shot across the table. “You bet your ass I ‘explained his touch was unwarranted’, you doughnut-stuffed bulldog. Hence the reason his head broke my best table lamp.”

His eyes crossed above his nose as he picked the lump of saliva and pink from his notepad. “And, ah, how did that happen?”

“I hit him with it.”

He tapped his pencil against the table. “When did the money become involved?”

She waved his comment away. “I didn't say money, I said bread. There was bread in the oven, but that’s not important.”

“Look, I don’t tell you how to, uh, do what you do for a living. Don’t tell me what’s important.”

Lola tried really hard to kill him with her stare, or at least maim him, or she’d even settle for giving him indigestion. “What, you think it’s easy to sit, naked, anywhere and allow addled boys to sketch you for hours on end? It’s always ‘turn this way’ or ‘pout more’ or ‘my, my it must be cold in here’. You try it someday. I started baking bread to keep them distracted and me much warmer.”

He sighed.  “Fine. I apologize Miss Leipsing. What happened next?”

Lola shrugged, “He called me a two-bit floozy then screamed like a little girl.”

“A man his size and he screamed like a girl? Why would he do that?”

“Because I took my derringer and shot his stupid ass.”

Indian Summer (WoE week 38)

Write at the Merge gives a quote and a picture this week. First the quote:

August rain: the best of summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.  

Sylvia Plath

And next the picture:

Mason Jars by Rula Sibai via Unsplash

So, my thoughts went to the phrase Indian Summer, which always happened just as kids started up school in September. They'd have their new fall clothes born of east coast fashion and we'd be experiencing another Los Angeles heat wave. Sweat and tears and awkward school-year starts...Ah yes, the so-called Glory Days.

Not my glory days. 

I would like to bring you another installment of Patience's story. Jeb recently taught Patience how to shoot a firearm, a valuable lesson in the wild west, and they're on the move again.

I offer the following in response: Indian Summer 

 The dry wind carved a path through the canyon, casting wayward dust into Indian Territory. Patience missed the moisture long vacant from her eyes. She would cry for the sun scalding her cheeks, if she had any tears left to bargain with.

“Here.” Jeb held his canteen before her eyes. “But don’t git carried away. Few things’r worse than a flood after a drought.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grayson.” She tilted the canteen to her lips and sipped, mindful of his warning. “I thought moving to Brasher was difficult. This…wilderness…the miles of empty without passing a living soul. How can anyone live beyond the edge of civilization like this?”

Patience expected a retort as heated and dry as the weather. Instead, Jeb raised a hand and blocked the sun from his eyes. “This wilderness is far from empty, Boston. And since you missed it, we’ve been followed for the last three or four miles.”

He pointed to the canyon’s ridge and her heart froze as she caught a glimpse of an Indian melting into the trees. She reached for the rifle at her feet; her hand trembling of its own accord. “What do we do?”

“Do?” Jeb shrugged. “Nothing we can do, truth be told, so leave that rifle right where it is.”

“But…” She pulled back, confused. “I’m living life remember? I can’t save my sister if I get killed in an ambush by savages. So just tell me what to do.”

“Now, hold on. We ain’t exactly in the best of positions running this wagon through the canyon. They know it too.” Jeb clicked at the horses. “Since we ain’t already dead, I think we can assume they ain’t gonna kill us.”

“You think?” Patience watched the crest, looking for signs of an attack although unsure what those signs would be. Every movement of the shrub grass seemed to foretell her death. Her fear lodged in her throat.

She heard Jeb moan. “And damned am I for mentionin’ it.”

“Who are they?” Though she was a child, she remembered a tribe's removal march. “Cherokee?”

“The Cherokee are settled westways of here. Not much call for them stalking a solitary couple in a northbound wagon.” Seriousness overtook his features as his eyes shifted to the road before them. “But I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

She followed his gaze. Before them, three Indians on horseback blocked their path where the canyon narrowed. There would be no avoiding them now. Patience struggled to breathe as her mind failed her. Her thoughts and fears swirled together in a violent storm, driving the blood from her heart to her cheeks. Her body began to go numb and shut down, starting with her toes. And then the canyon went black.

Her hearing returned before her vision did. A stream bubbled nearby and a damp cloth dabbed at her brow. Her eyes snapped open and she looked beyond the few painted, foreign faces at Jeb.

She caught his elusive smile before he turned away. 

The Servant's Bond (WoE Week 37)

Write at the Merge gave us two options for this weeks challenge. We are to Pitch a TV show Pilot and/or Write an Unusual Backstory.

Now, me, I love a good backstory, while I can take or leave most television shows. Backstory is especially appealing since I have been spending a goodly portion of my time divided between researching my ancestry (So my own backstory) and providing a comprehensive developmental edit for a very dear friend who is fond of writing through backstory.

Backstory, if executed correctly, is woven into the plot with a seamless flow. I like to look at it like dating my characters. If I know everything about a character all at once, then the mystery and excitement is lost. Discovering pieces of my characters in small helpings leave me wanting more so I come back more often.

Does that make sense?

You will find a story of mine, titled The Soldier's Gambit, in the upcoming bestseller Precipice 13. 13 is associated with luck, ill or good, or even fate and so that was the theme for this year's edition. I decided to give you the backstory, or rather I suppose the prequel to The Soldier's Gambit which could be more risky than it sounds. It may have unintended spoilers and those readers who do not like spoilers (I do not fall in that category) may decide not to read this bit.

But I suppose I have given you warning. Travel forward at your own peril.


I offer the following in response: The Servant's Bond

The doge summoned her.

Rumblings of war echoed in the council chamber. The advising dogemen whispered in panicked tones about her as she walked the length of the mahogany table to the doge’s side. The doge aged before her eyes, the stress of the siege embedding into the deepening folds of his gaunt face. “I am here,” she said. “What is your will?”

“The next few hours will likely see us prevail the onslaught, or see us crushed by the Valtirissi as the breach our middle defenses.” The doge bid his charge Anastasia forward with a tight wave of his hand. She emerged from the shadows dressed like a waif, void the sparkle of court. “My will, Servant,” he said, “is that you secure safe passage to the Bonne for my cousin here. Her betrothed will keep her safe, and if we survive, will see us the reinforcements and money required to make us whole again.”

Servant had a name once, until the Omen-Readers stripped her kindred of their freedoms for a broken oath, and bound them to eternal servitude for their penance. All of her belonged to the bargain now, to the doge who knew her name and whispered it upon their first meeting. But, there was always a catch, and the doge summoned her little as a result. “We serve in pacts and contracts, Your Grace,” Servant folded her arms. He should not need reminding. “What do you offer in return?”

“Is it not enough that she serve the crown, my liege?” an adviser spoke. What drove his words she did not know. Many were suspicious of her kind, having fallen prey to ill-conceived contracts driven by greed. The doge, however, had been a shrewd man, conservative and patient.

Servant had been bound tight to the doge for over two decades, a rarity among her kind.

She watched the lines of her master’s face shift and struggle. Would he offer my name in exchange? she hoped. 

“You will see Anastasia safely to the Bonne,” he said. Sweat beaded across his brow. “You will tell no one her name. You will tell no one her station. And most importantly, you will tell no one of your station either.” The last words were more a threat than a request.

He will not bargain for my name. I shall have to be clever. “This I shall do, and in exchange, you will allow me leverage to do all that I must to fulfill this request. Do we have an accord?”

Advisers rushed with words of caution and warning. The doge silenced them as a new barrage of war-time thunder shivered through the chamber. His look was suspicious, but she left him with little choice.

“Very well, Servant. Anastasia safely to the Bonne, you do not give her name until then. You will not reveal your station or hers until you are certain she is dining with her betrothed. And you may leverage what you need as you see fit.”