Untitled Fantasy Chapter two

Continuation of Bryn's story. This time we slow down and get a glimpse of other characters.

Chapter Two

“Good Goddess!” Akiya exclaimed when Bryn arrived.
 
Akiya, Bryn and a few others had made a small base camp in the far north of the mountains. Two light brown tents that fit up to five people and one green tent that held eight dotted a mostly barren desert area. A few green bushes and trees surrounded the green tent. From the air, the tents would blend in.

Akiya tucked a stray locke of cotton candy colored hair behind one pointed ear and then stood there and wrung her caramel hands. “I told you this was a bad idea, Princess.” The laugh lines around her diamond like eyes turned into worry creases as she chewed her full lower lip.

Akiya was still the only one Bryn allowed to call her Princess.  To the rest she was simply Bryn.

“I know.” Bryn’s voice waivered as she dismounted.

Although Akiya had just a few years on Bryn, her voice came from an ancient world. “Come here and let me see you better.” She opened her arms in her silvery tunic and took a step forward in her black boots.

Bryn shuffled toward Akiya with her head lowered. I hate disappointing her.

The healer wrinkled her noise at the stench, but didn’t comment on it as she took Bryn’s left arm in her deft hands and looked at the wound. She sucked air through her teeth a few times and Bryn knew the damage was great. Akiya usually could keep comments to herself.

“That bad, huh?”

“Some of the worst you’ve had, Princess.”

“Fantastic.”

Akiya squinted at Bryn for a second before returning her attention to the wound.

Bryn shut up.

“I need you to wash up to really assess the damage.” She poked at the gaping toward her wrist, eliciting a strangled cry from Bryn.  Blood welled up again. “Off you go, Princess.”

Bryn covered her left forearm with her free hand and meandered along the path behind Akiya to the shallow stream behind the enormous granite boulder.

She passed Phelan with his wild buttercup yellow curls and one stormy gray eye (the other he lost in a fight and covered with a simple black patch) as he sharpened some arrows. His black tunic's seams threatened to burst when he moved from all his muscle. He didn’t glance up from his work, but grunted an acknowledgment.

Across from him – working on some kind of stew—the portly Quinlin sat in a blue tunic. Upon seeing Bryn, he rubbed his bald head, crinkled his jolly blue eyes into a smile, and waived.

Bryn waived back.

As Bryn walked away, Akiya tied up Thak next to her own blue Ombre colored horse named Thannos and ducked into the green tent.

Bryn tried to keep from leaving droplets as she reached the stream. She kneeled down at the edge of the water and gingerly put her arm in. The cool water felt surprisingly refreshing. Bryn grinned to herself and then noticed her face in the water. Black streaks and splatters crossed most of her pale face and ran down her arms. Her eyes looked back at her in a haunting stare. “No wonder Akiya looked worried.” Once the bleeding slowed, she stripped out of her sticky tunic and unzipped her boots. A fresh olive green tunic had been laid out for her. She set aside her weapons and glanced around. Coast clear.

Bryn slipped into the cool water that went to her waist and started washing up. Her body, though long and lean with ample breasts and small hips, was littered with battle scars. They crisscrossed her back, her stomach, her shoulders and her chest. In the two years since she’d been on the run, Bryn’s blemish free skin became the story of her journey.

She undid her braid and untangled her white lockes with her fingers the best she could after washing them.

Bryn took a moment to revel in the warmth of the sun and just to be alive.

A snapping noise startled Bryn and she turned to the shore.

She heard a muttered curse from a male voice and ducked into the water with just her head out. “Who’s there?” Bryn braved calling out. My weapons are on shore, dammit.

Fineas stepped out from behind the boulder with his dark cheeks somehow enflamed and his hands held up. “Uh, just me, Princess…I mean Bryn.” Fineas stood at 6’4 with hip length deep black hair he kept in a tight braid and tilted brown eyes that he lined with kohl like his Egyptian ancestors use to. A black tunic cinched at his small waist. “Uh, sorry.” He covered his eyes. Fineas was great with a broad sword or a plasma gun, a bow and arrow or an energy spell, great to keep your back in a fight, but not so great with the female species.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Fin?”

“N-nothing.” He winced. “I mean-um.” Fineas paused.

“Well?”

He cleared his throat and tried again. “Akiya was worried you were taking too long, so she sent me.”

“Tell her I’ll be out in a moment,” Bryn yelled. “As soon as I get dressed.”

Fineas fell all over himself trying to back up and leave. “Yes, Princess… I mean Bryn!”

Bryn chuckled to herself and made her way to shore.

Untitled Fantasy

 Got inspired to write this from a one-line thing over in a writing forum I sometimes follow and it kinda exploded from there lol. I really like this and am ridiculously excited to figure this all out and keep writing it. I started with the opening line and just made it up as I went along (even the imaginary creatures) and it all just flowed. The only thing I paused to look up was her name because I was trying to think of a last name and was stuck. I still don't have it haha.  But this is the first chapter into a fantasy/sci-fi thing about a faerie princess named Bryn who is on the run, foul-mouthed, and full of fun sarcasm. There's  a little goreyness and cursing. Enjoy and CRITIQUE please even if it's just rough!


edit: 10/18/2012 8:41 pm Made a few changes. Added in to the scenery because someone who read it said I needed more setting. I fixed some of the descriptors for the creatures so they read less like a list (as this same person pointed out lol) and added a clarifying description to her horse Thak.

Chapter One

Being a real faerie princess is not what every little girl actually dreams of, Bryn
Ceallach thought as the crimson Kai demon attempted to suck the marrow from her right forearm. She raised her plasma 6-shooter and blasted it right between two of its four glowing lime eyes effectively covering her even more in the stench of the worst raw sewage and rotten eggs scent to ever exist. "Ugh!" Bryn used her free hand to wipe some of the black blood out of one of her lavender edged gold eyes and then had to immediately duck the pouncing attack of another Kai demon. That one got a blast to the back of its elongated oval skull as soon as it landed. The tail whipped back at her in a last death throe and the jagged scales cut across her cheek. "Fuck, even dead you all suck."

The two shots had echoed out in the clearing of the forest lit with summer sun. A gathering of Kipple birds took flight-- from dark olive Qualox trees-- with their tangerine and violet wings picking up a cool breeze.

A third Kai demon hissed from her right and she turned to aim her gun as it crouched on all fours for a moment with its razor-like knees and elbows tightening to launch. Long pointed ears twitched as it listened.

"I don't think so!" She clicked the trigger and nothing happened. "Shit!"

A reptilian grin gaped across its face exposing glistening fangs and its tail spasmed with excitement as it leapt toward her.

She reloaded faster than she ever had before and managed to get a shot off just as the Kai demon was upon her.

It exploded in a disgusting mess of blood, bone and tissues all over her.

She tried to sit up but the weight and stench held her down. "Mother fucker!" She pushed off the bigger chunks and stood up—dripping—and began scanning the wide clearing she had entered too hunt for any other demons. Kai demons loved to travel in packs Her once-grey tunic stuck to her skin in too many places as she moved slowly around with her gun ready to fire at anything that so much as looked wrong. Bryn panted from the fight, but her heart still pounded a crazy jungle beat full of adrenaline.

The area was silent, but nothing seemed eerie or ominous about that. She twirled around when she heard a rustling but it was just a stale breeze blowing over a red Gooza berry bush.

After perhaps 15 minutes her injured arm started to shake from holding up her gun. Nothing else seemed to be coming for her. She holstered her weapon and looked down at her forearm. She tore off what was left of her wrist guard--which apparently is no use to prevent Kai demon fangs from ripping up your flesh--and beneath the drying black blood she could see the shredded skin and muscle. "Akiya is going to have a field day figuring out how to fix that one." Bryn muttered to herself. Just add it to my list of other angry scars. Bryn tore the bottom of her tunic in a spot that had remained mostly 3-week expired milk smell free and wrapped her injury the best she could to prevent bleeding out on the walk. She didn't want people chuckling over her death for being stupid. Bryn thought that might be something crazy to think about. Maybe it's shock? The adrenaline finished seeping away though and brought sharp agony in its place.

Fantastic. She huffed, flicked her bloody white braid over her left shoulder, and picked up her black and silver bow that had gone flying in the attack. She slung it back into its proper place and walked back through the trees towards the fence as her thigh-high leather boots snapped twigs beneath her feet. She didn't care at the moment if she was making too much noise. She was pissed. Her quiver bounced on her back in a comforting rhythm, jostling the hand crafted arrows inside, and she finally slowed her pace. "Just out to hunt up some dinner, but noooo, I can't go Goddess damned anywhere." She snarled.

Sunlight sparkled through the Qualux trees which were so tall they looked like they kissed the sky and lit the path in cheer. 

Small Kipple birds called symphonies to each other from their long pointed beaks while fat Mikkels with big bushy tails, and large tufted ears raced to-and-fro across tree branches.

Summer blooms in a wide range of vibrant colors and shapes blurred past Bryn and she slowed down and tried to keep from stomping. It remained hard to be so annoyed in all the splendor of the forest.


She turned her face to the sun and basked a bit in the warmth that touched the cleaner parts of her skin. I need a bath, she caught a whiff of herself as a cool breeze tickled her ears, or maybe three.

A large branch breaking to her left caught her attention and she unholstered her gun and turned to look.

A Talik—a brown and white deer-like creature with velvety antlers-- stood there on four spindly legs with tiny hooves and stared at her with its impossibly large blue eyes. Its short snout wiggled as it stayed so still.

Bryn sighed with relief and changed out her plasma 6-shooter for her bow and arrow. The bow felt solid and like second nature in her calloused hands. She took aim and just as she went to release the arrow, she heard a piercing screech and suddenly a Kai demon dove on it. Bryn gasped and then quickly put her bow back as the Kai demon occupied itself with tearing the Talik's throat out. Blue blood splashed out onto the forest floor as Bryn stood still for a moment and sent a prayer to any Goddess listening. Then she sprinted the rest of the way through trees, not stopping until she reached the reinforced steel electric fence. The Qualux trees streamed past her and a few skinny branches snapped her face and snagged at her tunic, but she kept up the pace.

Bryn typed Akiya's code in the keypad of the gate with haste when she reached it, slipped through and closed the gate behind her. She let out a breath she hadn't noticed she held as she put her forehead to the cool steel. Shudders ran through her whole body as Bryn breathed deep and slow, trying to calm her heart.

As soon as her heart returned to normal, a thunderous wave of nausea hit her and she stooped over with her hands on her knees and retched until nothing was left.

Her forearm started to throb. "Yeah, yeah, I know you're there." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she turned away from the gate and made it to her horse, Thak.
He stood tied to a wrought iron light post in the open, but actually had been bespelled to be invisible to everyone but her.

Bryn put her hand on his golden zebra striped fur and whispered, "Visabla". He was now visible to all. Horses here were like most in the human world except they had fur instead of hair and came in many more exotic colors.

She mounted Thak's broad back and took the reins in her good hand. Bryn shouted, "Yah!" and he jumped into a break neck gallop.

RektAngel

This is a YA story about an innocent and bookish girl who falls for a moody bad boy and then is accused of killing him.


Prologue


I did not drown Aiden Kohl. I know no one believes me. His family told me so to my face during the trial. My best friend patted my head and made the zipper motion across her lips when I tried to tell the truth. “No need to lie, he deserved it.” Kelly smiled. I couldn't believe she actually said it.

Even so, they weren't there.

It was just him and me out on his parents’ sailboat at 4 am.

I huddled in his winter jacket and tried to stop my teeth from clacking. When I first put it on, he called me his snow princess. The thought made me smile.

Now he hung off the back of the sailboat, taunting me to come in. His dark green eyes were cruel as they bore into me. “Chicken shit,” he called me, among other things. One of his darker moods had set in.

Who the hell wanted to swim in the lake-- in February-- before sunrise? Aiden did. He always did things like that. So he laughed at me and let go.

I swear, when he let go, that’s the last time I saw him.

Sensual Frustrations

Poem I wrote about 10 years ago and just rediscovered. Enjoy!

Sensual Frustrations

I sometimes crave it like a drowning person craves air.
Tell me you want me and I’ll be bare.
Feed me here and temporarily fill me up inside.
I’ll take you for a spin, take you for a ride.
Torturing me with pleasure.
No normal scale can measure.
Something I have to admit.
I don’t want it, I just need it.
The passion burns inside me.
Longing to be let free.
The heat of it, the wet of it, the carnal passion of it.
I feel it all, every last bit.
Digging talons that strain to slice through your back.
They only show what you really don’t lack.
Guttural animalistic cries.
Shutters, shivers and dreamy sighs.
Pounding, slamming, grinding, slipping, sliding, skin-to-skin.
The tightening builds within.
I’m insatiable, I want more and more.
Keep up with me, make me sore.
Have me wake up and know what I’ve done.
What’s a little pain for all that fun?

Writing Quotes

A list of  25 writing quotes:

1. Time to load the guns, brew the ink and get to work, because I'm a writer and I'm done fucking around ~Chuck Wendig
2. Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else.-Gloria Steinem
3. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.― Stephen King
4. Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.― Molière
5. I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn. ― Anne Frank
6. If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” ― Stephen King
7. The hard part about writing a novel is finishing it.― Ernest Hemingway
8. Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.― William Wordsworth
9. I am a story teller. If I wanted to send a message I would have written a sermon. ― Philip Pullman
10. ...life turns into: 'House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1500 easy words, so all in all it was a pretty good day.-Neil Gaiman
11. You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. ― Jack London
12. I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.― James A. Michener
13. Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.― E.L. Doctorow
14. So what? All writers are lunatics!― Cornelia Funke, Inkspell
15. The road to hell is paved with adverbs.― Stephen King, On Writing
16. Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it...― William Faulkner
17. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
18. Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ― Anton Chekhov
19. Fiction is the truth inside the lie. ― Stephen King
20. You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.― Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
21. No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.― Robert Fros
22. You fail only if you stop writing. -Ray Bradbury
23. There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. Ernest Hemingway
24. Easy reading is damn hard writing. -Nathaniel Hawthorne
25. "Books are not made for furniture, but there is nothing else that so beautifully furnishes a house." ~Henry Ward Beecher 

Cym

I now have a plot and more written to my still untitled fantasy I started Sunday.

Quick plot: Sarcastic bad-ass Cym Aerwyna is a bounty-hunter witch who willingly agrees to find a man named Alex Baruch who is the key to locating the fountain of youth for a blood-thirsty treasure hunter named Edgar Kakios.

 I edited this a little and added more... ENJOY!

CHAPTER ONE

Moonlight spilled out over the sleepy village as if from an overturned paint can. It poured across chipped cobblestone alleys and cracked winding asphalt streets. Windows glittered with splashed up light and brush strokes of luminescent gray covered the concrete walls of squat identical houses and taller buildings as some of them sagged and crumbled. Errant droplets dotted the rooftops made of terracotta--many missing shingles-- in silver efflorescence. The moonlight painted on an ethereal glow to the very few cars that lined the streets and the bicycles sat tied against many racks and poles. Between the racks stood scraggly trees with most of their leaves gone.

Stars blanketed the cloudless inky sky. One could make out most of the constellations without a telescope.

The air sat still in the hushed darkness but sent a chill over everything just the same. It smelled of fresh rain and melted snow. 

Bushes housed the various glowing eyes of night creatures as they foraged and the day creatures huddled up to conserve warmth. A group of crows took flight as something disturbed their slumber.

Cym Aerwyna sprinted through a side alley as her fire-engine red hair whipped behind her away from her pink tinged pale face. Adrenaline spread through her veins and her heart kept time with her feet but did not race. Her breath slid in and out of her rose colored lips with measured swiftness and plumed smoke into the cold. Cym's bright blue eyes flitted around in high alert taking in every nuance of her surroundings in rapid succession as she moved. They noted every vehicle and every alley, searching for places one could hide. A black boned bodice cinched at her small waist and touched the top of a pair of black denim shorts. Thigh-high charcoal boots with silver buckles down the sides expertly guided her in silence. The long silver chain that carried the little globe of light and protection on a Celtic cross felt cold tucked inside against the upper part of her flat stomach Two daggers in wrist sheaths, two more at her hips and a 9mm Beretta in a side holster gave Cym a heavy sense of calm and security. Billowing behind her-- and used for covering her weaponry-- was a black trench coat which hid pouches of powders and various stones for spells. Cym kept prepared.

CHAPTER TWO

     Cym was not being chased, but rather was the pursuer. As a bounty-hunter, she got paid to hunt all manner of creatures: goblins, werewolves, faeries, trolls, other witches and warlocks and half-breed mongrels. Vampires were beyond the scope of her talents and many of them were her contacts. A half-breed goblin was on the books tonight. Easy and quick.

She leaped over a fallen trash can, vaulted off the side of a house, and up onto the roof with graceful dexterity. Dust rained down in her wake, but her ascent made no noise. Cym bounded across this roof and jumped over the open space to the next one. In the space of five minutes, she made it across three more roofs and was about to hop over to the fourth when she spotted her quarry down behind a large trash can. Idiot.

The man with a blond braid and eerie green eyes let out a strangled cry when she landed behind him with her Beretta against the nape of his neck.

“Shut up and hold still.” Her voice sounded very authoritative even with the musical lilt.

The man froze in place and even stilled his breath. Goblin half-breeds were good at holding their breath.

She stood with her feet shoulder-width apart and her right arm straight as she held the gun still. Her left arm hung loose at her side, but itching in preparation to grab a pouch or stone as needed. “Get up slowly and drop any weapons that won’t blow us all to hell.” Cym’s ex-partner Garret Wolf taught her she needed to add that second part of the line when he got his left arm and left foot blown off. Goblins didn’t always care if they died and half-breeds were too stupid to think ahead.

The half-breed dropped three daggers and a small intricately decorated poison dart blower he pulled out of various places in his black tunic and slim ebony pants.

“Packing light?” She shoved the gun deeper into the back of his neck until the half-breed winced.

He huffed and pulled out another blade from his hair that was so thin anyone else would have to squint to see it, a bag of stones that clinked when he set it down, and a garrote from one of his shiny onyx boots.

“That’s better.” She smirked to herself. Cym would rather bring in her quarry alive and get paid the full bounty than kill them and only get half. She would also much prefer to live mostly scar free.

Cym put her right knee into the center of his back and pushed him to the floor. She put all her weight on him. For such a small person, she had a solid build. “Hold still.” She rapped him on the back of his head with the butt of her gun and he went out. She knew he wouldn’t be unconscious long because goblins brains recovered quickly, so she quickly cuffed him with regular metal cuffs. She pulled out a red velvet pouch and reached in to grab some of the powder inside to sprinkle over the cuffs. “Bind him tight to prevent his flight and let only me set him free. So mote it be.” She whispered as she let the powder fall. She stood up as the half-breed moaned. “Done.” She said as she tapped an invisible spot on her collar. She put away the pouch and stood.

Three minutes later a stealth helicopter whirred overhead and sent down a giant claw on a bendable metal arm that picked up the half-breed and whisked him up inside.

Cym laughed to herself as the helicopter sped away. Those things always made her think of claw games.

“Report back to HQ at 0800 to receive payment.” The voice in her ear spoke in a computer animated woman’s voice. There wasn’t really a “HQ” it was just a code used to fool anyone listening. Sometime in the night a mechanical crow would land on her windowsill with a scroll in its beak with the meeting place. If it found her not home, it would hide the tiny scroll somewhere on her property before flying away. It had plenty of hiding places in her sprawling acreage. Cym had never met her handler. This person just assigned her tasks through scroll or encrypted transmission and although she could refuse jobs, as long as the money was right, she usually didn’t.

Tonight Cym felt restless. Her body and mind ached for something more. More what? Cym didn’t know. She turned to the wall behind her and fished out a white stone from one of her pockets and used it to draw a rough sketch of a door. She put the stone back and then put her left hand to the center of the door. A mumbled incantation in an ancient language fell from her lips. The edges of the door released a blinding light and then dimmed as she pushed it in. Cym stepped from the sleepy village night into the daylight of the faerie black market.

Untitled story

I got inspired by starting to read the next book in a series I'm reading and just had to stop reading and start writing!  Just a quick scene, no idea where this is going haha.


Scene one:

Moonlight spilled out over the sleepy village as if from an overturned paint can. It poured across chipped cobblestone alleys and cracked winding asphalt streets. Windows glittered with splashed up light and brush strokes of luminescent gray covered the concrete walls of squat identical houses and taller buildings as some of them sagged and crumbled. Errant droplets dotted the rooftops made of terracotta--many missing shingles-- in silver efflorescence. The moonlight painted on an ethereal glow to the very few cars that lined the streets and  the bicycles sat tied against many racks and poles between scraggly trees with most of their leaves gone.

The air sat still in the hushed darkness but sent a chill over everything just the same. It smelled of fresh rain and melted snow.

Bushes housed the various glowing eyes of night creatures as they foraged and the day creatures huddled up to conserve warmth. A group of birds took flight as something disturbed their slumber.

Cym Aerwyna sprinted through a side alley as her fire-engine red hair whipped behind her away from her pink tinged pale skin. Her breath slid in and out of her rose colored lips with measured swiftness and plumed smoke into the cold. Cym’s bright blue eyes flitted around in high alert taking in every nuance of her surroundings in rapid succession as she moved. A black boned bodice cinched at her small waist and touched the top of a pair of black denim shorts. The long silver chain that carried the little globe of light and protection on a celtic cross felt cold tucked inside against the upper part of her flat stomach. Thigh-high charcoal boots with silver buckles down the sides expertly guided her in silence. Two daggers in wrist sheaths, two more at her hips and a 9mm beretta in a side holster gave Cym a heavy sense of calm and security. Billowing behind her and covering her weaponry was a black trench coat. It also hid pouches of powders and various stones for spells. Cym kept prepared.

Deleted

Deleted is a novel about a vampire named Ember who wakes up one morning to find her husband no longer exists and no one but her remembers him.


Prologue and first chapter:

Prologue

Grab Fate by the throat – Ludwig van Beethoven


2080 A.D.

When the moon rose, full and luminous, its soft silver rays glanced off the various windows of the steal monster that was the city’s second biggest skyscraper. In the front corners, the building boasted bay windows, some covered in blackout curtains. The moonlight hit one of these special windows and caused the curtains to slip open, not making a sound, on their light-sensitive track. In through the bay window, past the blackout burgundy velvet curtains, the moonlight poured a silver glow over the whole room.

A small, female, lithe figure, with wavy chocolate brown locks and soft pale skin, lay curled up on the left side of a lavish four-poster bed draped in gauzy fabric in shades of cerulean. She looked like a delicate little faerie covered by dark cerulean sheets.

Ember’s dark eyes with long lashes fluttered open. She yawned wide, her dainty curved fangs bared, and stretched her arms over her head. The simple symbol of her clan was tattooed on her left wrist. She was from the Sidhean clan, clan of vampires who have mixed blood from the sidhe.

She rolled over; a dreamy smile on her cupid-bow lips, only to find the bed to her right was empty. She quirked an eyebrow in confusion and shook her head to clear some of the muddled effect the death-like sleep vampires succumb to had had on her. She then furrowed her forehead when she realized the bed beside her looked unwrinkled as if no one had slept in it.

 There was an almost eerie hush in the house. She listened with her extraordinary hearing and could not detect even the faintest sound of any other person in the house.

“Rowan?” She called out uncertain. She got no answer. Rowan. A tentative mental call to him answered in silence.

She stumbled out of bed, twisted in the sheets, tripped and fell. “Rowan!” She yelled out louder, still to no avail. Her voice seemed to echo back at her, taunting her with merciless glee as she sat there. She jerked the sheets free, untangling herself, then pulled the sheet over her naked form and got up to head to the closet, feet silent over the maple hardwood floor. Recessed lights in the ceiling blinked on over her head as she walked and shut off behind her conserving light.

She opened the sliding door walk-in closet with a push of a button on the touch screen next to it, to put on a robe and search the house. She let out a startled cry, dropping the sheet. Her things stretch on and on with no sight of anything belonging to anyone else.

She spun to the rest of the room; getting dizzy as she twirled and twirled, not finding a trace of anyone but her.

The knickknacks she’d collected over the years, the paintings she bought-everything- was hers.

Her heart raced as she threw on a black silk robe and fled the room.

The hallway seemed to go on forever; the walls were bare of paintings by Rowan.

Everything looked the same in the living room at first glance, until she looked to the large computerized fireplace.  It should have had pictures of her and Rowan on the mantle, including their wedding pictures. There were only pictures of her, her friends, and her family.

She turned to the living room wall, which, up until yesterday, had a large mural TV, which rotated between screens and featured things painted by Rowan, and saw it was just a blank blue wall. She went from room to room finding no trace of Rowan.

Using the touch screen wall phone, she tried calling his cell phone and his work number but she was told by the automated voice that she’d reached numbers that had been disconnected or were otherwise no longer working. This usually meant the numbers didn’t exist. It was if he didn’t exist.

Her mind reeled.

A ball of panic built in the pit of her stomach- the kind of panic that caused hysterics.

Chapter One 

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired – Robert Frost

The phone rang out, merely a clear and soft chiming of bells, but it caused Ember to scream at the unexpected noise.  Ember turned in slow motion to the digital monitor beside her to see who was calling.

Sunday’s name showed in a funky orange font across the screen. Ember felt a sudden sharp pain and realized she’d been clenching her fist so tight her nails were slicing the meat of her palm. She relaxed her hand; the small crescent wounds that had filled with blood closed in seconds.  She spoke. “Answer visually.”  The phone stopped ringing and the screen lit up as Ember shook a little and closed the robe tighter over her small-endowed figure.

Sunday looked out at Ember from the monitor, looking so clear and perfect it was like she was actually sitting in the room with Ember.  With strawberry blonde loose curls that fell to kiss pale freckled shoulders and big emerald eyes, Sunday looked even more like a faerie than Ember did. She wore a black shredded tank with silver stars dotting it and offbeat dangling star earrings.   A ring with a black bead on it pierced the center of her full lower lip and a black bead was nestled in her tongue.

“Good morning, Emmie!” Sunday squealed. Then her face fell a bit as she saw the panicked looked on Ember’s face.  “What’s wrong?”

“Sunnie, he’s gone.” Ember responded, a tremor starting in her lower lip.

“Who’s gone, sweetheart?” She questioned.  “Is it Jack?” She probed, referring to the large white and black mutt that Ember owned.

As if on cue, he padded into the room and looked up at his mistress, looking a little worried himself as he could sense something was wrong.

Ember looked down at Jack, the dog she named after a character in one of her favorite fantasy movies about a princess, a forest boy, unicorns and a demon wanting the powers of their horns to cause ever-lasting night.  She patted him on the head in an absent manner.  She looked back up at Sunday’s expectant face and shook her head. “No, he’s fine; it’s Ro.”

A perplexed look took over Sunday’s face. “Who?”

“Rowan, Sunnie, \Rowan.” She emphasized.

Sunday still looked confused.

That is when Ember lifted her hand, waggled it at Sunday to show off her ring and she noticed there was nothing on her finger.  It became clear at that moment that Rowan no longer was real or at least not in her world. Ember could almost hear the world as she knew it shattering into billions of tiny fragments and then there was a strange whooshing noise and she fainted, her body crumpling in a heap on the hard wood floor.

*****
The moon seeped through the open bay window, streaming in and bathing the room in silver. It lit the two sleeping forms intertwined together on the lavish four-poster bed.

Her wavy chocolate locks spread out over his tanned chest and pooled on the cerulean comforter beside him. She had one pale and delicately formed arm flung over his stomach and a long leg intertwined in his.

The cerulean comforter lay over their legs, showing only their outline, and revealed part of the Celtic inspired tattoo across her lower back. A white gold Claddaugh ring with diamonds encircling a blue diamond heart, tiny diamonds decorating the crown and a matching band with tiny inlaid diamonds fit against it graced her left ring finger. There was a dreamy smile across her cupid bow lips and her dark eyelashes fluttered against her pale cheeks.

His long golden locks were tousled and spread across the cerulean pillow behind his head.  His chiseled face was slack with deep sleep, but long blonde eyelashes fluttered, foretelling of dreams.  A white gold, but much more masculine, Claddaugh ring sat on his left ring finger. The smile twitching at his full lips hinted that the dreams were pleasant. He’d one strong arm curled around her, dark against her pale figure.  It contained an intricate dragon tattooed in black across his shoulder, its tail trailed down to the bottom of his bicep.
The moonlight beamed in and seemed to brush across his eyes.

He opened deep hazel, almost cat-like eyes and looked down at her, a look of such devotion and passionate un-faltering love shown out of his handsome face.

Sleeping, he thought she looked like a nymph or maybe a faerie.

Sensing something, she stirred, opened her dark eyes, and looked up at him. A glow came to her face that was so bright it could have rivaled the moonlight streaming into their window.

“Good morning, Emmie.” He said, his voice gruff with sleep, but still very pleasant. It always reminded Ember of a certain bald action hero, typecast often as a lover of fast cars with a badass attitude, from the early 21st century. Ember loved to watch his movies.

“Morning, Ro” Ember responded. Rowan told her a few times he thought she sounded like what a faerie should sound like.

Rowan beamed down at her and said, “Stay right there, I will go make breakfast.” He disentangled himself from her and then leaned in to kiss her; he lingered against her lips.  Sliding out from under the comforter, Rowan made a move to stand up.

Ember stopped him by trailing one finger down his muscular back.  She traced over the finely detailed Celtic knot between his shoulder blades that he’d done a couple weeks after they wed and then down the rest of his bare back.

He turned his head to smirk at her, bent over to ruffle her hair with affection and then stood up. Feet moving in silence over the gleaming maple wood floors, he walked toward their bathroom. As he walked, the recessed lights did their thing, coming on automatically in soft glow above him and then turning off behind him.

She watched him walk, admiring the way his muscles flexed and relaxed as he moved, especially his taught behind.  A naughty smile with delicious thoughts behind it fell across her lips as she watched.

Rowan went into the bathroom to clean up.  The bathroom was almost sterile it was so clean, but that was easy when tiny, spider-like robots routinely cleaned everything after any shower or use of the sink or toilet. He washed his face, brushed his teeth and even shaved. Pulling his shoulder-length hair back into a loose ponytail, he smiled at himself in the mirror and thought again how lucky he was to have Ember. He left the bathroom, pulled on a pair of boxers, and went to make breakfast.  That was one of the things he didn’t use much technology for.

In the kitchen he hummed a random tune as he made Belgian waffles with diligence and care. He poured two glasses of synthetic blood and put it all on one cedar wood tray with a blue rose picked fresh from the garden.

Ember lounged in bed, smiling at thoughts and memories of Rowan and his touch. She waited for his return with breakfast and then maybe some more loving. A giggle escaped at this thought.

They still acted liked newly weds.

*****
Sunday was shaking Ember, trying to wake her up. “Come on Emmie, please wake up.” She knelt by her in her black almost gravity defying pants as they seemed not to be connected to anything that would hold them up and were missing large chunks of material.  They showed off the orange stars tattooed at her pelvic bones and the swirls and stars across her lower back. One could also see she wasn’t wearing underwear as there were no straps. Sunday had pulled her hair back into pigtails, showing of her playful side and also the Tuathan symbol on the back of her neck. She curled her bare toes with their black polish up and then relaxed them over and over, which she did as a worried habit.

Embers eyes finally fluttered and opened. She was a bit groggy and confused. She saw Sunday sat up so fast the room swiveled a bit then righted it self.

“You ok, love?” Sunday asked with concern, brushing a few locks of Ember’s hair behind one of her ears
.
“Not exactly.” Ember’s voice cracked as she spoke.

“Now who’s this Rowan you got so upset about?”

“I-I don’t know.” Ember shook just a bit.

Sunday quirked an eyebrow and worry shown in her emerald eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, until yesterday, he was the love of my life.” She took in a shaky breath; vampires don’t need to breath but sometimes taking in a little air stilled Ember. “But he doesn’t exist anymore, I don’t even know if he ever did.” She looked into Sunday’s eyes.  “I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. Up until I woke up this morning I had spent the last three years with Rowan Sterling, heir to the Sterling genetics fortune. Him and I were even talking about kids. We met when I went on a much needed vacation after that horrendous break up with Indigo.” She paused. “Did I go out with an Indigo?”

Sunday looked at Ember a very serious look on her face. “Yes, of course.  He was that big CEO of that TV mural company that has those big rotating screened murals that showcase paintings and also turned out to be a big jerk. You’ve been dating here and there since then, but nothing serious. And it has been three years.”

Ember nodded, “Well at least that is still the same.” She also thought how odd it was that she remembered having one of those TV murals when she was with Rowan. She shook her head and continued.  “So, as I was saying, I met Rowan at a time in my life when I didn’t want anyone.  He told me later that he fell for me the moment he saw me, but I needed some convincing. Rowan was a hopeless romantic and made me laugh almost as much as you do.  After spending two weeks trying to get me to give him a chance, I gave in and I started to fall for him in no time.  He took me on a whirlwind trip around the globe for two months and I had never had that much fun or laughed that often. We were together a year before he proposed with a gorgeous Claddaugh ring in a piece of decadent home made, it was made by him because he owned a bakery, chocolate cake,” Ember paused at the memory with a small smile, then continued,  “and we got married in a small church in the Gaelic countryside, the only real countryside that exists, with a Celtic wedding ceremony.” Ember chewed her lower lip and looked at Sunday. “You were my maid of honor.”

“In one of the few church’s that still exists?” Sunday questioned. A political war in 2050 ended in the abolishment of most religious ideas and themes in hopes of a more harmonious existence. There had been too many religious wars and it had torn apart just apart every place around the world.

Ember nodded in agreement and then gave a shivering sigh.

Sunday looked a little lost as to what to do, and then she pulled Ember into a tight embrace. “We will figure this whole mess out together Emmie.  It will be ok.  Everything will work out for the best, you will see.”

Ember rested her head on Sunday’s shoulder and broke down into trembling tears. She didn’t think it would ever be ok again.

Shotgun Opera details

This novel isn't started yet, but I thought I'd share the characterizations and plot.  The title is temporary, but I really like it. It came from the Linkin Park song "Bleed it Out". The line is "Shotgun opera, lock and load." I just love the ring to it every time I hear it, haha.

Characters: Teagan Meadow, Amis Meadow, River De Wilde, Hugo Black

Teagan Meadow: ***Sidhean vampire with shoulder-length hair the color of ripe lemons and eyes a soft violet. Her skin is almost translucent.  She stands at 5.0 with very minimal curves. Teagan lives alone in a 2 bedroom romantic style apartment on the Chattahoochee River, down the street from her brother and River, which is minutes from downtown Atlanta, Ga. She works with Amis as a Death Teller in The Raven’s Shadow.  She spends most of her time reading psychological thrillers and writing poetry out on her patio. River drives Teagan crazy and would never deal with him again if she could as she agrees with her line’s view on weres. Teagan’s powers are stronger than her brother’s.

Amis Meadow: Sidhean vampire with hip length coffee brown hair he wears in a braid and soft violet eyes like his sister’s. His skin is closer to a human pale than translucent and covers a very muscular 6’4 frame. Amis lives in a modern styled condo on the Chattahoochee River down the street from Teagan Amis works with Teagan at The Raven’s Shadow. He spends most of his time partying with River downtown and in their house. Down time is spent fishing out on the river. River saved Amis’ life when he first became a vampire so he is the exception to the rule of Sidhean not associating with werewolves.

River De Wilde: Werewolf with short onyx hair that he never seems to style (just rolls out of bed and goes) and cool apple green eyes. His skin naturally looks like he spends all day every day at the beach. River towers over everyone at 6’7 and his muscular body could put Olympic swimmers to shame. He lives with Amis and works as a bartender at The Raven’s Shadow. River loves being Amis’ wingman.

Hugo Black: Mysterious Lamia vampire with blood red hair that falls to the middle of his back and eyes such a pale blue they could disappear. Hugo’s skin is bright white, humans would swear he glows. His 6’ frame is stretched so taut he looks like he’ll snap if touched just right, but unyielding power lies behind his eyes. He comes to Teagan with a deal: A stranger’s life for your brother’s.

Extra characters:

Rose female 22 bartender at The Raven’s Shadow

Tad male 28 bartender at The Raven’s Shadow

Amelyn 24 waitress at The Raven’s Shadow

9

Mr. Fenton male 45 client of the Meadows'

Mr. Meeks  male 27 client of the Meadows'

Ms. Callia female 21 client of the Meadows'

Info: The Raven’s Shadow is an exclusive vampire club. If you know someone –seriously important—as a human you can get in to dance with the vampires. A spell cast by the Sidhe shields the club from anyone seeing it that isn’t on the list. They play dubstep and other really grungy, dirty, dark music. There’s a secret back door that leads to a room Teagan and Amis work out of. A special password spell is needed to get in.

The whole novel is done in steam punk style. Teagan owns two steam punked sawed-off shot guns that she wears at her hips and River owns a self-made steam punked 6-barrel gun.

PLOT: Teagan Meadow is a vampire who works in The Raven’s Shadow night club with her brother Amis as a Death Teller. Because of their vampire line heritage as Sidheans (faerie mixed vampire line), they have touch induced visions about then when and how of people’s death. If you want to know your fate, you can pay them to tell you. Teagan and Amis have never seen their own.

One night Teagan sees her brother’s death for the first time and that it’s nothing short of barbarous. The next night she is visited by a mysterious Lamia vampire that tells her that he can change her brother’s fate. The catch? She has to agree to have a stranger take his place. She has three days to decide. Teagan decides to go on a mission to figure out who causes Amis’ death so she can stop them instead. She is joined by Amis’ best friend River.  Will she get the answers and stop them in time, or will she hold the death of someone else in her hands? 

***Sidhean vampires are a clan/race of vampires I made up among a few others.

Little write up on them:

SIDHEAN (SHEE-AN):

MEANING - underground dwelling faerie (Sidhe)

HISTORY- A group of Sidhe out to collect flowers and herbs for spell work stumbled upon an abandoned baby female vampire and took it in to raise. The vampire became family and any Sidhe she changed became more beautiful. She mated with many of the Sidhe to grow the bloodline. The Sidhe raised all of them to protect the Sidhe and to form symbiotic and family relationships.  Each generation of Sidhean vampires become breath-taking upon being Embraced and assist any Sidhe in need.

CALLED BY OTHERS – Bugs

KINDRED AND OTHER SPECIES – Sidhean would much rather just interact with their own kind and the Sidhe. They view the weres as “foul uncivilized creatures”. Goblins are only for making treaties and deals, not friends.

OUTER SHELL – Masters choose their progeny to be similar to the Sidhe they are descended from. They are always tall (at least 5’8) and leanly built. Sidhean females have minimal curves and tiny waists. The males are known to be described as “beautiful and awe-inspiring”.  Sidhean have pointed ears which they keep covered with long hair and/or elaborate hairdos. Most can shape shift into small pixies and are born with wings tattooed onto their backs that can come out for them to use. This is why they get called “bugs” (also because of them living underground). Sidhean also shape shift into other things so their clothing is usually handmade or cheap as they tend to forget where they put their clothes or otherwise lose them.

RESIDES – They make homes in caves and underground usually either with or near Sidhe. They protect the Sidhe and are known to work with the Slaugh (darker Sidhe that roam the halls of faerie mounds protecting Sidhe). If they choose to live in the human world, they must keep their homeland soil (where they “died”) with them to heal while they sleep.

POWERS- can shape shift and can foretell someone’s death

FLAWS – If they are badly injured –something that would kill a human- they must have their homeland soil. Most keep some in vials as jewelry (necklaces and belts) or vials in pockets.

COMBAT – Sidhean are known to borrow or trade for spells and other magic with their actual Sidhe counter parts. They like to fight without actual weapons, but will use knives and daggers in close combat if need be. They are best at the hypnotic eye powers of the Vampire and use that to put non-vampire enemies to sleep. When someone is going to die, they get a vision of themselves washing the person’s bloody clothes in a river and then they see when and how they die. They can induce this vision on others to scare them.

Affairs Lead to Dead Husbands

ALDH is about a ballerina named Lada that has a sordid affair with a guy named Nathanial and her husband winds up dead.


I have the prologue and first chapter here:

PROLOGUE

His lips were hot against her pale throat as his deft hands roamed her ample curves, right there in the open meadow, under the eyes of God and anyone who happened to pass by. She arched into him, letting a loud sigh of pleasure fall from her deep ruby lips.

There wasn’t a large risk of getting caught way out here, but even the slightest chance thrilled Nathanial to no end. He and his little Slovakian ballerina had decided to no longer care who caught them in their adulterous affair. Nathanial moved his mouth up to hers and devoured her mouth like he was dying and it was the cure.

Nails, natural like everything else about Lada, dug into his shoulders as she let him devour anything he wanted to with that mouth. That mouth, to have a mouth like that should be a felony.

Lada’s hair splayed around her head like spilled liquid honey and he fisted it in one strong hand.

She returned the favor, her hands clutching in onyx.

Clothes fell away as sunlight kissed their bare skin. Soon their bodies began to move as one and still they didn’t care about being caught.

CHAPTER ONE

The first time Nathanial laid eyes on Lada, he was on a date. Some bubbly blond number with too much hairspray and too little brains. He had a thing for blonds, but often found them living up to their stereotype, most coming from his podunk little farming town. This one in particular was determined to seem better educated by dragging him to a ballet performance in the city. So he sat, trying to tune out her endless hushed chatter in his left ear about God-only-knows-what and watched.

Lada floated, faerie-like, across the stage; her movements were dainty and smooth. Honey-hued hair pulled in a tight bun opened up her soft face and even from here he could see the bright pools of her aquamarine eyes. Deep ruby lips formed a wistful smile that stayed throughout the whole performance as if she were in her own world and in that world only experienced joy.

Nathanial sat entranced by her until after the last curtain fell and the house lights came up. The lights, interrupting his stare, left him blinking for a few moments.

The blond by his side tugged him up while prattling inanely on about the performance.

He followed in a sort of daze as she led him out like a puppy on a leash.

The rest of his week passed in a surreal blur until that fateful day he ran into her again.

*****

Lada used the tree trunk of one of the many slim maples as balance while she stretched her hamstrings, preparing for a quick run. Finished stretching, she turned, almost pirouetted, right into Nathanial.

“Oof!” Nathanial grunted. He stumbled back caught off guard.

“Oh! I’m so-“ Lada began her apology.

“Sorry!” Nathanial finished with her in unison.

Lada gave a soft giggle at that. “I swear I’m not this clumsy. I just get to daydreaming and forget to pay attention.”

Nathanial laughed. “Sure, sure.” Then it hit him. He knew that face. Those eyes were familiar. The ballerina! “I saw you perform like a week ago!” He almost shouted.

Lada quirked a brow, thrown off. “Oh?”

“Yeah, the play at the Performing Arts Center downtown. You were a ballerina.” He explained. “You were incredible!” He gushed. And then he fell in love right there because a soft pink blush crept up those cheeks.

“Thanks.” She glanced down and scuffed her black sneaker across the sidewalk.

“Sorry if I embarrassed you. I just was very impressed by you,” he said in a softer tone. “You wanna catch a bite to eat or a drink?” he offered.

She blushed a little harder as she looked up and squeaked, “Um, sure.”

*****

It was during coffee that he noticed her ring. They sat across the small round metal table from each other each with a green oversized ceramic coffee mug clutched in their hands. Black chairs with black cushions over metal were the darkest things in the cheerful shop.

Nathanial was taking her in from the top of her honey-hued head, past her lovely pale face with clear fresh skin and pools of aquamarine eyes, and continued down. When he got to the ring he almost choked on his coffee. “You’re married?”

She glanced down at her left hand and her face scrunched in displeasure. “Yes I am.” If possible, she sat up straighter, her posture always seeming to be perfect he noticed.

“Oh, uh, would he be upset if he saw us here?” Nathanial ventured, glancing around in suspicion.

Lada flicked her gaze back up at him. “We’re just having coffee, but I can’t stay too long.”

Nathanial looked defeated. “Oh, that’s cool.”

A quiet little melody sounded from her hip. “Better get that.” She stood up and headed for the door. “Be right back.”

Nathanial watched her through the shop front glass. He liked the way the black stretch pants, yoga pants he thought they were called, clung to her hips and the blue tank top seemed brighter against her pale skin. A frown furrowed his eyebrows as he noticed Lada get an angry set to her mouth and then she hung up.

Lada stormed back in, a fiery air around her. “Sorry.” A clipped word.

“You need to leave?” Nathanial probed, hoping-against-hope the answer was no.

“I guess I should.” She pouted slightly, the angry air around her deflating.

He snatched a napkin from the holder, fished a pen from the depths of his pocket, and scrawled out his number in a hurry. “Here,” he said as he handed it over. “In case you’d like to try this again.” A hopeful look came over his face.

She took it, a look in her eyes saying she felt flattered, and shoved it between her cleavage. “For safe keeping.” She cracked and then she turned and glided away.

Nathanial watched her leave, resisting the urge to chase her, not sure if his phone would ever ring or if he would ever see her again.

"JACK"

This novel is verry  work-in-progress. I'm still not sure who's going to be the protagonist or the title of this one. I have two main characters, "Jack" (he calls himself Jack) the serial killer and Delilah Winter the bookish coroner. I will have Jack killing and Delilah trying to help solve the murders.


An intro to Jack:


Blood sluiced down the drain of the eggshell colored sink as he washed his hands. The red jarred the senses as it moved over the white.

He liked to think of himself as "Jack". Jack's were always the best characters in the movies. He loved Jack the skeleton, Jack the pirate, Jack the crazed father of the special boy and Jack the defender of unicorns. There was also the real man: Jack the Ripper, which made him laugh.

Jack watched the swirl of light red with less fascination than he’d watch grass grow. To keep from getting caught gloves were the norm, but sometimes the thrill of getting dirty outweighed the need to be safe. A jugular slice here or a gutting there made the endorphins rush through him and put a smile on his gaunt face.

The water began to run clear, so he reached over to turn off the faucet. The handle still squeaked a little, and he shuddered at the piercing noise. He filed away a reminder to himself to get more lubricant.

Jack snuffled a little--a cold threatened his recent work-- and got a good whiff of the bleach the bathroom had been doused in. Jack couldn't recall the last time the bathroom hadn't smelled like bleach. He sneezed into his hand, the bleach smell aggravating his tender nose. Jack scrunched his nose at the snot and washed that hand again.

He dried his hands on a clean white towel. The cotton almost disappeared in the pristine white bathroom.  Jack opened the plain white wood cabinet above the sink and removed the antiseptic, surgical tape and gauze. He calmly avoided his reflection in the mirror.

Jack applied the antiseptic liberally over the cut on his knuckles and the bite mark on his left forearm. The cut didn't need stitches so it just received a Band-Aid. The bite mark he covered with gauze and surgical tape. This one fought back, but he never worried. Everything went back into its proper place.

The search of the room for any missed spots was quick. Nothing extra resided in inside the whole room but the bare necessities. No pictures, rugs or extra toiletries. There’d be a five minute rule if food dropped on the floor.

Jack stripped down out of his charcoal painter jumpsuit and bundled it up with great care not to get blood smears anywhere.

The A/C kicked on as he left the bathroom, sending a delicious chill over his bare skin. He smiled to himself in pride for fixing that too. The house had been practically free for a reason.

A trip to the basement incinerator was in order, so he walked across the cold hardwood floor, made a right, and opened the heavy steel door covered in locks. Jack spent much of his time in the dark, so he didn't bother with lights as he wandered down the wooden stairs. His descent had a bounce to it, and his footsteps echoed. He walked across the cement floor to the giant furnace reveling in the coolness against his bare feet.

After opening the door, he shoved the jumpsuit in, peeled off his underwear to throw them in, and stoked the fire. A forensic team would have a field day.

Jack slammed the door shut, shuffled across the room and headed back upstairs.

He took an intensely hot shower where he scrubbed his skin until it resembled a mild sunburn. Jack kept no dead skin on him. If it wouldn't be so noticeable, I'd love to burn off my finger prints too, he thought, as he turned off the water, for perhaps the tenth time.

After the shower, he stood naked in front of the mirror to shave his head clean. No hair could mean no DNA. His body hair was lasered off many years ago. He didn't look at his face much as he shaved. The wide grey eyes with metallic flecks in the mirror sometimes seemed depthless as they sat in his pale face. He didn't want to drown.

Finished, he went to nap naked on the chaise lounge on his balcony while his clothing burned. Killing made the best sleeping pill.

And one for Delilah:

Delilah Winter hated smelling like dead bodies. 

She sat alone on the bus, her nose shoved into a thick forensic thriller, trying to give others space. If I keep to myself, maybe they’ll ignore me. Delilah felt eyes on her. Too late. She nonchalantly glanced up through her silver framed glasses.

An older woman that just got on and sat two seats away from her wrinkled her nose. Her brown eyes bore into Delilah for a second as she gave her an once-over and then they flicked off. Her upper lip curled in disgust.  She got up and moved to another empty seat.

I’m not homeless I swear, she wanted to say. Delilah had changed clothes-a plain black tee and clean blue jeans--but it didn’t matter. The scent clung to Delilah’s freckled peach skin and infused her brunette hair. It took her two-three shampoos sometimes. Today might be one of those days. She sighed and willed the trip to go faster. I wish I didn’t repulse people after work. Smelling like formaldehyde didn’t help matters either, but such is the life of a coroner.  Mostly, she didn’t mind. Dead bodies are puzzles waiting for me to help solve.  

*****

She took a light shower before work the next day, put her hair in her signature double plaits and slid on her silver framed glasses, which brightened her green eyes further. Delilah wore no make-up.

After getting dressed, she stood in her bedroom a moment looking at herself in her full length mirror. The navy jump suits that made up her state issued uniform hung around her gangly frame and nearly swallowed her whole. Shopping in general was hard for her at 5’11 and naturally 130 pounds, but the jump suits that fit her height obviously wouldn’t fit her weight. If only I weren’t built so little.

She turned left and right as she studied her diminutive features. “I look like a teenage boy.” She sighed.

Delilah then turned away and went to make her four-poster bed with the lilac sheets. Her bare feet swished over the brown carpet as she moved to fluff her pillows. 

Delilah paused for a second to glance at the framed picture on her wooden night stand of her and Charlie. 

They smiled mega-watt smiles and held each other. Charlie’s black hair was disheveled as always. As an art student, he was perpetually ruffled and covered in either paint or chalk. A year and a half already, Delilah thought as she kissed the tips of her fingers and put them to the glass on his forehead above his deep brown eyes.

She slipped on a pair of black Crocs over her rainbow socks and grabbed her ID tag, phone and an energy bar as she headed out the door. Delilah never used a purse.

KISSING CLOVER

Kissing Clover is about an innocent young woman who is seduced by a fortune teller and ends up killing someone.

I have included the prologue and first chapter.

PROLOGUE

Hope killed someone.

Blood ran in bright red rivulets from her steady hands.

Her heart didn't race. No sweat beaded at the nape of her neck. Adrenaline didn't flow in a warm rush through her veins.

Hope felt calm.

She heard the faint sounds of tiny droplets hitting the oak wood floor and the fainter sound of her breathing.
Still calm. Still collected.

Careful not to mess up her pastel blue dress, she walked around the body and went to wash her hands. Just a body now. Nothing more.

She glanced back to notice she left a trail of blood drops and dainty red foot prints behind her. Need to clean that all up.

At the sink she cleaned her hands with great care. The water felt hot against her skin. The scent reminded her of the smell of cookies baking-- the same kind she baked with her mother.

She watched the water turn red as it swirled down the drain. The color reminded her of her favorite stilettos.

Hope found herself humming Zippity Do Da as she washed. She paused a moment to giggle. "It is a wonderful day!"

CHAPTER ONE

May 10th.

The front of the psychic shop reminded Hope of an old rundown firehouse--red crumbling brick sagged under the weight of the years it sat there- as it stood at the edge of a row of old shops. A butcher, a bakery, a tailor, a shoe repairer, and a thrift store lined the sidewalk.

She had wondered down from the far parking lot and peeked into each store’s window as she walked.

Hope stood a moment in front of the wooden door of the psychic’s store, admiring the intricate symbols carved down the center, when someone jostled her from behind. She stumbled forward.

“Stand much?”

Hope turned around and looked up.

Bridget-her best friend since they were in diapers- stood there grinning.

“Funny, Bree!” Hope said.

Bridget laughed again and tossed back her wild mane of inky black curls.

Hope shoved her.

Bridget yelled, “Hey!”

Hope put her hands on her hips.

Bridget bit her full lower lip, but her light blue eyes gave away her thoughts of smiling.

She glared a moment more, but then a smile spread across her face. It reached up to Hope’s mint green eyes.

Bridget smiled back.

 “Why did you drag me to a psychic’s store? We should be bowling.” Hope asked as she slipped a clear claw clip from her jean skirt pocket.

“Because, it’s something new to do.” Bridget said in a “well, DUH” voice. “You’re boring.”

Hope paused in the middle of pulling up her hair to stare at her friend. “Boring?”

“B-o-r-i-n-g. Boring.”

She finished clipping up half her hair and flicked an auburn end of it back over her shoulder. “How am I boring?”

Bridget ticked off on her fingers: “During the week you practice gymnastics for an hour and a half after school. Thursdays you skip practicing so we can go bowling. Fridays you do all your homework and call me to watch TV together over the phone and Saturdays you go to dinner and a movie with Dylan. Sundays you and I lie out at the pool if it’s sunny or stay inside and watch chick flicks.” Bridget paused and then continued, exasperated. “Every. Single. Week.”

“But, Bree,” She whined. “It’s nice to have a routine.”

“BORING.” Bridget declared. “C’mon! Let’s go in already.” She elbowed passed her.

Hope felt slighted and stared after her friend for a second. Oh well, that’s just Bree. Love her or leave her. She shook her head and then moved up right behind her.

Bridget opened the door to the shop.

They were both hit with a blast of cold air along with the scent of too many candles and incense.

Bridget pretended to be winded by the smell and fell against her with an, “oof!”

Hope pushed her friend up. “God, you cow! Get off.”

Bridget straightened up.

The girls chuckled.

They wandered around shuffling their feet over the burgundy carpet and trailed fingers along book shelves with subjects of spells, magic, herbs and tarot.

 “You should buy this to use for, Dylan!” Bridget said, handing Hope a bottle of pink liquid.

Hope read, Heated Love Oil. She gasped, “Bree!” She could feel a blush spread across her face.

Bridget laughed at her. “Your almost 18 now, you gotta lose it sometime.”

Hope rolled her eyes. They had that discussion a million-and-one times. She simply wasn’t ready.

They looked over costumes and weaponry.

Bridget chased Hope around with a “Dragon Foot” and Hope yelled at her to “knock it off before you get us kicked out!”

 “May I help you?” A deep crackled voice broke over them and sent the girls into silence.

A tiny pixie-like woman appeared to be swallowed by dark purple robes. Glittered silver runes ran along the edges. Tendrils of gray hair fell around her wrinkled face and down to her knees. She regarded them with eyes so faded Hope thought it looked like she had no iris at all.

Bridget cleared her throat. “We’re just browsing. Sorry for the disturbance.” She gave her sweetest smile which showed off her perfect white teeth.

I’ve known plenty of teachers who wouldn’t give her a detention for that smile.

The woman didn’t seem impressed. “You break, you buy. You don’t stop, I kick you out. Parents: maybe. Police: definitely.” She glared and walked away. When she reached the black curtain behind the checkout counter, she turned to them. The woman pointed at her left eye and then pointed up to the security camera there. She stared at them for a few seconds more and swirled away into the curtain.

The girls stared at each other for a moment.

“I’m so scared.” Bridget whispered.

“Bridget, we gotta behave.” Hope gave her a stern look.

Bridget had to eat her knuckles to keep from laughing.

“I mean it.”

They wandered in relative silence until they came to the back.

An opening covered by a ceiling-to-floor velvet teal curtain had a bright white sign next to it. Purple letters in a medieval looking font showed services and prices.

Hope read, “Palm Reading: $12, Rune Stone Reading: $15, Birth Charts: $18, Tarot Card Reading: $10.”

“Oo! Let’s get our cards read.” Bridget squealed.

Hope glanced at her with one brow raised in question. “Really, Bree? That’s so lame.”

“Come on, Po! It could be fun.”

Hope rolled her eyes.

 “We didn’t drive all the way down here to look.”

“We drove the thirty minutes down here because you insisted.”

“You didn’t have to agree.”

“Would you have left me alone about it if I said no?”

“Well…no.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll pay for both of us.”

Hope’s protest died on her lips when the curtain parted and a figure appeared in the shadows.

To say the girl standing there could rival any model on the catwalk underestimated her beauty. Porcelain skin almost glowed under a black corset dress and darkened her hazel eyes. Loose strawberry blond curls fell untamed to her bare shoulders. She towered over Hope-- which wasn’t hard as Hope is only 5 feet. Her full lips were covered with blood red gloss and they turned into a smoldering smile. “Looking for a reading?”

Wow. Hope didn’t know what to say. She looked over at Bridget in her hot pink halter dress and silver sandals and then back at the girl. She looked down at her own orange tank, denim skirt and white sneakers. I feel underdressed. 
Bridget --oblivious-- spoke up. “Definitely. Hope and I here want a Tarot reading please.”

The girl looked Hope over.

She looked at me the way Dylan does when we’re going to start fooling around. I’ve never had a girl look at me that way.  She felt heat in her cheeks and prayed the dim light back here hid it.

Bridget continued on, “So do we do this together or what?”

Maybe I imagined the look. Bridget hadn’t reacted.

“We can do it together,” She looked again at Hope. “Or one at a time…” she let the sentence linger a second. “Either way works for me.”

I’m not imagining this at all. Her face felt on fire.

“One at a time then I guess.” Bridget shrugged. “Me first?”

“Sure.” The girl held out a hand with long fingers and black nails. “Clover.”

Bridget shook it. “Bridget.”

“Nice to meet you.” Clover smiled. She held out a hand to Hope. “And you’re Hope?”

Hope needed to clear her throat. “Yes.”

Clover’s hand felt warm and extra soft in Hope’s. A rush of heat went straight from her hand to her lower belly.

I want to keep holding her hand. Weird.


Clover dragged her gaze off Hope and turned to Bridget with a slow smile. “Follow me in please.”

Hope watched Bridget and Clover’s receding backs. She took note of the elaborate butterfly on Clover’s back and that Bridget came to a head shorter than Clover.

Her skin is so light… Hope found herself thinking. She shook her head and stood there feeling not quite disturbed, but definitely confused.