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Halloween Blog Hop

  • Posted on October 31, 2014 at 10:54 am

For my Halloween post, I invite you to enjoy this post. I found it tucked away in a corner of my high-school binder. I don’t recognize the writing as any of my friend’s, and it certainly isn’t mine, so I thought perhaps I could share it. If you remember writing something like this, please, send me a message. I’d love to give you credit.

*~*~*~*~*~*

It started with a smell. A noxious, poignant stench that you could almost taste on the edge of your tongue. Whenever one walked by the old oaken door to the basement, the bog-like odor would rise up and greet you anew like an old friend. I hated that smell. Always had, since we first bought the house when I was five. I remember whining to my mother about how it would stick to my clothes. She didn’t even turn from her computer when she told me not to go near the door then.

I’ve lived with the stench for years, so much so that I almost forgot it even existed. The only one I’ve seen go down there is Dad in his old coveralls splattered with paint the same color as the garage walls. The sounds of hammers and breaking rock come up after him, and I never had the courage to ask him how he could stand the smell. It followed him out of the basement sometimes, as obnoxious as the tan-orange of the paint.

I never was home alone, not really. When my mother and father went out of town, they always had my uncle or my aunts babysit me, even into my early teens. The aunts never complained about the smell. My uncle did, though. All the time, he bellyached about it, and would often take me out to dinner because he said he couldn’t stand the stench a second longer. My aunts hovered around the basement door, whispering to each other. But whenever I would come in, they would hush and ask if my homework was done, in that creepy way twins do.

Around when I turned fifteen, the smell seemed to get worse. Nauseating to the point that I developed a habit of opening windows every time I passed through a room. When asked about staying with my uncle and his wife, my mother, again not looking up from her swagbucks and online wordpuzzles, told me to bear with it for just a bit longer. Before I knew it, Dad had torn her away from her computer, and bundled her into the car, and with a note to me on the counter when I got home, they went on a ‘vacation’.

I was home alone for the first time. They’d even left me a key on the counter, next to the fifty dollars for food over the weekend. The first thing I did was open all of the windows, which only relieved the smell a little. However, it made for odd sounds. The curtains rustling in rooms I wasn’t in. The soft hush of breezes through the leaves outside, almost like someone whispering things. I started to note things a little more. Windows that I opened would sometimes slide down to half closed just as I left the room. It was odd, but I could only assume they were loose in their moorings. Maybe Dad could fix them when he got home and I let him know.

The second day of their trip, I went down into the kitchen to get some milk. The old greyish wood of the basement door was misplaced. The basement door, which was closed constantly, unless my father’s hand was on the handle, was open. Just an inch. Just barely enough to see the black behind it, the yawning space which lead to what I assumed were stairs. The stench was warmer now, thicker, like something had rolled in it, and was now heaving itself under my nose. I covered my mouth, abandoning the idea of milk, and shoved the door closed, with a heavy thud.

I tried not to think about it. I watched movies. I played videogames. I played mmos with my friends from school. I avoided going down to the kitchen by ordering pizza, and having it delivered up the stairs. Pizza deliverers are surprisingly tacit when offered a large tip. It was nice not having to get out of bed for food. The day slowly turned into night, and I only paused my game to go to the bathroom.

One such unpausing revealed more of the strange sussurus that I had thought was the wind in the leaves. But I could clearly see the old maple tree outside, and the leaves were still in the night air. The sound ebbed and flowed like the ocean that I had once had the fortune of feeling on my skin, cold and salty and fresh.  It was such an odd thing that I didn’t notice the scent from the kitchen had wafted up into my bedroom.

I followed the sound, oddly curious, temptation rising in me. The soft whisper of it touched my ears and made my skin prickle with goosebumps. I shivered, rubbing at the skin on my arms, as my chucks maneuvred the carpet-covered stairs. I followed it, as it got louder, and louder, into the kitchen. The door the basement was open again, the bright red of the pizza-warmer laying just in front of it. Wider this time, a large yawning foot of black so deep and dark that it looked like it was moving. An illusion, my eyes screamed, and I rubbed at them, to try and clear it. But closing my eyes only made the sound that much louder.

Whispers, yes, but not of something against something, or of wind through leaves, oh no. These were words. Words in a language I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. It sounded almost as if whoever was speaking had three voices, no, twelve, no, one. I couldn’t make it out. I knew if I went closer to the stairs, just a touch, just a step, I could make out what it was saying.

Before I knew it, that one step had turned into two, five, twelve. The darkness rose up around me, and I couldn’t see. It moved, not illusion not smoke, but real and heavy and black and dark. Whispy tendrils of blackness felt like the touch of ice across my cheeks, my hands, the backs of my calves. Come, it said, come down, and see us, and know us, and when had I begun to learn the language that this spoke?

I stumbled, the end of the stairs a surprise. I didn’t feel cement beneath my feet. It was unsteady, crumbling like some kind of sand, or maybe dirt. My chucks shifted and something hissed. I stopped, stock still. Something different was down here. There was no smell, there was no sight, there was nothing but darkness and the whispers. Whispers asking me to stay, to love, to be loved, whispers that wanted me to just say I would stay, oh please.

My breath echoed in this place. My heart raced. I tried to think. I tried to answer. My lips seemed frozen. I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed. Time felt like a twisted ribbon. Something was wrong. I could see something, something moving. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Weightless. Broken. Put back together. Dashed on rocks so sharp they were knives now. I screamed and rocks flew from my lips like spittle.

Time passed.

Time.

I.

I woke up.

The smell… The smell was gone. I couldn’t smell anything. There was dirt under me. Dirt with small chunks of rubble like cement. The smell of dirt was unwelcome and heavy. I didn’t understand. Where had the scent gone? The marker coming from the basement, where had it gone? I opened my eyes.

A hole before me, filled with mannequins. No. Not mannequins. People. Hands, and arms, and heads, and feet. People, chopped up and decomposing, and some looked as if they had been for years decomposing. But what caught me… was the smell.

The scent… It smelled so good.

Like nothing I could name. Warm, and thick, and heady, and absolutely amazing. It reminded of me of the darkness like broken rocks on a shoreline where no stars shone. When my dad came home, I asked him if he could smell it. He nodded, and asked if I’d like to help him. The smell, the scent of that death, that decay, so sweet and warm and welcome, prompted me to agree.

NaNoWriMo Spotlight 2014!

  • Posted on October 31, 2014 at 10:33 am

In a change of pace, I’m being interviewed over at The Kelworth Files for my experience with the up-coming-NaNoWriMo. Luckily enough it’s a short read, but it gives some advice for how to power through NaNo, so please, go take a moment to read it! <3

Click to be taken to the interview!

Asexual Awareness Week

  • Posted on October 30, 2014 at 7:07 pm

For those of you who may not know, I am asexual. What this means, in short, is that I do not, and have not, ever enjoyed sex. I can feel pleasure, physically, I can even participate in such a way that it is pleasant. However, Sex is always uncomfortable. It’s roughly, to me, what doing the dishes might be to you, or perhaps cleaning out a toilet. It has to be done, but only when necessary.

According to the Asexual Visibility and Education Network (AVEN for short), an Asexual individual is someone who does not experience sexual attraction. For the laymen in the audience, this is where you have to separate Sexuality from Romantic-orientation. They are two different things. It is entirely possible to feel Romantic attraction to someone, while simultaneously feeling no sexual attraction whatsoever. When the reverse happens, that’s usually when you find someone hot, but completely un-dateable.

There is an entire spectrum of Asexuality, ranging from Sex-repulsed, to gray-asexual, to Sex-positive individuals. The common ground here is this: A lack of sexual attraction. This does not mean that an asexy individual doesn’t have a libido. It is entirely possible that an ace individual will choose to masturbate frequently, or only once a month, or never! There is the possibility that an asexy person will choose to have sex as many times as their partner wants to, without hesitation, because they enjoy the closeness. For others, they might not be able to tolerate sexual contact at all, from the gentle brush of fingers down one’s arm to the touch of lips to lips. And then, there are some who even enjoy sexual contact!

For me, my asexual journey has been one of much discovery. When I was young, my mother was a very sexual individual. She had complete control of her sexuality, and was never ashamed of it, that I knew of. Not only that, but she made sure I knew the birds and the bees pretty early. I actually can’t remember when I got the ‘Talk’ so to speak, I just… always felt like I knew it. I feel my mother was amazing in that regard.

During my teen-hood, however, I had several fitful stops and starts with normal teen romances. My very first boyfriend I had for a week, and any time he touched me, I felt nauseous. Not nervous, nauseous, as if I was going to throw up if his hands were on me for more than a mere moment. He left me for my best friend, who would hold hands with him when he wanted. That was fine with me. It was more a relief.

In high school, I dated a very nice young man, who took me to homecoming and to the corn maze before Halloween. He was always very respectful, and when I held his hand, I felt nervous, not sick. So I thought maybe it was all a fluke. But even when he hugged me, I couldn’t let it last for too long. I felt like if I did, something bad would happen. I didn’t want to go beyond holding hands, and spending time together happily. A week after he asked me for our first kiss, and I gave it to him, I broke up with him. I claimed that it was because  my family was moving, and while we were, it didn’t change the fact that, once again, I was relieved not to have to satisfy those needs for more kisses and things that I didn’t like.

Now that isn’t to say I wasn’t normal in other regards. I discovered masturbation, and engaged in it almost nightly. I enjoyed role-playing online with those anonymous people who would, and it was through that that I discovered that I enjoy erotic literature. So I felt that perhaps, there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t want to actually engage in those acts with PEOPLE. I told myself that I was simply trying not to follow in my mother’s footsteps as a teen mom. That it was fear, and not something else.

When I was nineteen, I had my longest lasting relationship. Almost a full year, and it was an unhealthy thing. He was always frustrated, and I didn’t know what to do. I sought help from relationship sites, my friends, everyone. They all said the same thing. In a relationship, Love equals Sex. He thought I didn’t love him because I wouldn’t have sex with him. So, I did. To prove I loved him, I had sex with him, and while it wasn’t horrible, it was uncomfortable, and I was, again, glad that it was over. It didn’t happen again, luckily, because he dumped me a week or so afterwards.

I went back to thinking that perhaps something was wrong with me, and decided that I was better off without boys. Without relationships in general. But I always came back to loneliness, and needing that romantic relationship. I’ve always wanted a partner, to help me through the rough, to keep me steady and stable. I’ve always wanted the kind of marriages that last through decades. But I couldn’t seem to hold a relationship for more than a few months. One particular man, I even slept with every week, because I thought he would stay if I did, and it was no worse than any other chore, really. At least holding his hand didn’t make me feel sick again.

Here, I feel, I should clarify a few things. This sort of contact, holding hands, hugging, leaning against someone, falling asleep near someone, are triggers for this feeling of wrongness only when in a relationship context. I have never had an issue laying on, hugging on, cuddling with, or in general being touchy with my friends, and those that I am close to. It is only when there is this added romantic portion that I find myself sickened. It is that expectation of sex that taints the actions for me.

But then, after years of complaining and trying to explain to my best friends, a married couple who took me in in the later part of my teenager-hood, it finally came to a head. The husband, he’d watched a documentary on Asexuality, and while watching it, had noticed that a lot of what the main person in the documentary had spoken about experiencing, I had mentioned experiencing as well. So, he asked me to watch it too.

It was like, a revelation. I felt such an immense relief that I wasn’t the only one. That there were others like me, and WE WERE NOT BROKEN. There wasn’t something wrong with me that couldn’t be explained. I was just Asexual. That’s all there was to it! But of course, being who I am, I had to do research first, to find out if that was true, or not. So I found AVEN, and read through forum after forum. I gathered the courage and went on the chat-room, and talked to those around me, and it was like coming home.

Now, that isn’t saying that my troubles were over, upon discovering this. Because I’d also discovered the section of asexuals who ‘compromise’. What compromising means, in this instance, is dating an allosexual individual, or someone capable of sexual attraction, and having sex with, or performing sexual actions with them in order to keep the relationship healthy for both parties. I thought that I could handle this.

I fell into a relationship quickly, with a boy who said he thought he was asexual as well. However, as our relationship grew, it turned out he was demisexual, or rather, a person who only experiences sexual attraction and urges after an emotional connection is established. He asked me to compromise, and I agreed to try. But I just… After a while, it grew too stressful, too much, and I found myself in that situation where I felt sick when he touched me again. So, I broke up with him.

This last relationship has helped me realize that I am sexually-repulsed. Which means sex, and anything related to sex, is something that I cannot do. I am not broken, it’s simply the way I am. A homosexual won’t experience sexual feelings for a heterogendered individual. I can’t have sexual contact. It’s simple. And while I am still an avid masturbator and enjoyer of sex comics and pornographic fanfiction, this means I will never enjoy sex with another person. And that’s alright.

As a promise to myself, and a reminder to never compromise again, I wear the black ring on my left middle finger. This tradition started in 2005, when AVEN user Mega Mitosis posted this on the boards:

You know, a friend of mine wears a ring on her left middle finger. Her explanation being that: your right middle means “currently single”, the right ring means “currently taken” and since the left ring means “taken/married” in a permanent sense, then the next logical conclusion would be that left middle means “permanently single”.

And while I might not be permanently single, I do fully intend never to allow myself to fall into a situation where I feel sickened just by the touch of someone again. I am in control of my sexuality, just as my mother was, and while I am a different sexuality than she, I am no less important. So please, if you know someone you think might be asexual, don’t tell them there is something wrong with them. Don’t ask if they’ve gone to see a therapist. Instead, show them this article, and let them find out for themselves what they are or may be. And if you think that you are, in fact, asexual as well? Welcome to the club, we have cake.

Especially chocolate lava cake. Yum.

By the by, the colors there are the Asexual Flag. Pretty cool, huh?

Guest Blog – Let’s Talk about Karma with a Kitchen Witch!

  • Posted on October 21, 2014 at 6:33 pm

The Second in my series of guest posts for Mari Well’s Blog is up! This time, we’re talking all about Karma!

In this post, I explain what Karma and the Three Fold Law are all about, as well as provide you with a trio of interesting spells that anyone can do, even on a budget! No dancing around a bonfire naked required, ladies and gents! Not only do you get to try out Kitchen Witchery for the first time, you can also learn a nifty little blessing to help those you love!

Again, standard disclaimer, ladies and gents. I am not harry potter. These are my real beliefs, and how I live my life. So please, be respectful. Thank you.

So read and enjoy!

Imagine Your OC – Practice Drabbles 1

  • Posted on October 19, 2014 at 10:15 pm

In the spirit of NaNoPrep, I’m taking some time to build my characters! And in doing so, apparently, I am avoiding all responsibility by surfing tumblr. Anyway, I found this post here, entitled ‘Things to consider when making your OCs” and I realized, honestly, they’re some pretty amazing prompts! So here we go! I’ve picked random characters for each prompt, and will flesh them out some! This should be an adventure, yes it should.

~*~*~*~*~

How would they react upon accidentally walking into a glass door?

The pain was nothing to the embarrassment. Knocking into the sliding glass door only caused a slight ache in the bridge of his nose, but Dirk’s pride? Now, that was bruised beyond repair. With Yumil laughing in the background, he groaned, rubbing the sore area. Stay calm, Strausson, stay cool. No need to let the normally-unflappable idiot you hang around with take the wind out of your sails.

“I meant to do that.” Dirk stumbled, saying the first thing he could think of. This, of course, only increased the howling of laughter from Yumil.

Jorgan, sweet, innocent Jorgan, took the handle of the door, and opened it. “There you go!” Dirk knew letting Jorgan hang around his older brother was a bad idea. Look at that tiny smirk. Yumil was a bad influence. Giving up, the mahogany skinned man slid past Jorgan and out into the yard, ignoring the burning of embarrassment in his ears.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

How do they react to having their name spelled wrong on a Starbucks cup?

“…Excuse me. This…” Dirk was holding a cup, on which his name had been… well… The letters in scrawled sharpie clearly emblazoned the word “DICK” instead of Dirk. He stood at the counter, as the person behind the counter stared placidly back. Before he even finished, he realized he’d already lost this battle. However, Dirk was never one to give up.

“This is unacceptable. This kind of profanity is unprofessional.” He managed, fighting through annoyance and embarrassment. Everyone was looking at him at this point, but Dirk had to make a point here. What if this had been for some impressionable preteen? What then? “I’d like to speak to your manager.”

“Sir, I am the manager.” The employee intoned, soulless eyes staring sightlessly. “If you’d like to register a complaint, you can go online-” This was where Dirk sighed, giving up entirely. Maybe if Yumil had been here, he’d have gotten somewhere. His partner never turned down a challenge. Although that might end in the Starbucks being burnt to the ground… Best he wasn’t here at all then.

“Excuse me, sir? My name is Dick Dickerson, and I believe that’s mine.”

*~*~*~*~*~

What kind of vines do they make?

“Wait, why am I holding a pot again?” Dirk asked, possibly for the third time. He couldn’t quite remember. He honestly was trying to convince himself that what he kept hearing WASN’T incredibly stupid. But of course, this was Yumil, with his sidekick Lette he was talking about, who tended to bring out the worst in each other. He looked at the odd old-fashioned crock-pot he was holding, and wondered, again, why it was filled with fish.

“Just don’t move, alright, and keep still.” Yumil hissed, holding the phone. “Alright, go ahead Lette!”

Lette grinned into the camera, making a peace sign with her teal-painted nails. “Hi, I’m Lette, and this is jackass!” Then, she turned around, and Dirk got to see what she was holding. A bat. Oh god. He flinched back immediately, and the crock-pot went flying. Water and fish flew everywhere, and he stared at Yumil’s  laughing grimace, realizing that he, perhaps, did not have the best of friends.

*~*~*~*~*~

What would their reaction to your favorite character be?

He really didn’t understand this show. He supposed he could understand the characters. Leon, he was an officer of the law, and someone Dirk respected. Well, despite the fact that he acted like an eighties thug. But he really did want to stop people being hurt. He didn’t really understand the other character though. D, this so called-count. He was reminded of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“God, could Leon be any more stupid? of COURSE it’s a mermaid!” Yumil shouted from an armchair, painting toenails pink again. Long black hair was piled high up on the back of a pretty head. While D was incomprehensible, it was Leon he understood perfectly.

After all, his own incomprehensible idiot sat right across the way from him, didn’t he?

*~*~*~*~*~

How would they play the Sims?

Dirk checked the meter once again, and then smiled. Good. Every single one of their meters was alright. Although, little Eamon looked like she was going to end up peeing herself if he didn’t get her away from that computer. He clicked on the toilet and got her to head that way. He intercepted little Yumil from trying to set a plant on fire, again, and sent him to the library to study next to little Dirk.

He liked it best when everything ran well. Little Yumil is a scientist, and little Dirk is an author. little Jorgan is still in school. He ended up having to make him little Yumil and little Dirk’s kid, but it was worth it. Little Eamon was a cop and Little Anelace her partner. Little Lette was a movie star, and little Espin was the chore-boy. But he seemed happy enough that way.

Dirk saved, just to be safe, and started adding on the new wing of the house. After all, pretty soon little Dirk and little Yumil would be adopting some kids. That’d certainly keep them busy, wouldn’t it?

*~*~*~*~*~*~

What would their finishing move be?

“YUMIL!” He roared, cutting through another enemy to get to the summoner. He could see the summoner trying to call down Ifrit, his favorite summon, but he knew it would be too late.  The behemoths were quick, despite their large lumbering forms.

Things seemed to slow. His feet pounded the floor. His breath slowed. He felt it, then. Something powerful. He roared, leaping. Into the air he went, his sword raised high. Down, it came.

“EXCALIBUR ARCH!” A blaze of blue light, and the behemoth threatening their summoner dashed into a thousand shimmering pieces. Once it was done, he whirled, and Yumil’s back touched his, a renewed sense of purpose washing over him. “Everyone, REGROUP!”

Guest Post – A Chat With A Kitchen Witch

  • Posted on October 19, 2014 at 6:16 pm

For those of you who do not know, I’ve been invited to do a series of guest posts over on Mari Well’s Blog in commemoration of Halloween! As every good Halloween’r knows, Halloween starts LONG before the 31rst of October. Pretty much the entire month is dedicated to orange and black scariness, and it’s one of my favorite months! Along with pumpkin spice EVERYTHING and the chance to change out my wardrobe for sweaters and scarves, it gives me the new opportunity, in this case, of writing about my beliefs!

Now, if you wish to remain ignorant about my beliefs, that’s absolutely your right. I do not wish to force my religion upon anyone, nor would I want them to force theirs upon me! So please be aware that I will tag all posts with references to my personal beliefs as Personal and Paganism. If you don’t wish to know, you can definately avoid these tags! Thank you so much, however, if you do decide to expand your personal bubble, and read these blogposts I’ll be sharing!

The First in the series is A Chat With A Kitchen Witch where I explain what it is to be a Kitchen Witch, and how you too can create magic in your everyday life! As always, feel free to leave questions there, or here, in the comments! I’d love to hear your opinion on my words!

The next post will be on Karma, and will include a few cute spells to try out!

Weekly Writing Update – 10-18-14

  • Posted on October 18, 2014 at 11:29 pm

 

 

 

 

 

Still working on NaNoWriMo planning, which, interestingly enough is gaining me some new viewers! Thanks so much, those of you who have just started watching this blog! I hope I inspire you with my journey, and I hope you don’t mind my whining occasionally! I’m trying to cut it out, I promise!

Also, I’m curious to see if anyone has any interest in me continuing the Breaking Down Nemesis series. I have sort of lost interest in reading the book, and I feel that perhaps I’ve just fallen out of love with the idea of writing a mystery novel. I think that perhaps I was looking more at writing a Suspense/Horror novel, than the typical Agatha Christie novel. …And I kinda need to return the book. So, let  me know in the notes if this is something you still look forward to!

 

Join up now!

 

 

Word Counts:

First book of the Kurylian saga: 6,446 words

Kaimi Rowe Series: Seeker Born – Rough Draft – Restarted – Outline phase

Unnamed Scifi short story – Idea stage – Minor research done

Blog Posts

First Light

Books Read

Also none this week!

Goals

Finish The Barefoot Executive by Carrie Wilkerson

Finish Writing Fiction by Gary Disher

Finish Reading Like A Writer by Francine Prose

Finish Little Red Book of Selling by Jeffrey Gitomer

Finish The Invisible Orientation by Julie Sondra Decker

Finish Third post for Mari Wells about Reincarnation

First Light

  • Posted on October 17, 2014 at 12:29 am

Memory is a fickle thing, inherently wrong, yet personal in the greatest of ways. All of our memories are biased, based upon information our mind stores and corrupts. Stories we tell ourselves become memories, despite never happening. Things that happened turn out a different way when we think back on them.

Most personal to us all, and most telling of whom we will become, is our very first memory. The first bit of light our mind stores away for us in the world. These memories hide from us, little snippets of time. And then, like magic, a scent, or a sound, the touch of a familiar fabric, or the hum of a certain frequency reminds us, and it comes crashing back like nothing was ever missing at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The prickly poking of hay. The scent of his mother, soft and creamy like milk just warmed up, and the sound of his father’s quiet voice. Later, Dirk would learn that the conversation was their first discussion about whether they should go back home to Thosfig, back to their tribe. His nose itched, and he rubbed his little fingers against it to make it go away.Noticing how sharp his little fingernails were, he curled them into his palms. Crickets chirped somewhere, and he could hear crackling, like fire. His eyes felt heavy, and he didn’t want to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Pain. Yumil remembered pain first. A too-tight grip of an adult hand around a small wrist. The red of lines cut into child-soft skin by fingernails dyed with pigment from berries.  Yumil remembers looking up at her, her tawny hair shining in the sunlight. She is beautiful, and frightful. She calls him a bad boy,voice hissing. Yumil feels his stomach twist and clench, fear climbing inside. She is angry, and to Yumil it’s as if she has always been angry and will always be angry. He finds anger burning inside himself to match, hot and terrifyingly close to tears.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She can’t remember the words anymore, but Eamon remembers the soft feeling of her mother’s chest. Her cheek fits against it perfectly. She remembers the hard push of her sister’s knee against her own leg, and the laugh in her mother’s voice. She recalls the lines of her sister’s hand and how it felt to rub her thumb along them until Lette shrieked with laughter, like it had tickled her. Eamon remembers how warm she felt, wrapped up in the two of them. A mix of flowers and cool water always brings this memory to her mind, and she smiles.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Grass tickling her nose, and a small round bug crawling along between the blades. Red like string scattering across her vision, as she was lifted from the earth. Her hand still reaching out for the little black bug, bigger hands tight against her ribs They squeezed a little painfully, but only enough to make her whine in the back of her throat. A murmur of her name, and Lette looks up. Her father’s green eyes smile down at her like the water of a murky lake. She smiles back, and giggles. His hand, scratchy with callouses, brushes back her hair.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Blurs moving past him, dark things swimming around the edges of his vision. Espin remembers crying, crying so loud and so long that he was sure no one heard him. He remembers unpleasant smells, something he later knows is the smell of sickness and waste. He remembers the crying making it worse, stopping his nose and how panicked he felt. A cool hand on his forehead was all that kept him awake, and he cried, and cried. Sleep would be kinder. His stomach lurched, and he felt hotness sear his throat and splash out his lips. Nothing eases his pain.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her big brother’s back, warm and strong. Anelace was tied to it, she could feel the soft cloth against the back of her neck, feel the bounce of his step as he walked. He talked to her, telling her stories, and she burbled back to him. Her fingers found his coarse woven dreads, tugging for attention. She remembers how he smelt like sunshine and camels. He was so big, and strong, he carried her like she was smaller than an ant, and it made her feel small and she thought he must be the most powerful thing in the world.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She was always angry. So angry. His mother was angry at him, yelling and screaming, and Jorgan hated yelling. He wanted to hide and forget. It made him cry, which made her so much angrier. She called him hurtful things he can’t remember later, things that might be true. Her palm struck his cheek, and his world went spinning. Pain blossomed in his jaw, his teeth rattling, as he toppled over. His cries came louder. The snap of a belt made his chest squeeze, and fear silenced him. His father’s footsteps, shaky and unstable, curled him into a tight ball.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

What glimpse does this first light give?

photo courtesy of flickr.com

Weekly Writing Update – 10/15/14

  • Posted on October 15, 2014 at 7:27 pm

So, eleven days since our last Weekly Writing Update, and I’ll admit, I got a bit behind! However, I’m catching up, and getting geared up for Nanowrimo! Which, is gonna be AWESOME! You can find me here if you want to add me as a buddy! My good friend Chris Votey can be found here, so send him tons of support and add him too!

Now, for those of you who don’t know, I’m planning on becoming a NaNoRebel, this year! Instead of penning 50k of one novel, I plan on writing TWO SEPERATE SHORT STORIES, both of which based on the novel I wrote LAST NaNo, The Sorcerer and The Swordsman. You’ll notice, I’ve gotten a head start. It’s not cheating, it’s strategic winning.

Join up now!

 

 

Word Counts:

First book of the Kurylian saga: 6,446 words

Kaimi Rowe Series: Seeker Born – Rough Draft – Restarted – Outline phase

Unnamed Scifi short story – Idea stage – Minor research done

Blog Posts

None this week! I’ve been working on some guest posts that will post next week!

Books Read

Also none this week!

Goals

Finish The Barefoot Executive by Carrie Wilkerson

Finish Writing Fiction by Gary Disher

Start The Invisible Orientation by Julie Sondra Decker

Write four blog posts this week

Weekly Writing Update – 10-04-14

  • Posted on October 4, 2014 at 11:29 pm

Alright, so, I did forget to post a WWU last week… Which, unfortunately, was mostly due to myself having a horrid nasty cold. And also, to me being a Forgetful Franny. To be honest, a lot has gone on, and none of it really worth recording. I’ve begun a sort of pre-NaNoWriMo bootcamp with my mentor Chris Votey, who is training me in how to write short stories! See, kids, it pays to pay attention in highschool when they teach you these things.

I also had a hard setback this last week, which is seriously affecting my ability to remain upbeat and focused. You can read about it in my Insecure Writer’s Support Group post listed below.

Word Counts:

First book of the Kurylian saga: 4,325 words

Kaimi Rowe Series: Seeker Born – Rough Draft – Restarted – Outline phase

Unnamed Scifi short story – Idea stage – Minor research done

Blog Posts

Breaking Down Nemesis: Part Seven

October IWSG – A Hard Lesson

Books Read

The Frugal Duchess by Sharon Harvey Rosenberg

Women and Money by Suze Orman

Goals

Finish The Barefoot Executive by Carrie Wilkerson

Finish Writing Fiction by Gary Disher

Start The Invisible Orientation by Julie Sondra Decker

Write four blog posts this week

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