From the Inkwell, From the Vein

Too pooped to post....

2011-12-15T21:16:00.000-06:00

I think it's safe to say, the month of November kicked my butt.... both literally and "literary-ly", as evidenced by the fact that I haven't even posted since Nov. 28th... *sigh*

Between, NaNoWriMo, guest blogging, a major (read: exhausting) week-long, out-of-town project for work, I had precious little time to do much more than work and sleep....

And, now, the holidays are upon us... greatly restricting what little free time I might have to post... *double sigh*

Retail management + Christmas = No Time, No Life, No Sleep

So, if I am mysteriously absent for the rest of the year, fear not.... and if you find me snoozing in the corner, just step over me....

All good things must come to an end....

2011-11-28T02:44:00.001-06:00

So, I've been really bad about cross-blogging all of my guest posts at Vie Hebdomadaires... thought I would try and correct that.

Here are the links to my guest posts, should anyone wish to have a look see. And, even if you'd rather not read all my ramblings, definitely give the Vie Hebdomadaires site a chance, it's a pretty novel idea to pass a blog around to 52 strangers around the world!

Anyway, on to the links:
Day 1--And, the mysterious stranger behind the mask is....
Day 2--Dinosaur digger, or treasure hunter....
Day 3--Of the trouser mind, or rigidly defined....
Day 4--And on this day.....
Day 5--Ask me once, I'll tell you my name, ask me twice, I'll tell you the same.....
Day 6--Not a good idea to let your mind wander, unless you're sure it's strong enough to be out on its own....

Thus ends my adventures as guest blogger of the week!

Further adventures in guest post land....

2011-11-23T01:12:00.001-06:00

So, my post for day 2, Dinosaur Digger or Treasure Hunter, is up.... I was a bit late posting this one. Hopefully, nobody noticed :-)

Adventures in guest blogging....

2011-11-21T18:35:00.001-06:00

I've been honored with a request to guest blog this week over at Vie Hebdomadaires. It is an intriguing little premise that brings a new writer to take the reins every week. In essence, the blog morphs and evolves into whatever personality the guest blogger brings to the table and then, once the guest blogger selects another person to pass the gauntlet to, the blog morphs and evolves once again. It'll be interesting to see where this little blog goes in the weeks to come....

First post is up, an introduction post, give it a look see if you'd like and if anybody would like to be considered for the title of guest blogger starting next week, let me know!

Oh me, oh my, how the time does fly.....

2011-11-20T20:11:00.001-06:00

So, I woke this morning, and would have sworn to anybody who asked me, that it was only the day after Halloween. As my last post was dated 10/31/11, I had no problem whatsoever believing that today was November 1st..... but, it's not----

sigh.....

How a person goes about losing 20 days when they are not in a coma or some other unconscious, time-suspended kind of situation, is beyond me... clearly.

But, a lot of things have whittled away the time and I was completely unaware of how quickly the month was passing.

Nanowrimo started on the 1st. This is year 5 for me and the first time that I've ever started without a clear plot in mind... of course, that didn't mean I would easily give up. For the first week, in fact, I was right on schedule, my daily 1667-word goals adding up quite nicely.

By week two, I found myself hotel-bound in Edwardsville, Illinois working on a bookstore remodel for my company. Anyone who's ever worked in book retail knows it isn't the easiest gig in the world, add the bonus of an out-of-state "project" and saying it's a whole other world doesn't even cut it. Somebody has to put those stores together from the ground up, we gave up waiting on the remodel fairy years ago. So, needless to say, by the second night in the hotel room, I had pretty much given up on my Nanowrimo story, at least until I could get home and back to working my nice normal 9 1/2 hr shifts in my nice normal, fully-stocked store.

As we round out week three, I am now, a good 16,000 words behind my Nanowrimo goal. I did have a glorious weekend celebrating my 6th anniversary with my wonderful, completely-supportive-of-all-my-insanity, husband. He even made it a point to give me time and space to scribble a few thousand words out, even though I should have spent every second of this weekend with him....

And, as if I didn't already have enough on my plate--- though, with the upcoming holidays, who doesn't have full plates?--- I am set to begin a week of guest blogging over at Vie Hebdomadaires. It should prove to be an interesting challenge. I am grateful to the lovely, Janel Gradowski over at Janel's Jumble for selecting me as the new guest blogger. I am intrigued by the premise of the blog project, enlisting a different writer every week... in essence, creating a different blog every week. I'll be the twelfth writer in the project.

Oh, and I still have to find time, before this Wednesday, to select the week 14 tribute piece at Bluebell Books. The wonderful people there have already been patient with some of my lateness in the past.

Here's hoping I survive the week, the Thanksgiving obligations and the rest of the month, for that matter-----

After this, I think I'll need a holiday from the holidays.....

The Jack o' Lanterns Walk at Midnight...

2011-10-31T00:23:00.000-05:00

In the clear, crisp air of All Hallow's Eve,
there's magic brewing in the stories we weave.
The black cat's smile hides a witch's grin,
and you'll never know where your pumpkin has been.

The smirk that crawls o'er his bright orange face,
sings of secret plans in a dark gathering place.
At least, you think, that's what he's trying to hide,
didn't you, yesterday, leave him on the porch's east side?

This morning he rests on the westernmost edge,
Watching the sun's descent, why does that fill you with dread?
The silky, black feline winding circles 'round your feet,
mews softly in rhythm to the wind's moaning beat.

The thumping of tree limbs against the wooden fence gate,
drum out a message, you're sure, of your horrible fate.
The scratching of twigs against your window's dark pane,
like bony witch-fingers, claw at your brain.

Only one thing to do on this most horrible night,
to survive, in one piece, the most dreadful of plights,
While the spookies are gathering at the haunted, dark glade,
don your cleverest guise and join the parade.

A Forest Lullaby.....

2011-10-27T23:15:00.000-05:00

Sleepy heads and sleepy limbs,
speak soft, the fall of night.

Darkened quilts of nighttime sky,
coax from the world, all fight.

Shall I sing a melody?
the night wind whispers soft.

Or, read a cozy bedtime tale?
on branches, high aloft,

the fairies perch on shivering twigs,
their hands caress the leaves.

The trembles still in peaceful night,
Sleep well, oh mighty trees!

Time undefined, Universes unaligned.....

2011-10-19T22:11:00.002-05:00

**Caveat--- The following photo was this week's prompt for Bluebell Books' Short Story Slam... the piece that resulted was not what I originally intended. It's obvious the photo is meant to evoke feelings akin to warmth and happiness, and as much as I wanted to write a warm, happy piece, I could not. There is nothing typical about the ramblings, other than they belong to my typically rambling sub-conscious. I couldn't even make it a decent poem *sigh*

And, as I write this caveat, I'm seriously contemplating whether I should even post this....

Where there should be light, darkness settles.

Where there should be love, a pitted emptiness grows.

What I would give to hold you, what I would give to haveknown you.

Wrapped in blinding thickness, like cotton-wool stuffedbetween the ears,

the mind pads into oblivion,

bones rattling where there should be no sound.

Choking on the words offers no comfort,

if it were so simple, an end would be swiftly sought.

But, it's never so simple.

How long has the ache of your loss remained?

How many years counted?

Months remembered?

Weeks recalled?

Days...forgotten?

There is a hollow in the pit of my soul. A hollow scratchedout several years past when the fragile hold I had on the world was breaking.It was as if nature had divined that the scooping out of my soul was necessaryso I would never forget.

Soul or no soul, Iwould never forget.

It isn’t easy to toss aside a piece of yourself and not feelsomething. It’s inconceivable that the world wouldn’t tilt dangerously to oneside when you suddenly realized what you’d lost—even if the losing was not yourown fault, even though you’ll never believe that it wasn’t your fault. Of course,it was your fault…no one else to blame.

What’s the saying about time healing wounds? I’ve known,since childhood, the idea of time healing was just another lie, force-fed tothe suffering to “ease” their pain. Time doesn't heal anything. It might allowyour body to grow accustomed to the pain, thereby lessening the effects of it,but it doesn’t heal it… the pain never really goes away. You can ignore it,dull it, numb it…but, it’s still there, waiting for the first sign that yourguard is dropping. A tiny crack is all that’s necessary. A pin-prick hole inyour shields and the pain will come bursting through like a heat-seekingmissile, bent on destroying every ounce of warmth you’ve foolishly let in withthe idea of moving on with your life.

The thing about hollows and pain, they’re malignant. Theygrow and fester, swallowing their way through your system until your entireperson is consumed. The hollow in your soul, suddenly becomes the hollow inyour heart, before becoming the hollow in your head—the hollow that definesyour life.

Come take the breath of me. You’ve already taken the soul ofme…

Countdown to insanity.....

2011-10-07T22:35:00.000-05:00

Less than a month and the madness will begin....

I've actually become quite attached to the feeling of spiraling madness that comes with participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), linked here. This will be my fifth year to partake in a month-long feat of literary abandon, the purpose of which is to come away with a 50K-word manuscript. That's right, you write a novel-length manuscript in 30 days.

I have never written at such a frenzied, feverish pace, but, from year 1 I was hooked---addicted---obsessed. The adrenalin rush to write so much in so little time is beyond wonderful---it is such a high (there really is no other way to describe it).

This year's idea came from one mind-numbing day a couple of weeks ago. An injury at work had me side-lined for a couple of days, and I fought against my boredom, constantly. I couldn't seem to make my mind focus. The problem, mainly, is that I require so many things going on, the panicked fretting that I won't get everything down, the dreadful fear that I'll look stupid, or worse, that I'll disappoint myself or others.

Deadlines, pressure, stress...I feed on these things like candy. I push through every time-sucking activity until I break through. But, when all that stops--suddenly--I flounder.

My entire day was spent, begrudgingly, in bed...my mind whirling and unable to focus because I didn't HAVE to do anything, and wasn't supposed to do anything.

Midnight--- after a round of ibuprofen for my stupid sprained? ankle? fractured? foot? and a single beer to numb my mind--- this year's NaNoWriMo idea materialized in my mind and I scribbled frantically, hoping I wouldn't lose any of it.

Title: Eye of Faith, Eye of Reason

“The way to see by faith is to shut the eye of reason.”—Benjamin Franklin

What if you could tell somebody’s future just by touching them? Though, not just their own personal future--- what if, when you touched someone, you could see every future that person would impact? Who would be born because of them… who would die because of them?

Everything hits you in a flash of light and images.

What kind of power could be wielded by someone who could see the future of the world in a touch? Who would want that kind of power? What would they do to achieve that power?

How would the world be different if, by touching someone, you could tell who would become the ultimate evil… someone whose single life would mean the destruction of many lives. Would you have the ability/courage to remove such an evil so that the future might be spared?

But, what if in sparing the great evil, a great goodness is allowed to live on? If the person who could divine future lives from a touch saw that an evil needed to be spared so the birth of a world-changing goodness was dependent on it, would it be possible to allow that evil to live? Would the good of the many outweigh the good of the few?

What if that evil that was allowed to live was someone like Hitler?

--- Tactile diviners first show their power at puberty, a power that fades by the time they are 50

--- More girls are diviners than boys (something to do with sensitivities) power is empathetic

--- It becomes common practice for the government to seek out the diviners and remove them from the natural circulation… their powers are necessary for the greater good

--- The governing council is made of mostly older men, who see the diviner’s powers as a way to control the future of the world… to become the future leaders of an entire planet.

--- Certain atrocities (like Hitler) are allowed to live, to carry out their horrific plans, because, the diviners can see the future of the world rippling from them.

--- Main diviner at the time of “Hitler’s” birth is young female, about 25 yrs old. It was deemed necessary that the diviners frequent the nurseries and homes of those who’ve recently been born—to ascertain the worth of the new addition--- sometimes culling is necessary

--- Main diviner reports what she sees in “Hitler’s” future, mostly. She gives the government what she knows they want to hear--- that a future descendant of some "Nazi officer" will hold the key to uniting the world under one government.

--- However, the main diviner fails to mention that another child will be born, because of "Hitler’s" atrocities---one that will have the power to free the world from the autonomous rule.

--- Diviners live exceptionally long lives, even though their powers of divining the future leave them.

--- Some of the higher government officials were past diviners, who remember what power there was in the ability to divine.

--- 2 children will be born… Raised 2 different ways… hearing 2 different stories of what brought about their existence--- both will meet, but only one will triumph.

I'm interested to see where this story idea will lead. I've found that no matter how much you plan for the month of November, there will always be something unexpected that creeps in----

Anybody else taking the NaNoWriMo plunge??

Further adventures of NYC Midnight...oh, and Daleks!!!

2011-09-26T19:44:00.003-05:00

FenCon Day 2:

By the second day, I mustered enough courage? stamina? to attend some actual panels. They were entertaining, instructional and enlightening. After dinner, I began to wish I could have a do-over as I suddenly realized how much I was missing by allowing myself to be overwhelmed the day before... *sigh*

The first panel I attended, impressed upon me the importance of word choice--- specifically in the realm of context. One of the panelists used as an example, a mistake she herself had made. The lines of discussion previously had been about ensuring that you were using the correct word. She wanted to point out that you could use a word, that in terms of definition would make sense, but, which might have a more accepted definition that would take the word out of context. Her beta readers were quick to point out the mistake she had made. In a love scene, she described the man caressing his lover's "spare breasts"--- the author, had of course, meant to illustrate the breasts' lean, thin quality... and not that the woman had an extra pair of breasts in her back pocket for times such as these.... I will never forget the lesson I learned that day!

Second panel I attended discussed Horror and whether or not the horror story was on its way out... or, if sexy had replaced horror--- (ie Twilight causing Dracula to spin in his undead grave). What struck me as odd--- though I didn't think about it at first--- was the panel consisted of 4 men and 1 woman and the audience was about 95% female--- Sooo, men write the horror and woman read it?? Just an interesting observation---- What I loved about this panel was the ultimate consensus by the time we left... that creatures in horror stories might be horrible one day and sexy the next... but, the worst creature, that can never be anything but horrible, is the creature sitting next to you on the bus or standing in front of you in line at the bank. I have always been more terrified by stories where the monster is human than any other gruesome creature my darkest imagination could conjure.

Last panel for Day 2 was a random novel reading--- This was sheer joy and I wish I had had the foresight to record this session. I had my digital recorder, but I couldn't stop laughing long enough to put a sentient thought together. The premise of the panel was exactly what the title suggested. Five panelists took it in turn to read from about 20 different novels that were thrown on the table in front of them. Once one reader came to an interesting part, they passed the reading on to the next panelist. Most of the novels were probably fine on their own, but... mash them all together and suddenly the sexual innuendos exploded through the room. When a panelist read from what was supposed to have been a children's Star Wars story after a particularly innuendo-filled few minutes, the room exploded and the panelists nearly fell from their chairs---- Quote: "Young Anakin then watched his Master rise." The reader halted immediately and exclaimed: "But, this is a children's book!" Oh, Innuendo... how do you do those things you do.....

FenCon Day 3:

Didn't do much this day except wander the dealer's room, drooling over everything that I couldn't afford to buy. Could have made a lovely wardrobe from the Doctor Who t-shirts alone!

I did, however, snap a couple of pictures of a nifty, homemade Dalek that adorned the stage in the main ballroom for the length of the event. Seemed that getting close enough to touch one without being exterminated did much to improve my lamenting soul, as I knew the convention was coming to a close--- just when I was figuring out how everything worked *sigh*

Oh, how I didn't want it to end.... 3 days is definitely not enough--- especially for someone like me, who can't seem to jump in with both feet from the start! I promise the next time I attend one, I will do more to participate.

NYC Midnight:

Somehow, before the end of the convention, I had managed to get a very rough first draft of my NYC short story thrown together. Titled, Such Stuff As Dreams, it centers around a doctor in the near-future who has perfected the human/machine interface... and the problems that arise from it.

An interesting story.... I even managed to include my assigned object: A loaf of bread... but, I can guarantee that nobody ate any bread---- no one would want to eat my bread---- *grin*

The 5 1/2 hour car ride home left me plenty of time to scratch out a 2nd draft, though I managed to keep myself car-sick the entire ride home as a result... ugh

Got home around 8:30p, which gave me a little time for some final tweaks before submission. With about an hour to spare, I kissed my little story and sent him off to play with the other stories in the NYC universe.Once they send out the confirmation emails in the next day or two, I'll post the story for anyone who's brave enough to read a flash fiction piece written in 45 hours. Just don't say I didn't warn you....

Root Beer ... AND... NYC Midnight Round 2

2011-09-23T23:30:00.000-05:00

FenCon--- Day 1

Made it to Dallas around 3-4p this afternoon and while milling around, waiting for the room I reserved to finally pass inspection so I could unpack my suitcase, I realized how overwhelmed I was by the sheer level of activity. There were so many panels to choose from, so many cliques of authors, readers, Steampunk devotees, etc, that I couldn't see which way I was walking.

I finally settled into my room, with the intent of clearing my head and accepted that I would probably not be attending the 3 panels I had asterisked on my program guide for today.

I was/am okay with that... I'm in Dallas, things will get better....

Annnnnd, the evening became much, much, much better.

First:
For anybody that may ever stay in the Dallas Crowne Plaza hotel... you MUST have McArthur's (hotel restaurant) Sweet Chocolate Creme Brulee... with raspberries.... It. Is. Heaven... in a ramekin! I spent an entire hour trying to stretch the experience of it.

And, as if I didn't have enough sugar... the 10pm panel (that I refused to miss) was a Root Beer Tasting!

In the 1 1/2 hr tasting, we sampled 19 different root beers, and I discovered something about my "root beer palate"--- I'm not so big into the "medicine-y" tasting ones... the ones that reek of licorice (anise)...I'm also not so big into the ones that have a harsh bite (extra strong carbonation). Some of the Root beers we were introduced to, I will probably never taste again as they aren't sold online or shipped outside their respective city/state.... so this was quite a treat.

Some of these will be familiar names... I rated using (+,--) symbols....

A&W Root Beer..... +

IBC Root Beer..... +++

Boylan's Root Beer...... --

Fitz's Root Beer..... ++

Virgil's Root Beer..... +

Hank's Premium Philadelphia Recipe Root Beer.....+++

Waialua Root Beer.....+

Dog n Suds Draft Style Root Beer.....-- --

AJ Stephans Old Style Root Beer.....+++

Rat Bastard Root Beer.....+

Saranac 1888 Root Beer.....+++++

Stewart's Beverages Original Root Beer.....++

Sprecher Root Beer Soda.....+++

Sioux City Sarsaparilla.....+++

H-E-B Old Fashioned Root Beer..... +++

Henry Weinhard Premium Draught Style Head Root Beer.....++

Empire Bottling Works Sarsaparilla.....++++

Milllstream Old Time Rootbeer.....+++

Purple Cane Road Root Beer.....+++++

Nearly all of the Root Beers were pleasantly nice. There were only 2 that received a negative rating from me... and that's because these both tasted like caramel-flavored Nyquil. Dog n Suds Draft Style Root Beer actually made me gag--- blergh!

My two absolutely favorite Root Beers were Saranac and Purple Cane. The whole room of panel attendees marveled when the moderator pulled out the bottles of Purple Cane Road as they were corked in a beautiful blue, burgundy shaped bottle...

Moderator "uncorking" Purple Cane Road

Such a subtle flavor,
and only a handful of ingredients

Beautiful blue bottle

But, as I will probably never taste Purple Cane Road Root Beer as it is one that isn't shipped out or on-line for purchase, I'll have to say that my FAVORITE Root Beer of the evening was Saranac 1888 Root Beer... it had such a clear, caramel flavor--- in fact, it only had about 4 ingredients (which I found a clear indication of how much I liked the Root Beers) and didn't try to complicate the flavor by adding things like wintergreen and ginseng and kava kava---- there were "Root Beers" that made a point to stand out from their peers by their complexity and I felt this completely destroyed the flavor.

The Best Root Beer, ever!!!

******

And, at Midnight, on the dot, I received the NYC Midnight email assigning our genres, locations and objects for Round 2.

I was sitting in a very populated bar/restaurant in the lobby of the hotel, using their WiFi, trying to digest all the Root Beer that was fizzing in my stomach, when the email came down. It took every concentrated effort to keep from laughing out loud when I read my assignments. I couldn't get over the irony....

Assigned genre: Sci Fi --- while I'm attending a Sci Fi/ Fantasy convention----
Assigned location: A Doctor's Office --- had they heard about my ankle incident??
Assigned object: A loaf of bread --- ??? really ???

This should be interesting.....

Judges' reaction to NYC Midnight entry....

2011-09-23T21:09:00.002-05:00

The good thing about the NYC Midnight contest is the feedback that comes with every entry. There is a forum set up on the site, explicitly designed for competitors to post links to their stories to receive peer feedback. And, as a bonus, the judges send an email with their own feedback.

This is a new experience for me. Most of the competitions out there that I've entered feel so very distant. You send your story into the ether of blind-judging and wait until the "winner announcement date" to know whether or not your story sucked--- and when you didn't place, there's nothing to indicate how close you might have come to placing.

There is a sense of community at NYC Midnight, one that is intent on encouraging writers and developing writers with constructive feedback.

I've included what the judges said about my piece. Apparently, I understood the Romantic Comedy genre better than I thought I did. And, the parts the judges felt needed work were exactly what I already knew--- that I severely lacked conflict/resolution. I will willingly take the ding about there not being enough setting in the latter part of the "story"... buuuuut, I'm not comfortable hanging out in a hair salon, and I couldn't bring myself to torture my characters by listing every piece of salon equipment they laid eyes on.....

NYC Midnight email:

WHAT THE JUDGE(S) LIKED ABOUT YOUR SCRIPT - ......The five friends are fun. This story's plot is believable because of the fast action and fun characters. The banter allows the reader to participate and truly engage the story's events. ...............The characters are well-developed. The dialogue and writing is believable and fits within the assigned genre well....................................................... WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - ......More setting could be brought into the latter half of the story. Additionally, a lot happens quite fast but there doesn't seem to be a resolution or closing to the story. A key image might work well to close this great scene. ...............This is a good one-scene, but more substance is needed in order to achieve a story. Add some complexity of events. This can be achieved in a short space.........................…........................

NYC Midnight Round 1 Results are in....

2011-09-22T16:48:00.000-05:00

The officials just posted the results for Round 1, which took place last month over the Aug 19th- 21st weekend. For Round 1, my assigned genre was Romantic Comedy, my assigned location was A Hair salon, and my assigned object to include was A Box Of Tissue. The resulting story, A Night In Before The Night Out, placed 11th. Not a stellar showing, but, as it was my first attempt at NYC Midnight challenges annnnnd as I have never written a Romantic Comedy in my life, I think I did fairly well--- especially considering that any story ranked 16th+ did not receive any points for this round.

In hindsight, my story was grossly lacking any sort of conflict or plot movement, and as Romantic Comedy isn't a genre I read, I was at a loss as to what the story should contain. I think the judges were a bit too giving, or lenient, in assigning my ranking in the group.

Round 2 starts tomorrow night... while I'm attending FenCon VIII in Dallas. It should be interesting to see how I fare trying to write a time-constrained (48hrs) flash fiction piece (>1000 words) while attending a literary convention. At least, if my assigned genre for Round 2 is Science Fiction or Fantasy, I'll have no end of inspiration.

Wish me luck! And, for future reference... can somebody tell me what a Romantic Comedy even is????

7X7 Awards

2011-09-20T14:18:00.000-05:00

David Macaulay, from Brits in the USA, passed this little award on to me about a week ago.... and, it's taken me that long to come up with the posts that are part of the award's requisites.

The idea of the 7X7 award is simple enough... you list the blog post from your archive that most represents the 7 categories provided, and then you pass the award to 7 other bloggers--- simple....

At least, I thought it would be, but then I was stuck trying to figure out what blog posts I had that would even qualify ----

---- then I realized that it's all subjective and meant to fun, so I just picked some that came close.... some of these posts, I'll admit, I had forgotten that I wrote. Funny what you stumble across when you start researching your own archives....

But, back to the point of this post--- links to my category-specific blogs :

Most Beautiful: As you pass my grave, with all your thoughts on me.... This was a hard category to select a blog post for.... when I think about beautiful blogs, I think mostly about wonderful art pieces or glorious photographs that capture the essence of the world in a heartbeat! But, I don't have posts like that. I'm no artist and though I can take a fair picture occasionally, they often pale in comparison to the photos of others. I chose this one because I was a bit proud of the poem that I wrote when looking at the photos. It wasn't my typical A-Z blog post.

Most Helpful: Renewed inspiration-- the reason to carry on.... I don't often write helpful blog posts. I'm severely lacking in any experience that would deem any advice I thought I could give as worthy. But, I know how important inspiration is... I, myself, need the occasional reminder and who better to look for help from than those you aspire to become.

Most Popular: Mudbloods and Muggles and Magic Folk, Stand and Unite... No surprise, really, that this is the most popular post. Just the words mudbloods and muggles are sure to bring any number of unsuspecting internet surfers to my page. But, this post, only 7 months old, has garnered more than 10% of the pageviews since my blog has been in existence.

Most Controversial: Removing the forbidden word removes the power of truth... Just like my lack of helpful posts, I'm not sure that I really write anything controversial. I may touch a controversial topic at times, but I don't tend to write anything with the idea of being controversial in mind. This post probably comes the closest as it deals with a sensitive topic... one that I felt should not be ignored, or brushed aside.

Most Surprisingly Successful: Gnarly gargoyles get golden tickets... Outside my post on Mudbloods, this post is the second most popular...still getting a sporadic hit here-and-there. Not sure what might being bringing readers to this post--- unless it's the mention of Willy Wonka...

Most Underrated: Oh, times they are a'changing... Not that there was anything special about this particular blog, just got a chuckle out of writing it and another chuckle out of re-reading it...

Most Pride-worthy: Of one mind-- two distinct halves of a very chaotic whole... The topic of this blog appealed to me greatly. Here I had incontrovertible proof that a person's right brain and left brain could get along. This was very good news for me... a former biologist now turned creative writer. Science and art, my two loves, finally married into one soul...

So, there... those are my selections. And, now, to pass the award on--- a choice just as difficult as selecting specific posts. Those whose blogs I list below are, of course, under no obligation to take on the arduous task of digging through their archives unless they'd like to... and anyone who reads this post---whose blog isn't listed below--- who would like to take on this task, feel free to pick up the gauntlet and pass it on....

Stupid ol' clouds, why you got to rain on my parade??

2011-09-19T20:07:00.000-05:00

Figures.... this weekend is setting up to be an Epic Win, and I have to set myself up as an Epic Fail....

So many wonderful things are aligning in my microcosmic/nerdy universe for this weekend that I can hardly stand it... and lo, I am hardly standing at all *pathetic sigh*

September 23rd kicks off----

1/ FenCon VIII in Dallas, linked here. It'll be the first time I've seen a literary convention and the first time I've seen any part of Dallas, other than the airport. I can't wait for this road-trip!

2/ The second part of the First Round of NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest, linked here. I don't really know how I'm going to manage to get this story written in 48 hrs while the convention's going on--- let's hope the hotel's WiFi doesn't flip out--- I blogged about the first part of the First Round here, and posted my first round story, here, if you'd like to give it a read.

3/ Season 7 of one of the few shows I actually try to keep up with: Supernatural--- sue me, I'm a drooling fangirl!

How could this not be a more perfect weekend??? Yeah, about that....

I'm not accident-prone, nor am I overly susceptible to the yearly viruses that float around--- but, when I do get sick, or I do get hurt.... I do it right! Suppose I'm an overachiever in that department as well----

Last week I sported a lovely chest-cold/bronchitis thing that had me croaking like a frog. I panicked, thinking this would be a great way to make a first impression at the first convention I'd managed to attend--- but, my voice (as of 2 days ago) is nearly back to normal. Whew! Crisis averted.... I thought.

Yesterday, in what can only be described as a freak twist of fate, I was knocked from a step-ladder by a shelving unit in our store that decided it no longer wanted to be connected with the wall. There was no warning--- suddenly I was overcome by the sheer force of dozens of books as they pummeled into my chest. In less than a second, I stepped back from the ladder and felt myself free-falling toward the concrete floor of our backroom.

One loud pop from my right ankle and a couple of seconds of rolling to my left, I lay gasping---- wondering what the hell had just happened.

I stood--- remembering the dozens of times I've twisted this ankle in the past--- and put weight on my foot, thinking I could "walk it off" the way I'd done in the past.... yeah, wrong! Trembling all over, sweat pouring down my face, I suddenly realized I'd really hurt myself. I could feel my foot actually swelling against the inside of my shoe--- that was a new experience.

Lovely!

So, I hobbled home yesterday (sorry to the co-worker who had to stay and cover my shift), and I called in this afternoon (sorry to the same co-worker who had to come in on her day off to, again, cover my shift). I've spent more than 24 hrs icing, wrapping and taking more ibuprofen than is considered safe for a horse--- the pain is considerably lessened, but I have a tri-colored foot and a mildly swollen ankle---

What a way to prepare for an epic weekend..... *double sigh*

Dying to get in, or dying to get out....

2011-09-17T23:45:00.000-05:00

It was a day for death....

.... if there could ever be such a day---

It struck me as odd, on the way to work this afternoon, the number of death-related references I passed.

On any regular day there is the occasional, even incidental references to death--- passing conversations, news reports, mortuary advertisements--- but, today, the frequency of reference was enough to give me pause.

First, there was a church marquee that asked the question: Where will you spend eternity? Not an off-hand question for a church marquee, but, most of the churches near my house use quirky, play-on-word slogans to entice new followers. This was the first time I could recall such an ominous line.

Then, there was the cemetery that I pass everyday. Most times, the cemetery is quiet--- perhaps the occasional burial. Today, however, the cemetery had seen FOUR new residents move in. The funerals had just finished, the mounds freshly formed, the tents still sitting over the graves.

Finally, another 5 miles down the road, a funeral procession barreled past. The line of cars had more than halfway passed before I realized it was an actual procession. The blinking emergency lights were the only indication any of us had to pull over. I had never seen a procession fly through the city the way this one did.

What's the old adage of things always coming in "3s"?

In the 15-minute ride to work for my Saturday night shift, my brain was overwhelmed with death---

Anyone working retail on a Saturday night knows all-too-well what it feels like to be overwhelmed with death... Surely, I'm not the only retail worker who's toyed with the idea of homicide.

And, then it dawned on me... we're only a few short weeks from the madness of holiday shopping--- a yearly debacle that makes working retail comparable to corporal punishment.

The closer we get to the holiday season, the less my thoughts turn to homicide and the more my thoughts turn to suicide. It must be less painful to gouge one's eyes out with spoons than to deal with some of the atrocious holiday shoppers out there.

So, today was a day for death...a wonderful reminder of the wonderful things to come *sigh*

--- a depressive start to a depressive night in preparation for a depressive season...

Where were you the day the world stopped.....

2011-09-11T23:26:00.000-05:00

I recall the day being very quiet, as if the world had stopped breathing.

When the tragedy actually occurred, I was most likely asleep.

The first moment I realized what had happened, I was in my dorm room. Having just showered, I turned on the television while I finished dressing for class. The only thing I really remember is being completely dumb-founded. I stood for a few moments, watching the news feed play and replay the collapsing of the towers and I couldn't move.

Even though my brain and eyes struggled to convince me that what I was witnessing wasn't real, my heart and legs had already succumbed. I sank to my bed and for a full minute, I stopped breathing. Things like this don't happen... not here. Tragedies like this occur in other parts of the world ... not here.

I don't remember how I got to my lab that day, I'm not even sure if I was on time. But, I do remember that we didn't have much of a class that day-- everyone made it to the lecture, they just weren't too keen about classifying the insects that were pinned to their dissection trays.

Everyone walked into the entomology lab with dazed expressions. But, midway through class, those dazed expressions became livid, seething facades that were within a breath of snapping. Our professor, in her late thirties and originally from Bolivia, did not endear herself to much of the Biology department that day.

As the fellow members of my class opened their hearts about the horrendous events of the morning, we watched the expression of our professor shift from one of indifference to almost smug satisfaction.

At some point, our professor finally spoke. The exact words she said have long been forgotten, but the meaning behind them was quite clear---

She spent the rest of the lab time trying to explain to a room full of passionate biologists exactly what she meant when she said she was glad it had happened---

Amid the back-and-forth bickering between professor and class, I think I finally understood what she was trying to say. Though, I'm afraid the rest of the class left with more than a bitter taste in their mouth.

She was glad the tragedy had happened--- not glad about the people dying (no one could be glad about that, she explained)--- no, she was glad the tragedy had happened because it might, she reasoned, wake the American public up to the fact that they weren't better than the rest of the world and that they weren't invincible.

She tried to explain what America looked like to a non-American.

As she spoke, I could feel the tension in the room escalate. Nobody wanted to hear that the world viewed most Americans as privileged, egocentric maniacs who felt they were protected from grave misfortune and entitled to everything the world had to offer simply because they were born in the United States.

No one wanted to hear that the tragedy they believed themselves to be shielded from had found a way inside their protective bubble.

It wasn't an easy pill to swallow. Suddenly the words that ran through my mind when I turned on the television that morning replayed, looping in my conscious mind much like video loop of the World Trade Center falling over and over---- Things like this don't happen... not here. Tragedies like this occur in other parts of the world ... not here.

Monster--- A book review

2011-09-05T02:12:00.000-05:00

Just finished A. Lee Martinez's engaging story, Monster.

I will freely admit that I don't dabble in the world of SciFi on a regular basis. It's nothing personal against the genre, just not overly fond of the alien world-building that so many times can weigh down an otherwise pleasant story.

There is a certain finesse, which is necessary to introduce a new set of 'rules' outside our comfortable reality. Some authors have that finesse, others don't.

A. Lee Martinez has that finesse.

The title-character, Monster Dionysus, a human-like entity who changes colors every time he wakes, is a member of Cryptobiological Containment and Rescue Services (CCRS). He spends his nights, with the help of his inter-dimensional paper gnome helper, Chester, bagging cryptos. Got a problem with Yetis raiding the ice cream freezer at your local grocery store, just call CCRS and they'll contain, bag and remove your unwelcome intruders.

Monster's tedious job and tedious relationship with his demon-girlfriend, have his horribly tedious life spinning in circles. If not for a chance encounter with a helpless human, Judy--- who has a hard time remembering that she even met Monster (witnessing magic is very unsettling, something better off forgotten), Monster's life may have continued down its path of self-destructive boredom.

It's isn't long before Monster realizes that his fate and the fate of the Universe itself is somehow tied to this ridiculous human who has a penchant for attracting cryptos at the most inopportune times.

Not a difficult read. There isn't any great and ponderous theme to boggle the mind---just a straight-forward, often comical, neat little story.

My only complaints were that I didn't find the character of Monster engaging/endearing at first. The intention was to play him off as a jerk, I get that, but even jerks have soft spots that occasionally peek out. Monster does redeem himself at the end, but I kind of expected to see the merest hint of redeeming qualities somewhere other than the last couple of chapters.

The only other complaint I had was the dialogue-- which came off (in a few spots) as corny or forced as a means to explain what was going on.

All in all, a fun read. I'd recommend it to anyone who enjoys stories outside the norm, who likes a little comedy and allusions to demonic love-making.

Remember and Return.....

2011-08-31T03:36:00.000-05:00

I've settled my heart in the memory of your sigh,
the subtle caress of your lips.

I've eased my mind's worry in the warmth of your smile,
the soft embrace of your kiss.

But, the time of our parting has been of a length,
that I scarce can recall your words' sound.

And, I fear in the depths of this consuming absence,
your passions withheld, your spirit's now bound.

I have not the strength to fight such a foe,
as wild and untamed as the sea.

I have not the will to stand at your door,
and demand your decision to be,

As one or the other, the sea or my love,
I know I would fail to win thee.

My only request, when you've ventured enough,
Remember! And, return unto me.

NYC Midnight First Round entry....

2011-08-26T00:26:00.000-05:00

Assigned Genre-- Romantic Comedy

Assigned Location-- A Hair Salon

Assigned Object-- A Box of Tissues

Word Limit-- 1000

Time Limit-- 48 hours

A night in before the night out

AsFriday night routines go, ours has become quite the sacred ritual. And, here weare again, Amy, Ella, Kenneth, Bruce and me—the five hopefuls—busy performingour weekly rite, with more hope than we should probably allow ourselves.

Sharon’z Stylez: Salon and Boutique,the name was Kenneth’s idea, mostly, only a minor tweak to his original idea.Not sure how much business a hair salon with the name, Sharon’z Stylez for Slutz and Stiffz would draw. “What? It’s catchy!”Always Kenneth’s defense.

Fivechairs, one long and well-lit mirror, five friends and a couple shared bottlesof wine, the occasional bottle of hair dye and enough pheromone-lacedcologne/perfume to set the local zoo into a midnight orgy—a typical Fridaynight. Thank God we’d had sense enough to post a strict five o’clock closingtime on Fridays.

Wetried the debacle of getting ready in someone’s apartment, sharing one tinybathroom and one excruciatingly unforgiving bathroom mirror. Might have workedwhen we were in college. Now—

Amysits in the chair on the far left. Thin, mousy Amy with on-again-off-againwaterworks thanks to her on-again-off-again boyfriend. Tonight started anotherpreamble to the off-again scene. “What am I going to do if Frank doesn’t show?”Her gurgled sniffs, such an expected salon sound, like roaring hairdryers or hissingcurling irons.

“Ohreally, Amy,” I barked. “We’ve been through this. If Frank doesn’t show, screwhim! Well, no ... don’t screw him.” I jumped from my chair in the middle of theline and grabbed the new box of tissues from the vanity counter. “Here. You’regoing to get puffy.” The box landed with a thunk in her lap.

“Thanks.”Amy dabbed her eyes.

“Yeah,come on Amy,” pouty, seductive Ella sat to Amy’s immediate right. “You knowthere are plenty of men out there.” Ella pursed her lips, working tonight’s lipshade into the perfect tint. She was positive that different colors on awoman’s lips attracted different types of men. And, she was determined to proveher theory.

Ellagrabbed the tissue box from Amy’s lap. She was going with a vibrant red on thelips tonight, just one pursed blot on the tissue and then the shimmery topgloss. “Besides, just because you get stuck with a dud, doesn’t mean you haveto glue yourself to him day and night.” She tossed the box of tissues onto thevanity counter.

“And,how long’s your Jeffrey away, Ella?” Sitting to my right, lethal, lusty Kennethstretched across the arm of his salon chair, trying to focus his eyes throughthe wine haze.

“Allweekend.” Ella grinned, her smile giving her the chance to check her teeth forlipstick.

“Pity.”Kenneth fell back.

“Youknow Jeffrey doesn’t bat for your team,” I said, slapping him on his bronzedarm.

“Ican dream.”

“Dreamingonly leads to broken hearts.” Darling, debonair Bruce, always the realist,always the voice of deadpan reason.

“Giveit a rest, Bruce. You’re as bad as Amy.” I snatched the box of tissues, pulledout several fistfuls, and began arranging small wads of tissue inside my shirt.I may have been endowed with more than my fair share, but when they werehanding out symmetrical shapes, I must have been absent.

Theonly problem with stuffing your bra after a few belts from a wine bottle, isthe flushing sweat. It was bound to flatten my cushion accents.

“Gimme!”Kenneth’s wine-limp hand tugged the box of tissues away. He emptied thecontents onto his lap before tossing the useless box at Bruce. “Cheer up forChrist’s sake!”

“Iam cheered,” Bruce cradled the box. “It’s just the wine.”

“Nomore wine for Bruce,” Ella smacked her glossy lips at the mirror. “Got anyJack, Sharon? Or, Vodka?”

“I’lltake a Jack, if you’ve got one hiding back there, I’m right off Jonathan’s andJustin’s at the moment. I quite like the name Jack. Just sort of falls out ofthe mouth.” Bruce perched against the chair arm, a half empty bottle of wine inone hand, a totally empty box of tissues in the other.

“Sorry,fresh out.” I patted my still uneven chest. “Might have a beer back there.”

“Ugh!”Kenneth groaned. “Let him keep the wine.”

Iglared into the mirror. “Final checks.”

“I’mgood,” Amy blotted her eyes one more time.

“Allset here.” Ella’s wine-red cheeks matched her glossy lips.

“Toomuch?” I stood to model my profile.

“Abit too much. Come here.” Kenneth pulled clusters of tissue from my bra. Hepatted the shape of my breasts into perfectly rounded orbs. “There.”

“Myturn!” Kenneth leapt from the chair, his crotch bulging out past his stomach.“Too much?”

Ellacharged over, giggling, her hand pulling wads of tissue from his tightly-packedjeans.

“Carefulwhat you might find down there, Ella honey.” Bruce tossed the empty box oftissues, hitting the mark of Kenneth’s butt without trouble.

“Let’sgo ladies!” I tapped my watch. “We’re out of time and we’re out of wine.”

Westepped into the moonlight, the brisk night air stinging our wine-blazedcheeks.

“Alright,you” I pointed at Kenneth. “Stay out of trouble. And, you,” turning my poisedfinger to Bruce. “Keep him out of trouble.”

“Yes,mother.” They sang in unison before turning.

“Detailsin the morning.” Ella called over her shoulder.

“Hey,if your Jeffrey comes home early, just ship him down our way.” Kenneth calledback.

“Youwish.” I laughed.

“Yes,I do.” His singsong voice echoed in front of the salon.

“Assoon as he decides to switch sides, he’s all yours.” Ella’s voice rang down thestreet.

“Promise?”

Isucked deep the brisk air. “Come on, I’m losing my buzz. We’ve got to havedetails of our own to share.”

A spot of poetry....

2011-08-25T00:08:00.000-05:00

I want to move you with my words, let my thoughts run through your veins. I want to tell you all the stories, give you the secrets to the game.

I want to show you where the time stops, and holds itself inside. I want to let you feel the depth in which the universe confides.

Through me you'll see the darkness fade, all fears will fall away. Through me you'll hear the night wind as it trips along to day.

Through me you'll know what depth you have, how far your heart can soar. Through me you'll sense the future, in the ghosts you once adored.

For you, the worlds will open, the ragged path an easy task. For you, the heavens whisper, all our hopes have come at last.

For you, I give my heart, my soul, without the endless strife. For you, I give my everything, my hopes, my dreams, my life.

Caveat...

2011-08-22T12:53:00.000-05:00

There are secrets we fight to find. There are burning questions that drive us into manic episodes, frenzied and frazzled, hoping we might learn the answers.

Some answers we stumble upon quickly, easily. This boosts our fragile ego, convincing us that we could find all the answers to the universe, if given enough time.

We are blinded by our own magnificence and don't think for a second that the answers came so quickly for a reason. What if there are buffer questions? What if the answers you've 'found' were set before you to find... so that you might be distracted by their shiny brilliance, by your own shiny brilliance?

There are secrets we fight to find because they aren't meant to be found. Answers that are better left unspoken. What horrors would be unleashed on the world if there were no mysteries in the universe? What horrors would mankind unleash with the knowledge of the universe at its fingertips?

Bitter Honey

2011-08-21T22:30:00.001-05:00

Weaving dreams of beguiling gold,
a future's price for happiness.
What secrets do you, determined, hold?
asks the summer wind's soft caress.

A guarded name,
a hidden hope.

Spinning wheels clutching time,
grasping straw that falls away,
What dreams may come, we soon may find,
won't recall at end of day.

A cherished life,
a memory lost.

Saving the world...

2011-08-21T20:48:00.000-05:00

So, there's this nifty little community called NYC Midnight. For the last few years, they've sponsored a Flash Fiction Challenge. I missed the deadline to register last year by a day, so I was more than determined to get promptly registered this year---- well, I almost missed it again. In fact, I think I slid in with only a couple of hours to spare.

But, in the realm of deadline challenge writing, hours equate centuries of time.

I registered, and waited. Not until the exact stroke of midnight on the start of the challenge weekend do we know what we will be writing. Everybody starts on a "blind", as it were, even-playing field. When the hammer falls and the emails are sent, a countdown clock begins--- it's quite ominous actually, one feels the pressure of saving the world as the clock ticks down the seconds.

48 hours. That's it.

Think you can save the world in 2 days?

Oh, but wait... Just like any other dramatic hostage, 'fate-of-the-world-in-your-hands' scenarios, there are demands. You must write this, you must include this, you must say this.... and you must do it all without saying too much....oy.

At midnight, on the day the challenge begins, every registered writer is provided a genre, a location and an object--- all of which must be included/adhered to in the 1000-word max. story that the writer submits.

Restricting criteria like this, often gives most writers pause. Not me, though! I love having parameters defined, I panic in open-ended situations and am more likely to cut the wrong wire when disarming a bomb if things aren't clearly defined.

At least, I thought I'd do well... but when I'm given a genre I don't write in, a location I don't frequent and an object that's about as exciting as dead grass, I stammer and want to give my superhero cape to someone else.

But, I couldn't let the world down *I would definitely feel like a superhero failure*. So, I took my genre-- Romantic Comedy *shudder*... I took my location-- a hair salon *?*.... I took my object-- a box of tissues *what the heck*... and mashed it all together in some form of a 967-word story in 45 hrs. Phew.

3 hours to spare in the world-saving business is a lifetime...

Let's just hope it's enough of a ransom....

Bluebell Books interview

2011-08-18T21:00:00.003-05:00

Nifty little interview... about yours truly ... posted on the Bluebell Books blog--- fyi: you'll have to scroll down past the picture of the kitteh sleeping on the bookcase linked here

Such a great group of people! Such an honor!

And the beat goes on... somehow

2011-08-16T22:43:00.000-05:00

I've been out of the blogosphere for a few days. Seems there are times when I can't focus my mind on the task at hand, as it were.

Or, like now, something happens that gives me pause--- a pause that often interferes with my mental day-to-day workings.

About 5 days ago, riding home with my husband and father, we happened upon a traffic back-up. For the fifteen minutes or so that we crawled along the highway, we speculated about what had caused it. Minutes later, we were deafened by the sound of sirens flying past us--- and we knew it was a wreck.

We pass them everyday...cars pulled over on the side of the road, fenders dented, doors crushed... rubber-necking passers causing more of a hold up than the wreck itself.

The wreck that day was different.

As we finally came upon the scene, my stomach sank. It wasn't a "car" wreck. Sprawled across the two-lane highway--- a motorcyclist lay--- his twisted bike in one lane, his twisted body in the other lane. And as I live in an unfortunate state where there is no law requiring motorcyclists to wear helmets, his body laying without a helmet.

It's easy to shrug death off when we read the papers or hear the news clips. It's easy to become desensitized to tragedies when they happen a million miles away to people you'll never know in towns/countries you'll never visit. When you hear about death after death... day after day... it's easy to shut your mind off or close your ears.

But, when you're close enough to stare death in the face.... when you're close enough to see the last expression a person will ever make.... and when that expression is seared into your mind, how can you ever hope to shut your mind off.

There was a reason I didn't follow the line of my family into the medical field......

Thoughts from an adult reader: Upon realizing who shaped and formed her---

2011-08-06T22:21:00.001-05:00

I strolled along with Shakespeare,
beneath a full, midsummer's moon.
Caught fireflies with Steinbeck,
though our parting was too soon.

I hitched a ride on Twain's raft,
drifting lazily downstream.
Sipped sweet tea with Faulkner,
and lost my mind to dreams.

I took a quest with Tolkien,
he has such traveling friends.
Solved puzzles with Conan Doyle,
even the master can pretend.

I fell asleep with Hawthorne,
clutching tight to every breath.
Dreamt dark and twisted nights with Poe,
weeping soft for childhood's death.

Simian dreams.....

2011-08-04T20:10:00.000-05:00

Here is a story about a small monkey,
and the fun times he has on the beach.
How he loves to chomp chips made from bananas,
dancing outside the ocean waves' reach.

He lives in the coziest, tall jungle tree,
High above the safari rabble,
from dry shells of coconuts, his music he plays,
drowning out all the human's loud babble.

Full Black-- A book review

2011-08-03T09:54:00.000-05:00

We were honored, last night, to have New York Times, bestselling author, Brad Thor come in for booksigning. He is promoting his newest release, Full Black, a fast-paced thriller in the continuing adventures of Scot Harvath.

Not my preferred genre, this military/political thriller has the page-turning, heart-stopping, edge-of-your-seat tension down to an art.

For anyone with a penchant for espionage, global threats, or the American good-guy triumphing over International evils, this is a must-read.

For anyone looking for a slower-paced, character-centric piece, you may want to give this a pass.

This is only the second Brad Thor book I've ever read, so I don't profess to be an expert on his material. Though of the two, I believe Full Black was better written. Thor did allow the reader to see a wider range of emotions from his main character, Scot Harvath-- and I've heard, from Thor fans, the character arc in Full Black is more pronounced than any other Harvath book.

Scot Harvath is a Pro-American, Anti-Terrorism, Thriller-Reader's dream. He embodies everything that defines the American Hero-- the ability to thwart the plans for America's destruction, the need to ensure America's safety, the willingness to do whatever it takes (including all risks to personal safety) to secure the hazard-free future of millions of people he will never meet and who will never know what he has done.

Why, oh why....

2011-07-29T22:20:00.000-05:00

Argh!!

Why oh why does editing have to be so painful???

Wait, strike that---- why does reducing a document by a third feel like dismemberment???

Editing really isn't that bad. Usually I look forward to what a really good edit will do to whatever piece I'm working on....but, cutting a story to pieces???

6,000 words....not a long document to start with, but, apparently for the market it's intended for, it's 2,000 words too long *sigh*

So, 48 hrs later and 2 pages shorter, I've managed to shave 1,016 words... the hardest part is trying not to alter the overall workings of the piece. It's not easy trimming the fat from something that was already svelte to begin with....

If I can manage to slice away the remaining 984 words while still keeping the essence of my story, I'll be amazed. But, if my story doesn't survive the crash diet, I could always harvest its remains for decorative purposes....

A million lives, beneath a single sky.....

2011-07-24T19:38:00.003-05:00

Though our feet leave different prints,our tongues sound different words,
there's a mirrored rhythm in the beating of our hearts.

Though born in different worlds, our eyes sharpened 'neath different moons,
there's an unspoken truth in the warmth of our touch.

We may walk in different strides and dream different dreams,
we may speak in different voices, maybe swim in different streams.

It's plain to see, when dark night falls, as all the stars shine through,
that underneath it all, there's no difference 'tween me and you.

I solemnly swear that I've been up to no good.....

2011-07-18T14:18:00.001-05:00

Oh blissful, blissful hiatus...

So, I took four days away from everything-- the day job, the writing, the reading, the blogging-- everything that I do on a daily/regular basis, I stopped for 4 glorious days.

I haven't been completely bone-idle these last four days, just filled them with other things that I wanted to do, or needed to get taken care of. The days were marginally productive (which I guess deludes me into thinking that I got quite a few things accomplished).

The husband and I spent the weekend in a state of quasi-productiveness---how's that?--- and still managed to enjoy ourselves.

We bought summer shirts, that we both desperately needed in the equatorial clime we're currently living in. We got haircuts, or trims really, as our shaggy tresses were making the unrelenting heat even more unbearable. We bought groceries, including an assortment of grill meats-- equatorial heat does obligate one to grill, right? We went to the movies, twice...in one weekend---which is out of the ordinary for us. The last movie I remember seeing together was about 4 months ago, and before that, almost a year. We went out, for a long-over-due meal with friends.

The movies, I think, were the highlight of the weekend--- though, I did take time to revel in my improving skills as grill-master.

The first film we saw was, Priest, starring Paul Bettany. We caught this flick at our local dollar theater. As I'd seen no trailer for the film and knew nothing about it, I was indulging a fancy of my husband's to watch it. I read a quick blurb, noted that it involved a vampire-killing priest, and accepted my fate of being led to another over-rated, over-done, vampire-plot-laden film. *sigh*

Yet, I was pleasantly surprised and would honestly recommend the film to anyone with a taste for dystopian, religiously-hypocritical, good-battling-evil story lines.

As the credits rolled, I turned to my husband and asked, why can't I write something like that? Something that will tear at people's guts, like that? His ever-supportive response was... You can, you just have to blood-sweat-and-tear it until you get it written *double sigh* Of course....

This, inevitably led to a discussion of similar movies from the husband...you've seen Stigmata? Loved it, I replied... and Seven? Nope, I replied, missed that one.

You've never seen Seven? Was the astonished question of the weekend. I blame it on Brad Pitt... not my favorite actor, and one I go to great lengths to avoid watching. I'm sure the movie is great, I'll probably watch it eventually, and will probably even love it--- why I let certain actors/actresses dictate the movies I watch, I'll never know.

The discussion of Seven led to an idea that my husband would love to see in one of my stories--- an evil-wins-all plot line... definitely something to ponder. I've always been drawn to happy endings because that's what we want to see happen, right? But, as I get older, I accept there really aren't any happy endings in the world, just heart-warming stories that peek out through the onslaught of tragedy. So, why not write something where the bad guy wins? It would be more real, right? But, would anybody ever read it?

Something to ponder for another day...

Back to happy endings for a bit, the second movie we watched this weekend was the conclusion to the Harry Potter epic-- Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, part 2.

I don't really need to go into what this movie is about, there are very few people in the world that haven't heard something about the boy wizard and his lifelong battle with evil, both internal and external. It took me a couple of years to get around to reading the 7th book, because I didn't want it to end. And, watching this movie, drove home that it really has come to a close. Weeping the words, "Mischief Managed" into the shoulder of my husband next to me in the theater won't make the story continue.

The ending here was bitter-sweet...a happy ending for the wizarding world's defeat of Voldemort, an unhappy ending for the millions of Potter freaks that want the stories to continue. But, where do you go once the world has been saved? What's left?

----

So, as my 4-day hiatus comes to a close, a bitter-sweet ending in itself, I now have to ponder... what is left? Where do I go from here? It'll be back to the day job tomorrow, back to the grind, back to the temporary life while I work out where my writing life will take me...where I hope it takes me.

So, for the moment.... Mischief Managed!

The Magicians---- a book review...

2011-07-14T01:40:00.002-05:00

Just finished Lev Grossman's, The Magicians, and I have to say, the book was surprisingly good. It centers around a group of "normal" teenagers who aren't so normal.... at least, they've never felt normal or like they belonged in the world.

Quentin Coldwater is one of those out-of-place teens, a math genius, looking to enter an Ivy League college and wondering what it would take to find something exciting. Quentin runs from the boredom of his home, from the boredom of his high school. He runs straight into the arms of a magician's college. And, when he discovers the possibility of a magical world existing that he's read about since childhood, he thinks he's finally found the life, the world he's always wanted. But, the deeper he goes and the further he runs, the more he begins to question exactly what it is he's running from.

This is not your typical magical story. And, definitely not a children's fantasy tale. It is the adult "Harry Potter", if you will, where the lines between good and evil, between right and wrong, are blurred until the differences are no longer distinguishable.

Whether you're a magician or not, the world between childhood and adulthood isn't an easy place to navigate. And, The Magicians, goes a long way to prove that sometimes having what you think you want, isn't always what you need... or, perhaps, what you're looking for might be with you all the time.

Definitely worth a read if you're looking for something a little different. Grossman does a wonderful job with imagery. My only qualm is there seemed to be too much twisted into this story-- it could have easily spanned 2 maybe 3 books. Perhaps Grossman felt the need to include everything at once, perhaps he never intended to write a sequel.

I am glad that I read it, and now that they sequel is planned for release next month, I'll probably pick that up as well.

Where's Kapone?

2011-07-09T21:01:00.005-05:00

I should have written this days ago, but I couldn't....
I should have posted this when it first happened, but it was too close....

The words wouldn't come, but the tears did.

As humans, we often boast about our position in the state of the world--- the most intelligent, the most creative, the most innovative....

It's what we shouldn't boast about (though some do) that sickens me...

There are too many times that the human race has failed itself--- too many innocents slaughtered, too many lives lost for no purpose, too many things destroyed, too many things ignored.

Pit Bulls (Pibbles, as they are affectionately called) have gotten a bum rap for years. They have been viewed as viscous animals that should be feared and shot on sight, lest they "rip your face off." Most communities, apartment complexes, cities have some ordinance or ban against owning the animals in the first place. They have been bred to fight, they have been bred to be monsters---

But, a Pit Bull raised in loving circumstances is just that-- loving. They can be staunch protectors, especially of children (the nanny dog, as they have been called). They can be sweethearts who believe, wholeheartedly, they aren't too big to fit in your lap.

It is the unfounded fears of a dog, because of his breed, that has led to so many issues between pet-owners and the communities they live in.

And, it is the unfounded belief that a dog, because of his breed, is a born killer that has led to even more issues.

When a full-grown, unaltered male Pit Bull goes missing after being picked up by an Animal Control Officer, why is it we can't get a simple answer as to his whereabouts?

How does a full-grown Pit just disappear? Who took this animal and what did they do with it?

While all the government officials and shelter employees are busy back-peddling and covering their hides, we can't forget there is a very loved animal who has been separated from his owners. We can't forget there is a very loving family who has been separated from their pet.

Pets do nothing except ask for our love and protection. They only do what they need to in order to earn that love and respect.

Nothing disgusts me more than the idea that there are people in this world that require their animals to fight and die in order to earn a love they will never receive. It sickens me to tears to think that an animal will fight and die, believing that they are loved by the person who stuck them in the death pit.

Any dog raised to fight, will fight. Any dog raised to love, will love.

Any human should be intelligent enough to know this...

Please help us in our search for answers----- Where's Kapone?

My niece, Karmen, and her faithful protector, Kapone

Link to : Where's Kapone?--- facebook page

Link to: News Clip of Police Search for Kapone

And from love, the blossom.....

2011-07-07T23:01:00.001-05:00

A seed is sown,

a bud to yield,

a light is born,

a dream fulfilled.

From tiny rose,

to towering oak,

each finds the room,

to cultivate hope.

And, without further ado, the award goes to....

2011-07-04T14:04:00.001-05:00

I meant to post this last week, but life (a.k.a.--work, stress, drama, etc) got in the way...

I was invited to participate in a bi-weekly blog event, "Thursday Short Story Slam", hosted by Bluebell Books, here. It's a neat, little challenge that doesn't tax the energies too badly since it isn't like the month-long "write everyday or you fail" kind of blog challenges I've participated in before.

The premise is simple. They provide a photo prompt, every other Thursday, and you provide the short story or poem--- that's it.

It's exciting to see what 100+ people can do with a picture....

This past Thursday, I participated twice-- one poem, here, on my regular blog and one story, here, on my experimental blog that I started recently on a whim (where these whims come from, I'll never know).

Whims are funny things, they spring up at the strangest times and in the strangest ways...and sometimes they pay off in the strangest forms.

My little story, surprisingly won me last week's author tribute! Apparently, Humphrey's Typewriter, here, intrigued someone out there :-)

So, I offer a big Thank You! to Bluebell Books for hosting Thursday Short Story Slam... and an even bigger Thank You! for selecting my little story as last Thursday's tribute piece!

The Optimistic Cynic's Guide to Patriotism....

2011-07-01T22:04:00.002-05:00

With Independence Day looming, I was suddenly struck by the fact that I had never really contemplated what it meant to be patriotic and what it meant to have freedom.

It's difficult to put our liberties, which so many of us take as inherent and automatically assured, into perspective when we've never had to face a life without them.

As it is so easy to assume that we are protected from life's indignities because of our freedom, I am compelled to wonder what would happen if our protection was suddenly taken from us. Though, I don't mean in the same fashion as 9/11 (which was a horrific tragedy that I hope never repeats), no, I mean in a complete form-- that EVERY freedom we have was suddenly stripped from us, that EVERY liberty (which we assume is our birth-right because someone died to secure it before we were even born) was suddenly erased.

So many times I cringe when I read the latest headlines-- coercion, political tyranny, corruption, not to mention the blatant disregard to simple human dignities. The bubble that is the American society can easily blind the inhabitants to everything that happens outside of it (and even sometimes to what happens within it).

But, the horrors of the world don't go away just because we believe it's our right to be protected from them.

Yet, can we really blame the bubble inhabitants for their blissful ignorance? It's hard to appreciate the benefit of something as wonderful as freedom when you don't know what it cost and when you didn't have to pay the bill...when you don't know how easily it can be repossessed.

Never having to fight for the basic right to live and exist without someone else's thumb pressing their intent on you. Never having to wonder if your disagreement with a popular opinion might be just cause for execution. Never having to worry whether the words you've spoken might be just cause for your family's imprisonment. Never having to hide what you are because your obvious rebellion would need to be beaten out of you.

I don't believe that being an American means we are automatically better. I don't believe that being a patriot means that we are automatically immune. I don't believe that the cost of freedom should ever be forgotten. But, I don't believe freedom should have to be fought for in the first place.

I don't believe that the oceans and languages and cultures that separate us should keep us apart. I don't believe that one side of the world is better than the other side of the world. I don't believe that one religion, race, sex, creed, or sexual orientation is better than any other.

I don't believe there is enough difference among the world's people for us to be called anything, but human.

When counting luck or blessings thick....don't doubt for once you're very rich...

2011-06-29T01:13:00.000-05:00

In clear and lucid moments,
while the world is raging round,
I find the calm of day spent,
with my head upon the ground.

The tearing haste, the panicked rush,
would all but take my breath,
I often seek the solemn hush,

though when I'd least expect,

The world for all its fervor,
reminds with just a glance,
that life is quickly over,
we get no second chance.

Why spend the seconds counting,
every bauble, jewel and coin,
when the wealth of your amounting,
can't be assessed in what you own.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen... leave me the hell alone....

2011-06-24T18:49:00.001-05:00

I am not a "people person"-- (ironic when you consider I'm a bookstore manager who has to deal with people on a daily basis) yet, every time I say I am not a "people person', I am met with the same response, and eerily even the same wording... "you're better with people than you think you are."

No I'm not, I can just make it look that way....

Okay, so today, after hearing the same line AGAIN, I really began to wonder why people weren't getting what I was saying--- then it hit me, they've all been "hearing" one definition of the phrase, while I was using the phrase's other definition. Apparently, what I took as a phrase that meant -- "someone who likes interacting with people", can also mean "someone with good communication skills" (which is what everybody felt the need to reassure about me).

So, what's the word/phrase for a person who has good communication skills but doesn't like interacting with people?? What do you call a person who doesn't really want to talk to people, but is okay hanging out with their friends, and is super annoyed/anxious when they have to deal with somebody that's upset or mad?? And, the first person who answers by saying "normal" gets my spacebar shoved up their nose.....

I mean, I deal with people when I have to, I love interacting with my friends, but, even that has to be in short doses sometimes. I guess when it comes right down to it--- I'm more of a people-watcher than a people-interacter.

Interacting with people for long periods of time is extremely draining. On my days off it's not out of the ordinary for me to only utter a single sentence all day.

Why do I work in retail again?? Oy vey....

Hold tight to me, the raging sea....

2011-06-22T14:12:00.001-05:00

The sea is such a savage thing,

unkempt and wild and dark,

it swells and hurls within its rising,

and crashes deep within its heart.

As life is borne on waves to shore,

each breath bubbling at its crest,

so too, the life is snuffed before,

its light has tasted breath.

The cold and dark at bottom's depth,

cries loud of trapped, forgotten souls,

the surface warmth atop the cleft,

belies the safe embrace within its rolls.

It would be hard, to not feel awe,

while standing at its breadth,

when glimpsed within a single drop,

the tangled curse of life and death.

This, above all, to thine own self be true....

2011-06-18T22:40:00.001-05:00

What makes a writer?

The easiest and most straight-forward answer is: A writer is a writer because he/she writes...

The real truth is, there is no answer--- at least not an answer that could comfortably fit in the space of a single blog post, or that could hold the attention span of anyone reading this.

There's no magic formula, no magic pill, no magic anything that will make you or anybody a writer... a writer just is. Period.

'How do I know if I'm a writer?' one might ask.... if you have to ask this question, then you aren't a writer.

As a child, I was always awestruck by the idea of being a writer. There was something mysterious about being a writer. In my eager, curious and developing mind, being a writer was akin to being a master magician (this was before I realized there was no magic writer formula/pill). I believed that the books we read, the books we held in our hands, were priceless treasures and that the writers of these books were the gods of the library---- I still believe this, even if I can't take a magic pill and have my book write itself.

From the tender age of 11, I have written-- poems, short stories, essays, novels, strange sketches-- all because I just did. There was never any day that I woke up and just said, 'today I'm going to write a poem about the moon'. There was never any day that I just said I must write. I just wrote.

It's taken years for me to realize that writing isn't something that you do... writing is what you are.

My entire childhood, adolescence and early adulthood have been spent preparing for my future... for college, for a career--- and every single academic, professional choice I made led me down every avenue EXCEPT the writer's path. I never sought the writer's path. I never searched for a byline or a means to getting my words into print. I always believed my life would have a different direction than the one I am currently pursuing.

I know I've said there's no magic formula or magic pill when it comes to becoming a writer--and there isn't-- but, there is something indefinable about the process of writing. Ask any writer who's had a story take the reins away from them...or any writer who's felt the odd, tingling sensation in their fingers when a story's ready to come out... or any writer who's been jolted awake in the middle of the night by the uncontrollable need to reach for a pen/paper to jot down what has to be written at that EXACT moment (which has nothing to do with whatever they were dreaming)---- a writer simply can't NOT write!

And, it has taken me all these years to realize, finally, that though there is no magic in the world that can make you a writer, being a writer is the most magical thing in the world.

Going Shank's Mare Might Be The Wisest Move, But, You Still Have To Watch Where You Step....

2011-06-17T21:37:00.000-05:00

Feet.....necessary for walking, running, sprinting, standing, skipping, jumping, leaning, etc.

The most strained part of our bodies...what most of us use to get from one place to another, from one room to another. They are key in a person's pursuit of something, or vital in their flight from something else.

They carry our weight on a daily basis and by turning on heel or toe, can be used to get us out of trouble, or at least out of the way before trouble starts. But, what do you do if it's your feet that's getting you into trouble?

A boy in Port Orchard, Washington and a man in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, never expected their feet to get them in trouble--- though perhaps it was less what was on their feet and more what was missing from between their ears that put them is such predicaments.

Our Washington lad found himself suspended from the last part of school, all because of a challenge issued by his mother. He was certain that wearing high heels was no problem and that he would suffer no physical pains from wearing/walking in them all day. His mother wanted him to prove that his feet would suffer no ill-effects. He obliged, but decided to take it one step further-- adding a dress.

I personally see nothing wrong with his ensemble, it's tasteful and not overly revealing-- sadly, he looks better in a dress and heels than I do. But, his creative answer to his mother's challenge didn't earn him any points with his school officials, who promptly sent him home to reflect on his actions.... no word yet as to the results of his mother's challenge...

Our Florida bloke didn't fare so well as our young cross-dresser. Apparently, a gentleman was in the process of cleaning an infection he had on one of his feet with rubbing alcohol, when the bottle spilled, soaking the sheets in alcohol. What happened next is unclear, even to the gentleman...but, somehow, the cigarette he was holding in his mouth ignited the alcohol on his sheets, causing a fire that burned so quickly and destructively, that the house is completely uninhabitable. Fortunately, no one was hurt. I'm still trying to work out how the cigarette in his mouth managed to ignite his sheets.....

Feet.... regularly mistreated, frequently neglected, often ignored---sometimes they exact their revenge in the strangest ways....

Ashes to Trash, Dust to Rust....

2011-06-16T23:03:00.000-05:00

Strange things have been happening lately to the cremated remains of some folks. Granted, there's probably been stranger things happen to people's remains, but, you don't often hear of it.

About a week ago, I came across an article concerning a box labeled "Grandma's Urn" left at a Goodwill Store near Flint, Michigan. Now, I know Goodwill is apt to take most anything. The whole "one man's trash is another man's treasure" is often taken literally by patrons eager to empty their back closets, broom closets, skeleton-stuffed cupboards, etc.... but, an urn? More specifically, grandma's urn??? Who'd even think of dropping off their relative at a charity shop? Is it perhaps someone's hope that another unfortunate soul might want a little portable grandma to keep them company?

Tonight, I came across a slightly more disturbing article concerning the cremated remains of someone's father. Jennie Spooner, of Amityville (we'll let the eeriness of her hometown slide for the moment) was giving her father the kind of send off he would have appreciated-- sprinkling a bit of him on a dinosaur at the Natural History Museum, attaching a bit of him to the tail of a kite and tossing some of him in the waters of Canaan Lake.

But, before she could continue his city-wide spread, she discovered that there was more than just the remains of her father included in his urn (at no extra charge, but, unwanted nonetheless)-- glass shards, metal staples and a partially melted crucifix began to appear as the level of ash in the urn diminished. (Okay, now I can't help but think about the haunted history of her hometown).

Had thought that cremation might have been the way to go, what with the overcrowding of cemeteries and abundance of our overpopulating species....but, now, I'm not so sure--- maybe I'll just have my body launched into space, if I land on some distant planet, maybe the inhabitants there will have enough respect to handle the dead with care.

Whatever you do, don't.....

2011-06-15T17:52:00.000-05:00

Whatever you do, don't go home,
you won't like what you find.

Whatever you do, don't look back,
there's nothing for you there.

Whatever you do, don't turn around,
you'll never find what you lost.

Whatever you do, don't forget,
it's more painful to not remember.

Give you a stack, if you'll take care of my crap.....

2011-06-14T01:27:00.002-05:00

We live in interesting times..... and the internet does make the world a much smaller place in which to live. We use the internet for everything-- socializing, education, networking, business, etc. In fact, there isn't much that exists that can't be made more convenient by the internet.

Yet, does this extra convenience, and our ability to have the knowledge of the universe at our fingertips, somehow prevent common sense or even the most basic level of intelligence?

I don't like to think that the more advanced our society becomes, the more ignorant its inhabitants will be. But, I have little evidence to the contrary-- especially when I hear of someone as ignorant as the 20-yr old woman who has been accused of hiring a hit-man to kill the father of her child via her Facebook account.

"I will pay somebody a stack to kill my baby father."--- Her Facebook status, displayed for the world to see, in all its glory. Apparently, she'd had an argument with said "baby father". Though the status might have been a vent, and not an actual attempt to hire a hit-man, it was enough to send the concerned mother of "baby father" running to the authorities (who did not take the status lightly). It was also enough to garner at least one response from an 18-yr old eager to earn the $1000 for the hit, so long as he was paid in advance!

Ah, this world we live in.....

So, one woman's ridiculous status on Facebook has led to 2 arrests-- her own arrest for conspiring murder and the arrest of the equally ignorant sod that responded to her status on charges of attempted murder.

I weep for the future of our world....

Step Aside Boys, Let the Girl Show You How It's Done....

2011-06-11T20:34:00.000-05:00

It's amazing, the little bits of family history that one stumbles upon-- especially when one isn't even looking for them. I wish it was common practice (or, I wish it was a MORE common practice), to tell children the stories of where their family came from-- what they did, and how they came to be who they were...

I feel this modern life, with its instant gratification and its forward thinking, has done a disservice to those who came before us, as well as a disservice to those of us that must continue on-- it's like our existence is just this fleeting, present moment, with nothing to tie us to anything or anyone else.

Case in point--- today, I found out, for the first time, that my Great-Aunt Lucy was a riveter who worked in a Wichita, Kansas airplane factory during World War II. And, that she'd even earned the nickname-- Lucy the Riveter. How is it that such a historic part of her life was never mentioned before?

My great-aunt was a "Rosie", though I'd never heard word of it before today. Granted, my memories of her are fleeting, I was just a child when she passed away.

I remember her renovated shotgun house. I remember her long white hair and her small frame. And, I knew she was a retired teacher, who cared enough about her kids to take them home with her if they were having problems learning. She was a staunch, solid, little woman who valued education-- even though she was from a small, rural community where education was second to the hard life of farm work.

She had no problem rolling up her sleeves to get the job done. And, from the little I do remember of her, I'm sure she had no problem telling folks to get out of her way when there was a job to do. I have no doubt she earned her nickname--- step aside boys, Lucy the Riveter will get the job done!

Sonnet for a Lullaby.....

2011-06-09T22:17:00.000-05:00

And, so I turn from you, and so it seems,

You've held me tightly in your iron grasp,

Ripped from my sleep, the peaceful realm within,

The solace, sweet in solitude I ask:

What means your manner vicious, cold and brusque,

How can your words run honey, sweet and pure,

Though in your hands the words run course and rough,

And falsely fall where dreams had held them true.

Return me now to slumbers' peaceful realm,

Where held by Morpheus, soft the night's caress,

Will soothe the pains where waking days o'erwhelm,

There, finding in his arms, the hope of rest.

For waking little sheilds the heart from pain,

Though dreaming never finds the heart again.

Another little sliver of childhood slips away.....

2011-06-09T15:48:00.001-05:00

I was saddened to hear of the passing of Roy Skelton, 79, yesterday. For those unfamiliar with him, he was a British actor and voice artist, remembered (at least by me) as the voice of Doctor Who's Daleks and Cybermen. He did the voice work for the Doctor Who series from 1967-1988. His death comes just 2 short months after the passing of Elisabeth Sladen, companion (and in my opinion, the only companion) Sarah Jane, also from the Doctor Who series.

Some of my earliest teenage summers were spent watching episodes of Doctor Who in the wee hours of the morning, as the Public Broadcasting station in my hometown saw fit to only air the rerun episodes at 2am. My efforts to watch every episode probably explains why I had no regular sleeping pattern as a child.

My geekness developed early and of its own free will. The summer days spent sleeping in so I'd be fully awake in the middle of the night to watch another Tom Baker (the only Doctor, in my opinion) episode, prepared me for my geeky adulthood.

It's just hard to remember that the immortal figures captured on our televisions and on our DVDs were crafted and shaped by mortal actors. And, though we never really lose them (as their wonderful contributions remain forever), it is an immeasurably tragic loss when they do slip away.

As heartbroken as I was to hear of Elisabeth Sladen's passing.... when we lose Tom Baker, I'll probably have to take a week off from work......

Battle Storm...

2011-06-08T20:14:00.001-05:00

Storm's coming, war's brewing, rolling clouds choke the light,
Cannon's rumble, bodies tumble, exploding stars steal the night.

The heavens clap, the battle's snap, sinking deep the wounded fall,
The lightning's spark, the thunder's hawk, drinking in the warring pall.

Soldiers crawl, the ranks sprawl, beneath the wall of death,
Eyes clenched tight, in teeth-bared fight, bequeathed their final breath.

Losing the Breadcrumb Trail....

2011-06-06T21:06:00.000-05:00

Where do we go when we've lost our way....

How do we find our path again....

Somewhere, a few months ago, before I started these blog challenges, I left behind a manuscript that was barely halfway finished. Now I want, nay need, to finish it, but, the distance created by the challenges and other 'life stuff' getting in the way, have made it difficult to jump back into the story. It was already a complicated piece to start with, now the added distance is making the return to my story unbearably difficult....

I know I scattered a breadcrumb trail somewhere around here, but, it looks like some hungry birds may have decided to gobble up that trail *sigh*

Who do you stop and ask directions of when it's your own mind you're lost in?

And, how do you get the stupid birds to leave your breadcrumbs alone??

Wait.... looks like somebody's lurking in the distance.... maybe she'll know where I left my story in this mess of a forest....

Ghost of a Hero...

2011-06-02T22:14:00.005-05:00

The taste of worn dust rubs the back of his throat, rough

Memories of a day without sweat fade, dim

A hard trail, cut through wilderness, tough

The only life he’s known, his time running, slim

The last of the unmarked paths, discovered

Dry eyes catch their last sunset, ending

Where are the treasures once lost, uncovered

His own story, he holds worth knowing, remembering.

Craziness stirring.... stir crazy .... or just plain crazy....

2011-06-02T19:42:00.000-05:00

Day 2 since my 2-month escapade into the world of challenge writing ended... day 2 without a specific deadline hanging over my head----- annnnnnnnnd, now??? hello?? anybody??

*sigh*

Suddenly I realize why I was so desperate to jump into the Story A Day challenge right after the A-Z challenge ended--- I needed the challenge to focus my energies. I needed the guillotine hanging over my head.

Now I have all the energy (manic at times) but, none of the focus. So, I sit here.... drumming my fingers across my laptop, fingernails bitten down to the quicks, struggling to create the kind of funnel for my energies that these challenges provided for me.

The beauty of these challenges was that they only lasted a month (long enough for results, not long for me to get discouraged) and they were completely different from anything I'd ever done before--- (novelty does wonders for relieving boredom.)

Now I'm back to where I was before the beginning of the April A-Z Challenge--- A million ideas whirring in a million different directions and one frantic mind trying to hold onto to all of them at once....

Challenge Reflections.....

2011-06-01T19:41:00.000-05:00

As the new month starts, another challenge ends. This time, though, I can honestly say I am glad. And, after 2 solid months of blogging/writing challenges, I'm relieved to have a break.

April's "A-Z Blogging Challenge" introduced me to a world of new friends and honed my creative skill by severely restricting my scope. When I first started A-Z, I underestimated the effort that would be needed to write a blog centered around a letter of the alphabet-- as I am one to attempt the "not-so-normal" when selecting a prospective word, the challenge began to tax my creative energies mid-way through the alphabet. But, with the help and encouragement of my new friends, I survived.

And, because I could feel the onset of anxiety at the prospect of A-Z being over, I charged head-long into May's "Story A Day". The concept of this challenge centers around writing 31 'stories' during the month of May, though it is relatively flexible as you set the rules for the event yourself (you just have to abide by your own rules). Mine were simple enough: 1/ write every day 2/ write at least 500 words

Before I started May's challenge, I gathered an extensive list of poisons, weapons, victim/character names, and motives--- I had it in my head to write a collection of mysteries with 2 main characters solving them. What I did not have in my head, was that the first story that I started back on May 1st would not finish until May 31st. No way did I plan to write 1 story during the month of May--- so, in a way, I feel like I cheated, but, then again.... I did write every day for at least 500 words, sometimes more.

May's challenge introduced me to serial writing. I have heard several veteran writers say they often leave their writing for the day undone. They stop before they've finished their thoughts, so they have some place to pick up the next morning. In a way, they save themselves the frustration of floundering for where to go next. After this challenge, I finally understand what that means. I didn't know where my story was going from one day to the next, but I always stopped just at the edge of the cliff-- just where I could see the hazy earth miles beneath my feet, but it was enough. When I sat down to write again, I knew right where I left off and let the story write itself out.

I do apologize to any that suffered their way through my May posts as they were horribly unedited and really just bare-bone chapters, but "Story A Day" was about getting the writing done and moving on.... the polishing will come later.

Did these challenges make me a better writer?
Would I do them again?

I give a hearty and resounding YES! to both questions.... I take away with me that discipline is important (i.e. writing EVERY DAY) and that sometimes, nay, most times, it doesn't have to be the greatest work you've written, but, you have to get the so-so work out of the way so your masterpiece can have a clear path!

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 31--- "Truth", 812 words.....

2011-05-31T19:56:00.000-05:00

Truth

“You see,” Cross shifted his position so that he was able to turn back and face me when he spoke. “Once Mr. Dison had disposed of Corbet Adams’s body the way Jonathan Adell dictated, there was this information that Mr. Dison had about what happened.” Cross kept his back to Miss Mary as he spoke.

“I’m sure that Jonathan Adell never expected a fellow greenery lover to turn into a blackmailer like he did.” While Cross spoke, I turned to watch Miss Mary. Though her face was as unchanged as before, there was a slight tremor coursing through her frame.

“What a price to pay for the services of such a man.” Cross drew a low hiss of breath through his clenched teeth.

“I was to marry him before the year was out.” Miss Mary’s voice fell into the conversation. Her words fell at her feet. “You’ve no idea how horrible it all felt. I couldn’t marry him. I didn’t love him. And, yet, I couldn’t allow my father’s name to be drug through the courts.”

“Even though he had arranged for the murder of the man that you loved?” My heart went out to her.

“Even then.” Miss Mary released a soft sigh. “You see, no matter how much I loved Corbet, I still loved my father. And, though Corbet was gone, my father was still here. Seeing him disgraced would break my heart.”

Cross clucked his tongue against his teeth. “So, you planted the cutting of African Milk Plant in Corbet’s pocket because you wanted people to know he didn’t commit suicide, and the clue would have been vague enough that perhaps the connection to your father may never be discovered.”

Miss Mary nodded.

“How is it that Manuel Dison came to be poisoned?” My mind tore at the improbability of it all. “Surely he would have been most careful anytime he was on the estate, never taking tea, as it were.”

“Ah,” a twinkle flashed, for a moment, in Miss Mary’s eye. “The ego of such a man is easily wielded when the right words are spoken.”

“The dutiful host and fiancée,” Cross murmured.

“Quite.” Miss Mary nodded. “You are right, Mr. Martin, Manuel never took tea with my father. But, there are other means, other treats that can house a poison.” Her voice fell to a whisper.

“I am sorry, Mr. Martin, that you suffered for your visit yesterday. I do promise that it was never intended that you should have taken any of the poison. I’m afraid that silly girl of a maid didn’t follow my instructions on disposing of the tea.” Miss Mary rose from the chair. “I do hope you’ll forgive any injury.”

Cross stood, “So, one suitor ends the life of another suitor, only to have his own life ended. That’s quite the little complication.”

“What do you intend to do, Mr. Cross? Now that you know the truth?” Miss Mary, her tremor still slightly visible in her arms.

“You mean, will I go to the police and lay everything before them?”

Miss Mary nodded.

“I don’t really know. On the one hand, I don’t work for the police, but on the other hand, there are two murders that must be answered for.” Cross walked to the sitting room door and opened it. “Good day, Miss Adell.”

When Miss Adell had moved far enough from the door to prevent her overhearing, I turned to Cross. “Surely, you’re going to police. We can’t just let that family get away with murder.”

“Can’t we?” Cross’s face had a dark weariness about it, like the weight of the universe had suddenly planted itself between his eyes. “There’s more to this than a simple murder, more to it than who was right and who was wrong. Where do we draw the line on self-defense?” Cross plopped back into the armchair. “No, I need to think this one through.”

*****

The day passed as agonizingly slow as the night before. When Cross finally did move from the armchair, it was to fetch the evening edition of the paper. It was upon his return that I knew something was horribly wrong. Never had I seen his face so stricken.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Cross dropped the evening paper in my lap before falling into the armchair. There, printed across the front page in bold print, the main headline read: Three dead at Adell Estate, investigation underway.

The article went on to say that, the deaths were believed to be accidental as Mr. Adell was an avid gardener who enjoyed dabbling in his own tea mixes. It was further believed that their last collection of leaves were mistakenly mixed with the highly poisonous Belladonna.

Cross sighed, his whole frame sinking against the back of the armchair. “There is no stronger poison, nor one any deadlier than desperation mixed with passion.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 30--- "Answers", 532 words.....

2011-05-30T11:57:00.003-05:00

Answers

My heart pounded so hard in my chest that I could feel the pulse of it in my throat. Miss Adell didn’t answer Cross’s questions. She just sat back in the overstuffed armchair, staring at him, no readable expression on her face.

“Let me see if I have everything,” Cross relaxed his stiff shoulders, leaning into the arm of the sofa toward Miss Adell. “I think I understand how nearly everything transpired. I may need you to fill in a few of the details, Miss Adell.”

Cross cleared his throat and then began. “You were engaged to Corbet Adams, whom you’ve stated wasn’t your father’s choice for an ideal mate, but, I don’t think your father’s disapproval bothered you much, at first. It was only after his constant badgering of the point did you finally relent a week before your proposed marriage, correct?”

Miss Mary nodded, again, no change in her expression.

“But, Corbet loved you and his persistence, your father became quickly aware, would eventually remind you that you loved him as well.” Cross’s shoulders tensed once more.

“Your father realized that if he were to be rid of a man whose lack of ambition might take what he and his wife worked so hard to secure for their daughter, more would have to be done than just breaking off an engagement.” Cross’s entire back went rigid. I imagined his searching face, scrutinizing every minutia of Miss Adell’s expression and body language, watching for signs that what he was saying might be wrong.

“Introducing the poison would have been simple for someone that grows and harvests his own tea. A special blend over a “no-hard-feelings” chat between father and ex-future-son-in-law would have been so easily and innocently ingested without a second thought.” I suddenly found I had stopped breathing myself, such was the effect of Cross’s story of what happened.

“Now, there is the difficulty in disposing of the body. It must not be linked to the Adell estate or nasty questions might reveal the truth. How to take care of things so that suspicions don’t fall back on such a respectable family? Your father is a shrewd man, Miss Adell, but from my friend’s description of him, he was not so stout a man to accomplish the second part of his plan without help.” I gasped softly as I started to put the pieces together myself.

“Who to trust? Who would help take care of such dreadful business?”

“Manuel Dison!” I blurted the name before I realized it. So many things were making sense.

“Exactly, Martin,” Cross turned back to me with a quick grin. “Of course, it would have to be Manuel Dison. There was nobody else as close to Jonathan Adell as the man who worked his gardens and precious greenhouse with him. And, for a man with so large a frame and so stout an arm, the business of hoisting a dead body from one place to another would be no great trouble. Once he had the full plan from Adell, it would be nothing for him to lay everything out exactly as needed.”

Each piece falling into place excited me. But, then I stumbled on something that completely puzzled me. Without thinking, I turned to Miss Mary, “One thing I don’t understand, Miss Adell. When the man you loved turned up dead, how could you so easily engage yourself to another? Specifically a man you knew so little about.”

“Ah, Martin,” Cross clucked his tongue. “Here we come to the stickiest part of the story.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 29--- "Coincidence", 515 words.....

2011-05-29T19:28:00.003-05:00

Coincidence

At the word, murder, Miss Adell released a long breath. She closed her eyes and sat back against the chair. “You’ve guessed correctly, Mr. Cross. I was the one that placed the piece of the poisonous plant in the pocket of my darling, Corbet.” Miss Adell’s frame was suddenly weak and small. “I had never wanted anything to happen to him. Never.”

“Please, Miss Adell,” Cross softened his voice once more. “Tell us everything that happened, and pray be exact in your details.”

“I can tell you all I know, but, I’m not sure what you hope to make of it. I myself have no idea nor any inkling as to what all happened.” Miss Adell took two deep, slow breaths before continuing.

“As you already know, I had broken my engagement with Corbet. And, as you’ve already surmised, I broke the engagement at the insistence of my father. Though he had no problems with Corbet as an individual—he was a wonderful gentleman, after all—he had every reason to believe that my marrying Corbet might end in a tumultuous and unstable life. It is a well known fact that the life of an aspiring stage actor does not often end with any measure of success.” Miss Adell paused to take another long, slow breath.

“It was this lack of stability that most concerned my father. And after many long conversations and his insistent urging, I finally conceded to my father’s wishes and broke my engagement to Corbet.”

Miss Adell shifted in the chair, leaning into the chair arm, her face suddenly draining of color. “I broke all ties with Corbet, but, he had no intention of breaking ties with me. We had been children together, he knew my heart better than I knew my own. He knew the words of my disengagement were not my words. Slowly, he whittled away my defenses.” Her voice grew quiet.

“And, where, does Mr. Manuel Dison fit into to all this?” Cross took the opportunity to change subjects, perhaps to free her from thinking of Corbet.

“He was an acquaintance of my father. They were introduced by a mutual friend and would spend hours together, working in the gardens and the greenhouse.”

Cross’s back stiffened. I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined a searching look with a sly grin. “His was a friend of your father, yet, you were very quick to accept his proposal of marriage.”

“As you say, Mr. Cross, he was a friend of my father.” Her tone suddenly flat, Miss Adell looked away from Cross.

“Tell me, Miss Adell, do you know what it was that happened your second fiancé?” Cross held his breath once again. “Do you know what it was that killed Manuel Dison and how his death might be related to the death of Corbet Adams?”

Miss Adell snapped his head back toward Cross. “What are you trying to imply, Mr. Cross?”

“Do you know what affected you yesterday? What nearly cost you your life?” Cross turned to look back at me. “And the life of my friend here?”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 28--- "Intent", 536 words.....

2011-05-28T23:23:00.008-05:00

Intent

The worn expression that Miss Mary carried with her spoke of her own sleepless night. Though, I am sure her sleepless evening had nothing to do with waiting for an answer to a note that was sent out.

Cross came to sit at the very edge of my sofa, as close as possible to our visitor. “Miss Adell,” he began, a softness in his voice that I had never heard before. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.” A sincere and apologetic smile did enough, in my opinion, to convince Miss Mary that he had no ill intentions where she was concerned.

“As you say, Mr. Cross, it was short notice. But, how could I truly stay away when I received your note.” She pulled a folded bit of paper from the inside of her left glove. “I had to know what it was you wished to share with me and what this—how did you phrase it—important information regarding your safety, life and freedom.” She pushed the note back into the lining of her glove. “Such ominous words must surely be meant to attract attention and you most assuredly got mine.”

Cross leaned forward, placing his face squarely in line with Miss Adell’s. The smile dissolved and a stern expression of analyzing concentration swept his frame. “Tell me, Miss Adell, do you know what it was that killed your first fiancé, Corbet Adams?”

There was little change in Miss Mary Adell, so little in fact, that I wondered what Cross might be able to make of her. I, for my part, saw nothing. Her expression wasn’t cold, it wasn’t sympathetic, it most certainly wasn’t distraught. It was nothing, not even surprise at Cross’s question.

“I believe at first the death had been ruled suicide by gunshot, but, that ruling was quickly overturned by your own insistence that he had met his death by other means,” the only change in Miss Mary’s expression was the opening and closing of her mouth as she spoke, the lack of change was quickly became disturbing. “African Milk Plant, wasn’t it?”

Cross nodded, “The coroner even found a piece of the plant in Adams’s pocket.” I could see that Cross was holding his breath as he watched Miss Adell. “I wonder, who would go to such trouble to murder someone with the intention of having it look like a suicide—who was careful enough in all other details—but, who intentionally or unintentionally left a piece of the murderous plant to be discovered in the pocket of the victim?”

“Surely, no one.” I blurted, before I realized what I’d said.

Cross clicked his tongue, a quick smile flying to his lips and then disappearing just as quickly. And, for the first time since her arrival, a change came over Miss Mary. Her breathing, which had been so focused and calm, was now shallow and quick.

“Ah,” a blinding realization came from Cross’s question. “The piece of poisonous plant was deliberately tucked into Adams’s pocket. Someone wanted it to be known that his death was no suicide.”

“Exactly,” Cross focused his attention back on Miss Adell. “Someone wanted it to be known that he had, in fact, been murdered.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 27--- "Waiting", 520 words.....

2011-05-27T19:03:00.000-05:00

Waiting

Sleep was not a guest in our rooms that evening. We made no intentional offense that might have made him stay away. And, though we made every effort to invite him in, no amount of cajoling would persuade him to cross the threshold.

Cross paced the sitting room. His face tight and set, except for the handful of times a heavy step sent pain rushing through him. But, each pause in his steps and each wince only lasted a few seconds, before he continued pacing.

I waited for morning much the same way I had entered the evening, sprawled across the sitting room sofa. I did not yet trust the stability of my legs or the strength of my stomach. Whatever I had been exposed to might still be lurking, waiting to bring me crashing down the moment I set foot on solid ground. Though, even if I hadn’t been unconscious for most of the afternoon, I would probably have spent the night awake. Waiting for the daylight that evening was the best way of ensuring it did not come, such was our agony of the crawling seconds.

As soon as light crept in through the window, I expected there to be a knock at the door. I expected a messenger to be at the door with an answer to whatever Cross had scribbled on that note. And, I had to continually remind myself that the note would not have been delivered at dawn.

Daylight did not deter Cross from his pacing. If anything, it increased the frantic pace of his steps. The pained expressions that flew across his face now were met with no stop in his steps. His fevered energy didn’t allow him to stop with each twinge of pain.

We said nothing, nor changed our positions the entire evening. I searched my mind for some topic of conversation, some question I could ask. Now that daylight had broken, I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the response to his note came. And, though he would not admit it, or accept it, I could see the frantic energy draining from Cross. His face showed signs of exhaustion, the heavy eyes and sagging jaw line of someone who would pass out instantly the minute their brow caressed a pillow.

When the knock at the front door did come, we were both so focused in our routine of waiting, that we almost didn’t believe that the sound was actually there. Cross stopped all motion and turned his face toward mine. Had there actually been a knock at the door?

When the second knock echoed through the sitting room, an electric energy lit up in Cross’s face and he dashed from the sitting room. I sat, startled by his reaction, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest from the anticipation of what Cross’s note might bring.

Muffled greetings wafted in from the entranceway. When Cross finally did return, he led through the sitting room and to an overstuffed chair next to my sofa, none other than the lovely, and at the moment very shaky, Miss Mary Adell.

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 26--- "Message", 534 words.....

2011-05-26T11:37:00.000-05:00

Message

My breath caught in my throat. What manner of devilry had been set loose from the Adell estate? If Cross was telling the truth, and I had no reason to doubt him, then what ever affected Manuel Dison had now also affected Miss Mary and myself. But, what was it?

I wracked my brain, trying to come up with some plausible explanation, but there was none. I mentally retraced my steps and actions. A small fragment began to make sense, at least I had an explanation for why the sun had affected me the way it did on my journey home. If my pupils had been even half as dilated as Miss Mary’s had, I would still have had the need to shield my face from the sunlight beating down.

Cross, whose face had been so distant through all my recounted story, struggled to his feet. Leaving me on the sofa, he made his way to my desk, scribbled something on a piece of paper and then left the sitting room without saying a word. In the moments that followed, I heard the front door of my rooms open and close. Alone with nothing but all the worst thoughts of what had happened to me and what may still happen to me, I sat in silence, most of my breath still caught in my throat.

The occasional night noise found its way into the sitting room, but, otherwise, no sound could I hear until Cross returned. He moved through the sitting room, taking a moment to part the curtains of the window that looked out at the darkened street. There seemed to be a lightness in his step, as if the pain from his injuries were nothing, as if having his head smashed in and nearly being burned up in a fire wasn’t important. There was something about his lack of concern that frightened me, not so much for anything that might happen to me, but, perhaps it meant that his inattention to himself might lead him to do something reckless, something dangerous, something self-destructive even.

“Where did you go?” I chanced, while he was distracted looking out the window.

“Just to have a message delivered.” His back tensed slightly when I first spoke, like my voice had startled him, like he had forgotten I was even there.

“At this hour?” Granted I knew not the exact hour of night, but I assumed it was late, as I heard no sound of people passing the window.

“Well, of course the message won’t actually be delivered until tomorrow morning, but, I do so hate waiting until the last minute to get things started.” He was still staring out the window, as if he expected to find something out in the dark, as if he expected to find someone.

“What was the message?”

“Oh, just a whim,” still facing the window, he waved his hand behind him to illustrate the insignificance of the note. “Just a whim.”

“Yes, but what was the message for?”

This time he spun on his heel to face me. His expression was one of animated excitement. “Answers, my dear chap, answers. We really must get to the bottom of this mystery.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 25--- "Concerns", 684 words.....

2011-05-25T11:11:00.000-05:00

Concerns

“Welcome back,” I knew the sound of Cross’s voice, but my vision was still fuzzy. I saw colors first, in a hazy blur. Then shapes formed from the blurs, which then made themselves into pieces I began to recognize. Slowly, the details of my sitting room sharpened.

I was lying across the sofa. The light in the room was dim and the curtains drawn against the darkness. It was then I realized that daylight had dissolved into night. The day had passed without my awareness.

“What happened?” I moved to sit upright, but was held back by Cross’s hand on my shoulder and a blinding headache that seared through the middle of my forehead.

“I was rather hoping you could tell me.” Cross knelt beside my sofa and given the current state of his own recovery, I’m sure he was in no way comfortable. A stern, searching look creased his brow.

I took several deep, slow breaths that I might calm the pain that threatened to tear my skull in half and that I might calm the rolling nausea that now swept through me. “I don’t really remember much.” I started, though I felt the need for more slow, deep breaths before I continued.

“I remember returning to the Adell estate. I almost turned back when I got there, as I had no way of knowing what I should say.” I paused for several more deep breaths. Then I went on to describe, as detailed as I could remember, the Adell’s greenhouse and the man I saw inside, who turned out to be Mary’s father.

Cross’s eyes lit up when I mentioned Jonathan Adell. “Ah, I do wish now that I had returned with you.”

“As do I.” I sighed, thinking about how easier everything would have been if Cross had come back with me. “I might have been saved from the torment of sharing such dreadful news. It’s really not my thing.”

“But, you handled it marvelously.” A little flickering twinkle glinted from Cross’s eye and I wondered , for just a moment, whether he honestly believed what he said. “Pray, continue.”

The next few moments that I described in the Adell estate did little to hold the attention of Cross. There really wasn’t much to our account in the front sitting room. The room itself I needed not to describe, as Cross had seen it himself, but I did mention the view of the greenhouse, as I had never noticed it before. Cross did seem interested in this new information, but his face became so inscrutable that I had no way of knowing for sure.

Tea was common enough. In fact, I almost didn’t think it worth mentioning, other than to say that tea was served. It was Miss Adell’s reaction to what I had to say that I was most eager to recount to Cross. I repeated, as close to exact, as my scrambled memory would allow, the words that I said to Miss Adell and her father. Then I spoke of Miss Adell’s episode, how dreadful a reaction it was.

Once I had departed the Adell estate, I could remember nothing until I woke in my own sitting room. I watched Cross’s face as I finished my story, but his expression seemed distant. Whatever was holding his attention, he didn’t readily share, but I had my suspicions that he was puzzling out how everything tied together. All I could think about, unfortunately, was poor Miss Adell. Once I had been made to remember what happened to her, I couldn’t shake the disturbing picture from my mind.

“It would have torn at your gut to see the way she sank, so pitiable was her state.” Without realizing it, my breathing had doubled, caught up as I was in my retelling. “You wouldn’t believe it, Cross, but her eyes, they were gaping and wild with the same distorted pupils as Manuel Dison.” By this point, as I was gasping for air.

“Oh, but I would believe it,” his expression still distant. “You had the same wild eyes when you returned this afternoon.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 24--- "Descent", 511 words.....

2011-05-24T23:53:00.001-05:00

Descent

I fell.

The darkness that swallowed me was endless.

I fell, but I never hit bottom. I never found the end of the chasm. The deeper the chasm went, the longer I fell. The longer I fell, the slower my descent. I fell, I plummeted, moving deeper and deeper, yet slower and slower, til I all but stopped—held, suspended, trapped.

Once all movement had stopped—while I still floated in the chasm, unaware of how far I had fallen, unaware of how far I was from the bottom— things changed. No sense of feeling, no sense of direction to orient myself, no sense at all.

How long had I fallen? I could have fallen to the very center of the universe and I would have known no different. I reached with my hands in every direction around me. Or, more precisely, I willed my hands to search every direction around me, but my hands had different plans.

There wasn’t enough will in my body to force my hands, or any part of myself for that matter, to move. I knew my mind had given the order to move. I could still feel the remnant of the impulses to move skirting around my consciousness. The harder I willed myself to move, the more I began to realize I would never so much as move my little finger. All my focused energy did, however, seem to affect something. The impenetrable darkness that engulfed me began to slowly shift. It was then that I became aware of the changes in my endless chasm.

Everything started twisting around me. The darkness that had surrounded me was suddenly spinning around my motionless form. Even in the darkness, I could feel the world rushing around me, the wind, as it were, whipping in circles. Even in the darkness, I knew it was everything else that moved while I stayed still. I knew by the way the breath was ripped from my throat. I knew by the way my breath was yanked from my chest, like it might be something valuable that belonged to the darkness—something it wanted back.

That was when the colors started to materialize. Not big, bright, bold splashes, at least not at first. No, when the black emptiness of where I was held began to let the color it, it was in brief snatches. Patterns formed, a colorful corner of something I should have recognized, something that I knew I recognized, something that had a name—a name firmly held on the tip of my swollen tongue. There were names attached to my tongue that I would have spat at the darkness if I could.

I don’t know how long the dark emptiness spun around me. I lost all sense. If not for the random splashing of color, I may not have survived to be telling this story now.

The colors came more frequently, the colorful corners becoming colorful pieces of a recognizable shape—not the point of a corner, but the edge of a table, the turn of a chair arm.

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 23--- "Blindness", 622 words.....

2011-05-23T17:56:00.003-05:00

Blindness

Leaving the Adell estate, I was torn between wanting to be as far away from the house as possible and not wanting to leave until I knew that Miss Mary was indeed okay. I knew that word of her second fiancé’s death would be a shock, but I somehow didn’t expect it to have so drastic an effect.

I understood her reaction to Corbet Adams’s death, they had grown up together, but this new suitor seemed so out of place with her character that I had a hard time understanding the level of her reaction. But, as I had never been engaged once, let alone twice, and certainly never lost someone as close as a fiancée, I really had no way of knowing exactly how I would react.

Though, as her father had made it very clear that my presence was no longer welcome. The only thing I could do was leave. As I passed through the gates of the Adell estate and out onto the main road once more, I was overwhelmed by the brightness of the sun. Had there really been so much shade in the garden area of the Adell’s front lawn, that I was now having to adjust to normal sunlight?

Perhaps it was my imagination, but the farther I walked and the longer I was in direct sunlight, the harder it was for me to see without squinting my eyes shut. The brightness of the afternoon was blinding.

I crossed several streets, having to double and triple check that the passage across was clear as more than once the sun had blinded me from other objects in my direct path. I took to shading my face with my hands while I walked, just for some margin of relief. And, then I noticed, once I took the shortcut through campus to reach my rooms, that no one else seemed to be having the same difficulty in the bright light. None of the students that I passed strained and squinted against the horrifically bright sun. None of the students had their hands wrapped around their faces to block the light.

Confusion started to prick the edge of my mind. The corners of my consciousness began to blur and become less sharp and the effect of the sunlight on my eyes prevented me from being fully focused on other symptoms that were slowly starting to take hold.

I couldn’t see without great effort, my mind was losing the sharpness of focus and then, finally, my heart began racing in my chest with such ferocity that I had to slow my pace in order to catch my breath. I knew my pulse had nothing to do with fear or the speed I was traveling, but just like the difficulty in focusing my eyes and my mind, my heart was throbbing without control.

All I tried to focus on was getting back to my rooms. If I could get inside, away from the sunlight and sit down, everything had to return to normal. I just kept thinking about my rooms. But, the more I visualized them, the less they looked like my rooms. The sitting room twisted in front of me. It pulled itself away from me, diminishing to almost a pinprick.

I could hear Cross’s voice somewhere in the distance. He called my name. But, he was so far away that I couldn’t answer him. I tried to follow the sound of his voice. But, I became entangled in a thick mesh of cobwebs. They grabbed at me and held my arms down. I couldn’t pull myself free. Panic swallowed the last of my breath. And, just as I felt the cobwebs suddenly lift me, I was met with complete darkness.

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 22--- "News", 832 words.....

2011-05-22T11:18:00.002-05:00

News

I followed Miss Adell and her father into the sitting room. I was becoming quite accustomed to the sitting room, though, as I always came with the unpleasant task of needing to impart bad news, I never really felt comfortable there.

“Please, sit down, Mister …” Mary’s father began, motioning me toward the familiar lounger.

“Martin, sir. Dylan Martin.”

“Martin… Helena, please bring our guest some tea.” The maid, who had been hovering near the sitting room’s doorway, jumped, suddenly, at the mention of her name.

“Oh, please, don’t go to any trouble on my account.” I started to rise from the sofa, but was waved back down by Mary’s father.

“Nonsense! You are our guest. Besides, it’s no trouble. We really have more tea than we can handle.” He laughed softly, then motioned to the window he was standing nearest. “I do so enjoy growing plants and my greenhouse, at the moment, is nearly overrun with thick tea plants. I find that harvesting our own leaves and our experiments with different methods of treating the leaves makes for better flavor.”

Through the tangle of greenery outside the window, I could just make out the corner of the greenhouse, though the shape of the building was about all I could discern.

“Ah, excellent.” The maid returned with a tea tray. The cups and saucers rattled with such force as she moved to pass them out, that I almost offered to pass the tea out myself, though I restrained myself. “Thank you, Helena, you may go.” So quickly was the maid’s departure, that I hardly had a chance to thank her for the tea myself.

“Now, Mr. Martin, please, give our tea a try. We are always eager to hear another opinion.”

A sweet, flowery aroma with a woody background escaped from the cup. The scent was indeed pleasing and through the steam of my cup, I could see Miss Adell already enjoying her own tea while her father eagerly looked on, his cup sitting on the desk beside him. I took a timid sip, the woody flavor winning out over the flowery scent. There was a slight bitter aftertaste, but it wasn’t so strong to detract from the overall flavor. “It’s actually quite good.”

“Excellent! Good, good…” His eyes lit up with the natural pride of someone who’s invested in something they already know to be exceptional. “So, Mr. Martin, all that remains is for you to tell us why it is that we are graced with your company this afternoon.”

The pang of guilt, that seemed to be suddenly as familiar as the Adell’s sitting room, settled in the base of my throat and in the pit of my stomach. I sat aside my cup of tea and looked from Miss Mary to her father. I really had no desire to share bad news with either one of them, and now having both of them before me made it nearly impossible to get the words out.

“I’m afraid I come with rather bad news concerning Mr. Manuel Dison.” I all but stopped breathing once the words left my lips.

“Come, now, Mr. Martin,” Miss Mary began. “You’ve tried to give me bad news concerning my fiancé before, and it’s always been of the nature of unfounded suspicions.” She continued sipping her tea as if the news I needed to tell her had no more impact than the color of the sky on a sunny afternoon. “Do go on with your news, so that we might have an end to it.”

“What I bring to you concerning your fiancé has no bearing on his questionable character. This, I’m afraid, is far graver news.” This time, I did stop breathing. Both Mary and her father fixed their eyes upon me. “I’m afraid I must bring you news of your fiancé’s untimely and tragic death.”

The cup slipped from her fingers, crashing to pieces on the floor, as she fell back against the sofa.

“Helena!” Mr. Adell’s cry brought the maid scurrying through the door. “Quick! Bring some brandy.” He knelt beside his daughter and took the brandy from the maid as soon as she’d returned. Touching the glass to Miss Mary’s lips, the strong burn of brandy brought her quickly around.

“I must ask you, Mr. Martin, to leave us. You’ve done enough upsetting today.” Mary’s father didn’t even turn to face me as he urged my leaving.

“Of course, I am sorry. If there had been some other way...” I stood to leave, turning once more to Miss Mary.

In her disoriented state, Miss Mary’s eyes ran wildly about the room. When they did, for a moment, focus on me, I felt my breath catch in my throat. Her eyes were suddenly more disturbingly familiar than they had ever been. The blackness from her eyes staring up at me made my blood run cold. Here were the very same swollen pupils that had been the herald to her fiancé’s death.

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 21--- "Greenhouse", 573 words.....

2011-05-21T23:22:00.001-05:00

Greenhouse

I stood at the gate of the Adell estate, struggling to find the words to tell Miss Mary of the death of her second fiancé and the danger that she might be in, though I knew not what this danger actually was. And, I’m quite sure that Cross would never have told what he suspected the danger to be, even if I asked him.

From the beginning, I disliked my role is the entire affair, but never as much as I did at that precise moment. Who was I to be bringing such terrible news to such a lovely woman?

I stared, hopelessly, through the bars of the gate, as if the answers to all my problems might suddenly spring from the verge. The garden appeared the same as before. I suppose I should have taken comfort in the consistency of the garden’s beauty. It was something to see, the exotic foliage, creeping and coursing through the front lawn of one of our city’s manor houses. There were only one or two plants that I vaguely recognized, and I’m sure I had their names wrong.

The pace I took along the garden path that led to the Adell’s front door was slow, slower even than the speed I took in my journey from the police station. With no more haste than I moved, I found that I was able to take in a full view of the house and its surrounding gardens. The last two visits to their esteemed estate did not allow me the luxury of such a view. It was this third journey through the Adell’s foreign foliage that allowed me to see a small greenhouse just to the east of the house.

The whole greenhouse was nearly covered in creeping vines so that the casual passer-by might miss it, or, so that the casual passer-by should miss it. I paused for a moment when I saw the movement of someone in the greenhouse. Someone moved through the greenhouse, exiting through a door closest to the manor house. From the distance that I stood, the only characteristic I could make out of the person was that he was male and he wore a long workman’s coat. Once he slipped into the manor house, I continued my slow pace up the front steps to the door.

I was greeted by the same fresh-faced maid as before, and was left standing, unceremoniously on the front steps as before. The same shocked look covered the maid’s face so that I wondered, honestly, if she had any other expression.

When the door opened once more, Miss Adell stood at the threshold, her arms crossed and a stern look on her face. I never thought that so lovely a face could hold such harsh features. “I didn’t expect to see you here, ever again.”

My face burned as her words were all but spat at me, “I know. I do apologize for my intrusion, yet again.”

“Come now, Mary. Don’t be inhospitable,” came a voice from further in the entranceway. The figure that turned to face me, just behind Miss Mary, I recognized immediately as the person who fled from the greenhouse when I stopped along the garden path. I knew, now, that I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Mary’s father, Jonathan Adell. “Show our guest in, I’m sure he could do with a cup of tea, he does seem to be a bit harried.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 20--- "Obscurity", 522 words.....

2011-05-20T22:24:00.000-05:00

Obscurity

I felt a strong uneasiness in leaving Cross to deal with the police and the deceased suitor on his own. The body was lying in the entranceway of my rooms, after all. But, Cross assured me that he was quite comfortable dealing with the delicate situation on his own. “Besides, dear Martin, you’re most needed elsewhere,” he said, the familiar glint in his eye shining up at me. He leaned back against the couch in my sitting room, there was no pained expression on his face, but his face had no color.

After I left word with the police that they should make their way to my address, I headed to the Adell estate. Though I’m sure I should have quickened my pace, I could not make myself move any faster. My heart might have been pounding with the increased adrenaline of someone panicked enough to sprint, but, no matter how hard I wished to make my body move faster, it would not.

I had no earthly idea what I was going to say to Miss Adell. I had no earthly idea what I was looking for when I finally did reach the Adell estate. More than anything, I wished Cross were with me now. Or, at the very least, I wish he had told me what his suspicions were, so that I might prepare myself for what I might be walking into. Other lives were at risk, that’s what he said. Did he mean Miss Adell? Or, her father? Perhaps both?

One of the most insufferable qualities of Cross’s character was his frugal nature in doling out his information. I don’t know if he was deliberately obtuse and unwilling to share what he knew or if he unfairly expected everyone to automatically understand the same information in the same manner as himself. Either way, all it meant was, Cross had some inkling as to what was going on while the rest of us did not. And, as I am sure that I’m not more dense than my neighbors in intuition and comprehension, it can only mean that Cross had an uncanny ability to see all ends which might be obscured to the rest of us.

For all the distraction that dwelling on Cross’s character provided, it did nothing to prevent me from finding the Adell estate. And well before I’d like to, I was presently about to deal with a situation that I knew nothing whatsoever about. Yet again, I was soon to be standing in front of Miss Mary Adell, searching, vainly, for a way to impart the seriousness of something that concerned her.

The last time I struggled, to no avail, to find a way of warning her about her chosen suitor and his dangerous behavior. Last time, all I had were strong convictions and very little proof. This time, all I had were Cross’s strong convictions and even less proof. How was I to make Miss Adell understand that, though her treacherous suitor was not around, her life could still be in danger? How was I to tell Miss Adell that her suitor would never be coming back?

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 19--- "Surmises", 537 words.....

2011-05-19T20:22:00.000-05:00

Surmises

The horror of the suitor’s expression only ceased when Cross pulled the lids over Manuel’s vacant and lifeless eyes. Had I stared into the abyss of those swollen pupils for much longer, I would most probably have gone mad. In fact, even once the suitor’s eyes had been closed, I still found myself staring at his face, envisioning in my mind’s eye the fierce black pupils gaping up at me. It was the sound of Cross, struggling to his feet that finally broke the hold the dead body on the floor had over me.

Pain creased Cross’s brow once more. The effort to stand drained all color from his face, and where his piercing eyes had once been, a glassy, dull expression was set—his penetrating sharpness suddenly swallowed in agony.

I moved to help him stand, placing one hand behind his back and the other around the arm nearest to me. “I’m alright, I’m alright … I can manage.” He squeaked the words at me with as much gruffness as he could muster, though he made no attempt to push me away.

I guided Cross back to the sitting room and lowered him, once more, to the couch. Being in the sitting room, I found, was a most wonderful thing for clearing my mind. With the death of the suitor no longer consuming me and plaguing my thoughts, I was able to finally realize that there were things to be taken care of, though my taxed brain could make no clear plan.

“What do we do now, Cross?” A small bubble of panic was suddenly welling up inside of me.

“Well, first and foremost,” he squeaked through gasping breaths. “You must send for the police. One cannot allow a body to lay in one’s entranceway.”

“Of course.” I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I’m sure they were glowing with such a redness that they could have lit the sitting room without the aid of fire or candle. Going for the police should have been so obvious, but my struggle to free myself from the thoughts of the suitor’s death had quite emptied my mind of any common reasoning ability.

“And, then, once you’ve secured the police, I’m afraid you’re going to have to return to the Adell estate.” Cross’s breaths were coming easier, but his voice was barely a whisper.

“Return to the Adell estate?” I doubted that I had the strength of stomach or the strength of heart to set foot on that property once more.

“Yes, dear friend, I’m afraid you must.” There was such conviction in his insistence that a knot of fear began to twist in my stomach.

“Do you know what’s going on? Do you know what’s killed Miss Adell’s suitor?” My heart pounded against my chest.

“Not what, but who…and as to knowing what’s going on, I only know as much as the facts suggest.” His face, that had been releasing the tensions of pain suddenly went firm, almost cold. “But, if what I surmise is correct, then you must act!” He locked his penetrating eyes on mine. “Other lives may depend on it!”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 18--- "Eyes", 530 words.....

2011-05-18T20:21:00.001-05:00

Eyes

Silence had never been more deafening, or its weight more suffocating.

Once the treble of the suitor’s struggled breath and the thunderous beat of his heart had ceased, there was nothing to fill the empty air that hung in the entranceway.

Cross, still propping himself up with the wall, shuffled toward me. I, for my part, didn’t move. I am most positive that I didn’t even breathe until the pain of my suffering lungs forced me to do so—though drawing the much needed air into my lungs only reminded me of the state of my cracked ribs.

My mind was suddenly reeling with the events that had taken place. I replayed the last ten minutes in my head again and again, thinking, surely, there must be something that I missed. Something during our struggle, that I had been too distracted to notice, must explain what happened.

As it was, I stood shaken and bruised with Cross, equally shaken, though far more bruised, beside me. While our attacker, that neither one of us had lain a hand on, lay dead at our feet. He was sprawled out, facedown, the knife he had clenched in his hand, a few inches from him.

“I don’t under—” I started, the words choking in my throat.

“Shh.” Cross took a staggered step from the wall. His movements, slow and measured, positioned him next to the suitor’s body. A pained expression creased his brow as he knelt on the floor next to the body. But, that expression of discomfort lasted only a moment.

An expression of precise scrutiny, of cold calculation even, swept across Cross’s face. Not moving from the position that I stood, though I did allow myself the luxury of breathing, I watched as Cross moved along the dead man’s body. Tracing—though never touching— Cross examined the outline of the back of the suitor’s frame from the top of his head to his boots.

Only when he had satisfied himself that nothing appeared out of the ordinary from behind did Cross venture to turn the body of the victim over. I gasped when Cross moved aside to reveal the man’s face. His jaw slack from his gasping death was nothing to compare to his eyes. Wide open and staring, a wild, haunted look shown from them, his black pupils all but filling the center of his eyes so there was little color from his hazel irises showing. The look of his pupils was so unnerving that a shiver ran along my spine. It was as if they opened into the great pit of hell itself, desiring to swallow any and everything that stood before them.

What madness could draw a man to his death? What horrors, that were whispered of in his black eyes, would break such a man without any mark of violence? What devilry was at work here?

The disturbing quality of his face was more than I could handle and I felt that if I didn’t step away soon, there would be a second body on the floor of the entranceway.

“His eyes…” The only words I managed to squeak out to Cross.

“Precisely.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 17--- "Attack", 535 words.....

2011-05-17T19:42:00.000-05:00

Attack

I scarcely had a moment to register the murderous figure in the doorway before he was lunging toward me. His heavy frame fell against mine and as we toppled away from the door, I could hear a strained shuffling from the other room.

The suitor’s wild eyes were gaping wide with fury, his face covered in perspiration. His chest heaved and a guttural cry escaped from his lips as we collided.

My breath flew from my lungs as Manuel’s full weight fell on top of me. His own breath hissed in my ear and I caught the glint of his blade as it flashed in the sunlight. Gasping, as I was, for breath, I had no way of knowing if I had already been stabbed. The pain of meeting the floor, coupled with the cracking of my ribs as my breath was forced from my chest, prevented me from knowing, fully, the state of any other injuries.

Instinct forced my hand to reach for the knife. When I grabbed his wrist, it was then that I realized he was trembling more than I was. Though, there was great force behind the strength of his arm, I was surprised to see how weakly he held the knife. So loose was his grip on the metal, that the knife all but fell from his fingers as I seized his wrist.

The frailty in his grip, however, was only momentary. When he realized his error, he seized the knife forcefully and moved to thrust the knife in my direction. His eyes, though mad and wild in their look, did not seem able to focus on me, even as I was only inches from his face.

“Martin!” I could not see Cross, though I knew the strained shuffling from the other room was struggling attempts to come to my aid.

I suddenly felt the weight from my crushed chest lighten. As the suitor was lifted to his feet by Cross, I kept my hand around his wrist until it was wrested from my grip. Gasping and lightheaded from lack of air, I slid backward away from the staggering frame that stood over me. His face still wild and twisted, he seemed to be staring through the rooms, past Cross and myself. Even when I stumbled to my own feet, he didn’t turn his attention to me.

Slowly, between the gasps of his own breath, the suitor began to sway. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest against my cracked ribs, the sound of its beating throbbing in my ears. I exchanged looks with Cross, who was leaning against the wall, poised to move against our intruder even while he could barely hold himself upright.

The sound of the heartbeats in my ears suddenly doubled, the volume of the beats filling the entranceway. It was then that I realized the heartbeats I was hearing were not my own, but the suitor’s. I watched as the murderous suitor gasped at the breath choking in his throat. As his wild eyes focused once more on whatever he was looking at past me, the perspiration poured from his brow. He took two staggered steps forward and fell dead at my feet.

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 16--- "Despair", 602 words.....

2011-05-16T19:15:00.000-05:00

Despair

I departed the Adell estate a defeated man. For all my desire to protect the innocent Miss Adell from the questionable character who sought her hand, I could do nothing to help her. Such was my dismay at my abysmal failure, that I scarce paid heed to my movements. In fact, I dare say, I was halfway to the University lawn before I realized I had even left the Adell estate.

As I moved through campus, I glimpsed the assortment of students as they wandered between studies, quite ignorant of the larger issues that plagued the city around them. Even the tragic event of a student’s death the previous term was far enough from them that it held no thought in their mind for very long. I laughed softly at the realization that if I’d never met Donaghey Cross, I too, might be one of these unconcerned, blissfully ignorant scholars whose only concerned thought was given to upcoming exams.

My own concerned thoughts should have been centered on my studies and the professional path I had chosen. Yet, that was not to be, so long as I allowed myself to remain in the company of Mr. Donaghey Cross. As it was, I was consumed with the methods it would take to convince Miss Mary Adell of her impending danger. And, short of that, the words I might use to inform Cross that I had failed in my assigned task.

So bright was the afternoon sun and so pleasant the walk should have been, I was quite disturbed to feel so helplessly depressed on the inside. The greenery, the bird’s song, the laughter of courting couples strolling along the hedge, none of these could distract me from the dark thoughts that were consuming me. I had been shocked to learn of Corbet Adams’s death. I was petrified when we were presented with the suitor’s threat. I was aghast at the attack on Cross. And, if I were to soon learn that Miss Adell had met with some tragic end, I most assuredly would go mad.

I knew there must be easier ways to live one’s life, but, it did seem as if Donaghey Cross was determined to set himself squarely in the middle of life’s tragedies. And, I’m afraid, that his plans also included myself, however loudly I might protest to the contrary.

As I turned the corner onto the street that housed my rooms, I was startled by a shadow that passed behind me. Even in my distracted state, I was aware enough of what was going on around me to be on the alert. Very little had happened over the last few days to relieve me of my constant need of alert, and as the tragic events began to mount, I wondered if, indeed, the alertness of my subconscious would ever subside.

I spun around to find no person or animal on my heels, so, the answer to the passing shadow remained obscured. But, the thump of the heart in my chest stayed as a reminder. As I pushed open the door to my rooms, I was helpless to stop the chain of events that followed.

The passing shadow suddenly consumed the light in the doorway and as I spun around this time, I was met by Miss Mary Adell’s suitor, Manuel. I had led him straight to my door and now he blocked my only escape. A wild, mad look in his eye, his chest heaving and a long knife bared in his hand, Manuel took several heavy steps toward me. “I told you to stay away from my fiancée.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 15--- "Accusations", 553 words.....

2011-05-15T23:16:00.000-05:00

Accusations

When Miss Adell finally came to, I had not the heart to continue. Our discussion of Corbet Adams had clearly distressed her. I would never have brought the subject to light if I could have avoided hurting her. But, my need to warn her of her fiancé‘s character far outweighed the sudden pangs of guilt that tore at me.

I guided her trembling frame to the couch, the same couch where I had been so carefully tended a few days prior. As she sat back, gathering her senses, I reached for the bottle of brandy on the sideboard. I watched the color drain from her face as I brought the glass to her lips. “Easy, now.”

A few sips and the penetrating quality of her eyes had returned. “I must apologize for my weakness.” Except for a slight tremor in her tone, the familiar melody of her voice returned. “I’m afraid that I’ve been a bit overwrought since the news of dear Corbet’s tragedy. So, you will understand that your mention of his name, of course, would have an effect on me.”

“Of course. I do apologize for upsetting you. If I could have spared you such distress, I would have bitten the tongue from my head first.” I choked back a solid knot that had settled in my throat. “But, the fact remains that your safety will be in question every moment that you remain with your fiancé.”

“I don’t understand. How can you believe that Manuel would have anything to do with Corbet’s death?”

The sudden realization that I really had nothing to offer Miss Adell other than a single threatening impression and a suspected arson episode, hit me with such force that I all but lost my voice. Could I really accuse a man I knew nothing about, of murder and attempted murder? Could I really put one man away on the word of another man I barely knew anything about?

“I am sorry, Miss Adell. I do wish I could give you more concrete proofs, but the fact is I can not.” I watched her face as I admitted my lack of details. “But, it was Mr. Cross distinct impression that your fiancé was in some way involved in Corbet Adams’s death.” There was a sudden shift in her expression. It was so complex a shift as to be inscrutable, and I expected any moment to be ushered from the house.

“So, you sit here and accuse my fiancé of murder without so much as a single point of evidence to support your slander?”

“I assure you that I mean no offense. And, if I had the proofs I would most assuredly lay them before you.” Miss Adell finally regained enough of her strength to stand from the couch and move hurriedly across the sitting room. “Please, believe me, Miss Adell. I would not bring such information to you if I didn’t honestly think that your very safety was at risk.”

“You say that Mr. Cross thought Manuel to be involved?” She paced the far side of the sitting room in front of the window.

“Yes, it was his strongest impression.”

Miss Adell stopped her pacing and turned to me, her wild, exotic eyes fixed on me. “I believe, Mr. Martin, the time has come for you to leave.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 14--- "Shock", 509 words.....

2011-05-14T20:56:00.000-05:00

Shock

There could be no doubt that the allure of Miss Mary Adell was captured in her eyes. Her dark pupils had a way of swallowing any and everything they looked upon. At least, that was the feeling I had when those wild, dark pupils turned their attention to me. Were I the type to believe in the supernatural, I would have called her quality, otherworldly.

I am most sure that the power of her eyes had been present my last visit to her home, but as I was preoccupied with the state of my injury, I didn’t fully register it. Now, with no pain to distract me, the full, unnerving aspect of her eyes threatened to break my composure. Would that Cross were with me now, if only to distract me with his incessant droll about the Corbet Adams case, at least, then, I wouldn’t feel so helpless.

“And, to what do I owe this unexpected visit, Mr. Martin?” The only thing strong enough to break the spell her eyes had placed me under was most assuredly the melody of her voice. Though her question rang with no hint of annoyance at being disturbed, a sudden pang of embarrassment fell heavily in my stomach.

“I do apologize, Miss Adell, for the untimely return.” The heat rising in my cheeks broke the momentary trance I was paralyzed in. “Please don’t think me too forward, but I come to warn you about your fiancé.” Every inch of my insides began to shake. I had not the strength of will to handle such delicate matters as Cross did. Surely, it was not my place to warn her of her suitor’s murderous nature. But, I could not stand idly by while he did his best to get away with murder. What would stay his hand from Miss Mary herself if he one day lost his temper?

“Warn me? About Manuel?” Her voice changed immediately, the melody replaced by an abrupt staccato. “What about Manuel?”

This new sound in her voice sent shivers down my spine. I hated to bring even a hint of distress to her. There was a change in her eyes as well. What were once alluring dark wells, were now sharp and penetrating.

“Yes, I’m afraid that is my intent,” I all but stopped breathing as I watched the change in Miss Adell come about. “It is difficult to explain the circumstances behind the suspicions surrounding your fiancé. But, suffice it to say, that my one meeting with him was not the most pleasant of events.” Her eyes flitted, searching for any deceit I might be offering.

“I do not wish to cause you any undo alarm,” I continued. “But, I believe that it was Mr. Cross’s earnest impression that your fiancé had something to do with the death of Corbet Adams.” I swallowed hard as I finished that last, damning sentence.

“It’s not possible… it’s not possible,” Miss Adell’s searching eyes abruptly dimmed, the last whispered breath of her suitor’s name escaping her lips as she fell. “Manuel—”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 13--- "Garden", 513 words.....

2011-05-13T22:24:00.000-05:00

Garden

The next morning I found myself, at Cross’s request, standing in front of Miss Mary Adell’s estate. It was at once the place I most desired to see again and yet, it was also the place I most desired never to see again. I couldn’t help but believe that this place was where all our troubles began. And, that, perhaps, if we had never seen this house or the suitor as he departed from it, we might never have been in danger.

I won’t deny there was some small part of me that wished to see Miss Mary Adell once more. And , I won’t deny there was more than a small part of me that wished I had met Miss Mary Adell under more favorable circumstances. Death is always a nasty business. And, murder, the nastiest business of all.

But, the prospect of seeing Miss Mary Adell again, coupled with the pleasure of hearing, once more, the melodies of her voice, was enough to fortify me into going—if only to ensure the young lady’s safety where her new suitor is concerned. It would not do for us to leave Miss Mary unattended while all our suspicions fell upon the murderous character of her suitor.

As I stepped through the gate and waded through the foliage that was growing over the path, I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of it all. The garden, though wild in its overgrowth without appearing untamed, seemed even more exotic and, should I dare to say, protective than it did before. It was as if the very greenery of their lawns sought the shield the house and its occupants. I know it was just a fancy of mine, but, I felt as if the vegetation provided more than just beauty and shade. I suppose this fancy of mine was meant to offer some relief from my concerns, not that there was any truth to it. But, I will admit that, for a moment, it did bring some relief.

Once past the flora, I made my way up the steps, recalling my first introductions to Miss Mary Adell while nursing my wounded knee. Had I the chance to do it over, I would never have met so fine a lady in such a condition. Bleeding on the steps of the host’s house is not the sort of desired impression that anyone would want to make.

The same young maid, who before had slammed the door in our face, greeted me at the door. She led me into the same sitting room where Miss Adell had so tenderly cared for my knee. I stood, silent, listening for the soft tread of my graceful lady’s approach.

When Miss Mary Adell stepped through the doors of the sitting room, everything around me dissolved. Had I not already been silent, waiting for her arrival, I would surely have lost the power and command of my own voice. Her eyes, with their wild and wide black pupils, were at once beautiful and— as there is no other word for it—unsettling.

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 12--- "Refuge", 627 words.....

2011-05-12T18:36:00.008-05:00

Refuge

A few days sleeping on my couch and Cross was beginning to sound like his old self again. His movements were still weak, but he was clearly on the up swing. And, in the meantime, the papers wrote a very discouraging account of the fire, noting that it was believed that a certain Donaghey Cross had perished among the inferno, but that his remains had not yet been uncovered in the rubble. Cross chuckled as I read the article aloud.

“That should set our friend’s edgy nerves free. Now, I’m sure, he believes that he’s at liberty to do just as he pleases!” With the most peaceful look on his face, Cross closed his eyes, his characteristic grin stretching across his lips. He was honestly enjoying the charade.

So, there I was, with a dead man on my couch and a murderous man roaming free and me, the uninterested man stuck in the middle of it all.

“Can you tell me, honestly, what purpose any of this serves? How is your death going to aid us in uncovering anything?” I tossed the paper to floor beside the couch Cross was reclined upon.

“My dear, Martin, it’s perfectly simple.” Cross reached cautiously over the edge of the couch to pull the paper to him. I could see the color drain from his cheeks. Though he made no complaint, it was clear that his injuries were far from healed.

“Our friend, like any other self-important criminal,” Cross continued when the color had returned to his face and his breath had steadied, “will scour the papers for news of his crime. The more dramatic the descriptions, the more praise he awards himself. He will see it as a triumph, a badge, or proof that he really is a mastermind.”

“I still don’t see—”

“Though the article never mentions his name, he will know the story is speaking of his actions, of his power, this will give his ego a very unnecessary boost, which, in turn, will make him very careless.” Cross paused for a moment, pulling the paper up to his face. “He will see this as a mark of his strength and will be less concerned about shielding himself and his actions. He got away with murder, surely he must be untouchable.”

“Okay, I follow you now. But, this whole plan of yours is suddenly dependent on the level of one man’s ego to outweigh his level of caution.”

“When have you ever known a careful man to commit murder? A careful man would ensure his hands and face were nowhere near the scene. No, our friend is not a careful man, his ego will betray him.” Cross folded the paper neatly and laid it on the back of the couch. “And, when it does, we’ll be around just to see and hear what those secrets are!

“I am convinced that this suitor of Mary Adell is the actual murderer of Corbet Adams, in fact, I’m certain of it. The only thing that remains is to uncover exactly how he did it and why.” Cross slipped into the unconsciousness of sleep.

As I watched the knots from his furrowed brow release, it struck me exactly what we were going up against. If Cross was right about the ego of the suitor, then it could mean that one, even two deaths were just a means to bolster his reputation. But, what if he found out that one of those deaths, that he was using to prop up his credibility, turned out to not be a death at all? What would it mean for Cross if this man suddenly realized he was still alive? What would it mean for me when the suitor found out I had given Cross refuge?

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 11--- "Realization", 670 words.....

2011-05-11T20:22:00.000-05:00

Realization

As I listened to the story of Cross’s adventures, I couldn’t help but marvel at how fortunate we had been, even with Cross’s foolish desire to pursue the truth.

“You know, Martin,” Cross’s voice, though weak and raspy, still had a hint of his usual enthusiasm. “I believe I may now have an inkling as to how our slippery friend keeps eluding me.” He raised his head to look toward me, but fell back as the effort to move was more than he bargained for.

“You mean, you know where he’s hiding in the alley?”

“Precisely, or perhaps more precisely, I know where in the alley he is not hiding!” Cross stopped for a moment to catch his breath once more. “I’ve been to that alley a dozen times since we first followed and lost him, there is absolutely no place in that alley that he could remain without my seeing him. There’s no door, no window, no low wall to climb over, no underground access…just brick and mortar walls with no hole for even a rat to squirm through. Not even the rat that is our slippery suitor could fit through the cracks in those walls!”

By this point, Cross was gasping for breath. He had worked himself into such an excitable frenzy that I expected him to pass out at any moment. He was desperate to get up and even more desperate to be moving, and his inability to do either was sending him into an excited mania. I moved closer to his pallet and wiped the thin stream of blood and sweat from his forehead.

“Cross, you must calm yourself.” I struggled to my feet, the tear running across my kneecap throbbed with each step I took. But, my condition was nothing compared to the miserable figure that lay on my sitting room floor.

When I returned from the kitchen, Cross had managed to slow his breathing enough that his gasping was barely noticeable. “Here, try and drink some water.” I lifted his head to the cup in my hand, the feverish heat from the back of his head sent a tremor through me. I really didn’t know to what extent he was injured.

“You know, I really have been blind, Martin. It was one thing to believe I was following him into an alley, and quite another to continue to believe that the alley held the secrets to his disappearance when it should have been obvious at once that it did not.” His tone was calm, but morose. All excitable enthusiasm seemed to slip away from him. “Why it took me so long to realize my mistake, I don’t know.”

“Everyone’s entitled to a mistake, Cross.”

“Not the same mistake more than once! No, not like this!” A fury exploded from Cross that I’d never imagined he possessed. It was enough to send him into a violent coughing fit. I placed a hand on his shoulder and could feel the trembles of emotion rolling through him. And, just as quickly as the fury rose, it subsided.

“I should have known the first time we lost him that there was no place to escape from the alley. The second time, I should have known he was leading me to that alley.”

“Leading you?”

“Of course. What better way to confuse me? What better way to track his enemy than to lure him into a blind? What better way for the hunted to become the hunter?”

His voice sank to almost a whisper. “I should have expected it. I should have anticipated his tenacity, especially after he followed us to the lab on campus.”

I sat back, staring past Cross, suddenly horrified at the realization that we had been tracked that afternoon and neither one of us knew.

“The moment has come for planning, my dear chap. And, after the events of last night, I’m sure our friend believes the worst about me.” A fiery glint sparkled from Cross’s eyes. “It’s time to use my death to our advantage!”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 10--- "Morning", 591 words.....

2011-05-10T23:15:00.001-05:00

Morning

Day broke. And none too soon, as the unending darkness was maddening. If I had been visited by sleep, it was of the fitful kind that offered no respite. A groggy cloud hung over my mind like a thick blanket. So hazy was my awareness that I didn’t register it when Cross first stirred.

“I fear, my dear Martin, that our amiable friend meant what he said.” The words choked from Cross’s throat. He had the raspy scratch in his voice of inhaled smoke and exhaustion.

“I think you should save your voice.” I moved from the armchair I had been dozing in to sit next to Cross on the floor. “You mustn’t talk.”

“Mustn’t? No, need to,” his scratchy voice barely a whisper. I watched the labor of his chest as he struggled to pull air into his lungs. Seeing him now, it was clear that Cross had only just narrowly escaped.

“Okay, but, just take it easy.” I had cleaned the gash over his eyebrow when he first arrived, but I could see now that as he stirred waking up, the wound bled freely again. It was a nasty cut. Cross flinched as I touched a clean cloth to the wound to stop the bleeding. “ Sorry.”

“It’s fine, nothing to signify.” Cross waved my attentions away with his right hand, the energy expended was obviously more than he expected as a low raspy cough broke from his chest and he gasped to catch his breath. I sat back from him, not wanting to distress him further. It was a full five minutes before he had regained enough strength and breath to continue.

“As I said before, I do believe our friend meant it when he so forcefully told us to stay away from him.” A thin, forced grin crawled across his face. “But, I was never one to listen to idle threats, well, to threats anyway—most of them being idle.” Another brief coughing fit stopped his narrative, but only for a moment this time.

“I did follow him, last night, though once again, I was thwarted in the same twists of alley where we lost him before. I knew at once, upon his leaving me, that he was wise to my following him—though I exercised every caution to not be seen.” He paused for a few moments, drawing in as deep a breath as his tortured lungs would allow.

“He knew you were following him? So, did he attack you in the alley as you turned to leave?”

A low, scratchy laugh escaped Cross’s parched lips. “There was no attack, at least, not in the sense you might mean.”

“No attack? But, look at the state of you man, if you were not attacked, then how is it you come to my rooms within an inch’s distance from death?” I watched his face, searching for some sign that shock might have affected his memory or his awareness.

“There was no attack, save for the blow I received when I foolishly believed I had returned to my own rooms without being followed.” One more fit of raspy coughing tore through Cross. “That was the only time I was touched. The rest of the events you can probably discern for yourself.”

“Well, from your charred, ashy clothing and the smoky rasp of your voice, I can see that you were caught in a fire.”

“Caught in a fire? My dear fellow, there is but a pile of blackened rubble where the building that housed my rooms once stood.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 9--- "Waiting", 502 words.....

2011-05-09T23:43:00.001-05:00

Waiting

I could only guess about what had happened to Cross that night. While he lay unconscious, it was clear enough from his appearance that his search for the suitor did not go well. And, I was suddenly struck by a pang of guilt.

When he first burst through my doors wanting me to join his eager search, I can honestly say, when he left without me, that I was very glad to see him go. As he had so often shown himself to be adept at finding his way through whatever problems were at hand, I had little, if any, concern that he might meet with an obstacle he couldn’t get around.

Yet, as I watched his disheveled frame, suddenly much smaller than I remembered, I realized that even the self-assured Cross was not infallible—and for one, brief moment, I wondered if I could convince Cross of that fact.

As best as I could, I tried to make Cross comfortable. It was no easy task for one injured man to shift another injured man, but I did finally manage to pull him clear of the door and onto a small pallet of blankets and pillows, which I gathered as a make-shift bed. Not knowing the extent of his injuries, I didn’t want to hoist him around too much. All I could do was wait, hoping that once he regained consciousness, I’d be able to learn the truth of what happened.

*****

The night passed, as all such ill-spent evenings do—with no great speed. Every sound that crept through my rooms made my heart leap and every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. As there was no way of knowing where the person or persons were that had attacked Cross, every cell within me was alert. There wasn’t a fiber of my being that wasn’t attuned to every sound, to every creaking floorboard, to every passing train, and every whispered breeze. The darkness of the night only served to make each noise, no matter how trivial or how commonplace, an ominous warning.

I didn’t have the energy, nor the strength in my injured knee to pace the floor all night, though I knew it would have been Cross’s preferred method for passing the time. And, even if I did have the energy and strength, I’m afraid that pacing the night away would do little except stretch my nerves past their point of breaking. The manic movement might do well to calm someone of Cross’s frantic energy, but for someone of my disposition, I’m afraid it would do everything but calm.

I had never before thought about the silence between the normal night sounds as a hiding place for danger. But, every break in the songs of the crickets and the nightingales sent shivers up my spine. My breath caught in my throat as I waited for their calming songs to resume. For, whatever it was that disturbed these small creatures during their evening symphony might very well wish to disturb others.

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 8--- "Tragedy", 740 words.....

2011-05-08T22:26:00.000-05:00

Tragedy

The whole idea of continuing seemed ludicrous. It might have been entertaining to search for answers, even exciting to learn the truth, but, once the threat from Mary Adell’s suitor had time to settle, I realized just how far from sane this whole pursuit was.

Two days. That was all the time, Donaghey Cross felt I needed to recuperate and our agitated guest to cool off. Two days after the incident in the lab and Cross was back, ready to continue his investigation, as if nothing had happened.

If he had bothered to listen, I might have convinced him that two days was not long enough for the tear in my knee to heal, which meant, most assuredly, it was not long enough for our guest to calm down. Yet, in the short time I had known Donaghey Cross, it was more than abundantly clear that once he made his mind up, what anyone else thought, didn’t matter. Sanity, I found, was not a quality that Cross was concerned with preserving.

Try as I might to put the whole ordeal of meeting Cross and every chaotic adventure we’d been on out of my mind, it seemed no matter where I went, I was not to be parted from him. At the start of term, I had managed to secure some rooms a short walk’s distance from the University. Here, at least, I hoped to have time to put, not only the pain of my injury behind me, but the disturbing episode with the suitor in the lab.

But, when a familiar knock echoed through my sitting room, a very familiar knot—that formed when we crossed into unfriendly areas of town in search of an unfriendly suitor—reappeared in the base of my stomach. I limped to the door, knowing who was standing on the other side, but praying in earnest that I might be mistaken.

Upon opening the door, the familiar knock was replaced by a familiar sly grin and a set of familiar, piercing eyes. Cross was ready to resume the trail we had lost two days prior.

“Come, Martin, I think I’ve found where our amiable friend has been hiding these last few days!” The excited energy rippled from him.

I moved away from the door, hobbling toward the nearest chair. “Then go, I won’t keep you.” As I lowered myself into the seat, Cross took several agitated steps into the room.

“Surely, you won’t want to be left out?”

“I won’t be much help.” He gave me a searching look. “This leg of mine, I’m afraid, isn’t quite ready for another adventure.”

“But, if we don’t go now, I fear that we may lose the only chance we have.” A sudden, panicky indecision settled on his face. Almost at once, he began pacing the short space of my sitting room.

“Go, if you must. But, I won’t be accompanying you.”

He stopped and faced me with an imploring look. “You wouldn’t mind being left behind?”

“Of course not! In fact, I think I’d prefer it.” I had intended that my scoffing tone relay my desire to be left behind entirely, but, as I often found, Cross was not so easily dissuaded.

“Right, then, I shall go and I’ll bring back any information I find!”

The door to my sitting room slammed shut before I had the chance to assure Cross that I had no desire to learn anything more about Corbet Adams and his unfortunate death.

*****

I don’t know the hour of night the disturbance occurred, but it was surely no earlier than one or two in the morning. The furious pounding on my outer door, woke me, of course, but so heavy had sleep fallen upon me that evening, that in the fuzzy state of my waking I had no way of discerning the gravity of what had happened.

I stumbled through the rooms and upon reaching the door, it finally struck me that something horrible had occurred. The furious pounding on the door had all but stopped. And, as I turned the doorknob, the nearly unconscious body of Donaghey Cross fell into my arms. As I lowered him to the floor, the strong odor of charred flesh and smoke flooded my nostrils. In the stream of light drifting in from the hallway, I could see his entire frame dusted in dark, smoky ash and a deep, bloody gash set above his left eyebrow.

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 7--- "Threat", 1079 words.....

2011-05-07T13:16:00.001-05:00

Threat

Our journey back through campus didn’t take as long as I had expected. Cross, silent and focused, still carried most of my weight on my right side, so that my injured leg barely touched the ground. I was grateful for that and marveled at his ability to half-carry a man for such a distance without seeming to expend any great effort. The change in my usual stride had my breathing doubled, at least, and a slight twinge down my left leg reminded me how much it was compensating for its partner’s injury. But, Cross never broke a sweat, or his concentration, for that matter.

Once back inside the lab, he lowered me into the chair behind the desk and then proceeded to pace the entire length of the lab, occasionally glancing out the window at the students passing below. So intense was his focus and so manic his pacing, that I was hesitant to interrupt. Rather than remain the redundant and useless lump I suddenly felt, sitting injured without a clue what to do next, I reached for the nearest pen and paper and began listing everything I knew about Corbet Adams and his death. As it seemed there was little else I could do until Cross had formulated some plan in his own mind, I had hoped that listing all the facts might make things clearer for me.

Cross moved with almost frantic impatience. His shoes thudded along the wooden floor, his fingers drummed along the windowsills and grabbed at the window covering. He hissed his breath in and out, an occasional sigh breaking through, not for one second, since lowering me into the desk chair, did he stop moving.

The only sound, aside from his thudding shoes and hissing breath, was the soft clink of test tubes and beakers spread along the lab table. His frantic pacing jarred the workspace just enough to shake the glassware.

His movements were such that they made me dizzy if I watched him for any length of time. So, I repeatedly glanced at the short list I had compiled concerning Corbet Adam and his murder, as I was now inclined to agree that his death was no accident. Unfortunately, my list seemed to be lacking most of the important details that would have pointed to who committed the murder and for what exact reason, as well as, how the murder was actually carried out.

Focused as I was on my list of facts, with the sound of Cross’s thudding shoes drumming in my ears, I lost awareness of everything else. So intense had my own focus become—a direct result of Cross’s focused energy filling the lab, I am sure—that when the lab door was thrown open, I nearly fell from my lab chair in surprise.

The figure standing in the doorway blocked enough of the light coming in from the hallway, that he might as well have been a door himself. Cross spun around from his pacing and regarded the stranger, a sly grin spreading across his face.

The sudden stop of Cross’s movements, the sudden absence of his thudding shoes and hissed breath and the sudden shock of our intruder, sent a roaring hollow spinning in my head. I don’t know how long the three of us remained still, silently regarding one another as time all but stopped.

“Why did you follow me?” growled the figure in the doorway. And, as he took a step into the lab, I became aware that our strange intruder was, indeed, Miss Adell’s suitor, that we had lost earlier in the twists of the city’s alleyways.

“I don’t take kindly to people meddling in things that don’t concern them, so, I ask again, gentlemen, why did you follow me?” The suitor moved into the center of the lab, standing on the opposite side of the lab table from Cross.

“We were looking for information about Corbet Adam’s death,” Cross began, the grin never leaving his lips. “We were hoping you could give us some answers.”

“I know nothing about his death, and you would do well to stay away from me and my fiancée.” The suitor picked up a glass beaker from the lab table. “You’ll find that I’m not the sort of person you should be interfering with.”

“So, you know nothing about who murdered Corbet Adams?” His grin still firmly in place, Cross took a step closer to the lab bench so that he was directly in front of the stranger, only the distance of the table top separating them. “You know nothing about who poisoned him and who tried to make it look like suicide?”

The suitor released a guttural cry and hurled the beaker against the lab wall behind Cross’s head. The shattered glass, spraying Cross’s back. Then, dragging his thick arms along the worktable, the suitor slung all the glassware to the floor, before storming back to the lab door.

“This is your only warning. Stay away from me and stay away from the Adell estate!” He slammed the lab door with such force behind him that it trembled for a few seconds in the doorframe before popping open once more.

The silence after our intruder’s departure was broken by the almost hysterical laughter of Cross as he moved across the lab toward the door. Once he had reclosed it securely, he turned to me, a wild, excited look in his eyes. “What an amiable gentleman! This does add some color to our investigation!”

Cross slid back across the lab and pulled back the curtain. From his guarded pose, I could assume that he was watching the suitor storm through the campus grounds. When the tension in his back released, I gathered the suitor was no longer in Cross’s line of sight. And, it was only then, that he turned back to me, his eyes dancing around the lab.

“Surely, we’ve done enough with this case.” I implored. “Don’t you think it’s time we took what we know and this threat to the police?”

“What? And have them mess everything up? No, no, no…” Again, Cross paced. “No, we’ve been given some powerful information and I mean to have the answers. We’ll give it a few days, to let our excitable friend cool off and to let that knee of yours heal.” He stopped his pacing and came to stand next to my desk.

“Then, I think, we shall have everything we need to uncover the truth.”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 6--- "Information", 750 words.....

2011-05-06T18:09:00.003-05:00

Information

“Ah, quite so.” A soft chuckle left Cross’s lips. “I do apologize for the little deception, but, you see, it was necessary.”

Poised on the edge of the lounger, her hands still adjusting the dressing on my knee, Miss Adell’s tone hardened. “Why was it necessary? And how could you call such a lie, little?”

Cross, who had been standing just behind my head, moved toward Miss Adell. He took himself to one knee and met Miss Adell’s gaze. “It was necessary because you would never have spoken to us otherwise.”

So sincere was Cross’s own tone that the merest of trembles seemed to overtake Miss Adell. “And, I called the deceit little, for it was just that. True we may never have known Corbet Adams on any intimate level, save the occasional greeting as we passed on campus, but, we do, in earnest, seek answers to his untimely end as any friend would most likely do.”

“I see,” Miss Adell's trembles grew steadily as she fought to hold her composure.

“We thought, perhaps, that you might tell us about Corbet, how you knew him, or anything that you might think of to help us learn the truth.”

“But, why? Why do you wish to delve deeper into a tragedy that isn’t your own?” Miss Mary stood from the couch and moved away to the far side of the sitting room, her back, now turned to us.

“Because, we wish to see justice done.” Cross stood, but made no move to follow her. “We know he did not commit suicide by shooting himself, that much is clear. And, I am almost certain that the poisoning, which did take his life, was no accident, nor was it a suicidal attempt. For, no one carries a loaded pistol with them if they plan on committing suicide by poison”

Miss Adell swung around, an inscrutable look on her face. Cross took two steps toward her. “That, my dear lady, is the truth.” The fierceness of Cross’s eyes returned. “And, anything you might be able to tell us about Corbet Adams would be greatly appreciated.”

With no change in her position and no change in the expression on her face, Miss Mary Adell began:

“I’d known Corbet Adams for some years. He was one of those dear friends who always seemed to be near whenever he was most needed, for support, for company. When he did me the honor of asking for my hand, I was, of course, overjoyed. Though, I was also surprised, as we had never entertained the idea of marriage before.”

“And, the prospect was well received by both families?” Cross focused intensely on Mary Adell.

“Yes, we had been children together, becoming husband and wife didn’t seem so far-fetched.”

“Then why, when things seemed to be set so perfectly for you and for your future, did you call the engagement to an end, a mere week before the marriage?” Cross didn’t move and from what I could tell, he didn’t even breathe as he watched for Miss Adell’s response.

“My father, who is a formidable financial figure now, was not always a wealthy man. He spent the greater part of his youth, with my mother, trying to put together a sort of future they could be proud of. But it was a struggle that cost my mother her life, just a few months after my birth.” Miss Adell moved to the window and pulled aside the sheer curtain.

“Corbet Adams, though a wonderfully warm person, had aspirations of a life on stage. Hardly the kind of life that would have provided any sort of secure future.”

“So, it was your father who insisted the engagement end?” Mary Adell spun around to meet Cross’s gaze. And, in the few seconds they held each other’s gaze, no sound within the room could be heard until Cross spoke, finally. “Thank you, Miss Adell. I believe we have imposed upon your time long enough.”

*****

Outside, once more, we made our way through the estate grounds as quickly as my leg would allow. “What a remarkable woman!” Cross observed as we passed out the gate, his mind, clearly wrapped in the words she had offered about Corbet Adams.

“Hmm.” My own mind wrapped in the effort of remembering the sound of those words as they left her lips.

“Come, Martin,” Cross began propelling me forward. “We must have time to think, this case grows more obscure instead of clearer!”

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 5--- "Questions", 880 words.....

2011-05-05T22:27:00.005-05:00

Questions

The distance from the Adell’s gate to their front door, felt every inch a mile. Though I’ve never found it amusing, I have always been struck by pain’s ability to make anything more arduous or endless seeming.

The desire to take the weight off my knee made it quite impossible, at the time, to be concerned that we were hobble-walking up to the house of a woman who was intimately connected with the very man whose death we were investigating. Even as I painfully skipped from step to step, I still had no reservations about knocking on her door and asking her for a seat.

Now, at this present moment, when the memory of the pain is such that it causes no phantom twinge in my kneecap, I am horrified at our very intent. How could we have been so presumptuous? How could we have been so intrusive? Surely, she was in a state of grief. Losing someone as close as Corbet had been, even though their relations were broken off, must have been devastating.

But, my mind at that time, was absorbed with calming my breathing and concentrating on holding my weight with my uninjured leg. The flush of pain rising through my cheeks was such that I heard Cross’s heavy-handed knocking, but it didn’t register that we were about to break the protective wall of anonymity until the door opened and we were greeted by a fresh-faced young maid.

“Forgive me,” Cross began. “We don’t mean to impose, but my friend here has injured himself and if it wouldn’t be too much of a disruption, we’d very much appreciate a chance to rest and perhaps clean his wound.”

The maid eyed us suspiciously, as well she should have, but Cross gave such a sincere expression that she didn’t guard herself nearly as long as she should have.

“I do believe we have a mutual friend with your mistress, or rather, we had a mutual friend. Surely, your mistress wouldn’t mind if a couple old friends of Corbet Adams rested on her steps.”

A gasp choked from the maid’s lips and her eyes glared wild. The very mention of Corbet’s name sent the maid backwards into the entryway, and the door slamming in our face.

“Well, that wasn’t necessary.” The sound of his voice related mild frustration, but one look at his sly expression and I knew he was reading volumes in the startled maid and the slammed door. I could see it suggested something to him, but, exactly what that was, I had no idea.

With no energy to move either forward or back, I took the opportunity to slip down to the top step. Permission or no, sitting on their step was all I was capable of at that moment.

Cross stood next to me, his gaze fixed on the door. His jaw line pulsed regularly, the muscles in his cheek showing remarkable definition, as someone who’d been accustomed to grinding their teeth while in concentrated thought. And, as I believed Cross to always exist in concentrated thought, it’s a wonder he had any teeth left.

Only a few moments passed when the door opened once more. This time, the figure of the maid was replaced by the graceful form of Miss Mary Adell. She was indeed a magnificent creature, a hint of the exotic blended with an air of grace.

I stumbled awkwardly to my feet, hoping that my exposed wound wouldn’t disturb Miss Adell too badly. Cross’s steadying hands served to keep me upright.

“Miss Adell, we do apologize for the abruptness of our arrival, but, as you can see, there were extenuating circumstances.” Cross smiled earnestly before indicating my torn leg.

“Yes, of course, gentlemen… please, come inside.” The melody that danced from her lips, made me forget, not only the pain in my leg, but the fact that I even had legs at all. With Cross on one arm and Miss Mary Adell on my other arm, I very well could have floated over the threshold and would have known no difference.

Once inside the nearest sitting room, I was lowered to the long couch, my wounded leg pulled from the floor onto one of the more decorative cushions by Miss Mary’s own hand. For those few moments, I was blind to anyone else and anything else around me.

“Helena, bring clean water and bandages,” the maid hovered close to her mistress, wringing her hands. “And something to drink for our guests.”

“Really, you shouldn’t go to any trouble on my account.” I bit back the pain of my trouser leg being pulled from the gash on my knee.

“It’s the least I can do for any friend of Corbet.” Her eyes flashed up to Cross. Her expression was, for my part, unreadable, but she obviously communicated exactly what Cross wanted as a knowing grin stretched across his face.

Ten minutes later, my leg thoroughly cleaned and expertly wrapped, Miss Mary Adell turned to both of us. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll be so kind to explain to me why, exactly, you are here. As I am well aware that neither of you has ever been friends of Corbet. And you would be well advised to speak the truth.”

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Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 31--- "Truth", 812 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 30--- "Answers", 532 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 29--- "Coincidence", 515 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 28--- "Intent", 536 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 27--- "Waiting", 520 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 26--- "Message", 534 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 25--- "Concerns", 684 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 24--- "Descent", 511 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 23--- "Blindness", 622 words.....

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Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 21--- "Greenhouse", 573 words.....

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 20--- "Obscurity", 522 words.....

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