Guest Post: The Top 5 Things I Wished I Knew Before I Started Writing

Everyone, please welcome Charity again to talk to us about about the publishing process. I'll be in the back, handing out cookies...

The Top 5 Things I Wished I Knew Before I Started Writing

by Charity Bradford

Welcome to number 2 of the Top 5 Things I Wished I Knew Before I Started Writing. This is part of the Mini Blog Hop for The Magic Wakes blog tour, and came about from a discussion the author had with a group of teen writers. The blog chain starts HERE.

2. The Publishing Industry (Many ways to publish—Always changing)

This is publishing at its simplest definitions. A starting point if you will for your industry education.

Traditional—Finish your book, send out queries to get an Agent; they shop your MS to the Big 6 5 publishers. (I have heard of agents shopping books to mid-sized publishers as well.) What you get: help with contract from the agent, an advance against the royalties (which I believe means you don’t make royalties until after you’ve exceeded what you were paid in advance) from the publishing house, and the house puts up the money to edit, design the cover, print, market, and distribute the book.

Mid-size—These publishers prefer to work through agents, but they are not closed to unagented queries. What you get: royalty rates are similar to the big NY publishers, but advances are a lot smaller. The house puts up the money to edit, design the cover, print, market, and distribute the book.

Small—You don’t have to have an agent to approach these publishers. You query the acquisitions editors. You get: they put up the money for an editor, cover, design and print of book, help with marketing but not as much as traditional (a lot is up to you), distribution, and royalties. Some houses may offer very small advances, but usually nothing is offered.

Self—It’s all you! Hiring an editor, design/formatting, book cover, getting ISBN, marketing, printing costs, complete control is in your hands as is the financial risk of printing.

What are the main considerations you should think about before choosing which route you want to go?

Time—This varies greatly between the options. Traditional publishing may take years for a book to hit the shelves. Small publishers deal with fewer books and therefore can get them out faster—maybe a year or less depending on their load. With self publishing you can have an e-book out in days or weeks, print copies within six months or less.

Money—Editors, printing, marketing, and distributing all take money. Lots of it. Do you have it? Or do you need an option where someone else funds all the little details?

Control—Who has it? Do you need it to stay sane? Are you flexible enough to let someone else make changes to your novel, choose your cover, and when/where/how it goes out to the public? Granted the different sizes of publishing houses will involve their authors to varying degrees. You just have to decide what works the best for you.

Q4U: What is it that YOU want from the publishing experience?

Next up is The Process.

5 Things I Wish I Knew About Writing Before I Started Mini Blog Hop Alex Cavanaugh--Intro to Blog Hop Cally Jackson--Time Elizabeth Poole--Publishing Options Kay Froebel--The Process Mason Canyon--Critique Partners Katy Sozaeva--Platform Building

Birth of a Novel Returns!

Okay, so anyone who follows both Charity Bradford and I already know this, but we're bringing back Birth of a Novel. For those followers who aren't familiar with the bloghop, basically we write about writing a novel in November.

I almost didn't do it this year, because I am knee deep in a rewrite (no exaggeration--I am just past 50K in a book that will probably run me 100k). The official NaNo rules state you can't confirm your victory if you're working on a book already. Which honestly, is a little silly. I feel like you should still win if you write 50,000 new words, starting a novel or in the middle of the book not with standing. But I don't make the rules.

But, as my friend Liz pointed out, I can be a NaNo rebel, and I can still post about what it's like being in the middle of a rewrite.

AND then I was supposed to post about this on Thursday, but hey, guess what? We moved Thursday, and it took a lot longer than we thought it would. Basically, I've spent every day since unpacking and taking care of the baby (who is teething something fierce, by the way, and not sleeping through the night at all). 

So it's late, but better late than never, right?

Here's the post that Charity made up. I hope you'll join!

Charity and I are bringing back the Birth of a Novel Blog Chain! I'm so excited! We both felt that a little extra motivation might do all of us good during this busy holiday season. Some of you may be starting Nano today. Others of you might be in the middle of your WIP. Wait! What about those who are revising and editing? Everyone can play! It doesn't matter what stage you are in your writing journey, we want to know how you're doing and what we can do to help you keep moving forward.  Every Thursday post a progress report, then visit the other participants and encourage them to keep working toward their goals. Everyone is welcome to grab a button and join the blog chain by signing into the linky below. So for today, just share with us what your goals are. It can be your goal for the week, month, or rest of 2012.  

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The Link List

50 Followers Blogfest!!

Today is the day!

In honor of reaching fifty followers (and counting!) I am going to post some of my very old, unedited work, for the world to see. The people who have signed up for this blogfest are going to do likewise, and it's going to be fun! Wheeeeee!

Okay, enough caffiene. On with my excerpt:

Navy

            You know, I almost didn’t write this. I am not a journal or a diary keeper. I find them rather…what’s the word…extra? I am not really the type to want to chronicle all of the events—meaningful and meaningless—that happened to me. Also, the thought of writing about some of events in my life makes me feel tired. I lived through them once, why should I drag myself through them again? But I suppose that I dwell on them enough, I might as well write my thoughts down. I’ve actually been thinking about writing how I feel, and my thoughts and questions down for a while, but like I said, the thought always made me feel tired. This morning I woke up, the events of last night playing through my mind, over and over. I can’t make myself stop thinking about pain memories, and thought that I should write some stuff down occurred to my again. Only this time I couldn’t shake the idea I should write how I felt, and what has happened to me down.

- - - - - - - - - - -   


This is the first paragraph from a book I was writing in high school. I called it Navy, because that's what the girl's name was. She was a very sad and depressed sort, as I was working through a really rough patch in high school and my writing caught the brunt of it.


It's really interesting for me to read this now, as an adult, and see my style looking up at me. I can see how I've improved and tightened up the prose, but I can still recognize that writing as mine.


It's more honest, actually, than some of the writing I did when I was nineteen or so, and trying to "write well enough to get published". I didn't understand about letting the style and words be my own, and instead tried to be someone else.


So while this paragraph is six ways from hilarious (melodrama in the morning, anyone? Confusion much?) I also sort of love it, because it reminds me that even though I have improved over the years (thank the stars) I am still me. Does that make sense?


I think we should embrace ourselves and our writing. Look back on your old work with horror, sure, but also with love because you can see your writing self developing over time, aging like a fine...uhhh, beer (beer ages like wine right? Shush I don't drink alcohol very often!).


Enough about me! Go forth, clickity on the link and see what other people have to offer!

50 Followers Blogfest!!

After a year of blogging, I have reached over fifty followers (52 at the time of this post). I cannot tell you how awesome or special that makes me feel. Over fifty people subscribe to my blog to read my ramblings. I have regular comments on my posts, and an awesome group of followers. 

This is slightly surreal to me, since I am not used to anyone outside of close friends and my Mom wanting to read what I've written. I cannot thank each and every one of my awesome followers enough for taking time out of their busy lives to read my posts. You guys rock!

So in honor of your awesomeness, I am hosting a blogfest! I thought it would be fun (and easy for those of you who are busy) if we posted an excerpt of our old work. It can be something from your diary when you were 12 or your last trunked manuscript. It could be a poem you wrote in fourth grade for your Mom, or a fanfiction you wrote as a teenager.

The beauty of this is you don't have to come up with something new. All you have to do is find something you wrote previously, and post it. This should be done in the spirit of fun and humor, and is not an excuse to berate yourself for your failings. I think we need some perspective sometimes on how far we've come as writers. It feels like we're not making progress. We write, produce a manuscript, query, rejection, and then the process starts over.

We feel like publication will be the validation that we are improving, we are getting better. Or if you're already published, you want a bigger advance. A prestigious award. We need some outward sign that we really are getting better.

And you are. By the simple process of continuing on through the doubt and insecurity your writing skills are getting better. It's just hard to see the forest for the trees sometimes. 

So! On April 1st (because really, why not?) we are all going to post an excerpt, short story, or poem, from an earlier work. Me personally, I plan to find the most awful piece of drek of mine that I can find. And that's going to be hard to top, considering my last offering for this sort of public humiliation. 


Sign up below and let the words fly!


50 Followers Blogfest!

Internal Conflict: The Horns of a Dilemma

I have been thinking about my main character. A lot. While I am doing the dishes and cooking dinner. Plotting how to utterly destroy her life. You know, the usual. 

An element of writing that is well covered is the character's growth arc. Most writers know that it's a good idea to have your character grow from the beginning to end of the book. Readers like that sort of thing. It provides a really cathartic experience to read about character growth, and that's generally considered to be a good thing.

An aspect that is important for this vital character growth, and doesn't always come up, is internal conflict. Internal conflict can turn an averagely interesting story into something you absolutely cannot put down.


Let's say Angela is your main character. You know that she's going to move from insecure to self confident by the end of the book. I actually write that under the character's name in my notes (Angela: Insecure---> Self Confident. Brad: arrogant ---> humbled). You can too. It's fun, and also a really great quick reference tool any time you're feeling bogged down in the story itself.

So now, depending on your writing process, you either plan or start writing. But whichever you do, I would advise you to take one more step. It's a little something I like to call Torture the Character. *mwhahahaha*

Only the best for my characters!

The Joys of Torturing Characters 101: Internal Conflict

Step One: Go to Youtube and play Lux Aertna. Also known as the song from Requiem for a Dream. It will get you in the mood to really make your character miserable. Just listen to the song and think about how horrified/miserable/conflicted you can make your character, and how awesome that would be.


Step Two: Decide on the different type of Internal Conflict you wish to inflict upon your character

You have given your character a goal. Something the character wants badly. Maybe you're writing Young Adult and Angela is the kid that gets picked on all the time, and falls in love with the captain of the football team, Brad. Angela's goal is to get Brad to take her to prom. You have your quick reference character arc for Angela and Brad.


If you want to take your story from good to great, you need to go one step further. You need to give Angela a reason to be conflicted. Not just the external problems she faces with trying to make herself attractive to a jock and the life lessons she learns along the way, but something else that tears at her. 


Ideally, internal conflict works the best if it comes naturally from the character. Not only are there external obstacles to Angela's goals, but internal (hence the "internal" part of internal conflict) obstacles as well.

There are a few ways to come up with internal conflict for your characters. In interest of giving you the best tools to torture your characters with, I will list them out for you. 

Tool 1: The Rack, aka Give your main character an equally compelling reason to NOT want to achieve her goal

This works the best when the goal is something that the character chose for themselves. Like going to a prom, or writing a book, or something like that. Less so than if the goal is forced upon the character, like "This bus will explode if it slows down below fifty miles an hour". It's because it's obvious why the character doesn't want to explode, so there's not a lot of tension beyond that. You could pull it off, but it's a little harder. And depending on your plot, might seem forced (as with the example, it would be hard to believe that the character would want the bus to explode).

This also works better for your story if this reason isn't based on a complication from her trying to achieve her goal. For example, since that probably sounds like gibberish:


Angela decided that she wanted to get Brad to take her to the prom. This is her story goal. There are complications, like her insecurity and her perception that she isn't pretty enough (and please, for the love of all that is good in the world, if you do write an ugly duckling plot, don't make the nerdy girl just take off her glasses and POOF! She's pretty after all!).

If your only source of internal conflict is from giving her crippling insecurities, or a traumatic event in the past that would cause her to think she's not good enough, this works only until she overcomes her confidence issues. So when you resolve her main conflict, you also resolve her internal conflict as well. 

I am not saying to ignore such conflicts. I am simply suggesting you categorize those conflicts as complications to the main plot, and not part of your internal conflict. 


An example of a reason why she wouldn't want Brad to take her to prom could be Angela's best friend has been in love with Brad her entire life, and wants Brad to take her to the prom as well. Both girls can't take Brad to the prom (they could if he was a playa though! But this is YA, so let's keep it clean). Making something rare or mutually exclusive is a fun way to create some conflict. 


Now, Angela worries about her friendship with Mary Sue (get it? Mary Sue? Anyone? *cricket*), and this makes her feel even more insecure about how she looks, because Mary Sue is way prettier than Angela (or so she thinks). So not only does this create internal conflict for Angela, but it makes her initial problems of self confidence even worse. This is why I suspect there are a lot of love triangles in fiction, because it creates instant internal conflict.

Another example of this type of internal conflict is the character wanting something that is not accepted by their parents or society, like dating the wrong guy or stepping outside of her religious faith or social norms. Angela wants to go the prom, but her parents are utterly opposed to her going, because they think she's just going to get drunk and have sex. 


So now Angela has the main problem of getting Brad to take her to the prom, but she also struggles with whether or not to obey her parents. If she goes, she defies her parents. If she doesn't go, she will feel like she's missing out on her life as a teenager.

Tool 2) The Iron Maiden, aka Mutually Exclusive Goals

We just talked about making things mutually exclusive. If you make something rare or hard to obtain, you instantly create value and conflict for it. Two characters competing for the same job, the same guy or girl, the same piece of toast. 

In all fairness, it was a really good piece of toast.

Whatever it is, if one person gaining it means no one else can, it's mutually exclusive. Bonus points if both people have an equally good reason for wanting that job, guy/girl, or piece of toast.


Tool 3) The Thumbscrews, aka Create a Time Conflict


You can also look at it another way, and make it a mutually exclusive event. Like Angela's prom. She's never going to have another one. Period. Even if she went to someone else's prom, it's not the same. Humans put a lot of value on the "first time" you experience something. Like your wedding, or prom, or having a baby. These first events are given special significance, so it's considered tragic if something happens to ruin them. 

Playing with time gives your story an extra edge. A character has to be at two different, equally important places at the same time. Maybe on the same night as her prom, Angela was also asked to attend another event. This other event can give you a lot of opportunity to show more of Angela's character. If you want her to be religious, then it can be a church fair. If you want to show Angela's family, maybe it's her little brother's soccer tournament.

Whatever this other event is, make sure it's equally important to the character, and that by having one she cannot have the other. She will agonize over which event is more important for her to attend. You could show her trying to attend both, with hilariously disastrous results (Hilarious for you, disastrous for the character). 

Step 3: Cackle manically and enjoy the fruits of your labor. Watch your character squirm. 

You can focus on one of these internal conflicts, or you can sprinkle in different types, depending on how layered you want to make your story. But whatever you decide, recognize internal conflict as the gold mine it is for creating a character that readers will follow to the end of the book, simply because they have to find out what the character decided to do.

I was going to include the benefits of internal conflict and how it impacts your story, but this post is already getting long. So I will talk about the Whys of Internal Conflict tomorrow. Stay tuned!


**By the way, I have another snow day today. Yay for me!

***Reminder! I have a blogfest coming up on the 25th! It would be great to have more people join! Act now while supplies last!


****Welcome new followers! We have a good time here on my blog, and it's great to see some new faces!


What about you? How do you create internal conflict for your characters? Is it something you do consciously or do you just allow it to rise out of the story?

It Never Fails

It never fails. 

Every time I start working on a book, I get an idea for a shiny new book. Seriously, every time. If I ever need a great idea for a book, all I have to do it start working on a book and throw myself into it. Soon afterward a great idea will follow. I think my muse is contrarary.

Speaking of The Book, it's going slowly. I am adjusting to doing things by the seat of my pants, so this means a lot of stops and starts while I work on motivation and depth, and then write the next scenes. I was floundering for a little while until I found this awesome blog: Plot to Punctuation. Mr. Black's posts are short, sweet, and packed full of great information. I especially enjoyed his posts on Why Stakes Work, Five Steps to Building a Believable Character Arc, and Making Good Choices for Your Characters. 

He's also a book doctor, if you're looking for someone with experience to evaluate your work before you send it off to agents or publishing houses.

I want to highlight one post in particular: Why Smart Characters Make Dumb Mistakes . This isn't talking about avoiding making stupid decisions for your characters because the plot demands it (that's Making Good Choices for Your Characters). This is talking about HOW to make that happen in a believable context. How cool is that? Sometimes we need our characters to mess up, but it's hard to do that in a realistic fashion after you've spent your time making them appear smart.


In other business, I am hosting a blogfest on January 25th! The topic is a unique birthday. Tessa Conte is also hosting a birthday blogfest, so if you why not check that one out too?


Now it's back to the book. I hope you're all doing well with your New Year's Resolutions.

The Engine of Your Doom Hath Been Set Into Motion!

I am staring at the computer, thinking vainly of something to blog about. But as I am working hard my on WiP and work was particularly long today, it seems my brain has taken a hiatus. 

Therefore, I shall perform the ultimate fencing move, sure to produce a victory: the 11th Parry.

I give you a hilarious short play, written by the Rejectionist: The Saga of the Office Mouse
I was shouting, "The engine of your doom hath been set in motion!" all afternoon.

I give you a funny story in which a young girl quests for cake. It's amazing what she does with MS Paint: The God of Cake

Mia is having a blogfest on her blog that is appropriately Halloween themed! I plan to join the festivities, since I adore Halloween more than I probably should.


(P.S. Lo, I searched the Internet in vain. The 11th parry is when you use your friend to block the blow. I cannot find it on teh Internets, and cannot remember where my friends and I first heard it. So you'll have to do with an un-funny explanation here, instead of me directly linking to someone else defining it for me. I apologize for my FAIL.)

Bad Girl Blogfest

Today is the Bad Girl Blogfest, hosted by The Write Runner so after you're done with mine you should check everyone else's!

This scene is from one of my WIPs, A Dangerous Mind. This is also a continuation of the Bar Scene Blogfest.Enjoy!



After the fist fight Li and his minions showed up every night to Mr. Chen’s club, Stir. I watched them for a reason to pick a fight, but so far they behaved. Mr. Chen assured me they were just there for the club’s protection from the other gangs, but I didn’t believe him.

I watched Li sit in the lounge area with two beautiful Asian girls on his arms, girls I mentally dubbed as cupcakes, and the other members of the Dragon gang around him. Bai, the guy who stabbed me, seemed to be in charge, which was weird, because Li could beat Bai. Normally pecking order in gangs was arranged by skill. But obviously their gang didn’t work on that principal, because Li was just their lap dog.

I leaned over to refill a grungy looking girl’s Screwdriver, and my side screamed in pain. The spot where Bai stabbed me was shallow, but it still hurt like nobody’s business. He couldn’t even stab someone properly. I would keep that thought to myself though. I wasn’t that stupid. I took another shot of whiskey to dull the pain, and felt it burn all the way down.

“Alcohol is bad for you,” Li said from behind me. He barely had an accent, and sounded like he was raised in the United States.

I pretended he didn’t catch me off guard and turned around. He was sitting at the corner of the bar, looking yummy in a tight black shirt and pants. His cupcakes had left, and the other members of the gang were spread out through the club.

“So?” I said.

“Jade, can I get a refill?” That was Josh, asking for yet another refill. I rolled my eyes, and poured him another.

Mr. Chen wandered out from his office and looked around. I poured some refills, and made drinks for the patrons sitting out in the dining area. I even made Stephanie’s customer’s drink twice, even though she’s a terrible waitress and a useless human being in general who didn’t know how to properly ask for liquor specifications, until Mr. Chen walked over. He looked nervous.

“Jade?”

“What?” My side was killing me. Damn Jim for taking my painkillers away. I can handle them. I think. The last time I had a problem with drugs, “Uncle” Jim tossed me on the wagon. He and Caroline raided all of my stashes and threw them away, and threatened all the dealers with jail or worse if they sold me drugs. I was barely allowed caffeine.

Quitting cold turkey was hell.

As a consequence, I wasn’t allowed any painkillers stronger than Ibuprofen for my stab wound. It was fine until I started to walk, or lean over, or drive, or bartend.

“You’re being a little surly with the customers.”

I glared at Li, who had an amused expression on his face. “That’s on the account of someone stabbing me in my side.”

“Take some painkillers then,” Li said, still looking amused. I wanted to fake a punch to his smug face, so I would have the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, but we would both know I wasn’t serious. I thought I wanted to meet someone better at wushu than me, so I could have a challenge, but this wasn’t fun anymore.

“I’m not allowed. I like painkillers too much.”

“Not allowed?” Li said, raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t think anyone could stop you from doing what you wanted.”

Mr. Chen melted away into the crowd at this point, content to let Li bear the brunt of my wrath. “Yeah well, Jim has my better interest in mind, so I listen to him. Usually.”

“If you meditated, you could use your chi to remove the pain.”

“I do,” I replied. It wasn’t a lie. I meditated every night. Or tried to. Mostly what I did was think about what I was going to do the next day. “Inner peace isn’t exactly easy to achieve. If it was,” I gestured at the club full of people. “I would be out of a job.”

Li laughed and I actually laughed with him.

“When I see that guy who stabbed me, I am going to punch him in the face,” I said, wiping down the sink in front of where Li was sitting. “Just so you know.”

Li nodded.

“So, what do you want to drink?”

“I hear the regulars say you’re good at making them up.”

I loved making up drinks on the spot. I perked up a bit. “What sort of alcohol do you want?”

“I don’t care. Make it green, like your eyes.”

I grinned at him, and mixed Midori with Sprite, voldka and gin. I shook the entire thing together and poured it into a martini glass. “I will name this drink Zen. If meditating won’t bring you inner peace, maybe this will.”

Baking Scene Blogfest

Charity is hosting a blogfest here that you should check out!

This scene doesn’t fit anywhere in a book yet. It features two of my well developed characters, and I was trying to play around with subtext in dialogue. You know, where there’s lots being felt, but the people really aren’t saying things out loud.

This is my first attempt at subtext, and I think it’s about as subtle as a jackhammer, but there you have it.

Also, I cheated. Mackenzie is cooking, not baking, but it’s in the spirit of things!


_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Kayth had been off all week, Mackenzie couldn’t help but notice. He was a quiet person, but he was brooding over something. He talked, he laughed, he made every show of having a good time, but he was thinking. Hard.

Dinner was her responsibility tonight, and she decided spaghetti was something she could make that would turn out edible. Her friends and family were split between downstairs swimming, or in the basement playing pool. Even Autumn, who had previously been underfoot, was playing pool with her Uncle Cole and Argent.

The only question was whether or not to ask him about it. Kayth wasn’t shy, and usually talked to her about something if he wanted to. He was a private person, and preferred to think about things in his own time.

I guess I will just leave him be, Mackenzie thought, stirring the sauce and humming to herself.

She turned around to grab some spices and almost ran right into Kayth at the kitchen island, tearing up lettuce.

Mackenzie yelped, “Oh!”

“Sorry. I thought you heard me.”

Mackenzie laughed. “You? An elf? No way.”

Kayth pulled some tomatoes out of the fridge, and started slicing them up on the cutting board. His shoulder length black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the way she liked.

She resisted the urge to touch his hair. “Oh, Kayth, you don’t have to help. It’s my turn,” Mackenzie said.

Kayth looked up. “You want me to leave?” He said with unexpected intensity.

“Uh, no. I just mean that you don’t have to help me make dinner. You can enjoy yourself at the pool.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” Mackenzie said. She shrugged, and pulled some oregano, basil, and a bay leaf out of the drawer where they kept the spices. Definitely brooding about something.

Mackenzie tried to think of something to say, but all she could think of was his strange behavior, his quiet intensity. “You guys like going on that pirate walk?”

Kayth shrugged. “It was certainly more informative than I thought it would be. Our tour guide was very knowledgeable. Xenarah really enjoyed herself.”

Kayth paused, and added as an afterthought, “There were a few spots that were questionable with ghost activity.”

“Oh, good thing I didn’t come along then,” Mackenzie said. She never liked talking about her magical abilities. She didn’t understand them. “Autumn buried everyone in the sand at the beach today.”

Kayth nodded again. There was a pause, and then he said, “Everyone this time and not just Dallis and Cole?”

“Yep. She even managed to rope in a few of the locals before she was done.”

Kayth smiled, and started another tomato.

Mackenzie tried desperately to ignore Kayth’s strange behavior, but his energy took up the entire kitchen. Before long it felt like the tiny hairs on Mackenzie’s neck was standing on end.

“You guys have any plans for tomorrow?” Mackenzie asked, stirring the noodles.

Kayth shook his head no.

“Autumn wants to go wave running.” The knife hovered in the air for a split second before Kayth sliced the tomatoes. She might not have caught the pause if she didn’t know him so well. What about Autumn going wave running got a reaction out of him? “I’m going to see how many people want to come, and then call the tour guide tomorrow. There’s a ctour of the bay area that looks really fun.” Don’t babble on, Mackenzie. He sees right through you and will know if you’re uncomfortable. He might even ask what's wrong, and then what you would say? You? You're being weird and it's making me jumpy?

Kayth was silent while he started on the cucumbers.

“Do you want to come?”

“Where?”

Mackenzie tried not to let out of puff of air. “Wave running.”

“What’s that?”

Mackenzie grinned. “It’s like a jet ski, only a little smaller, and there’s a stream of water that shoots out of the back. You ride around on it on the ocean.”

“So, self propelled personal boats?”

“Yes. Autumn said she’s going to ride piggyback with her Uncle Cole, since he takes her on his motorcycle and lets her drive sometimes. Personally, I think she’s hoping he’ll let her drive, even though she’s way too young. So you can ride piggyback with someone, or go solo.” Mackenzie rolled her shoulders, trying to calm down.

Kayth nodded. “Who are you riding with?”

“Me? No one. I was going to ride with Autumn, but then she said wants to ride with Cole. We don’t all have to double up, but it’s better for those of us with a little experience to steer for those of us without. You could accidentally tip the wave runner over or something.”

Kayth nodded again, scraping the tomatoes into the salad bowl.

“It’s not hard to learn how to drive them, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Kayth looked at her. “You said it was better to ride with an experienced driver.” His voice was soft, but his voice held undercurrents of emotion like the ocean here had a deceptively strong undertow.

“Well, yeah. But…” Mackenzie blinked. “Anyway. I was just trying to see who wanted to come. We can work out all of the logistics after we get the final headcount.”
Mackenzie turned and stirred the sauce and noodles. The noodles were done. She could feel Kayth watching her, thinking. She wanted to shake him and ask him what was on his mind, but she knew better. He would talk to her when and if he was ready. She never got anywhere from pressing him.

Mackenzie poured the noodles into the strainer, the moist steam rising out of the sink like a small mushroom cloud. She turned the sauce on low, and pulled the French bread out and set it on the counter. The banality of routine settled her nerves.

“I would like to go wave running tomorrow,” Kayth said, sliding the cucumbers into the salad bowl.

“Great!” Mackenzie grinned. “Now we just need to convince Vega.” She started to mix the garlic and the butter together. “I doubt Xenarah will need much convincing. And Argent and Cadence already said they wanted to go.”

“Will you ride with me?”

Mackenzie looked up. “Huh?”

Kayth was watching her face. “The wave runner. You said before that you’ve ridden them. I have not. Will you ride with me?”

Her stomach flip flopped. Don’t be stupid, Mackenzie. It doesn’t mean anything more than he likes you more than a friend. It’s just because it’s technology he doesn’t understand. “Sure. You want to drive for a bit too?”

Kayth shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Mackenzie nodded, as a herd of elephants in the form of the rest of her friends made their way up the stairs. Their dinner senses were going off, and soon the room was swarming with people and food and plates. A warm feeling in the pit of her stomach stayed with her the entire time.

Suddenly tomorrow was looking up.

Bar Scene Blogfest

Tara is hosting a Bar Scene Blogfest, and I had the perfect scene in mind. This is from one of my WIP. It's going to be the book I write after the mermaid book I am currently working on.

Here is Tara's blog:
Bar Scene Blogfest

This is the first page in my WIP, titled "A Dangerous Mind". I also plan to use another scene from this book for my Bad Girl Blogfest, because my MC just makes it so easy for me. ;)


A Dangerous Mind

“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” Confucius

There is an urban legend that says your body completely replaces itself every seven years. If this is true, that means the skin I have now has never known my mother’s touch or my father’s piggyback rides. There’s no way I can restore the touch of my parents, so I hug Alex as much as I can. He was the only blood relation I have left.

My foster parents aren’t really the hugging sort, but I hug them as often as I can, just in case. It frightens me to think that my patchwork family might die someday, and I’ll grow out of them, like I grew out of my favorite pair of combat boots in high school. I had to peddle ten pounds of weed to be able to afford those boots, and when I grew out of them a year later, I was pissed.

I had returned to my hometown of Seattle a few days ago, like clockwork, for the fall and spring semester of college. Every summer I visited my foster parents, and every fall I returned to the city, to Jim and Caroline, to Alex. Despite my circadian rhythms, I still felt like I was perpetually one pace ahead or behind the rest of the world. Dancing to my own drummer didn’t typically bother me, but there were times I wondered what my life would be like today if my parents weren’t murdered by a serial killer while my brother and I hid in my bedroom upstairs.

I wondered how different my life would be now if I had stopped Alex from going downstairs to investigate the noise; I already knew what was making that awful sound. If I had just tied Alex to the bed or something, things might not have turned out the way they did. But he was six and I was eight; Alex never listened to me.

I stared at the moon, and crushed the unlit cigarette I almost broke down and smoked under my boot.

It started to drizzle. I would have taken it as a direct sign of God pissing on me, but this was Seattle. It was always drizzling.

I shook my head at my own futility. Wondering ‘what if’ never made me feel better. Only fantasies of capturing the man who ruined my life and making him pay eased the pain. If I could find him, and make him suffer like I suffered, maybe my life would cycle back to even again.

I turned around and walked back into Joe’s Old Bar, my current place of employment. I was one of the best bartenders in the entire joint, but you’d never know it by the way the owner, a creep named Sam, treated me. Like I was one of his slave girls. If I didn’t have to work while I was in college, I would have walked out of the joint on a Friday night with a full house.

I grinned to myself. That would show him.

Sadly, my landlord didn’t accept I.O.U.s or cookies in lieu of money for rent, and I wasn’t about to take him up on his offer for “something else”. Gross.

I returned to my noble post at the bar, and started to stack the glasses underneath the bar. Frank, the daytime bartender, never put them back correctly, so the glasses were one hard shove away from getting knocked over, a catastrophe I would surely be blamed for.

“Heeeeey, Jade, you’re back,” A regular named Bill slurred. “Good to see you again, hot stuff.”

I nodded in Bill’s general direction and continued to work. Drunks were so needy.
“How’s about you and me go out on a date?”

I leaned my elbow onto the top of the bar. “How’s about you pay your tab and get lost?” I asked.

Bill muttered disparaging things about me under his breath.

I ignored him, and turned to another regular of mine, Mr. Chen. He was an older Asian man who always ordered a Tom Collins, and spoke broken English. He was in the process of opening his own night club, and I had no qualms with telling him what exactly sort of set up he needed for the bar. It was a match made in bartender heaven.

I’ve tended my fair share of bars, and none of them were designed by a bartender. Some bars were way too long, or the drain in the floor wasn’t angled properly so when you washed the floor some of the dirty water ran back over the clean tile or any other hundred of little details that over time add up into a bar that was a pain in the neck to tend. I knew some bartenders who wouldn’t tend a poorly designed bar, but I couldn’t afford to be picky.

Mr. Chen took a sip of his Tom Collins. “You make the best drinks,” he said in Mandarin. “That’s why I always come here.”

I grinned at him. “I know.” I am sure the fact that I was fluent in Mandarin Chinese didn’t hurt either. I can also speak passable Cantonese. My foster parents are both first generation American citizens, children of Chinese immigrants who still preferred to speak Chinese over English. “How’s the nightclub coming? Did your financing come through?”

“Hey, hot stuff, I need another one,” Bill said, burping. Bill was the sort of guy who worked out every day to make up for his ugly face. He thought he was God’s gift to woman. I thought he was a plague in holey blue jeans.

I looked up and checked the clock. Midnight. I was officially done for the night. “Don’t call me hot stuff,” I said, glaring at Bill. “We’re closed.”
Bill leered at me, and I clenched my jaw. “Come on baby, why you gotta do me like that? Come home with me, I could—“

I walked around the bar, and grabbed Bill’s forearm and twisted it hard. Bill squealed like a pig and tried to break my grip, but I used his body weight against him, and sharpened the angle I held his arm.

“I said no,” I said, resisting the urge to punch him in the face. Even though it was afterhours, I was still not allowed to beat up the customers. Unless it was in self defense. Maybe I could make it self defense…

“Fine, fine,” Bill said, trying to stand up, “I’ll leave you alone.”

I loosened my grip on him, and stepped back. “I wouldn’t date you if you were the last man alive. Your face makes me want to vomit.” I pointed at the shirt I wore. It was blue and had a picture of a cartoon bunny on it. The caption below the bunny read: Hey, you make me throw up a little. “I wear this shirt because of losers like you. Now get lost.”

Bill scowled at me, and took a swing, like I knew he would. I couldn’t insult him and his pride let me get away with it.

Mr. Chen cried out, but I ducked Bill’s swing, and tripped him.

Bill caught his balance on a table, and whirled around, swinging for me again.
I sidestepped him quickly, grabbed Bill’s wrist, and used it to bring him around. Bill jerked away, trying to break my hold. He was physically stronger than me, but I was trained. I knew how to use his momentum against him. If you had a good hold on someone’s wrist you could move them around as you wished. I stepped forward, and flipped Bill onto his back with a loud thud.

Bill groaned and rolled over.

“Are you done?” I asked, nudging him with my foot.

Bill tried to stand but it took him a few tries. He glared at me, but stalked out of the bar.

I sighed. I was itching for a fight, but that could hardly be called a fight. I wasn’t even sweating.

“You are trained in Martial Arts,” Mr. Chen said.

“Yes,” I replied, picking up the chair Bill overturned and set it down. “Wushu. My father is a master, and ran a dojo.”

Mr. Chen regarded me for a minute. I wondered what he was seeing when he looked at me. The whitest girl on the face of the planet? My brown hair? My jade green eyes, which were the source of my nickname? I looked like every normal white girl in America. Hardly anyone knew I had Chinese foster parents. Mr. Chen had commented on how well I spoke Mandarin when I first talked to him, but he didn’t pry. “Would you like to work at my nightclub?”

I blinked. I wasn’t expecting a job offer. I was expecting to be told a nice girl like me shouldn’t know how to beat people up.

“I would pay you well. You’ve been most helpful with the plans. I wanted to ask you, but it’s in a rough area of the International District, in the middle of gang territory. But I see you can handle yourself. You could help protect my club, without people realizing that you can also be a bouncer if needed.”

I looked around Joe’s. Continue to work at a crappy dive or work for Mr. Chen, who wanted me to work at a nightclub, be a silent bouncer, in the International District, and pay me more money? Sold!

“When can I start?”

Whoops! Blogfest Scene

Here is my Whoops! Blogfest scene. Enjoy the embarrassment of others!

****

Stella wandered into the Divinities’ Infinities, feeling like a slug at a convention for butterflies. At least I have pretty wings, she thought, looking around. And I don’t have to wear a charm.

There was an air of elegance around the restaurant that managed to not be snooty. The decoration style was a mismatch of cultures. There were faerie interwoven knots, thick jinni rugs, heavy dwarvish wooden tables, and elvish pottery. Stella could pick out still more cultures, but it all managed to blend well in a sweeping constellation of culture.

The maître d’, a thin pencil of a man, looked at her and smiled. "Yes, Madam, how may I assist you?" he asked her in basic Angelic.

Stella blinked. “Uh, Vice? It’s pronounced ‘vee-tsuh’. But spelled v-i-c-e? I’m Stella Awakeningheaven, he’s supposed to met me here."

"Ah yes. Follow me."

Stella followed him through the large restaurant. She caught a whiff of delicious food and her stomach rumbled. Stella’s breakfast was hours ago; angel ate more frequently than humans so she was long overdue for a meal.

The restaurant was one huge room divided into other sections: the middle of the floor had free standing long wooden tables, ahead there was a winding staircase, presumably leading upstairs, and a long bar swept around the wall opposite of where they were heading.

The wall closest to them was a section styled after jinni culture. Alcoves were draped off with long sweeping curtains of rich reds, purples, and greens, adorned with beads and tiny bells that tinkled as they walked past; a large bronze brazier hung from the ceiling, and Stella caught a cloying whiff of frankincense and sandalwood.

“Here you are, Madam.” The maître d’ gestured towards one of the alcoves, as though he had guided her a long distance and was proud she was still safe. “Your table.” There was something that looked like an ottoman amid a sea of crushed velvet and silk cushions. It sat low to the ground, made of dark polished cherry wood. The cushions were scattered around the ottoman, and a large bunch of them piled up against the wall.

Stella looked around. The other tables had their drapes drawn, so she couldn’t see if the customers were sitting on the cushions or the little ottoman. Where am I supposed to sit? On the cushions? But they are so pretty. Do I sit on the ottoman thing? It’s sitting on a cushion itself, so maybe they are going to bring more cherry wood stools?

She turned to ask the maître d', but he was already closing one side of their drapes, and she lost her nerve. Okay Stella, it’s not hard. What do we know about Djinn culture? Absolutely nothing. Diddly. Okay, you can’t just stand here. People from the other side are starting to give you funny looks. The maître d' deserted her, returning to his post.

Since shoes and silk weren’t a good match, Stella decided the ottoman was the safest bet. She perched carefully on the edge, praying she had guessed correctly.

And waited.

I wish Mr. Vice would just get here already, so I can hear the bad news, and leave.

Stella fidgeted. From where she sat, she could see halfway across the room. The restaurant was full, even for a lunch crowd.

Stella caught her breath. A hunky man lounged against the bar as though he owned the place. He had a beautiful woman on each arm, like living bookends. His chiseled features were softened by his laughter. His quicksilver silver hair hung past his shoulders like a curtain, and he moved with sensuality.

Stella could feel his charisma from all the way over here, and her little alcove started to heat up. The hunk wore tightly fitting blue jeans, and a black stretchy shirt. Being in the medical profession always made Stella notice someone’s muscular structure, and he had a lean, toned one, like a panther.

Stella shook her head and tore herself away from the sight of him. She could still hear his laughter though, and it didn’t help her nerves. She sat back, trying to hide behind the half-closed curtain. Thank goodness for privacy. I was staring like an idiot. Where is Mr. Vice? He said twelve, right? Stella tried to remember. She hadn’t really been awake during most of this morning’s conversation. Yes, he said twelve.

A terrible thought occurred to her. What if he meant tonight? Because I am a night angel? Oh my goodness, I am the biggest idiot—no, no wait a minute. His name was on the reservation list. He should be here then. Unless he has some sort of standing reservation. Stella inhaled and exhaled. Okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. Wait a little while longer. This is L.A. Traffic is pure hell, invented by the devil himself. Maybe he’s running late. You can do this—Stella’s thoughts broke off.

The gorgeous man was walking over to her side of the room. So pretty. She drooled. Ta’roa really broke the potter’s wheel when she made him. I wonder what it would be like to touch his shoulders...The thought made her grin but feel little guilty. It really isn’t proper I am having these thoughts about a strange man. She tried to chide herself, but the rest of her wasn’t listening.

He walked closer still, right in Stella’s direction. He seemed to be wrapped up in the conversation with the two models on his arms. Stella squirmed, trying to sit further back behind her half of the curtain. I don’t want to see his eyes slide off me like I am not even there.

The sound of his voice came closer, heavy with a Russian accent. "—am so hungry I could eat a moose," he said and opened her half of the curtain.

Stella jumped and looked around. She almost felt like he caught her in the shower.

One of the women, a brunette with long legs and a short black dress, cocked her head. "Someone you didn’t tell us about?"

"Hullo?" he said.

"Hello?" Stella felt as confused as they looked. "Can I help you?" Her voice cracked, and she looked away. Her face turned beet red, and her stomach was requesting permission to crawl out of her mouth.

He smiled at her, and her stomach flopped back into place. His eyes were a soft gray color that grew darker around the edges. He had tiny black horns on the top of his head. "I was about to ask you same thing. You are sitting at our table."

"On our table, actually." The other woman, a blonde with pointy features, said. She smirked at Stella. "Didn’t they teach you proper manners, little angel?"

Stella’s face turned several shades darker. "I didn’t know. The cushions were so pretty I didn’t want to get my shoes on them." Stella thought she might throw up. If I have to, I will aim for the blonde.

The hunk frowned at the blonde and looked at Stella again. "I am sorry, the maître d' must have mis-seated you. But you’re welcome to join if you wish?"

Now he feels sorry for you, because you’re such a screw up you sat on the table. So he’s offering to let you to sit with them. Why did I ever, ever come to L.A.? I don’t belong here.

Stella nodded. "He must have, sorry." She mumbled and stood up quickly.

"Wonderful! Serendipity strikes." He grinned at her, and she melted. "Have lunch with us. We could all sit on the tables.“

He’s making fun of me, she thought.

Stella couldn’t say anything without maybe breaking into tears. She walked away without looking at them, back up to the maître d' stand.

"I uh, I think you have me at the wrong table, sir," she said, trying to remember to breathe.

The maître d' frowned, as though he was deeply troubled to discover he had not escorted her so safely after all. Stella suppressed a grin at his dire facial expression. Cleary this man took his job very seriously. "I am quite sure it’s the correct table, Madam. Mr. Vice is a regular customer, and he always sits there."

Maybe she wasn’t wrong; maybe it was them. But the thought of going back to face them, and the evitable embarrassment that would surely ensue, didn’t seem worth it. "Oh. Uh, well, another party came and said it was their table."

The maître d' frowned again. "Let me straighten this out, Madam. I apologize profusely."

"No, it’s okay, I—"

He ushered her back to the same table. The curtain was still half open and they were lounging on the cushions. The hunk looked up at them and smiled. "Change your mind? Have lunch with us, angel moy."

The maître d' smiled. The lady fair was safe once more. "Ah, here you are. And I see the rest of your party has arrived."

He must be crazy. Or maybe it’s me who’s going crazy. She wanted to tear her hair out. "But, I, I’ve never…"

"Though she is welcome to join us, I sadly have never met this gorgeous woman until now," the hunk finished for her. His voice sent waves of tiny shivers down her spine.

The maître d' looked at Stella. "Madam, are you sure you have the correct last name?"

The blonde tittered, winning a frown from the hunk.

"Yes, I am sure," Stella said. "Vice is a hard last name to forget. It’s not like Smith or Green."

The hunk grinned like this was a huge joke to him. Great, they all think I am an idiot.Stella was past humiliated and coasting into angry. "I didn’t get it wrong, and you said this was Mr. Vice’s table." There, Stella, blame it on the maître d'. "Vice. It’s spelled v-i-c-e, but it’s pronounced ‘vee-tsuh'." Stella crossed her arms over her chest.

Now they all looked at her with identical expressions of mirth. Like there was a secret they all shared. She felt like she had broccoli in her teeth. "What are you all staring at? I am not the one who messed up." Stella jabbed her finger at the maître d'. "You said this was his table. I doubt there’s thousands of incubi in the city with the last name of Vice, even if it is L.A."

"Nyet, only two," the hunk said.

Stella’s train of thought derailed. “W—huh?“ She looked at the hunk. The tiny horns. The thick, Russian accent. His dead sexiness.

He waggled his fingers at her and sat up. "Is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Illiya Vice. I am Con’s younger brother."

Stella rubbed her temples. "Oh, you have got to be kidding."

"Nyet." Illiya grinned mischievously. "Can you not see the family resemblance?" He pointed at his horns.

"I should have known," Stella said. With my luck, and ability to embarrass myself, I should have at least guessed. Stella looked at the maître d'. "I suppose in the future I shall have to specify. Constantine Vice’s table, then. If he hasn’t already left thinking I showed him up."

The maître d' almost apologetically gestured towards the table where Illiya and his harem were sitting. "This is his table as well."

I really might be sick this time. Stella thought and nodded. "I see. Good day then."

"No, wait, he must be stuck in traffic or something," Illiya said. "When did you talk to him?"

"This morning. Really, it’s okay. I will reschedule the business meeting."

Illiya’s eyes lit up. "Then you must be Stella!"

"How do you know my name?"

"He is so excited. Nyet, please wait."

The maître d' abandoned her, and Stella was left to stand awkwardly again. Illiya took her wrist and tugged. Bolts of electricity shot up her wrist and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "Come sit. Sit down. I will call Con and see where he is."

"No, I don’t want to interrupt your meal. It’s been inconveniencing enough. I will—"

Illiya grinned and tugged harder. "Is not inconveniencing. Con will be here soon. He is probably caught in traffic somewhere, sit."

He tugged, as Stella pulled back, and she lost her balance. And fell forward. On top of him.

Before the shame and embarrassment could register, her insides went liquid and shimmery. It felt good, too good to have his arms around her. She found herself an inch away from his face, staring into his liquid silver eyes. He smelled like something musky and warm. His lips were thick and looked very soft. Illiya chuckled. Stella slid away.

"My apologies," Illiya said, but he didn’t look the least bit sorry.

What on earth have I gotten myself into? Stella thought.

Blogfest: Love at First Sight

Quote: “I have loved to the point of madness. That which is called madness, that which to me, is the only sensible way to love.”
~ Francoise Sagan

Song Playing: Love At First Sight by Kylie Minogue (yes, I played this song on purpose, I couldn’t resist)

Just kidding, today’s post isn’t a continuation of my How to Write a Novel Series, but instead, it’s my blogfest post! Hooray!

Happy Valentine’s Day! Even if you don’t have a Valentine, it doesn’t mean you can’t buy yourself some chocolate and watch a cheesy romantic movie. Might I suggest Hitch? The Mirror Has Two Faces is another favorite of mine, and so is Bed of Roses.

So! Here is my Love at First Sight scene. It’s a scene I wrote on the fly for the purposes of this post, but I already had the book idea and characters, and even the first 30 pages or so of the book written. It’s my zombie apocalypse book. Please be aware that I will write the rest of this book someday (soon), and so this scene might not be canon. But it was great fun to write. I love my characters!


We are all in the process of dying. If I concentrate hard enough, I think I can feel the death of my skin cells, flaking off one by one.
I can sense the zombies circling around us like slow vultures, always on the back of my subconscious. It helps me survive the zombie apocalypse, but robs me of sleep and peace of mind. Still learning to cope with this, I woke up in a foul mood, which for once had nothing to do with zombies.

It was Valentine’s Day, and no one knew it.

I rubbed my eyes, sitting up and checking on everyone else. They were still asleep. Even the early morning sun looked sleepy, barely peeking out over the rust red hills of Arizona. We decided after one too many zombie break ins to sleep in the same room, so mattresses covered the floor of large master bedroom in the ranch style house we currently called home. It looked like a slumber party gone horribly awry: my best friend Sasha lay with her back to me, whimpering in her sleep, my twin brother Matt lay splayed out on his stomach, his mouth open, and one sock dangling off his foot, Austin, the gun expert, lay with his cowboy hat on his face, Mandy, the gorgeous blonde from Kentucky had an arm over her face, Robert, Matt’s almost sidekick looked worried even in his sleep, and lastly, Rowan, my crush, lay on his back, one hand under his pillow, his hair out of it’s ponytail, and falling around him in thick, black disarray.

I sighed and grabbed my back pack. I picked my way around the sleeping bodies, and into the adjoining master bathroom. Valentine’s Day was always a dreadful holiday for me, being a plain Jane and all, but this year would be particularly awful. I knew for a fact I wouldn’t be getting chocolates or flowers, not even from my brother or father or stepfather. Zombies overrunning the entire planet had seen to that. It might sound like a petty concern, what with running for my life to worry about, and keeping my family and friends safe, but I couldn’t deny how depressed it made me feel to know for a fact that NO ONE would be asking me to be their Valentine today. I like to look on the bright side of things, and normally can find the silver lining in even the darkest of storm clouds, but not today. Each Valentine’s Day I nursed the tiny hope, the fantasy, that someone would sweep me off my feet and woo me with candy, and chocolates, and mint condition Firefly posters, but I would count myself lucky if I made it through today without getting attacked by a reanimated corpse. Chocolate, or jewelry, or Firefly memorabilia seemed as likely as growing a third arm.

I looked out of the bathroom window, making sure we were safe.

The Arizona desert looked back at me; I could see the town of Sedona down the hill, the houses painted all sorts of bright colors—seashell pink, robin’s egg blue, reddish brown—and a zombie or two shambling around the streets, like late February tourists. None of them were too close to us, so we were okay, for now. But we were low on supplies, and would need to restock soon.

I turned the shower on.

A small victory: the water still worked.

Normally I cheered when I woke up to running water, lukewarm though it may be, but not today. My normal morning routine of getting up, stumbling around, looking at the internet, eating, and showering had forever been interrupted, and I still didn’t feel as awake as a result. I squeezed out an extra large dollop of my Twisted Peppermint shampoo, and scrubbed my hair. I love my Twisted Peppermint Shampoo. It was a three in one, and doubled as a body wash. I also had the matching lotion.
“What, are you five?” Matt had asked, when I bought my yearly supply from Bath and Body Works a few months ago. The store only carried it around Christmas for some reason, even though it was the greatest scented lotion ever.

I had very maturely stuck my tongue out at him in response.

Matt hated the smell and taste of mint, a fact that made me question whether we were truly related, much less twins, despite our mother’s assurances that she was present when both of us came out of her.

But you never know, my mother could be in on the conspiracy.

Despite my efforts to think of happy thoughts, like the fantasy that FOX would start airing Firefly again, or just get back on the air period, my thoughts returned to zombies inexplicably attacking, starting a couple of months ago while Matt, Sasha, and I were at an anime convention. It’s ironic, when you think about it. You would think the zombies would be appreciative of nerds like us, keeping them alive as cult classics, and go attack banks or something, but noo. They attacked us.
Actually, from what the news managed to report before going off the air, they were attacking everywhere.

I stepped out of the shower, smelling like a candy cane and feeling like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Okay, maybe not a butterfly. Maybe a moth then. But never underestimate how good a shower and fresh change of clothes can feel after a zombie onslaught. Matt and the others were up and about, milling around the house, making breakfast.

Just another day during the zombie apocalypse.

I sighed, and followed Sasha into the kitchen. Mandy, her sleek blonde ponytail bobbing as she grinned, asked, “So the shower’s still working?”
“Yep,” I said, wandering over to the kitchen. “Knock yourself out. Well, not literally.” More granola for breakfast. Goody.

“Yeah, then I’ll have to do my nurse thing, and it’s too early.” Sasha said, helping herself to a cup of coffee from the French press.

Matt and Austin were arguing, something about going into town.

“We need supplies, there should be somethin’ other than just healing crystals down there,” Austin said, his Texan accent thick as he gestured with an oat and honey granola bar wrapped in green foil.

I wandered over to the coffee as Daisy, my chocolate brown lab, bounded over to me, butting her head under my hand, and throwing her hundred pounds of doggy weight against me. I almost spilled coffee everywhere, but her undying love and affection was worth it. Maybe Daisy would be my Valentine. Maybe Sasha would remember what day it was too, and we could have a Girl’s Night Out. Or a Girl’s Night Holed Up a Few Doors Down from the Boys. “Yes, there you are, there’s my good girl,” I petted her, while Daisy licked my hands, wiggling her entire body. She’s adorable when she gets herself worked up. It’s like she can’t just wag her tail, but instead her entire brown body wiggles. Matt calls her Wiggles as a nickname. Actually, so does most of my family.

Matt rolled his eyes, and raked his hand through his hair, “Yes, Austin, but I can still see a few zombies down there. We should wait, and then take Lilah when—“
“What, until they have themselves a little barbeque and invite us to join ‘em?” Austin said.

Robert came out of the walk-in pantry with more granola and some oatmeal, his sensible brown hair slightly mussed from sleep. He looked at me, “You want some oatmeal, Lilah?”

I looked at Robert and sighed. I didn’t want oatmeal, or him. But I was probably stuck with both. “No thanks. Not hungry yet.”

Rowan walked into the kitchen, and my heart did a tap dance as he passed me. I tried not to look at him, but couldn’t help but notice how his forest green t-shirt brought out his brown eyes. Rowan was a hunk, and his Asian features were more pronounced now that his hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Rowan nodded at us, and started rummaging through our food stock. Rowan was the quiet sort, something I still had to get used to, with the way Matt and I run our mouths whenever we get a little upset or nervous, or conscious.

“What do you think, Tall, Dark, and Ninja?” Matt asked Rowan, and gestured with his hands towards Austin. That was another family trait; we were both very expressive with our hands and facial expressions.

Rowan shrugged, “It could be better to wait, but we need some supplies.”

Matt rolled his eyes, “Thanks, that really helps.”

Rowan was unperturbed by Matt’s sarcasm, used to it by now, and went about making a list of supplies we needed.

Robert started to make some oatmeal, and chimed up with his two cents, “We could go now, before more zombies show up, and then—“

I tuned them out, fiddling with my granola. Sasha cocked her head at me. She wanted to know what was wrong. I pretended I didn’t know what that look meant. Mandy joined us, looking fresh from her shower, completing our little zombie survival team. Austin, Robert, and Mandy were traveling together when Matt, Sasha, Rowan, and I met them. We were still getting used to each other.

I knew my romantic fate was sealed when I met Robert. He was a nice guy; not a hunk, but genuinely a decent, nice guy. Exactly the sort of guy a girl like me ended up with. It cheered me up a little to see Austin to take note of Sasha sitting down next to me. Sasha wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t a supermodel either. She was tall, towering over my five three, and Matt’s five four at five seven, and a little chubby. Sasha called it fat, but if she lost too much more weight, she would look like she suffered from bulimia. Sasha would never be a size five, not even if she starved herself. Sasha accepted this bitter truth, but she was still more self conscious about her appearance than she should be. Even though Sasha was curvy in the right places, had gorgeous skin, eyes, and hair, she still wasn’t America’s idea of beauty either. Neither was I, for that matter, but I blended in better. I was plain, neither remarkably ugly or pretty. Plain straight brown hair, plain brown eyes. Normal complexion. Guys didn’t pick on me, like the jocks did to Sasha in high school, but they ignored me. I’ve always thought I could walk into a room, and stand against the wall and be mistaken for furniture.

Of course now, with living, breathing people scarce, I might have moved up a point or two on the one to ten scale, but I was still nowhere near Rowan’s league. When the zombies first attacked, Rowan was there to help Matt, Sasha, and I. At first, Rowan and I would pair off, like when we were getting around on four wheelers, and then when we switched to driving two cars in case one of them broke down. When the temperature dropped we even shared a sleeping bag, because I would have rather it be him than Matt, and the guys didn’t want to pair off with each other (and because he’s a hunk, and like a mini-furnace). I was lucky the zombie apocalypse cropped up a cute Asian guy for me to be paired off with, instead of some creepy guy named Clarence who liked to collect his toe lint. Actually, come to think of it, I am surprised that’s not exactly who turned out to help us out at first. It was my luck, anyway.

I thought Rowan must be married, or had a girlfriend, or gay. Possibly all three. Rowan was the guy who initially seemed to be the love interest for the spunky, yet ultimately plain girl who redeemed herself from not having blonde hair and large breasts—like Mandy—with her clever escapes from sure danger—like me—but in a surprising turn of events, the hunky hero would be pining away for his wife who was in a coma. The spunky girl always ended up with the sidekick, the guy who was lovably geeky, but not that attractive. It was how the world worked. I was a four on most days, a five in knock out heels and a tight black dress, and Rowan rated at least an eight, even when he was sleep deprived and unshowered.

In short, he was waaaay out of my league, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoying looking at him.

When Robert and Mandy showed up, I knew my number was up, or my number was closer to matching up, as it were. Robert is closer to my type, and Mandy is much prettier than I, so it’s only a matter of time. And as if Rowan knew it himself, he started to pull away from me after they joined our group. He was no longer stuck with settling for me. But he hasn’t pursued Mandy, at least not yet.
“Lilah could come with us and just—“ Austin barked, and Matt saw Austin’s bark, and raised him an angry scowl, not to be outdone, “Don’t volunteer my sister for zombie detail, she needs to rest.”

“What’s wrong?” Sasha asked me.

I shook my head at Sasha, not wanting to go into it. “I am going to walk Daisy.” I stood up and shrugged into my coat, moody and disoriented. I looked at Matt and Austin, “Stop talking about me like I am not here; I am not going anywhere today, so stuff it.”

I turned on my heel, and walked outside with Daisy.

The air was clear and slightly sharp. It was cold, but in a refreshing way. There were little patches of snow, almost like it was part of the house’s décor. The white looked startling against the backdrop of the square red mountains.
Maybe the mountains would be my Valentine. They were already red. And solid, you couldn’t say mountains were push-overs. That made me remember how it felt to have Rowan sit behind me on the four wheelers, his arms around my waist like a vise, and my heart felt sick. I sighed again. Robert was really nice. He was closer to what I could manage. It didn’t matter I seemed to have some sort of power over the zombies and control them a little. It still didn’t make up for the fact that Rowan was waaaay out of my league. I should just accept it, and move on.

“Lilah?”

I looked over my shoulder, and Rowan walked around the corner of the house, some firewood in his arms. Daisy chose that moment to jerk me forward, and I almost lost my grip on her lease.

“Whoops, careful,” Rowan said, shifting the firewood in his arms, and walking over.

I swear I trained her better. Okay, maybe not trained, so much as asked really, really nicely. I grabbed Daisy’s leash as she dragged me forward, her muzzle snuffling the snow and grass like it was doggie ambrosia. Daisy wagged her tail, a doggy smile on her face as she perked up and rammed into Rowan. Rowan, used to her by now, braced himself, and pet her head with his free hand.

“You need some help?” I asked, nodding at his load.

Rowan shook his head no, always one to express himself silently whenever possible. “The woodbox is pretty full. Just wanted this to dry out a bit. You could open the door though.”

I nodded, and followed him to the garage, holding the side door open.

“Thanks,” Rowan said, and dropping the wood onto a pallet on the floor in the garage. No cars were parked in the garage; we preferred to keep them outside for a quicker escape if we needed to.

I watched Rowan shift the wood, and realized not only would he never be my Valentine, but I would never have a Valentine’s Day again. I watched him concentrate on the covering the wood, and felt the impish urge to kiss him, so strong for a moment I almost did, but then my better senses returned, and I looked away.

“What’s wrong?” Rowan asked, dusting his hands off.

“Why do you ask?” I tried to play my mood off, but Rowan always seemed to know what I was thinking. Always. Which did not bode well for me and my crush. It was still a little strange to be around Rowan. It was totally out of character for me to spent quality time with a guy I thought was cute. I have this wonderful procedure of pretending a guy that I like doesn’t exist. I stayed as far away as possible, so he can’t guess my true feelings, and stomp all over them, like Mikey Caldwell did in eleventh grade. Or that cute office assistant, Tom Banker did a few months ago, before zombies took over. I admit, it’s not a perfect system. Half the guys I have had crushes on were never the wiser, or only found out because one of my well meaning coworkers told them.

Rowan was friendly towards me, but it wasn’t like he wanted to date. It was for his own survival. I was willing to bet my entire b horror movie collection, that just like woman liked to date taller men than Matt, I wasn’t Rowan’s type. I was Robert’s type.

“You’re upset,” He said, like this was a statement of the obvious. Rowan held the door open for Daisy and I as we walked back inside through the garage.
I shrugged, knowing I only needed to put off his questions until we got back into the kitchen, where everyone else was.

But the kitchen was empty when we arrived. I pulled some dog treats out and handed Daisy one. The house was very quiet.

I whirled around, walking right into Rowan, and stepping on his feet.
“What’s wrong?”

I wasn’t even embarrassed about running right into Rowan, my heart pounded so hard. I couldn’t sense any zombies in the house, but I wasn’t about to rely on a power I didn’t fully understand. But if the zombies had attacked, I should have heard something. “Rowan, stay behind me, get your gun out.”

Rowan’s eyes widened, and he pulled his gun out of it’s shoulder holster. He grabbed me around the waist, and shoved me behind him, “Stay behind me. It’s easier for me to cover you from the front.”

I wanted to beat my fists on his back in frustration, but he was right. He was the one with the ranged weapon.

“Where are they?” Rowan said, frowning at Daisy. She normally barked and snarled when zombies came near, but right now she was happily inhaling dog food from her purple bowl.

“I don’t know,” I said, every single nerve in my body tensing up. I placed my hand between Rowan’s shoulder blades, trying to steady myself. I hated fighting, I hated every single second of it; it made me sick, and I had to struggled not to faint at the mere sight of blood, as embarrassing as that was. But the thought of someone I loved getting hurt, or dying, terrified me more. “But the house is too quiet, I don’t hear anyone—“

Rowan turned around, frowning slightly. Frowning for me was my entire face pulling downwards; for Rowan, his eyebrows knitted together a little bit. “You don’t sense any of them? You don’t feel them?”

“No, but I am not about to trust something I don’t fully understand either.”
Rowan shouldered his pistol, and put his hands on my shoulders, “Lilah, they went to the store.”

I blinked at him, unable to process what Rowan was telling me at first. “What?”
“The store. Sasha, Mandy, Matt, Robert, and Austin went to the store. They figured we would be okay by ourselves, if we stayed in the house. They won’t be gone long.”

“But…I didn’t…I didn’t even hear them leave,” I said.

“You were around back. They took the sedan.”

My shoulders relaxed, relieved and embarrassed, both at the same time. “Oh, gosh, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine, I should have told you.”

I shook my head and walked around him, “I didn’t mean to…” I trailed off, unable to explain my stupidity.

“Lilah.” Rowan said my name in that quiet yet powerful way of his, and sent little chills running down my arms. “It’s okay. I am glad you’re being vigilant.”
I nodded, unable to settle myself. I picked up a notepad from the counter, only to put it back down again; I looked outside without really seeing the blue Arizona sky. I was careful not to look at Rowan. I wanted to cry, and scream, and laugh, and didn’t know what to do with myself. It hurt inside. I was sick of loving, of being afraid to love, of being happy, and then being afraid of that happiness. I sat on the couch, wondering what to do with myself. Where do you run when it’s yourself you’re trying to escape? I rubbed my face in my hands.

Rowan came and sat down next to me. I tried to pretend that I didn’t care, but I could feel the inches between us.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s on your mind,” Rowan said, leaning back on the couch and watching me. I could feel the weight of his gaze. “But if you want to, I’ll listen.”

He was a good listener, it was one of the things about him I held so precious. How many times had I cried on his shoulder? My throat closed up with the thought, and I missed him even though he sat right next to me. I missed what I wanted; I missed what I would never have.

I can’t settle. I’ll just wait to get over Rowan, or just not have a boyfriend. It was probably better that way, safer. “You’ve been distant lately.” I said, my mouth moving before I could think about whether or not I wanted to bring up this particular subject.

Rowan shifted a little, surprised. “Sorry.”

I waited for him to explain why, but he didn’t seem like he was going to elaborate. That’s how Rowan was, never speaking more than he had to. I was angry, all of a sudden, that I had poured myself out to him over the last few months, and he had given me nothing back. I was stupid for thinking I was anything other than a friend of convenience to him. I stood up, biting my lip.

“Lilah,” He sat up, grabbing for my arm.

I stood still, and let him stop me, but flinched a little. My emotions were a mess, and I felt so exposed.

“I just…new people, and I…I wanted you to get a chance to get to know them.”
I swallowed hard, looking up at him, and then flinching away at the intense look on his face. I didn’t want him reading my emotions, not now, not when he knew exactly how I was feeling even when I was relatively composed.

Rowan pulled on my arm gently, nudging me to sit back down. I sat down, and he put his arms around me. I folded myself into him. I closed my eyes, leaning against his chest. Nothing had changed. He held me like this when I was upset, like I was a small child afraid of the dark. “It’s okay, Lilah. We’re all on edge lately. I don’t like having them so close by.”

Rowan hardly ever said zombie. Mostly he referred to them in the third person.
I mumbled into his shirt, “I’m exhausted. From being scared, and upset, and worried, and sick to death with fear that something’s going to happen to you guys.”
Rowan shifted a little, putting his arm around my back. I curled my legs up underneath me, completing the customary position we sat in when Lilah Has a Nervous Breakdown. “I can’t imagine it’s easy sensing them all the time.”

I nodded. For once, someone understood. They all acted like I was their ace in the hole against the zombies. I felt like a weapon more than a person sometimes.

“We’ll survive, Lilah. We have this far.” He sounded so sure of himself.

“At what cost, though?” I whispered. “So many things I’ll never do again.” My eyes welled up with tears. “I’ll never have ice cream again. Never go see a movie. Once the last of the electricity goes, I’ll never listen to Dragonforce again, never watch Firefly—“ My voice cracked, and I started to sob. Two weeks without breaking down into tears: a new personal record.

Rowan did his part, and petted my hair, and held me while I soaked his shirt with snot and tears. It only made me want him more. After a few minutes I got myself under control, and felt content to just lie against him. We were rarely alone anymore.

“I have something that will cheer you up,” Rowan said, still stroking his hand through my hair. I wondered how many female friends Rowan had that carried secret flames for him over the years. Rowan told me he had more female than male friends before. Before the zombie apocalypse.

“Does it require moving?” I asked, feeling sleepy. Having someone stroke their hand through my hair was my Kryptonite. Seriously, it’s more relaxing and sedating than Valium.

Rowan paused for a minute, “Yes. But it’s followed by more sitting.”

“Okay, you wager a fair barter,” I said, sitting up with much reluctance. Who knows when the next time I would get to cuddle against Rowan again? It was only a matter of time until Mandy and Rowan starting going out.

“Come on,” Rowan said, looking pleased with himself. I followed him downstairs into the basement.

Downstairs was a man-cave, with all the latest stereo equipment, and a large flat screen TV. It looked like a mini-movie theatre, with reclining seats, and even a popcorn machine. The walls were decorated with framed movie posters. Another pang of sorrow went through me, when I remember all the movies I would never watch again. It sounds silly to mourn the loss of luxury items when I should have been worried about medicine, and doctors, and food, but to me, it wasn’t just a movie, or just a song, but a memory. A piece of my life that I would never get back again.
I plopped down onto the couch, assuming this is what Rowan meant by more sitting. I tried to hide my disappointment, but the mini movie theater was just another grave to human civilization.

Rowan knelt down in front of the TV. I wondered what he was doing. The power was out, so there was no way he could get the DVD and TV to work. He turned the TV on, and the opening credits for Firefly began to play.

My jaw dropped. I couldn’t have been more surprised than if Nathan Fillion, the star of Firefly and my celebrity boyfriend walked through the door himself. “How did you…?” I jumped up off the couch, pointing at the TV. The sweet, sweet twang of the vaguely Western sounding theme song continued.

Rowan affected nonchalance, and shrugged, but he couldn’t hide his grin, “I found a generator.”

“You know how to hook those up?”

“I was a computer programmer; it wasn’t too hard to figure out.”

“But…but…should we save it for things like heat, and the stove?” I said, staring at the TV.

“Why? We have plenty of matches, lighters, and flashlights. We really don’t have to have power to survive day to day. Why not use it for something that we can’t have without power?”

I didn’t know what to say. I stared at him. He pretended like it was a big deal, but it must have been hard to find a generator, and hook it up. And keep it a secret so he could surprise me. I blinked, tears stinging my eyes. I stepped forward and hugged Rowan.

He laughed a little, “You’re welcome. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

My heart swelled, and I knew I was in love with him. I squeezed him tighter, not wanting to ever, ever let go.


THE END!