Writings

Flash Fiction Interlude: Commitment

2012-01-18T22:13:00.004-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story is a prequel to my other Vince Mott stories. Here we meet him as a teenager, about to make a decision that will shape his life in interesting ways, although not in the way his parents would've hoped. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post or by reading the January posts of Diana's Diary.
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Vince ambled down the hospital corridor, trying to act like this was a perfectly normal place for a guy hang out. A pretty nurse caught his eye, but he didn't stop to chat her up. He was seventeen and she was at least thirty-five, but his real reason for not pursuing her lay in the room at the end of the hall.

Outside the door he brushed street dust off his jeans and straightened his jacket. He shook his hair out of his eyes and went inside. The sound of wheezing filled the room and a man plucked with bony fingers at a threadbare cotton blanket. Vince approached the bed. "Hey, Dad."

The man's eyelids fluttered and he reached out a trembling hand.

Vince wondered how this man who had fought the Chinese in the Resource Wars and survived the grueling winter of the Alberta Campaign could've gone downhill so quickly. "Sorry I'm late. I stayed after school to get a little extra help from my teacher."

The older man's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Don't lie."

Vince pulled up a chair and sat down. Even near death, his old man couldn't be fooled. Vince hadn't been to school in years, although he had an affair with a pretty teacher last spring.

"You'll stay out of trouble when I'm gone."

It wasn't a question.

"You don't want your mother to judge you from Heaven."

To avoid having to speak, Vince pulled a ring out of a pocket and toyed with it, wondering how much Cabezón at the pawn shop would give him for it.

"And Sara..."

Vince snapped his head up.

"You'll take care of her. You're all she has now."

"Of course I'll take care of her. I do already." Vince wondered if he should mention what he had done to the freak who had grabbed Sara's ass on a crowded street two days ago. No one disrespected Vince's little sister and got away with it.

The man coughed. "I mean money," he said, as if reading Vince's thoughts. "She's not like you; she has ambition. She should go to college."

Vince sat back, startled. Where was he supposed to get money to send Sara to college? Although he was a decent gambler, it would be years if not decades before he had the skill of a real pro. His thieving was only slightly better. He glanced at the cheap ring he had stolen. He'd be lucky if Cabezón didn't insist on giving him federal dollars for this thing. Vince would have to up his game considerably before he could consider sending his sister to college.

"Promise me." The old man fumbled for his hand.

Vince shoved the stolen ring in his pocket. He had always been lucky, so maybe this was the incentive he needed to aim for higher stakes. "I'll send her to college," he promised. "Sara will have everything she needs."

His father nodded, reassured.

Later that night as he left the hospital, Vince pondered the enormity of what he had promised. He would love and cherish Sara, of course. That he would protect her from the thugs and assholes of the world was a given. But college? He stopped under a defunct streetlight and gazed up at the sliver of night moon hanging over the city.

After a few minutes he dug in his pocket and took out the ring. It was too late to see what Cabezón would give him for it, but perhaps he could trade it for a drink at Las Cariñosas and watch the pretty girls instead. He could forget for a little while that his mother was dead, his father dying, and he had taken on the biggest commitment of his life. For the next couple of hours, at least, he could pretend nothing had changed.

With an air of satisfaction, he headed down the street.

Flash Fiction Interlude: Normal Annoyances

2012-01-08T16:29:00.001-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written for Sunday Scribblings and features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
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Vince paid the bar tab and motioned to the pretty girl on the stool beside him. "Come on, I know where we can go."

As he led her outside, he tried to remember what she said her name was - Lori, Lauren, Lorelei? It hardly mattered. She was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen at Chico's Bar, although that wasn't saying much. Too bad she had such expensive taste in liquor and lived with her mother. Having paid her bill, Vince now couldn't afford to take her to a hotel. Her home, of course, was out of the question.

"Where are we going?" Laura asked.

"A place I know. Don't worry - it's safe and we won't be bothered."

Vince and his gang were currently squatting in an old warehouse, but as their leader, Vince had a private office which he also used as sleeping quarters. He nodded at the guard as they entered the run-down building. "Things been quiet tonight?"

The correct answer, of course, was "yes" but Xerox was a newcomer to Vince's shady operations and didn't pick up on the obvious clues. "Speedball is missing, boss."

"So what's new?" Vince tried to steer Lori toward his office.

"Ozone says there's something wrong with the radio, and Peru has been throwing up for the last half hour."

Vince shrugged. "Keep up the good work."

As they made their way to the office, Lorelei whispered, "Shouldn't you do something?"

"About what?" He opened the door to his office, ushered her inside and closed it behind them. "It's always something with them. They'll figure it out."

She appeared skeptical, but accepted Vince's kisses. He backed her against his desk and was fumbling with the buttons on her shirt when there was a knock at the door.

"Go away!"

"I need to talk to you."

"Tell me in the morning, Gitana."

Silence, then more knocking. "It's important!"

With a sigh of frustration, Vince went to the door. "What?"

Gitana brushed her dark curls out of her eyes and gave him a doe-eyed look. "Um..."

"Yes?"

"I thought you should know Peru is sick." She tried to glance around him at the girl sitting on the desk.

"I already know, thanks." He made to shut the door.

"But--"

"Enough. Go away." Vince slammed the door and turned around. "Sorry about that."

"Hey, if you have other commitments..."

Vince cupped Lauren's chin in his hand. "Nothing is more important than you."

Nothing, it seemed, except the urgent knock on the door two minutes later.

"What now?"

Ozone answered through the door. "Speedball's back. He's cut up pretty bad."

"Send for my sister. She'll bandage him up."

"There's no one to send. Gitana was pissed about something and left."

"You go, then. Do I have to think of everything?"

In the silence that followed, Vince turned back to Laurie. "If it wasn't for me, these guys wouldn't be able to figure out how to drink water."

She nodded and finished unbuttoning her blouse herself. "Seems like a big job."

"Not as big as what I've got for you, baby." He gestured toward the mattress on the floor. "Let's get a little more comfortable."

He had almost gotten Laurel undressed and was enjoying the fluttering of her fingers as she fumbled to undo his belt when there came another knock at the door.

"Goddamn it." He raised himself on one elbow. "Unless the building is on fire, go away!"

"Quix is here, boss." It was Fausto. "He says he knows it's kind of last minute, but one of his partners is a no-show and he needs a couple guys, fast, to help close a deal tonight."

Vince met Lorena's eyes.

"You have to take this one, don't you?" she asked.

He nodded in resignation, stood up and began straightening his clothes. "Send him back here."

A few minutes later Lorinda was neatly dressed and sitting in one of Vince's chairs. Vince was in his patched leather executive's chair, tapping impatiently on the desk. He got up and extended a hand when Quix walked in, but didn't offer his usual boisterous greetings.

Quix darted a glance at the girl, then sat down. "I hope I'm not ruining your evening, but I need a couple guys I can count on and I know how you're always ready to make a buck."

"Yeah." Vince covered for his annoyance by taking a bottle of whiskey out of a desk drawer and pouring them each a glass.

Quix accepted the whiskey and took a sip. "Anything the matter, man? You seem a little off."

Vince shot back his whiskey and poured another glass. He could refuse this deal, of course, but it wasn't wise to turn down an opportunity to do a favor for a fellow gang leader. Besides, the way this night was going it didn't look like he going to get very far with Loretta, if that was even her name. "Nothing's wrong other than the usual, friend. Just another normal night around this place."

Flash Fiction Interlude: New Year's Resolution

2011-12-28T10:27:00.000-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
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Fausto fiddled with the radio antenna, but all anyone could hear was a faint voice overlaid with the crackle of static.

"Give it up, man." Peru leaned back against the duffel bag he was using as a cushion and reached for his beer.

"It's supposed to be an important broadcast," Fausto reminded him.

Ozone reached for his own beer - a new brand out of Chicago they had stolen in a recent train robbery. He took a sip and winced at the taste. "Me and Gitana will go to the plaza later and get the transcripts."

"Like hell I will," Gitana shouted from the other side of the room where she was playing with a dirty black kitten and pretending to ignore them.

The men looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Gitana didn't do anything she didn't want to unless their gang leader Vince specifically asked her to.

Ozone picked at the label on his beer bottle. "So since we can't listen to the radio, let's share New Year's Resolutions."

Peru frowned in confusion.

"It's a custom from before the resource wars," Ozone reminded him. "You're supposed to think of what you'll do different in the new year."

With a snicker, Peru glanced at Gitana. "I resolve to get rid of that damn cat next time Beauty Queen isn't looking."

"I heard that!"

"I've got allergies," he reminded her.

She shrugged in unconcern. "Vince said I could keep it, so bitch at him if you've got a problem with it."

Ozone, ever the peacekeeper, tried to defuse the situation. "What's your resolution, Gitana?"

"Her resolution is to finally get Vince in bed," Fausto muttered. He took another sip of his beer.

If Gitana heard his remark, she gave no sign.

"Okay, then. What's yours?" Ozone set his bottle aside, too disgusted with the Chicago beer to drink any more.

Fausto turned back to the radio. "To get this thing to work."

Ozone threw up his hands. "New Year's is supposed to be a time of new beginnings, self-improvement and things like that, not fixing radios." At the sight of Speedball returning from guard duty, he called out to him. "Got a New Year's resolution yet?"

Speedball sneered. "Same as every year: demolish our enemies and stay drunk or high as much as I can."

Ozone shook his head. "We're supposed to be seeking personal transformation, not staying in the same old rut."

"What's your resolution, then?"

Caught off guard, Ozone stammered for an answer, but before he could think of something, Vince came out of his office, saw Ozone sitting near the radio and frowned. "What do you think you're doing?"

"He's thinking up a New Year's resolution," Peru said.

Vince raised an eyebrow. "How about you resolve to do a better job remembering when you're on guard duty?"

With a start, Ozone jumped to his feet and fumbled for his weapons. The others chuckled, but from across the room, Gitana gave Vince a soulful look and asked what his New Year's resolution was.

Seeing all eyes upon him, Vince grinned. "If I had a resolution, you bunch of sorry bastards are the last ones I'd ever tell."

His gang members watched him disappear into his office, then gave each other knowing nods. "He's got one," Fausto said.

"Something big, I bet," Peru added.

"I hope it involves drugs and money," Speedball muttered.

Gitana looked away. Everyone knew what she hoped Vince would do different in the new year.

"I wonder if he's resolved to—" Ozone began, but the others cut him off.

"You heard the man," Fausto reminded him. "You're on guard duty."

With a small sigh of frustration, Ozone headed toward the vestibule at the back of the warehouse. If their leader had any big plans for the new year, they would learn them as they happened. Come to think of it, wasn't that always the way? People could talk all they wanted, but it was what they did day-to-day that really mattered.

Ozone took his spot by the rusted steel door and settled in to wait. "Happy New Year to us all," he muttered.

Flash Fiction Interlude: Bad Trip

2011-12-07T21:42:00.002-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
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It started with shouting, but Vince was used to the members of his gang getting into arguments. He ignored it and returned to his inventory. Gitana would want the jewelry; that much was a given, but its value so exceeded that of the other goods they had stolen that he couldn't gratify her wish without annoying everyone else. Besides, Peru might like those gold earrings for his girlfriend...

He looked up at the sound of booming and crashing against the warehouse wall. "What the hell?" He went to the door of his office, nearly running into Ozone who was bursting with news.

"It's Speedball. He got into the stash, and that white powder wasn't what we thought it was."

"Damn him." Vince was as annoyed with Speedball for stealing as he was with himself for leaving the cache from their recent heist in range of an addict. "Where is he now?"

The sharp report of a gun offered a clue. They ran into the warehouse and found Speedball in a corner, screaming and shooting the walls.

"He's not hurting anything," Ozone pointed out. "Might want to just let him have at it."

Vince assessed. It was true that whatever Speedball was on would wear off in time, if his energy for destruction didn't flag from sheer exhaustion first. Nevertheless, it wasn't good to appear passive in front of his team. He had to get Speedball under control. He hurried back to his office and got something from a rusty desk drawer. Then he returned to the scene of destruction and waved away his curious gang members. "Go away, for your own safety. I'll let you know when things are under control."

The men looked at each other doubtfully, but obeyed.

"What do you think he's going to do?" Fausto asked.

"Who cares?" Peru said. "They're both crazy."

Ozone cast a worried glance into the depths of the warehouse, where Speedball was still screaming about something. "I'm sure he has a plan."

Twenty minutes later, Vince walked toward them out of the depths of the warehouse. "All clear. Leave him where he is and go about your business."

Fausto shook his head. "But what did you...?"

Vince gave a wicked grin. "I waited until he was out of ammo."

"But—"

He held up an empty syringe. "Helps to have a sister who's a nurse."

While the men chuckled and headed back into the warehouse, Vince went toward his office. There was more than one reason he was the leader of this gang.

Flash Fiction Interlude: Thieves and Politicians

2011-11-20T10:23:00.007-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written for Sunday Scribblings and features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
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Vince sat at the battered metal desk in the office of the abandoned warehouse he and his gang called home. He frowned at the numbers on the piece of paper in front of him and tried to re-do his calculations. He was pretty sure Big Jim from the Sabados had shorted him on their recent handoff of stolen pharmaceuticals, but he couldn't prove it.

Something wasn't adding up, and he was beginning to get a headache. It wasn't the smoke from the guttering kerosene lamp that was making his head pound, and it wasn't his hangover or the numbers themselves. What was grating on his nerves and making him clench his teeth in frustration was the low hum of a squabble somewhere in the warehouse. It was common for arguments to break out among his group of misfits, but this had been going on for nearly an hour.

With a scrape of rusted castors on the concrete floor, Vince pushed back his chair and stood up. What did it take for a guy to get a little peace and quiet around this place? He went into the area his team used as living quarters, where he found his idealistic lieutenant Ozone under verbal attack.

"You're delusional," Peru was telling him.

"We're not buying into your twisted fantasy," Fausto added.

"What the hell is going on?" Vince said.

Ozone turned to him but it was soulful spitfire Gitana who spoke. "This idiot thinks we should vote in today's election."

Vince looked at Ozone in curiosity. "Is that what all the yelling has been about?"

"They won't listen," Ozone explained. "They think voting does no good."

"They're right," Vince said with a shrug. "El Duque has this town all locked up. The elections are just a cover."

"It's rigged," Fausto agreed, coming to stand by Gitana. "A waste of our time."

"It's not a waste of time." Ozone appealed to Vince. "Even if El Duque's men throw away all our ballots, we're at least sending a message."

Vince raised his eyebrows. "What kind of message? He already knows he's a thieving bastard. Voting for someone else won't do any good."

Ozone sputtered. "But— if we don't vote for someone else, El Duque will think we want him and his goons in power. Or that we don't care, you know? We have to let him know how we feel. That's what democracy is all about."

Gitana gave a derisive snort. "Democracy? You think this is the old days or something? You think we're still part of the United States?"

"The United States isn't a democracy either any more," Peru reminded her.

"Right." Gitana turned back to Ozone. "There's no such thing as a democracy, except in the history books, so quit pestering us about it."

Before Ozone could say anything, Vince held up a hand for silence. "She's right," he said. "We're only a democracy on paper and you've got no business harassing anyone about it." At Ozone's crestfallen look he added, "But you're right about one thing - if you vote, you're at least taking a stand." He looked each member of the group in turn. "Vote or don't vote, makes no difference to me. But if you don't vote, don't complain about who gets elected, got it?"

After getting everyone's nodded agreement that this was reasonable, Vince told them to keep things quiet and went back to his office. A few minutes later, Ozone poked his head in.

"Thanks for sticking up for me, boss."

Vince looked up from where he was still trying to figure out how he had been shorted. "I don't know if I'd call it that."

"You got them to quit arguing with me."

"I did that because you guys were bugging the shit out of me."

"Well, thanks anyway." Ozone paused, then asked, "So are you going to go vote?"

"Hell, no. They're all dishonest bastards. Even if we got another guy in the mayor's seat, he'd be no better." He bent back over his columns of numbers and now he saw the problem. With a pleased little grin, he calculated how much Big Jim owed him. He shook his head as he listened to the clop of Ozone's boots walking away. Poor guy was a good fighter, but too optimistic. Vince knew there were enough thieves in this world, himself included, without voting for any more of them.

Flash Fiction Interlude: Limited Operations

2011-10-30T17:19:00.001-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written for Sunday Scribblings. It's also part of the Will and Diana series, which you can find out more about in the sidebar or by following the tags. This particular story takes place around the time Will and Diana first started with Unitas, when they were in their early teens.
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The journey had taken longer than they expected. Although the map was good and they were familiar with the terrain from last spring's campaigns, Will and Diana found the roads washed out and a bridge collapsed from recent storms. Their horses were hardy and patient, but that patience didn't extend to the teenage messengers. When they came within sight of town, Diana urged her mare to a trot with Will close behind.

Since it was evening, they bypassed the clinic and went straight to the doctor's house where Will banged an urgent staccato on the door.

A white-haired gentleman opened the door and frowned. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Dr. Eldridge?" At his nod, Will handed him an envelope. "Message from Commander Harley Mayes with Unitas."

"You have to come with us right away," Diana blurted.

The doctor looked at her over the tops of his glasses before turning his attention to the letter. "I'm afraid what you're asking is impossible."

Will and Diana glanced at each other. They were new to running messages for a military unit and had no idea if this sort of response was unusual or should even be allowed.

The old man appeared to read their minds. "For one thing, I'm not part of your military operation, although I support you. Second, I'm the only doctor this town's got." He waved a hand for emphasis. "I have a typhoid case on the other side of Main, and a young woman up the street is due to have her first child any day now."

"But this is appendicitis," Diana said. "Francisco has to have a doctor."

"He has to have a surgeon," Dr. Eldridge corrected her. He folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. "I haven't done an appendectomy in years and even if I did that kind of operation every day, I wouldn't want to do it under field conditions."

Will reached a stealthy hand toward his gun, but the doctor had sharp eyes.

"That won't do you any good, son." He sighed and handed back the letter. "Even if I went with you, it's not likely your man would make it. The danger of complication and infection is too great."

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Diana asked in exasperation. "Is there another doctor we can ask?"

"No one close, I'm afraid." Dr. Eldridge gazed at her and his features softened. "How about you bring your patient here and I'll see what I can do."

"He's in pain, he has a fever, and he's throwing up," Will said. "He can't get here. That's why we came to get you."

"And I can't go with you. I'm sorry."

Before they could question the man further, he shut the door, leaving Will and Diana staring at each other on the front porch.

"We can't go back without any help at all," Diana said.

"I have a good mind to kidnap him."

"Think that would help?"

"No telling." Will shoved the letter in a pocket. "Let's think about this."

Diana followed him to where their horses were tethered to a wind-blown apple tree. "We'll have to think fast," she said. "Francisco was pretty bad off when we left. No telling how he's doing now."

"Might even be dead," Will pointed out.

"That's no reason not to try."

While they pondered, the wind picked up and their horses shook their heads with impatience.

"We'll go to the next town," Will finally said.

"Think it'll do any good?"

He shrugged and swung himself into the saddle. "I don't want anyone saying we didn't do everything we could."

Diana agreed and mounted her horse. As they rode into the growing darkness, the wind blew dust across the road and low clouds scudded across the deepening blue of the sky. It wasn't likely they would reach the next town and convince a doctor to come with them in time to save their comrade, but at least they were making every effort. One could do no more than that.

Flash Fiction: Trick or Treat

2011-10-26T09:24:00.004-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
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Peru was on watch when they came knocking. They didn't seem like a threat but one could never be sure. He called some of the other gang members over.

Ozone peeked out the crack in the door. "Weird, but they look harmless."

Three brushed her hair out of her face and glanced over his shoulder. "Strange outfits, but they seem like ordinary ankle-biters to me."

"Can't be," Speedball grumbled, reaching for his knife. "It's a trick. They said so themselves."

"Trick or treat," Ozone corrected him.

"So we get a choice. Big deal. I'll show them a trick or two."

The others restrained him before he could go outside and do something rash, but that still left them with the dilemma of what to do about the two costumed children outside the door of their gang's headquarters.

"They could be a decoy," Peru pointed out. "We open the door and whoever put them up to this jumps us."

"It's a possibility," Three said. “I’m inclined to be cautious.”

"But what if they're innocent?" Ozone asked. He peeked out the crack in the door again. "I hate to send them away empty-handed if they're just ordinary kids trying to have a little fun."

Peru and Ozone discussed the matter and agreed to go out via the emergency exit and search the area. Three stayed behind to guard the door, checking from time to time to see if the children were still there.

After a few minutes Vince came around the corner. "What's going on?" He frowned. "You're not supposed to be on watch. Where's Peru?"

Three explained about the trick or treaters. “It’s an old custom from before the Resource Wars.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. What does everyone think this is, the twentieth century?” He looked out the crack in the door. "For figments of someone’s overworked nostalgia, they sure are patient."

"I guess they figure if they wait long enough they'll get a treat."

Vince absently rubbed the blue stripe on his face. "Let's find them some treats, then."

"Around here?"

"You're right. The only types of treats we have aren't suitable for children."

They were still pondering when Ozone and Peru returned. "I don't know what their deal is," Peru said, "But they're still out there and we don't see any evidence that it's a trap."

"We need to give them something," Ozone said.

"We’ve got nothing appropriate," Vince reminded him. "What do you want to do, give them some whiskey? Marijuana? Something out of Speedball's meth stash?"

Ozone stalked off in exasperation.

"We'll just tell them we haven't got anything," Three finally said. "We can't let two little vulnerable kids stand out there all night."

Vince agreed. "Give them these." He dug in his pocket and produced two silver coins. "That ought to do it."

Cautiously, Three opened the door.

"Trick or treat!"

She gave the children a tight smile, complimented them on their patience, and gave them each a coin. "Now run along. It's late and you don't want to get in trouble."

The children were about to leave when Ozone came running from the other room. He darted out the door and put something in each child's bag. "You kids have a happy Halloween!"

After a few thank-yous, the children walked away. Ozone went back inside and Peru closed the door. "What did you give them?"

Seeing all eyes upon him, Ozone gave a little shrug. "Nothing much."

Outside, the two costumed children paused under a streetlamp and looked inside their bags. "Beans?" one asked.

"I got hominy."

"I thought grownups were supposed to give candy."

"I guess that's not how they do it anymore."

With small sighs of frustration, the children continued up the street to the next building where lights suggested someone was at home.

Flash Fiction: All In a Night's Work

2011-10-19T11:33:00.007-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
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The knock woke Sara from a dreamless sleep. She fumbled for the lamp but the electricity was out again, so she turned on her solar-charged lantern. There was another tap on the door, and Sara grabbed a robe and padded to the door. Although she knew the pattern of the knock, she gave a few taps and waited for the reply before unlocking.

A young woman slipped inside, dressed in a long black skirt and with a shawl partially obscuring her face. She shook out her corkscrew curls while Sara closed the door. “You knew it was me.”

“Vince would kill me if I quit using the code.” Sara had been under her brother’s protection since their parents died in an epidemic. Nothing would make Vince breach that trust, even though Sara was now an adult and a nurse, exposed every day to the worst this war-torn city could show her. “How many is it this time?”

“Two that look serious and a few minor ones. Mostly gunshot. I took a hit too, but it’s just surface.”

“Did it bleed out good?”

“You can look at it after you do the others. Just get your stuff.”

Sara hurried to her bedroom and slipped into jeans, a sweater, and a dark trench coat. She grabbed the black leather bag that she kept for emergencies and followed Gitana out the door.

They crept down the stairs and out into the night. A bicycle rickshaw waited by the curb and Sara recognized the driver—a hunched, tattered man who asked no questions. She climbed into the narrow seat, wedged so tightly against Gitana she could feel the Glock strapped to the other girl’s hip.

As they bounced their way over the rutted streets, Sara pulled her coat closer. In the pale light of the half-moon, huddled forms slept in doorways by the embers of dying fires. Two dogs ran out from the shell of an old bank, and when one of them menaced the driver, he squirted it in the face with a chili mixture from a dirty plastic bottle.

The headquarters for Vince’s gang was a bullet-scarred shop that had sold greeting cards and jigsaw puzzles before the resource wars and secession. Gitana gave a coded knock at the service entrance and whispered the night’s password. The door opened and a bald, blood-smeared man glared at Gitana. “Took you long enough.”

“It takes as long as it takes. If you weren’t always fucked up on something, you might have a concept of time.”

“And if you weren’t such a bitch—”

Sara left them to their argument and went inside. On what had once been the sales floor, two wounded men lay on canvas tarps while others, less seriously injured, sat nearby passing a bottle of murky liquor back and forth.

A dark-haired man looked up from examining a pad of gauze covering a wounded man’s abdomen. The blue stripe running from his left eye to his jawbone gave him an intimidating appearance, but when he shook his hair out of his eyes and smiled, he looked like a child only playing at being a dangerous gang leader. “Hey, Sis. Thought you'd like a little overtime.”

“’Like’ isn’t quite the word I’d use for it.” Sara squatted by the injured man. “Is this your worst case?”

“Seems to be. There’s so much blood I can’t tell if anything important got hit.”

“Everything in the abdominal cavity is important. Even if his organs were spared, there’s the risk of peritonitis.” She examined the man gingerly, but didn’t remove the pad. “Best thing would be to leave the bandage in place and get him to the hospital.”

Vince gave her a look. “You know how we feel about that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, but I’m not a surgeon and I don’t have what I need to do a transfusion. Take your chances if you want, though.” She fumbled in her bag. “I can at least give him something for the pain.”

After she injected some morphine, she moved to the next man. This one didn’t seem to have any life-threatening injuries, but he had lost a lot of blood and was in shock. She cleaned his wounds, picked a bullet out, and covered him with blankets before moving on to the next patient. It took her nearly two hours, but eventually Sara got everyone patched up as well as she could.

She wiped her hands and got to her feet. “What about you?” She looked at Vince. “Anything you’re not telling me?”

They gazed at each other a long time but it was Vince who turned away first. "Come in my office."

Sara followed him to the cramped and airless manager's office. If he was asking her to treat him in private, it could only mean—

"Bastard got me in the ass. You think—?"

"I've seen both cuter and uglier than yours."

With a sigh of annoyance, Vince dropped his pants.

The wound was impressive, bruised and crusted with blood. Sara tried to get a closer look, but he flinched at her touch. "The good news is there's both an entrance and an exit wound, so I won’t need to dig lead out of your butt."

"And the bad news?"

"I'm going to need to flush it out."

He gasped as she tentatively probed one of the holes. "You'll numb it first, right?"

Sara fumbled in her bag. "Yes, but I want this to drain for a couple days, got it?"

Vince looked at her over his shoulder. "I can't go around with a bandage on my ass."

"Why not?" She uncapped a syringe. "Got plans that don't involve wearing pants?"

"Just clean me up, okay?"

Sara suppressed a smile. For a few days, the city's young women would be spared the attentions of her ladykiller brother. Not bad for a night’s work. With a satisfied air, she jabbed the needle into his buttock.

Flash Fiction: Making the Most of Things

2011-10-16T19:01:00.001-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This flash fiction precedes Tin Soldier and contains no spoilers. It is posted here for Sunday Scribblings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Carina walked the paddock fence, deep in thought. She had visited her parents' high desert rancho for years, but now she was here for good, or at least until her husband came back from the war.

One of the donkeys trotted to the fence and Carina rubbed her velvety nose. "There will be no getting out of your checkups now. Soon you'll be wishing I'd go back to the city and take care of dogs and cats."

Carina sighed and leaned against the fence. In spite of the privations of the Resource Wars, she had enjoyed city life - not just the stores and entertainments, but the little niceties that made life easier. What wouldn't she give to be able to light a room at night with the flick of a wall switch? Would she ever be able to enjoy a shower again without having to hurry so as not to empty the rooftop tank?

She patted the donkey's nose again and continued her rounds. When her husband came home, it would be different. He was a doctor and between his medical skills and her veterinary prowess, they would do well in this valley. When the wars ended, no one would have to hide their solar panels in the basement and ration their battery-powered lights behind blackout curtains. The anti-hoarding laws would be lifted and she would be free to prosper.

In the meantime...she looked around the dusty property with its ribbon of creek coaxing living things out of desert dust. She was the only qualified veterinarian in this valley, and word was that the veterinarian on the nearby reservation was old. Carina would make out okay here and lay the groundwork for her husband's return.

The sun was low in the sky now, dipping below the mesas. In a mellow frame of mind, Carina started toward the house but stopped at the edge of an alfalfa field where her older sister stood brooding over the freshly-irrigated crop. "You could make a nice painting out of it, don't you think? All this green surrounded by desert."

Amalia looked at her through narrowed eyes. "I'll turn into a regular Georgia O'Keefe out here."

Carina suppressed a sigh. Although Amalia was in many ways the more practical sister, her interests had always been toward literature and the arts. Farm life was going to be hard for her. "People have always made art in the desert, even when it was just native people painting pots. We'll find things to do here. Maybe we can even make it fun."

"You'll find things to do. I'll just cope."

"It's better than the city, with the riots and rationing."

"Perhaps." Amalia jerked her head. "Dinner was almost ready when I came out here. Let's go before Mom and Dad worry."

"What's to worry about, out here in the country?" Carina tipped her head and looked at the deepening blue of the sky, where a few faint early stars twinkled.

Amalia worked a shrug into her movements as they walked the path toward the low adobe house. "As far as they're concerned, we might as well be kids again."

"I know. Still, it was best to come out here. Things are getting worse in the cities. At least out here we may have a chance."

"Of course."

She said it without conviction, but Carina knew better than to belabor the topic. They were nearly at the house and she thought the glow of candles and kerosene lanterns in the windows gave it a certain charm.

"What are you smiling about? I saw what Mom was cooking and it wasn't much."

Carina didn't care if dinner was a bowl of beans or an epicurean feast. This place may be her fallback and not her dream, but she was here now and she was going to make the best of it.

Flash Fiction: The Speech

2011-10-13T00:08:00.003-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vince pushed his way through the packed and stuffy auditorium with Ozone, Fausto and Gitana close behind. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"It's going to be great," Ozone assured him, shoving a young man out of the way so he could stay close to his boss. "El Duque is one of the best speakers around."

Gitana rolled her eyes. "It's easy to be a good speaker when all you ever say is lies."

"Speech-making is an art," Ozone reminded her.

"And most art is just a bunch of make-believe," Vince said. He stopped amid the swirling mass of people. "Where's Speedball? Don't tell me we lost him already."

They tried to look around, but there were too many people. The house lights flickered and someone onstage began testing the microphone.

"We'll catch up to him later," Ozone said. He pushed past Vince and Gitana and began fighting his way toward the front rows.

"He's right," Gitana said, tugging on Vince's arm. "You know how Speedball is. He probably saw one of his connections and went to cut a deal."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Vince turned to Fausto. "Go find him." When Fausto protested, Vince repeated himself. "I don't want to see your face again until you've got him."

Vince and Gitana followed Ozone to the front where he was trying to squeeze in next to an eager young couple dressed in El Duque's colors of red and gold. From a hidden pocket in his coat sleeve, Vince produced a switchblade and El Duque's followers saw the wisdom of finding another place to enjoy the proceedings. As he sat down, Vince glanced around in annoyance. He had a pretty good idea what the speech would be about and he was in no mood to hear the local strongman's empty promises. It was only because he had nothing better to do tonight that he had allowed Ozone to talk him into coming here.

He was trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench when he saw something that just might make the event worthwhile. Sitting on the other side of the aisle was a young woman, her face turned toward the stage and her smooth hair flowing like melted butter down her back. As if she could feel Vince's eyes upon her, she turned and flashed him a smile.

Vince slowly returned her smile. Who was she and why was she here? Was she one of El Duque's admirers or was she here out of curiosity and boredom like he was? Did she have a boyfriend or husband? Vince could take care of that little problem.

A sharp poke in the ribs brought him back to the moment. "What are you looking at?" Gitana demanded, as if she hadn't already spotted the beauty in the other row.

"Just checking for signs of trouble," Vince said.

"You're as big a liar as El Duque."

"And you're not my girlfriend."

Gitana turned away with a huff as the lights dimmed and El Duque strode into the bright glare of a spotlight.

While Ozone clapped enthusiastically, Vince tried again to catch the blonde's attention. She mouthed some words he couldn't make out in the darkened auditorium but his mind reeled at the possibilities.

Gitana poked him again. "Quit making a fool of yourself over that dumb little hussie."

Vince waved her off. "Pay attention to the speech or something."

Sullenly, she sidled up to Ozone, but he was having none of her antics either, entranced as he was by El Duque's words about what he would do for city infrastructure.

Vince was deep in flirtation with the blonde, oblivious to Gitana's occasional kick to his ankles when a scuffle at the back of the auditorium drew his attention. He turned around his seat and muttered a curse.

The blonde waved a scrap of paper at him as he exited the row. He shoved it in his pocket with grin and a thank you, and ran up the aisle, followed closely by a furious Gitana. They arrived at the auditorium doors just in time to see Fausto being dragged outside by guards.

Vince gave chase. "It's okay, man," he told the guards. "Whatever he did, he won't cause any more trouble. Just hand him over to me and it'll all be cool."

"Who are you?" one of the guards asked.

"A friend of his."

"Well, you can bail your friend out of jail in the morning. We don't allow fighting at political functions."

Fausto looked away in embarrassment as the guards dragged him away.

"I could kill that motherfucker," Vince muttered.

"Which one?" Gitana asked.

"All of them. I should've never let Fausto out of my sight. He's been jonesing for a fight ever since that deal with the Diablos fell through." He looked around. "Where's Ozone?"

"Still listening to El Duque."

"Any sign of Speedball?"

Gitana shrugged and took his arm. "Let's go get a drink."

Vince sighed. "That's one of the best ideas I've heard all night."

As they walked the crumbling streets to the nearest bar, Vince didn't notice Gitana's fingers slip into his jacket pocket and remove a piece of paper. "So what did you think of El Duque's speech?"

"What?" He frowned and looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. "Oh yeah, the speech. It was nothing much."

They were at the bar now and Vince held open the door for her. Gitana met his eyes with a soulful look, crumpled the paper unobtrusively and dropped it into the muck outside the building.

Excerpt: Vince and the Riot

2011-10-12T10:50:00.003-05:00

NOTE: Since Alice Audrey has kindly given a shout-out to Vince at The Serialists, I've posted an outtake about him from Diana's Diary (Day 31 if you want to read more).

In the excerpt below, Diana is at the hospital with Vince's sister Sara while a riot sweeps the city. Vince went to see what he could get out of the chaos but promised he would return at eight o'clock to walk Sara home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eight-thirty, and we tried not to let on what we were feeling. I kept reading, no longer with any idea what words were coming out of my mouth. Sara fidgeted, jumped out of her chair, looked out the window and sat back down, only to start squirming again. We were both at about the limits of our endurance, each afraid to meet each others’ eyes and ask the question on our minds, when we heard new footsteps in the hallway.

We looked up together as Vince strode in, grimy and smelling of smoke. Sara flung her arms around his neck.

“Here,” he said, handing her a bag. “I got you some stuff.”

Her shoulders slumped, and all her previous worry and sympathy vanished. “Why did you do that? I told you—”

“Let me take you home, and if you still want to fuss at me, you can do it there.”

He looked at me. “Come on, let’s take my ungrateful sister home.”

The dormitory was so close I wondered if Vince’s concern wasn’t a little excessive, but when we got outside and I saw the people camped in rings around the hospital, I understood. These people had been burnt out of their homes with nothing in the world but what they could carry on their backs or in a bag. Even though there was extra hospital security tonight, some of the characters in the crowd looked tough and wily. Vince and I kept our hands on our weapons and moved Sara quickly through the crowd to the door of her building.

“Want to come up?” she said.

“No, you look tired.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Someone will be here tomorrow to walk you to work. Don’t go alone, all right?”

She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You worry too much, but okay.”

After she went inside, Vince gave a jerk of his head. “I need a drink. Want to come?”

We went to a bar he knew—a dark, smoky place lit by candles and oil lamps. It was populated by hardened street types in leather and expensive-looking jewelry that they guarded with the guns and knives on their hips. Vince ordered us some vodka and we took our glasses to a corner table. I sipped my drink, watching the people in the room and waiting for Vince to speak.

“It was hell,” he finally said, as if I had asked a question only a moment ago, and out loud.

“Were any of our people hurt?”

“No, and we did really well.” He took a big gulp of his vodka. “But whenever ordinary civilians get mixed up in these things. . .”

I knew exactly what he was talking about. “It’s one thing to see dead and wounded combatants, but when it’s old men, women and kids. . .”

“There’s some really sick motherfuckers in this world, you know that?” He slammed back the rest of his drink, waved a waitress over and ordered another one. “No, wait. Bring two more. Let's not waste time.”

We talked for what seemed a long time. I tried not to pry, and gradually the whole ugly story came out. “We scored pretty good off the deal,” he finally said.

I wasn’t sure it was anything to brag about, but someone would’ve ended up with the goods and I suppose it might as well be Vince and his gang as anyone else. Better than everything ending up in the hands of the people who started all the trouble, at least.

“What are you going to do with it all?” I asked.

“Piss it away drinking and gambling. Give some of it away in impulsive gifts and charity. If there’s anything left over, I'll buy a little food and maybe pay off a creditor or two.” He grabbed my hand across the table. “I’ve got a present for you. Finish your drink, and we’ll go someplace I can give it to you without everyone watching.”

You can find more stories about Vince by following the tag below or by reading Diana's Diary, Days 22-33 under January: Urban Adventures

Excerpt: Illusions

2011-10-01T22:49:00.001-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This excerpt from Tin Soldier has been edited for clarity and to help it work as a piece of standalone flash fiction. It is posted here for Sunday Scribblings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I'm grateful for all his help,” Carina confessed as she collapsed into a chair in the sitting room of the hotel suite. “But Alvi tires me sometimes.”

Donovan watched her cautiously. Alvi the peddler had been a friend of Carina's family for many years. Now that she was a widow, he hoped to be something more. Donovan wondered if she had noticed.

“Thank you coming to town with me and putting up with all this. I’ve been a lot of trouble.”

“You’ve been no trouble at all.” Donovan wandered over to the stack of packages from the day's shopping and pulled out a bottle of scotch.

Carina sat up. “Can I have some? Just a little to help me sleep.”

Donovan poured a generous amount for her and then some for himself. Now that the military funeral was over and supplies purchased for the valley farm Carina shared with her sister, Donovan felt weary to the bone. Maybe it wouldn’t take long to get their packages staged by the door. He could hire someone to pack the wagon in the morning and help with the coffin that was the main purpose of their errand.

“You shouldn’t lie to me,” Carina said, startling him out of his reverie.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been nothing but trouble.”

“It’s not your fault. You're still grieving.”

She frowned over her drink. “That's no reason for you to lie. Alvi lies. I’m not sure why, but he does. It depresses me to only get more lies from you.”

“What does Alvi lie to you about?”

“You tell me.”

Their eyes met. “He has to lie," Donovan finally said. "He’s a government informer. The peddling is just a cover.”

Carina nodded, as if he were confirming what she had already suspected. “I should’ve realized long ago.”

“I don’t think there’s any malice in it. He gives a lot of disinformation. He’s even helped people escape to the Underground.”

“So he plays both ends against the middle.”

“Whatever his faults, his feelings for you are sincere. He'd do anything for you.”

“Except take no for an answer.”

Donovan frowned. Carina had only learned the news of her husband's death a few weeks ago. Had Alvi proposed so quickly? What did it mean for Donovan's own prospects with her if he had?

Carina tossed back the rest of her scotch and stood up. “I’m going to pack my things and get ready for bed. Thanks for the drink.”

After she left, Donovan staged his purchases near the door, then poured himself another drink and went into the bedroom. He found Carina in her nightgown, standing in front of her empty luggage. Clothes and other items were spread across the bed in disarray and there was an expression of confusion on her face. “Do you need any help?” he asked.

“No, it’s just. . .” She shook her head and smiled at her own folly. “How hard can this be, right?” She began picking things up and stuffing them in a bag. “It's been so hard to get started on anything since I found out...you know. Anything I try to do, I’m afraid I’ll do it wrong, and I won’t have another chance. Every decision feels irrevocable.”

“I don’t think how you pack is going to make much of a difference,” Donovan said. “But if you don’t leave out something to wear tomorrow, you’re going to find yourself irrevocably having to unpack again.”

Carina sat on the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. “I think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Lost your illusions, more like.”

“I guess I had a lot of them to lose.” She searched his face earnestly. “Isn’t anything as it seems?”

“I’ve never thought so.”

“I liked my illusions.”

Donovan fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a blue velvet box and handed it to her.

The necklace seemed to glow with an inner light in its nest of white satin. Carina’s breath caught and she looked up at Donovan in confusion. “This must’ve cost a fortune.”

“Not really.”

“You didn’t steal it, did you?”

“No.”

“But you probably stole to pay for it.” She hesitated, as if she would give it back. “I can’t wear blue any more - it was my husband's color.”

Donovan took the necklace and held it up so she could see the full effect of the light shining through the gems, then he clasped it around her neck. “Of course you can wear it. It’s the color of your illusions.”

She reached a hand to her collarbone and touched the cool stones. Without meaning to, she smiled. When she looked at Donovan again, a little of the old warmth and humor lit her eyes. “I guess there’s no harm in wearing a reminder of how deluded I can be.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Want more? Tin Soldier is free and online.

Flash Fiction: Bad Patient

2011-08-03T18:12:00.000-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sara glanced at the clock and sighed. Four hours since the last round of medication; time to dose him again. She set the book aside, got up off the sofa and went into the next room. Her brother Vince lay on the bed, pale and sweating. "Time for your meds," she said in her most chipper nurse's tones.

"Not again." He turned away. "Why do you keep torturing me?"

"Because it's the only way you're going to get better." She took his chin in her hand and tried to force a mixture of vitamins and antibiotics down his throat.

Vince pushed her away. "Why can't you give me the good stuff? You know - morphine or something?"

Although it was true that Vince's injuries would've merited pain-killers had he gone to the hospital instead of to her apartment, Sara knew better than to risk it. Vince had enemies, and clouding his mind with narcotics could get them both killed. "It's too hard to sneak opiates out of the hospital," she lied. "If I lose my job, then what? You know what they say: Avoid the appearance of evil."

"There's other hospitals you can work at. Besides, you're too smart to get caught."

"It hardly matters, since here we are." With an air of brisk efficiency, she pulled back the blanket and unwrapped his bandages, inspecting each injury for signs of infection. One wound in particular troubled her. "This one goes deep," she told him as she frowned over an abdominal laceration. "If it pierced your liver, you could need more care than I can provide. You should--"

"No. No hospitals." Vince shook his head. "The cops will be looking for me there."

"They might look for you here too."

"But you'll warn me. You'll get me out in time." He turned appealing eyes on her. "You wouldn't let El Duque's men get me, would you?"

It was a rhetorical question. Of course she would do anything to protect her brother from the city's dictatorial government. He was her last living relative, and it was because of him that she had been able to go to nursing school and establish herself in a career that would guarantee her an honest living for the rest of her life. She owed Vince everything, except, perhaps, a little patience. She brought the vial of herbs and medicine back to his lips. "Drink this and your secrets are safe with me."

Their eyes locked, and with reluctance, Vince choked the medicine down.

"You can be a bitch sometimes," he muttered.

Sara suppressed a smile. "I love you too, brother."

Flash Fiction Extra: Waiting Game

2011-06-30T09:08:00.000-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had come here hoping to bump into her, but no such luck so far. Her good looks and elusive style transfixed him the last time she saw her here with her long legs, pouty lips and a Glock at her hip with her name spelled out on the handle in what looked like diamonds. She wasn't the sort to knuckle under to someone else's demands. Too bad for her. Vince hoped he would catch up with her before Quix from the Catorces did. Poaching on an established gang leader's turf could only lead to trouble, and although Vince liked to brag that he wasn't sentimental, he had a certain admiration for pretty girls who could hold their own in a fight. If the Catorces jumped her, it would be a fight she wouldn't win alone. Vince sighed and leaned against the wall...waiting.

Flash Fiction Interlude: Leap of Faith

2010-08-29T13:57:00.017-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written for Sunday Scribblings. Coyote and Macy are characters in the Will and Diana series, which you can find out more about in the sidebar or by following the tags.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coyote ran a hand along the curve of Macy's hip and she stiffened. "Come on. Why do you never let me hold you afterward?"

"Just pay me so I can leave."

The money was in the pocket of his pants, flung somewhere in the tent, but Coyote wasn't ready to search. "Why don't you believe me when I say I like you for you and not just for this?"

Macy rolled over and looked at him. "Maybe because I've heard it before?"

"I'm not like the others."

"No, but everyone knows you're the biggest prankster in the entire Unitas movement. You're unreliable. If you weren't so good at derailing enemy trains, you'd have been kicked out a long time ago."

Coyote watched her roll over again so her back was facing him. "What does that have to do with this? Just because I like a good joke now and then doesn't mean I'd play one on you. Have I ever made you look like a fool?"

Macy didn't answer.

"You know, sometimes you have trust a little."

Macy sat up and pulled the blanket to cover her nakedness, as if Coyote, and most of the boys in camp hadn't been to bed with her. "I did that once, and look what it got me. Or didn't anyone tell you?"

"I heard what Boeing did." Coyote sat up, too. "It was a crappy thing for him to do, leading you on like that. And the whole business with the knitting needle..." he shuddered. "I don't think it was right, but I understand why you did it. You were scared."

Macy nodded.

"I would never abandon you, or say it wasn't my kid."

"I can't have kids any more, anyway."

"That's okay, too. More fun for us, right?"

Macy looked away. "Fun. That's all you guys think about. Just pay me, okay?"

With a sigh, Coyote got out from under the blanket and rummaged among the clutter for his pants. He found the silver coins and placed them on the bedroll where she could see them. "Go on, then."

She took the coins and began putting her clothes on.

"I thought we were friends, you know. You were one of the first ones to really believe me about the voices, and you're the only one in this entire unit who doesn't think I'm crazy."

Macy worked a shrug into her movements as she pulled on a sweater.

"You took up for me when the others were being jerks. That means something to me."

She continued dressing in silence.

Coyote went to her side of the tent and put his hands on her shoulders. "Are you listening to me?"

Macy turned her face away. "Just let me get dressed. I'm supposed to help Paloma cook dinner."

"Fine." He watched her, but made no move to put his own clothes on. Just as she was about to go, he stopped her. "You may not have faith in me, but I have faith in you."

Coyote moved away so she could leave, but instead she sank back onto his bedroll, buried her face in the pillow and cried.

Flash Fiction Interlude: Sense of Direction

2010-08-26T23:22:00.013-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written for Thursday Tales and will be cross-posted later this week at Weekend Writer's Retreat.. It's also part of the Will and Diana series, which you can find out more about in the sidebar or by following the tags.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This isn’t it.” Will reined in and the two young men behind him did the same.

The lead rider, Aguilero, sneezed and huddled deeper in his jacket.

Boeing glared. “You’ve gotten us lost." He turned to Will. “I told you we shouldn’t leave the tracking to a guy who’s sick.” He waved his arm in a gesture that took in the darkening landscape and the distant hulk of an abandoned barn. “No way will we make it back to camp tonight. We don’t even know where we are.”

Coyote tightened the reins and tried to calm his fidgety horse. “I know where we are.”

“Shut up, weirdo.”

Will shook his head. “No, you shut up, Boeing. This isn’t getting us anywhere.” He moved his horse a little closer to Aguilero’s. “What do you think?”

Aguilero sniffled and shrugged. “I think I’ve got a fever.”

“Isn’t that just fucking great,” Boeing muttered.

Will turned on him. “He’s our best tracker. It’s not his fault he’s sick.” He looked at Aguilero and in a softer voice added, “I wish you’d told us it was this bad.” He pondered the darkening landscape. “We’ll camp in that barn, if it’s stable enough.”

As they walked their horses toward the barn, Will fell in beside Coyote, who was looking around with his usual air of casual curiosity. “I'd hoped we would make it back tonight.”

Coyote nodded in understanding. “Our girls can handle it.”

“Handle what?” Will’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Not sure, but don’t worry. It’s fine, and we’re not far from base. We’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Can we get there tonight?” Will looked ready to ride off in whatever direction Coyote might suggest.

A few paces behind, Boeing had been listening. “Don’t tell me you believe everything Psychic Wonderboy says.”

Coyote flashed him a look. “How often have I been wrong?”

“The problem isn’t that you’re wrong,” Boeing admitted. “It’s that you’re vague, and those voices in your head tend to leave out critical information.”

With a twitch of his shoulders, Coyote acknowledged Boeing’s point. “We can’t get back tonight, anyway.” He glanced at the old barn with a devilish glint in his eye. “This will be fun.”

“Glad it’s all a game to you,” Boeing said, and went to lead his horse inside.

Will stopped and glanced at Coyote. “You’re sure we can’t make it back tonight, and that our girls are safe?”

“Safe? No. But like I said, they can handle it.” He clapped Will on the shoulder. “You worry too much.”

Will watched him go inside, then cast his eyes toward the evening sky once again. His gaze settled on the old weather vane, creaking in the wind. Useless thing. It could tell which way the wind blew, but not which direction one should go. But what could he do? Coyote was right. Their girlfriends were skilled and savvy fighters, just like they were. They could manage any problems that came up. And in the morning, Aguilero would lead them out of this place.

He would have to.

Photo by Leolajax

New Flash Fiction

2010-04-25T00:41:00.000-05:00

Another Steal Tomorrow flash, this one about The Twins: Stealing Dinner. The story contains no spoilers about the novel and it has a few links to additional information, where appropriate. There are other stories about them in the sidebar of the Steal Tomorrow site.

Be sure to check out the other offerings this week at Sunday Scribblings!

New Steal Tomorrow Flash

2010-04-22T00:06:00.002-05:00

I have a new Steal Tomorrow story up, an origins story about Jay Gallard. It contains no spoilers: Second Chances

This is a Three Word Wednesday offering, so be sure to check out the new Three Word Wednesday's site for more fun. If you're a writer and you haven't been participating in the weekly prompts, why not?

New Maelstrom Fiction

2010-04-18T10:36:00.001-05:00

New Maelstrom fiction: Feathered Friend

This is a Sunday Scribblings offering, so be sure to check out Sunday Scribblings for more fun. If you haven't been participating in a writing prompt site, why not? Join us!

Announcement!

2010-04-16T08:25:00.002-05:00

Hey, everyone, check out my contest-winning story at Every Day Fiction today! It's only 238 words, and long-time readers will be familiar with bad boy Vince, the main character.

There is also a blog interview where we talk about my writing at Flash Fiction Chronicles.

I've cross-posted this at my bunny blog and at my main author site, which I'm going to be transitioning to over the next few months.

New Steal Tomorrow Flash Fiction

2010-04-15T00:28:00.001-05:00

I have a new Steal Tomorrow story up. This one relates an incident that was alluded to in the novel, but it contains no spoilers: Preppies and Potatoes

This is a Three Word Wednesday offering, so be sure to check out Three Word Wednesday's site for more fun. If you're a writer and you haven't been participating in the weekly prompts, why not?

New Prompt Site: Thursday Tales

2010-04-10T01:10:00.004-05:00

Hey, peeps, there's a new weekly writing prompt site: Thursday Tales. Every Thursday they offer a picture and you have all week to write about it and post your link.

This week's pic inspired a Steal Tomorrow story: Darkened Lamps.

Go check out Thursday Tales, everyone, then write a Thursday tale of your own!

New Flash Fiction

2010-04-07T22:03:00.002-05:00

I haven't written about Bo for awhile, so here's a new Maelstrom fiction: Non-Standard Deviaton

And here's a new Steal Tomorrow story about Cassie and Leila: Unidentified

These are Three Word Wednesday offerings, so be sure to check out Three Word Wednesday's new site for more fun. If you're a writer and you haven't been participating in the weekly prompts, why not? It's easy, fun, and you'll get some great feedback, so join us!

Steal Tomorrow Flash Fiction - New!

2010-04-03T23:26:00.003-05:00

Another Steal Tomorrow flash, this one about Julilla:On Target

Julilla is one of my favorite characters. She tough, smart, and knows the meaning of girl power. If you want more, check out: Post-Pandemic Hoop Dreams.

Be sure to check out the other offerings this week at Sunday Scribblings!

New Maelstrom Fiction for Three Word Wednesday

2010-03-31T22:16:00.004-05:00

New Maelstrom fiction: Get Your Kicks On Route...666?

This is a Three Word Wednesday offering, so be sure to check out Three Word Wednesday for more fun!

New Steal Tomorrow Flash Fiction and Sunday Scribblings

2010-03-27T21:57:00.005-05:00

Another Steal Tomorrow flash, this one about May:Alchemy

Here's another May story, in case you want more: Ars Gratia Artis.

Be sure to check out the other offerings this week at Sunday Scribblings!

New Maelstrom Flash

2010-03-25T00:14:00.002-05:00

New Maelstrom fiction: Double Dog Dare

This is a Three Word Wednesday offering, so be sure to check out Three Word Wednesday for more fun!

New Steal Tomorrow Flash - Three Word Wednesday

2010-03-17T23:55:00.002-05:00

Another Steal Tomorrow flash. This one is about David, who I've come to understand better with time. He's not a good person, but time has made me more sympathetic than I used to be: Scavaged

Be sure to check out the other offerings this week at Three Word Wednesday!

New Flash Fiction

2010-03-14T00:15:00.002-06:00

From the Steal Tomorrow series: A Civilized Place

Be sure to check out other Sunday Scribblings offerings!

New Flash Fiction

2010-03-11T00:27:00.002-06:00

New flash on the Steal Tomorrow site: Photograph

Be sure to drop by Three Word Wednesday for more literary goodies!

Maelstrom Flash Fiction

2010-03-04T00:26:00.002-06:00

Latest is here: Coming Clean

And here are a couple of other recent ones, in case you missed them:

Djinn Dreams

Amperage

New Flash Fiction

2010-02-21T00:36:00.001-06:00

New Maelstrom story: When Pigs Fly

New Flash Fiction: Civic Duty

2010-02-17T23:48:00.001-06:00

New Three Word Wednesday post is here: Civic Duty. It's about 650 words and is part of the Steal Tomorrow series.

Be sure to visit Three Word Wednesday each week for stories, poems, personal essays, and other fun stuff!

Flash Fiction Extra: Toward a Philosophy of Ethics

2010-02-14T11:30:00.014-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Sunday Scribblings story features Vince Mott. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post. You can read my other Sunday Scribblings flash, Demon Ethics, at my Maelstrom site.
============================================

“You lying piece of shit.” Vince slammed the young man against the warehouse wall and shoved a knife against his throat. “Where is it? Tell me fast, and I won’t have to hurt you too much.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marco stammered. “You got paid.”

“Shorted.” Vince dug the point of his knife into Marco’s skin, just enough to make him cringe. “We had a deal.”

“But I got shorted, too,” he squeaked.

Vince was tempted to shove the blade right through the little bastard’s throat. Dumb kid, new to the scene. Vince had hesitated to take the job, but everyone had to start somewhere. “Your incompetence at closing your own deal doesn’t mean you get to screw the people you brought into it. You can pay up with cash, goods, or blood. Your choice.”

Marco was sweating now and his breath came in trembling gasps. “I don’t have it. But I’ll get it and I’ll pay you before the end of the week, I swear.”

Ballsy kid. Vince gave him that much. He dug in with his blade and opened up a gash that bled into the boy's collar. “Try again. Or do you want to feel how deep this knife can go?”

By now Marco was shaking so hard he threatened to impale himself on the knife and finish Vince’s job for him. “Desk drawer. Bottom right. Under the book.”

“Get it for me.” Vince grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the desk. He watched as Marco fumbled in the drawer, removing papers, rags, and a tattered copy of The Elements of Moral Philosophy, uncovering a small cache of whiskey bottles and coins.

“You can have it all. Just let me go.”

“No,” Vince said. “Give me what you owe me, and that’s enough.”

Marco's hands shook as he counted out the gold and silver coins. When Vince instructed him to switch out a bottle of whiskey for some of the silver, he nearly dropped the bottle, but finally Vince was satisfied. He put his knife away and drew his Glock, just to make sure the boy didn’t try anything stupid. “Nice doing business with you,” he said as he watched Marco put the items into a bag. “But we won’t be partnering again.”

Marco nodded.

“And by the way….”

“What?”

Vince gestured with his gun toward the book. “Since you aren’t bright enough to figure it out for yourself, read that before you try to make a deal with anyone else.”

“I don't understand.”

Suppressing a sigh, Vince took the bag and made to leave. Poor kid. There would probably be a funeral for him soon. “I thought not.”

New Maelstrom Flash Fiction

2010-02-14T10:36:00.001-06:00

New flash fiction at the Maelstrom site. Demon Ethics

Flash Fiction: On Earth As In Heaven

2010-02-11T00:29:00.001-06:00

This is another one in my Steal Tomorrow series. It's also a Three Word Wednesday post:

On Earth As In Heaven

New Flash Fiction

2010-02-04T12:26:00.001-06:00

This one is part of the Steal Tomorrow series, which I'm starting to work on again. This is also a Three Word Wednesday post.

Practical Nurse

Flash Fiction Extra: The Beacon

2010-01-27T23:32:00.015-06:00

No one was sure what the fires meant. They had appeared three nights ago at dusk, bright like stars against the black hulk of the mountain, and they had burned through the night until dawn. The city was rife with rumors, and in the decaying warehouse, speculation among Vince's gang members grew.

“It’s a signal,” Speedball said as he sharpened a knife. “There’s going to be an attack.”

“Wishful thinking,” Gitana sneered. “You’d love it if we got into another big fight.”

“Okay, glamour-girl, what’s your explanation?”

“Travelers. Ordinary campers cooking their food.”

“Who’s talking bullshit now? Campers don’t light fires that big. Those are beacons. They mean something.”

Ozone looked up from trying to find a station on the radio. “I heard it’s some kind of nativist thing. One of the tribes is trying to revive some old tradition for how they grieve their dead.”

Gitana shook her head in disgust. “Leave it to you to come up with the most absurd explanation imaginable." She looked around. "Vince! We know you’re listening. Come out here and settle this!”

Vince stepped out of his office. He had heard every word of his crew's conversation, and was consumed with concerns of his own.

“So what are all those fires about?” Gitana said. “War, ancient mythology, or just refugees trying to stay warm?”

“If it was refugees, El Duque would’ve done something to stop the rumors by now.” Vince pulled up a rickety chair. “And I don’t buy the crap that it’s natives lighting signal fires for the spirits of their kindred. Some people will believe anything.”

With a hurt expression, Ozone turned back to his radio.

Speedball brandished his knife with satisfaction. “That leaves war. We’ll get some goods out of this.”

Vince wasn’t so sure the beacons were a sign of war, either. If someone wanted to attack a stronghold like this city, why advertise the fact? “Actually, I’m a little worried it may be a sign of peace — one of the regional leaders coming to talk with El Duque and cut a deal.”

“Peace would be nice,” Ozone mumbled.

Speedball turned on him. “Peace would be the worst thing imaginable, dumbass. How the hell would we make a living?”

Vince nodded in silent agreement. Too much law and order, and he’d have to shut his little protection racket down. Either that, or go to prison. He had no other skills, even though his sister had pestered him for years to apprentice himself to someone or enter a legitimate job training program. Somehow he didn’t see himself as a shopkeeper or an accountant. This world, dirty and chaotic though it may be, suited him fine.

“Well, whatever it is,” he said, “I just hope it’s not a treaty. Peace would be my worst nightmare.”

Ozone had found a radio station and waved a hand for silence. “They’re talking about the beacons. And something about a curfew.”

“So that’s the game, is it?” Vince stood up. “How much you guys want to bet El Duque ordered those fires so everyone would be scared and he could crack down?”

Speedball passed his knife from hand to hand. “I don’t believe in curfews. Last guy who tried to tell me when to get off the street—”

“We all remember,” Vince said. “And next time you kill a government type without orders, you’re out.” He stood and stretched. “But curfews don’t mean anything in our line of work, and we have a job tonight. Ozone, turn off that stupid radio.”

“But they’re saying—”

“More lies, I’ll bet. Turn it off. The only thing those fires signify is that people will get excited over any little thing.” He turned and headed back to his office. “Get your weapons ready,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ve got work to do.”

Flash Fiction Extra: No One's Yes-Man

2010-01-23T22:22:00.011-06:00

“Forget it, man. No.”

Calixto set down his glass and stared. “You’re kidding.”

Vince shook his head of thick black hair and a gold earring flashed in the dim light of the pub. He took a gulp of his whiskey and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You heard me.”

“But…” Calixto leaned across the table. “…the payoff will be huge. Everyone knows you’re a money-whore. Quit playing around.”

“There are some things I just won’t do, no matter how good the money. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Do you want all the details of your notorious career, or should I just hit the highlights?”

Vince tossed off the rest of his drink and looked around for the waitress, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Running drugs and guns is one thing, but what you’re asking is totally different. I have standards.”

“Now I know you’re lying.” Calixto sucked down the rest of his whiskey, then shoved the glass aside with a black-gloved hand. “If it’s the percentage that’s bothering you, just say so. You’ll be putting your guys at more risk than usual, so how about an extra five percent? Ten?”

“I’m telling you. It’s the deal itself that’s the problem, not the money.”

Calixto sat back and pondered. “There’s got to be some way to get you on board. Your folks are the only ones I would trust for this kind of thing, and it’ll be worth your while.”

Vince stood up and rested both hands on the table, leaning over Calixto with an ugly light in his eyes. “I gave you my answer and it’s final. Do you have any idea how many of the world’s problems are caused by people who say yes when they should say no?”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode across the barroom and out onto the street. The streetlights weren’t working again, but that was no matter. Nothing had been right since El Duque came to power. Not that things had ever been right in Vince's lifetime.

He rested a hand on the handle of his Glock and felt secure, then tipped his head back and gazed at panorama of stars. There were times when “no” was the only right answer. Because there was hell to pay when the answer was always yes.

Flash Fiction Extra: Cure

2010-01-20T22:23:00.017-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott and his sister Sara. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.

*****

Vince helped Sara sit up and held a steaming cup to her lips. “Drink this.”

She tried to obey, but the taste nearly made her gag. “What the hell is it?”

“Chicken broth. With garlic and green chili.”

Sara looked at him askance.

“And a measure of whiskey.”

“What else?”

“Just some medicine I found in one of your cabinets. I figured since you’re a nurse, it must be useful or you wouldn’t have it.”

Sara lay back among the pillows. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? It’s just a cold. Quit fussing over me.”

“No way.” Vince set the cup on the edge of a small table where it teetered before he pushed it to a more stable place next to a book. “Mom and Dad started out with ‘just a cold’ and look what it got them.”

“A doctor checked me out before they sent me home from the hospital. Do you really think—”

The look in his eyes brought her up short. Vince kept girls and fellow gang members at arm’s length and felt little sympathy for the victims of his criminal enterprises, but he’d fight the devil to keep from losing his last remaining family member. “You know what would really be good?”

Vince leaned forward with the eagerness of a child.

“Orange juice.”

“What?”

“I know it’s out of season…hard to find and expensive, but it’s the ideal thing for getting rid of a cold.”

Vince stood up, nearly knocking his chair over in his enthusiasm. “If there’s any in the city, you’ll have it. I’ll ask my sources and call in a few favors.”

Sara waited while he puttered around her tiny apartment, making sure she had everything she needed. When he finally left, she breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t likely to find orange juice anywhere. Transport from other regions of the former United States was expensive and uncertain. If he did find some, he’d probably have to fight for it, but that was okay. It would keep him busy and make him feel like he had done something special. That was all that mattered.

She sneezed and reached for a handkerchief. The cold was just an ordinary cold. With or without orange juice and her brother's strange concoctions, it would take care of itself.

Flash Fiction Extra: These Times

2010-01-18T11:28:00.014-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vince slammed back the rest of his drink, then put the glass and bottle of purported Canadian Club away. He didn’t bother locking his office as he left, since the members of his gang knew better than to touch his stuff. The last one to do it was living on the streets now, missing a few teeth and fingers, and bearing some interesting scars.

The easiest way to get to the site of tonight’s deal was via the motorcycle he had stolen a few weeks ago, but he didn’t want to call attention to himself, so he walked until he found a bicycle rickshaw driver looking for a fare. Vince gave an address, then sat back and pondered while the rickshaw bounced over the pitted roads of the city. He wished the government would tear up the old asphalt and lay down stones or something. Too many people still clung to the notion that the old days of prosperity would return if only new cheap sources of oil were found and the government would put down all the infighting.

And while they were dreaming, perhaps they’d like an Easter Bunny, too. Vince smiled to himself. Young realists like himself were the future of this town.

The driver dropped him off in front of a taqueria that Vince knew to be a front for a drug operation. He tipped the driver, waited a few minutes, then set off for the address he had committed to memory.

When he got to the bullet-scarred building, he circled it, noting all possible ways in and out, and any obstacles that could trip a guy up or obscure a lookout’s point of view. Then he bought a kebab of questionable meat from a nearby street vendor, sat on a shop step and watched his target for a few minutes. After he had determined the place wasn’t under surveillance, he gave the rest of the meat to a stray dog and found his way into the building, his Glock drawn and ready.

Although most of the windows were boarded up, enough dusty light filtered in that he could see the hulking shapes of old display cabinets, derelict computers and piles of rags. There was nothing here worth stealing, although that wouldn’t be true later tonight. After his eyes adjusted, Vince started making his way around the room, making note of obstacles and pitfalls, just as he had outside.

He was dragging a dead electrical line out of a traffic path when a small sound caught his attention. He pointed his Glock. “Get over here, hands up, motherfucker.”

A hunched shape separated itself from the shadows. “I don’t want no trouble.”

Vince assessed: white hair, wild matted beard, filthy clothes. Even from this distance the man reeked. “You’re going to have to find another place for tonight, grandpa.”

“But this is my shop.”

“The whole city is full of empty shops. Find another.” Vince dug in his pocket for some coins. “It’s for your own good.”

“You don’t understand. My father opened this place when the building was brand new.” The man waved a trembling hand. “The walls were clean and white then, with red trim. The counters held beautiful new things for sale – electronic gadgets I bet you’ve never in your life seen in operation.”

Vince shrugged. “It was all wasteful and ridiculous. Now take this money, buy yourself a meal and find another building to squat in for a few days.”

“No. I took this place over from my father when he died. It was hard to find new things to sell, but I learned how to repair old electronics. I would clean them up and make them work like new.” He pulled up a rickety chair and sat down. “Then I got drafted and sent to fight in the resource wars. I came home to civil war. I couldn’t re-open my business; I got gassed overseas and my hands shook too bad from nerve damage to repair anything. I had no home, and my family had scattered. I had this place, though. It’s still mine, and if you want me out of here, you’ll have to shoot me.”

Vince gazed at the man for a long time before speaking. “The old days,” he finally said, “before the wars and all that…was it really as good as they say?”

“It was a lot cleaner, and a person was mostly safe as long as he minded his own business. We had fancier toys, but life is hard no matter when you live it, son. It’s only in our own heads that some other time or place is better.”

Vince nodded and put his gun away. The coins he had dug out of his pocket were still in his hand and he laid them on a grimy counter. “There’s going to be a little business operation going on tonight. Someone else chose this spot and I can’t change it. Make yourself scarce, don’t interfere, and you’ll make out all right.”

“And what about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you make out all right? You seem like the sort that goes looking for trouble.”

Vince laughed. “No, old man, trouble found me. I’m just trying to make the best of things. Like you say, it’s only in our imagination that there’s anyplace better.”

Flash Fiction Extra: Good Deeds

2010-01-13T23:57:00.007-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott and his sister Sara, two of the characters from My New-Found Land. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.

It had taken a bit of doing to get the medicines the doctor ordered, but Sara was nothing if not dedicated. She gave up her lunch hour to go to the other floors and scour the cabinets, and even asked at individual offices in her zeal, offering to barter. Now if she hurried, she might still have enough time to go on the roof and eat her sandwich, up high where it was safe and she could look over the wreck of the city and imagine what it must have been like in her parents’ and grandparents’ day.

She stepped into the patient’s room, then stopped with a jolt. A man stood over the unresponsive girl’s bed, his dirty fatigues and gaudy jewelry marking him as a local tough, one of thousands that roamed the streets in loosely organized gangs, looking for quick payoffs. Sara watched him place a fluffy stuffed rabbit in the crook of the child's arm and tie a satin ribbon around her wrist.

“Vince, what are you doing here?”

The man straightened up with a guilty look and shook his black hair out of his eyes. “You’re supposed to be on your lunch break.”

“And you’re supposed to be guarding a gun delivery, looting abandoned houses, or whatever illegal things it is you do.” She motioned him away from the bed so she could check the child’s vitals. “Are you the one that brought the charm bracelet yesterday? And the duck the day before?”

“Maybe.” Vince shoved his hands in his pockets. “Are you one of El Duque’s informants now? Is it a crime to give stuff to a sick kid?”

“No need to get defensive. It’s just kind of funny this girl has been here almost a week and you never told me you knew her.” A sudden suspicion gripped her. “Don’t tell me she’s yours. If I’m an aunt and you’ve been hiding it from me, I swear, I’ll—”

Vince held up a hand. “It’s not like that. Jesus.”

“With all the girls you’ve had, it wouldn’t have surprised me. So how do you know her?”

“Does it matter? I was just trying to do something nice.”

“She’s in a coma. She doesn’t know who’s being nice and who’s not.” She moved the stuffed rabbit and tucked the covers more tightly around the girl’s wasted body.

“Is she going to make it?”

“I don’t know.”

Sara worked in silence, feeling Vince’s gaze upon her.

“Got a few minutes?”

She glanced at her watch, one of the many things he had given her from his lootings over the years. His illegal activities had enabled her to go to nursing school and helped her survive on the meager and unreliable wages of the city hospital.

“Let’s go on the roof.”

Vince knew her well. She waited while he ran a gentle hand across the girl’s hair and murmured encouraging words. Then she took his arm and let him lead her to the staircase and out onto the flat roof of the hospital.

“World kind of sucks,” he said, as they gazed at the decrepit buildings below. “But we have to get what we can out of it.”

Sara thought of the little girl in the room below, dying needlessly. “I guess.”

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a flask. “Good stuff. Came all the way from Kentucky.” He pressed it into her hand and made her take it.

“About that girl…”

Vince shook his head. “Let a guy do a good deed now and then, okay?”

“You’re a regular Robin Hood.”

“You have your way, I have mine.”

Sara slipped the flask into one of the deep pockets of her nurse’s smock. It would come in handy when she was home in her small apartment, with night closing in. Vince had always been generous in his strange way.

“You ready to go back downstairs? I’ve got a deal to coordinate for tonight.”

“Sure.” She cast a final look out over the city, trying to imagine what it once was like before the collapse and the wars. Then she let Vince lead her to the door and back downstairs.

Flash Fiction Extra: Turkey Day

2009-11-26T01:13:00.011-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, one of the characters from My New-Found Land. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.

Vince looked at the dead bird in distaste. “This is some interesting contraband.”

“The stuff you asked me to get was hidden inside. The turkey is still pretty fresh—doesn’t stink yet or anything.” Ozone gave a little shrug. “I thought we could eat it.”

A few of the other gang members sat on the dusty concrete floor. Speedball had been obsessively disassembling and putting back together his guns for the past half hour, and was too jumped up on cocaine to care about food. But Fausto looked up from polishing a stolen watch with a dirty bandana, and fixed Ozone with a level look. “I'd kill my own mother for a decent meal right about now, but how do plan on cooking it, genius?”

“Roast it on a spit?”

Vince didn’t like building a fire inside the abandoned building his gang called home, but sometimes he would risk it if the weather was cold enough. Unnecessary cooking was a different matter, though. “I don’t know if the ventilation is good enough for anything like that.” He looked around. “Someone get Gitana.”

Ozone found her sleeping off a hangover in the next room, and he brought her in, sleepy and sullen. She perked up when she saw Vince and shoved her corkscrew curls off her face.

Vince tried to ignore her soulful look. Gitana was all right, but she wanted him to be exclusive and that just wasn’t going to happen. “We’ve got his turkey and we’re not sure the best way to go about cooking it.”

A scowl crept over her face. “You think just because I’m a girl, I can cook or something?”

“No, I think because you say you used to live on a farm, you can cook. Or something.”

“I suggested roasting it on a spit,” Ozone said.

Gitana shook her head. “Too hard to get it right. It would probably end up burnt on the outside and raw on the inside.”

“My sister has a hot plate, when the electricity is working,” Vince offered.

“And we’d do what, fry it?” Gitana squatted next to the turkey and poked it. “The most obvious thing would be to bake it an oven.”

Vince rolled his eyes. “I'll send someone right out to steal one.”

“We can make one.” Gitana picked the bird up and examined it thoughtfully. “All you need is bricks and mortar. Or mud. But a hole in the ground would work, too.” She stood up and wiped her hands on her pants. “Dig a hole, line it with rocks, and build a big fire. When the fire dies down, put the turkey in and cover with more heated rocks and some dirt. Wait a few hours, and you’ve got turkey dinner.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.” Vince jingled a few coins in his pocket as he pondered. “Panzón owes us a favor," he told Ozone. "Take it to his place and tell him to cook it for us. Remind him what we did to the guy who stole his delivery cart, and tell him this is how he can pay us back.”

Ozone stuffed the bird in a canvas bag.

“And tell him to bake us a few potatoes or yams, too. Whatever he’s got,” Vince added. “And we want some bread. Day-old is fine.” He rummaged in his pocket and took out a coin. “What the hell, get one of those pies he makes, too.” He handed Ozone the coin. “He’ll want to be paid for that, I’m sure.”

Ozone frowned in confusion. “Sure thing, boss, but what’s the occasion?”

“Pretty fancy dinner for just every day,” Gitana agreed.

Vince looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “Don’t need a reason to celebrate,” he said. “Life’s not easy, but we always find a way. Sometimes a guy just wants to give thanks for what he’s got.”

Flash Fiction Interlude: God's Work

2009-11-18T23:45:00.007-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This Three Word Wednesday story features Vince Mott, one of the characters from My New-Found Land. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.

“Looks like this is it, boss.”

Vince gazed up at the war-scarred building in dismay. “Can’t be. No fucking way.” He looked around, but saw no other likely buildings. “Maybe it’s on the next block.”

“I’ve been counting since the last place with a sign,” Ozone said. He gave a little shrug.

A few feet away, Speedball darted glances up and down the street as he fondled his Kalashnikov. Seeing nothing to hold his interest, he took aim at a pigeon on the bell tower. “So it’s a church. Big deal.”

“It is a big deal. And don’t go shooting the damn birds, okay?”

Speedball lowered his weapon. “Just because you’re superstitious doesn’t mean I am.”

“I’m not superstitious. I don’t even believe in God, you motherfucker. It’s just—” Vince glanced at the carved wooden doors, pock-marked with gunfire, and the stained glass windows, shattered in some places but still suggestive of peace and beauty. “It’s not cool to do the kind of work we do at a church. That’s all. Now go check that this place is clear.”

While Speedball walked the perimeter, weapon at the ready, Ozone lingered, trying to be philosophical. “It’s not like anyone uses this church any more. I bet they haven’t had a holy communion, or whatever they used to do here, since the Resource Wars. The whole neighborhood’s a wasteland.”

“Exactly. Those bastards could’ve picked anyplace to do this, so why here?”

“That’s Quix for you. No respect for the past.”

Vince rubbed the blue tattoo running in a stripe across his left cheek. “Tell the others it’s okay to bring the cart.”

After Ozone left, Vince did a quick check of the premises. Not that he didn’t trust Speedball – the guy was loyal, in spite of being about as sane as a rabid raccoon. The problem was that he couldn’t stay away from the substances that gave him his code name, and a drug runner with an addiction was always bad news.

It was hard to find good help in a post-apocalyptic city.

Satisfied that the place was secure, except for the pigeons Speedball was aiming at again, Vince found a spot at the front of the church where he could lean in phony nonchalance against a pole. Once again, he cursed Quix for setting the rendezvous at a church. The choice of location had been no accident; Quix never missed an opportunity to gain a psychological edge. But what did he want?

Ten minutes later, Quix arrived, lean and sallow, with locks of oily red hair poking out from beneath the brim of his leather hat. He was flanked by bodyguards, but Vince knew from experience that they were mostly for show. The mean-looking girl with the Glock on her hip and knot of tangled curls hanging down her back wasn’t a fighter at all, except in bed. Vince hadn’t particularly minded losing her to a rival, since there were prettier girls who could show a guy a good time and still go out on assignment and pick off a few enemies.

Vince walked casually in Quix’s direction. Speedball hurried to join him, and Vince was pleased to see a look of fear flit across Quix’s face. Having a loose cannon like Speedball on one’s team had its advantages.

Quix adopted a casual expression. “Glad you could make it. Nice weather we’re having.”

“No bullshit, you motherfucker.” Vince rested a hand on his .45. “You know I don’t cut deals in churches. It’s obscene.”

“Oh, come on – we’re doing God’s work. We’re offering escape and peace of mind in troubled times.”

“Yeah, whatever. It’s all business to me. What’ve you got, where’s it going, and what’s my cut?”

Quix glanced at Speedball, then at his own guards. He turned his eyes back to Vince and gave a little jerk of his chin. “Let’s go inside and talk like civilized folks.”

“I’m not civilized, and I know for damn sure you’re not.” Nevertheless, Vince led the way to the church steps and paused with his hand on one of the brass door handles. The heavy oak door was ornately carved with boats and apple trees, lions and lambs. He didn’t know what even half of it meant. Those old church stories were things grandparents and people in the villages remembered. Urban youth had other priorities.

But believer or no, the scenes unsettled him, and as Vince pulled open the door to the yawning dusty space within, he made a little promise to himself. He would take some of the profit off this deal and give it to his sister, who worked as a nurse in the wreckage of downtown. He would tell her to donate it to the fund for indigent patients. And maybe the god of this small church, who surely didn’t appreciate his house being abused this way, would be appeased.

Three Word Wednesday: Hallow's Eve

2009-10-28T23:43:00.004-05:00

It's been awhile since I've posted here. I've been pretty busy at the Maelstrom site, though, so if you haven't been keeping up, there's lots of good stuff over there, and more to come!

Here's a Three Word Wednesday poem that didn't really fit on any of my other blogs, though.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Hallow's Eve

Gloom incubates in brooding memory,
bitter winds strip vanity from the day.
Musty smell of earth as summer rots,
and sunshine dreams turn autumn nightmare.

Disguise yourself with bones and rags;
salvation lies in masquerade.
The veil grows thin as winter comes.
Dark spirits walk tonight.

Maelstrom Chapter Posted

2009-02-23T10:29:00.003-06:00

Just an FYI that the First Chapter of Maelstrom is up!

Sorry for the lack of posts here recently, but I've been writing a lot of content for the Maelstrom site, desigining a chapbook, and doing other writerly things. I'm also starting to plot a sequel to Maelstrom, which will take the band to Texas and a Dia de los Muertos festival.

Contest Announcement

2009-01-25T09:49:00.003-06:00

NOTE: This is cross-posted to my main blog.

I'm running a Valentine's contest at the Maelstrom site, and the winner will receive chocolate and a chance to guest blog or be the subject of a Maelstrom story. Head on over and check it out!

New Story: Once to Buy a Mattress

2009-01-08T01:02:00.003-06:00

I've posted a new Maelstrom story: Once to Buy a Mattress.

The website continues to take shape. I have a "review" in the works for one of Maelstrom's shows, and the original artwork will be ready in about a week. I'll probably leave the remaining formatting and link issues as they stand now until I have the art, in case I end up needing to do an overhaul to accommodate the art.

Comments and suggestions about the website are much appreciated!

Easier Than Expected

2009-01-02T10:40:00.002-06:00

The changes I wanted to make before opening the blog to all comers were easier than I thought! It's still a work in progress, but drop on by when you get a chance and share your feedback!

Maelstrom's Website

Coming Soon: Maelstrom Website

2009-01-02T08:30:00.003-06:00

Although I still haven't got my artwork, I've decided to open up the Maelstrom website for viewing sometime between now (Friday) and the end of the weekend. The driver for this is a new flash fiction piece I want to share and of course, my own impatience.

So...new website coming soon!

Done!

2008-12-26T10:57:00.003-06:00

I finished Maelstrom last night. Or rather, this morning.

Sometimes I get a crazy notion and just won't let go, and yesterday that notion was that I would finish, no matter what. It took until 4:00 am, but what the heck, I don't go back to work until January 5. In spite of my earlier worries that I was going to go wildly over my anticipated word count, the draft came in around 93K words. Whew!

I'm not too crazy about the final scenes of the book, but we all know the drill--you can edit crap but you can't edit a blank page. Well, no more blank pages. I'm on to the editing phase!

Overall, this is a pretty clean draft so I'll be needing beta readers sooner rather than later. More on that soon.

For today, I'm just loving my Christmas present to myself--a completed draft!

Maelstrom Excerpt: Christmas (conclusion)

2008-12-24T00:01:00.002-06:00

We conclude Ricky's Christmas with more than just a bit of holiday cheer.

“Your friends sure are a lively bunch,” his mother said, scanning his face in concern. “Why were you so mean to them? They obviously think highly of you.”

“The bass player kissed my wife,” Mike said darkly.

“Holiday spirit,” Ricky informed him. Then to his mother he said, “I wasn’t trying to be mean. It’s just that I told them not to go caroling. I don’t want them making any mistakes and getting bad publicity.”

“It seems like good publicity to me,” Joanne said, still glassy-eyed over her encounter with Bo. “We should go see their show.”

“Not on your life,” Mike said. He poured himself a drink. Then in an uncharacteristically generous move, he poured one for Ricky. “Cheers?”

Ricky touched his glass to Mike’s and tried to smile, but there was something in his brother's coolly appraising look that he didn’t like. Something had aroused his suspicion and it wasn’t just Bo giving Joanne a holiday kiss.

While the family settled in front of the TV to watch It’s a Wonderful Life, Ricky sipped his scotch and pondered. Where had the band gone next? Were they keeping out of trouble or were they about to ruin everything he had helped them build since summer? And why did Mike keep looking at him that way? Seeking a distraction, he opened his Christmas stocking. Most of what was inside was typical holiday fare—chocolate and peppermint candies, a snowman magnet for the refrigerator, a packet of almonds, and a silver Christmas coin like the ones Nevin had given the children. It was the envelope, though, that Ricky found most curious. He opened it to find a card with a reindeer and Santa on it, and the words, “Holiday Wishes.” He opened the card and what he found inside left him staring in shock.

Mike was watching him carefully. “What’s the matter, Ricky?”

Deep breaths. It had to be a joke, except the band didn’t kid around when it came to matters like this. More deep breaths.

“Love letter from your cute guitar player?”

“No,” Ricky said. “Just an ordinary Christmas card. And my holiday bonus check.”

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and very best wishes to you and yours, whatever you're celebrating this year!

Maelstrom Excerpt: Christmas (continued)

2008-12-23T00:01:00.006-06:00

Continuing with the Christmas excerpts from Maelstrom, Ricky confronts the band over having ignored his instructions not to go caroling.

Spurning his coat, Ricky chased them to the tour bus, which was painted for the occasion with red and white stripes like a peppermint stick. He ignored Calvin, who seemed impatient to get going, and cornered everyone against the bus door in the lightly falling snow. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Christmas cheer,” Kalila told him. “Really, Ricky, you should study up on your culture.”

“But I told you I didn’t want you to go caroling. Please tell me this was a special thing you did just for me.”

Vic sneered. “You’re not that special, human. We already did Jeff Truitt and a couple other music reporters.”

“And we have several more people on our list,” Kalila said. “So we need to get going.”

“What others? This is not acceptable.”

“Oh, Ricky.” Nevin shook his head sadly. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

“We’re conforming to human expectations of behavior,” Bo pointed out. “In case you didn’t notice, I could’ve banged your sister-in-law, but I didn’t. We have things completely under control.”

“That’s because we’ve got snacks on the bus,” Vic said. As if on cue, two blondes in Santa hats opened a window and leaned out, waving and shouting, “Merry Christmas!”

Ricky shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

Vic adjusted his scarf. “That’s what it’s all about. Excuse me, but one of these young ladies is type O and I need a little refreshment before our next stop.”

He shoved his way past and got onto the bus, with the others following suit. Nevin was the last to go, after giving Ricky a hug and wishing him a Merry Christmas. Ricky watched the tour bus head down the street, then went back into the house, shivering and in need of an egg nog with a lot of extra rum. In fact, screw the egg nog. Just the rum would do.

to be continued...

Maelstrom Excerpt: Christmas (continued)

2008-12-22T00:01:00.003-06:00

Continuing with the Christmas excerpts from Maelstrom, Ricky finds himself forced to play host to some unexpected guests.

Ricky sucked in his breath and debated what to do next. “Uh, yeah. This is that big client I was telling you about.” He started to make introductions, but his mother interrupted.

“Ricky, if these are your friends, you need to invite them in.”

“Yeah, it’s cold out,” Adela added, shivering.

He waved the band inside, but grabbed Kalila by the arm. He pulled her aside and muttered in her ear, “Count your blessings that you’re immortal. I could kill you right about now.”

Kalila patted his cheek with a mittened hand. “Merry Christmas to you too, Ricky.”

Ricky introduced everyone, more for his family’s sake than the band’s since they no doubt knew who everyone was already. Then Nevin accepted a cup of hot chocolate and the other band members shed their coats and helped themselves to the scotch. Mike gawked at Kalila in her sexy elf costume, Joanne hovered near Bo, obviously smitten, and Ricky was wondering just how long things could last without a blowup of some kind when Nevin offered to do some magic tricks for the children.

Ricky met his eyes in silent gratitude and urged the family to the sofa to watch. “You’ll love this,” he said, although he had no clue what the fairy had in mind. “He’s very talented.”

Nevin started with some traditional card tricks, then went on to make silver Christmas coins appear in the children’s pockets, in Joanne’s new Coach bag, and behind Mike’s ear. He finished his show by conjuring stockings stuffed with trinkets and candy, which he handed to each family member, including Ricky. Then, while Joanne made cow eyes at Bo, and Mike stared at Kalila’s breasts, the band sang a rousing version of “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” with the children singing along. When they were finished, they shook hands with everyone and Bo gave Joanne a kiss while Mike glared and clenched his fists like he wished he could throttle him. They approached Ricky’s mother last.

“You have a terrific son, Mrs. Landon,” Nevin told her. “He’s been such a help to us.”

“He’s the best manager we’ve ever had, and we’re sure you’re very proud of him,” Kalila added.

Ricky tried to catch Kalila’s eye while his mother stammered something about what a good boy he was and how she always knew he had it in him. Then the band wished everyone a good night and trooped outside and down the steps like an entire parade.

to be continued...

Maelstrom Excerpt: Christmas

2008-12-21T00:01:00.001-06:00

Continuing with the Christmas excerpts from Maelstrom, we find Ricky having Christmas with his family. The band has been generous (they can afford to be, since immortality allows one to make a killing on long-term investments) and Ricky is having fun showing off to his snobby brother and SIL.

It was Christmas Eve, and for the first time in years, Ricky was enjoying it. His niece and nephew had liked their gifts enough to actually hug him, and Mike and Joanne smoldered with annoyance.

“I hope this didn’t set you back too much,” Joanne said in her catty way as she examined her new Coach bag for evidence that it was a fake.

“This was more than we expected,” Mike added, waving a hand in the direction of his new golf clubs. “Especially when the payments on your new ride must be costing you a pretty penny.”

“Actually, the Lexus is paid for,” Ricky said, relishing the disbelief on their faces. “The insurance is a little high, but it’s within my budget.”

Ricky’s mother leaned toward him. “This is all lovely, dear, and we’re glad you’re doing so well, but we’re a little concerned—” she glanced toward the front door and frowned.

Ricky heard the sound too, and his momentary bewilderment became a sinking feeling.

Adela jumped to her feet. “Carolers?”

“Don’t open that door,” Ricky called after her, but it was too late. Adela flung open the door and there on the doorstep, looking for all the world like ordinary humans in winter coats and scarves, were Nevin and Kalila, harmonizing “Adeste, Fidelis,” while Bo and Vic stood behind them strumming guitars and Lazaro tapped a silver triangle.

Adela and Little Mike clapped their hands and urged “Grandma” to come see. Meanwhile, Ricky came to the door and gave the band the fiercest glare he could manage. It did no good. They finished the song and Bo shouted, “Happy Christmas!”

“It’s ‘Merry Christmas,’” Kalila reminded him. She turned her best smile on Ricky and his family. “You get one more song,” she said. “Do you want traditional or modern?”

“Kalila—”

Mike looked at Ricky. “You know these people?”

to be continued...

Updates on Maelstrom and Other Things

2008-12-20T00:33:00.003-06:00

Just checking in to let folks know I'm in the process of setting up a website for Maelstrom. Until I get my artwork, anything I do will be temporary, but it's fun to start working on the layout now so I'll be ready. I've got two more days of work (one and a half if my boss lets us go early on Tuesday, like she did the day before Thanksgiving) and then I'll have through the first of the year to tinker with the new site, write, and do other fun things.

In addition to the new site, I've got lots of new ideas for my main writer site, so that will likely get a "closed for remodeling" post over the holiday break while I do some mucking around and get ready to launch some new ideas.

Between now and Christmas, I'll be posting excerpts from my draft, so my friends can see how Ricky and his band of demons celebrate the holidays. Enjoy!

* * *

“Uh, Ricky?” Kalila waved a hand to catch his attention. “We have a question for you. Or actually, an idea.”

Ricky was immediately on his guard, but affected an expression of polite interest.

“We were wondering if we could go Christmas caroling.”

Ricky stared in disbelief. “You know what that is, right? Going door to door, singing songs about reindeer and Baby Jesus?”

Kalila shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

“So you’re a demon, pagan, metal band. You don’t think that’s just a little inappropriate?”

“But the songs are so pretty,” Nevin said.

“And it would be good publicity,” Kalila pointed out. “You could find a reporter to do a story about us spreading that holiday cheer stuff.”

“No. I just can’t see a vampire singing ‘Away in a Manger’ while you do guitar riffs in the background.”

“I would take my acoustic guitar,” Kalila said in tones that suggested Ricky wasn’t very smart. “Where would I plug in my amp if I took the Stratocaster door to door?”

“Look,” Ricky said. “I appreciate your creative thinking and your interest in marketing yourselves, but Christmas caroling is just not a good idea. Can you trust me on this?”

Kalila raised her eyebrows and exchanged a look with the other band members, but her words were acquiescent. “Of course we trust you, Ricky.” She picked up her guitar. “We’ve been making some changes to ‘Carrion Road.’ Want to hear?”

Art and Marketing

2008-12-11T22:14:00.004-06:00

Yesterday I heard back from Rebecca Gunter, the artist who is going to do a color drawing of the band in my WIP. I told her in November to let me know when she was ready for my info, and last night upon her request, I sent character sketches, an overview of the story, and a short excerpt. Her Livejournal site says she's booked through the end of the year and she previously told me to expect something in January or maybe late December, but of course I'd be thrilled if she could have a first sketch for me to look at sooner.

We shall see. I can be patient, since the draft isn't even done yet and I don't have a website or even a domain name for the project. I've got a lot of ideas for how to market this, though, using the university to build a readership. College students are a great target audience for this type of story and I've got all of Houston's biggest campuses within a five mile radius, as well as the indie bookstores and guitar/drum shops. Catchy artwork and a little perseverance ought to reap rewards.

And a completed, edited, beta-read, re-edited-until-it-hurts novel. Gotta get on that and quit dilly-dallying over my tea at night.

Checking In

2008-12-09T22:38:00.002-06:00

Just checking in so no one thinks I've forgotten about this blog. I'm over 75K on the WIP now, hoping I can finish the draft around 90K. I'd like to be done by Christmas so I can use my break from work to focus on editing, building a website, and working with the artist on a nice manga-style drawing of the band.

I'm having a lot of fun with this novel and I'm looking forward to having something I can share!

Short Story: Maelstrom Thanksgiving

2008-11-23T02:27:00.022-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE:This story is based on my current work in progress, a novel about an ordinary human who finds himself managing a group of demons determined to achieve rock and roll fame without resorting to magic. The action of this story takes place during the novel but is not part of it, and was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt and the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.

Was there anything more depressing than a holiday on the road? Ricky switched through the TV channels. He should be at home having Thanksgiving with his mother, not at the Ambassador Suites hotel, or wherever the hell he was. After so many weeks of touring, it was all running together.

On the television, an aggressively cheerful woman was basting a turkey. She reminded him of his sister-in-law, Joanne. At least he wasn’t having to deal with her today. Small blessings. He turned off the TV and stretched. It was early for the band to be awake, but he had no friends in this town and any companionship was better than none.

The door to the band’s suite opened before he could knock, and Calvin the werewolf blocked his way. “They’re busy, human.”

Ricky tried to peer around him. “What are they doing?” From this vantage he could see Kalila and Nevin on the sofa, huddled over a book.

“It’s a surprise.”

This wasn’t good. Ricky had been managing the band since summer and they had yet to come up with a surprise that wasn’t illegal, immoral, or both. He tried to shove his way into the room, but Calvin tossed him into the hall with ease. Kalila noticed and came to the door with a curt order for the werewolf to “heel.”

She leaned against the doorframe and watched Ricky get to his feet. “Why aren’t you attending to human things? It’s a holiday for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s a family holiday. There’s no “human things” for me to attend to out here on the road.”

“Oh. Well, don’t blame us for your troubles.” She looked over her shoulder at Nevin. “Should we let him in?”

“Of course. We’re the only family he has today.”

“That’s pathetic.” Kalila waved Ricky into their suite. “No sentimentality, okay? We’re not a substitute for whatever you would’ve done at home—caroling, hunting for colored eggs, or whatever.”

“I think you’ve got the holidays mixed up.” Ricky went to move Kalila’s book so he could sit on the sofa, but it vanished in his hand before he could get a look at the title.

“None of your business,” she said.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Nevin told her. Then he gave Ricky a childlike smile. “So is there anything in particular you’d like to do today?”

“No, I just wanted some company.”

The fairy nodded wisely. “It seems to be a common sentiment among your kind.” He indicated the closed door to the back of the suite. “Arlinda from the front desk felt the same way. Bo is helping her out.”

Ricky had already noticed the sound of creaking bedsprings. “I thought I told him to leave the hotel staff alone.”

Kalila sank into an upholstered chair and dangled her long legs over the armrest. “He was after a cute girl at the pool until he found out she was underage. He thought you’d be more upset about that than the desk clerk. And you know what Bo is like if he goes too long without feeding.”

With a small shudder Ricky remembered the times the bass player had tried to back him into a corner for a quickie. Bo’s preference was human females, but when an incubus got hungry enough, anything from a human male to a gazelle would do.

“So tell me about this holiday of yours,” Kalila went on, in a tone so artlessly casual that Ricky was immediately on his guard. “It has something to do with football and Pilgrims, right?”

“Not exactly.” Ricky tried his best to explain the concept of Thanksgiving. “It’s about being grateful for the good things that have happened in the year. It’s about sharing as a way of showing thanks for your blessings.”

While Kalila pondered this, Ricky looked around. “So where are Vic and Lazaro? Sleeping?”

“They had an errand to take care of.”

Ricky sat up in alarm. “What kind of errand?”

“Don’t worry. They wore their hats and ski masks.”

That the vampire and zombie were out in daytime was the least of Ricky’s worries. “The sun isn’t what scares me. I want to know where they went. The blood bank? The morgue? How am I supposed to keep you guys out of trouble when you go doing crazy demon shit all the time?”

“You worry too much.” Kalila stood up. “And you’re starting to bore me.” She exchanged a look with Nevin, who took Ricky by the elbow and tried to pull him toward the door.

“Wouldn’t you like to go back to your room?” Nevin said. “You’ll feel much better after a nap.”

“I’m not sleepy. I need to find out what Vic and Lazaro are doing so I can make them stop. I need for Bo to quit banging the hotel staff and start acting like a civilized creature. I need—”

“Oh, Ricky. You’re overwrought by all this silly holiday business.” Before Ricky could answer, Nevin tossed a handful of pink glitter in his face, making sure to catch him when he fell.

* * *

Ricky awoke in his own bed, comfortable and his mind at ease. The sunlight filtered through the half-open curtains at a low angle that made him wonder if it was morning or evening. He spent a few minutes trying to piece together how he had gotten here. Oh, yes. Fairy magic. He relaxed, knowing he would be pissed about it later, but there was no point trying to drum up negative emotions until the effects wore off. What the hell was he in band management for when he could make a fortune selling Nevin’s fairy potions?

A sound of whispered argument from the front room caught his attention. Was it a robbery? Some kind of mischief from the band of washed-up deities that had kidnapped the tour manager, leaving Ricky to handle the tour himself? Oddly, he felt no sense of alarm. Damn Nevin and his stupid spells.

An unmistakable aroma began filling the room. At first Ricky thought his senses were deceiving him, but then his stomach rumbled and he decided that whatever the danger on the other side of the door, it was one that included food and should be investigated. He got out of bed and quietly opened the door.

White tablecloth. Candles. Nevin arranging flowers in a vase. In the kitchenette, Kalila was spooning things onto a plate while Vic leaned against the counter watching in disgust. Bo was on the sofa playing with the TV remote and Lazaro sat in an upholstered chair, tapping a soft rhythm on his knee with a pair of sticks. Overseeing from the doorway was Calvin, gnawing a turkey bone.

Ricky stepped into the room and everyone stopped what they were doing. Kalila turned to Nevin with a frown. “He’s not supposed to be up yet, is he?”

Nevin shrugged. “Close enough.”

“I suppose.” She set a plate of food on the table. “Happy Thanksgiving, human.” When Ricky didn’t answer right away, she glanced at the plate in concern. “We got it right, didn’t we? “Turkey, stuffing, potatoes …”

“And I found us a football game to watch,” Bo said.

“I thought you only watched porn,” Ricky said.

The incubus set the remote aside. “I can make sacrifices. Enjoy your dinner.”

“With your new family,” Nevin added. He pointed to his plate of green beans. “I can join you, right?”

“You can all join me.”

“Food’s not bloody enough,” Vic said. “But thanks.”

“No. Thank you. You guys—”

“Stop that,” Kalila said. “No weird human emotions.”

Ricky sat down. “But it doesn’t work like that. This is a day for being grateful for food, friends, family, and all the other good things in our lives.”

“Or our deaths,” Lazaro reminded him.

“Right. For whatever we have that we like.”

Nevin set down his plate and gave Ricky a hug. “And we like you.”

“That’s pushing it a bit, glitter boy,” Vic said

Kalila crossed her arms and looked at Ricky in annoyance. “So are you going to eat, or what? I did a lot of research on that meal to get it to your silly human standards.”

“And I’m grateful for it,” Ricky told her, picking up a fork. “Even if you are a bitchy genie.”

“I’m a what?”

“And I’m grateful for you, too.”

Kalila’s face changed slightly. “Are you really?”

“Yeah.” He scooted over and patted the place beside him on the sofa. “Want to join me?”

Their eyes met and Ricky held his breath. The only thing Kalila hated more than being disrespected was being liked. Had he gone too far?

She ran a nervous hand through her hair. “I guess there would be no harm in it.” She sat down beside him, as cautiously as if Ricky might be dangerous.

Bo grinned. “What’s the matter, djinn? He’s the only one in this room who doesn’t bite.”

Kalila ignored him and pretended great interest in Ricky’s food. “So I got it right? The cranberries and everything?”

“It’s perfect Kalila. Thank you.”

She nodded in cool satisfaction. “You’ve done a lot for us. It was the least we could do.” She hesitated, then gave him a quick, embarrassed hug. “Happy Thanksgiving…friend.”

Strangers to All, Strangers to None

2008-11-16T22:23:00.010-06:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a true story, and one I hadn't thought of for years until it popped into my mind for no particular reason last week. I recount it here for Sunday Scribblings.

When my grandmother was still alive, Dan and I would make an annual summer pilgrimage to Connecticut to visit her. Since everything in New England is so close, we always combined the trip with other fun adventures, including the annual Covered Bridges Half Marathon in Vermont. We had a favorite rural B&B we stayed at, and after a few years of visits, we felt quite at home there.

One of our favorite things to do in the evening was make tea and sit in chairs on the front lawn, looking at the night sky. There were no street lights or city lights to dim the vast expanse of stars, and it was so quiet that we could hear the wind in the pines and the rushing water of the brook up the road. It was a peaceful way to end our busy days before turning in for the night.

One evening we saw a pair of headlights make their way slowly up the country road. We watched in that lazy way one watches everything in the country. To our surprise, the van pulled to the side of the road right in front of us and a man rolled down the window. In broken English with an unmistakable Spanish accent, he asked directions.

Now, usually tourists like us are the worst people you can ask directions from because they spend most of their time lost, too. But this was our third summer in the area and Dan did, in fact, know the place the occupants of the van were trying to go. Since we were from Texas and bilingual, we understood without having to ask that we would only get them lost again if we gave the men directions in English. As it turned out, they were natives of Ecuador, on their way to the annual Pow-Wow in one of the nearby towns. We were impressed that they had come so far. We explained in Spanish how to get to their campground, wished them well, and watched them drive away into the night.

As we went back to our tea, Dan and I pondered the strange ways the universe works. What were the odds that a group of Spanish-dominant South American natives should become lost on a rural road in Vermont at night and happen across a pair of bilingual Texan tourists who just happened to know how to get them where they needed to go and could explain it in their own language? Strangers to each other and all of us far from home, we found each other, anyway. Sometimes the universe gives us exactly what we need, that lucky little break, just when we least expect it.

We sipped our tea and returned to admiring the velvet sky and its infinite span of stars. We were no longer strangers here. We were home.

The Writer and the Pesky Spouse

2008-11-02T10:24:00.002-06:00

I'm sure I speak for most writers when I say that I need control over my environment when I write. Everyone has a setup that works for them, but for most of us, it's one that is one of limited random distractions.

Somehow, I can't get my husband completely on board with this. He knows that once I've made my evening tea and shut the door at night, I'm not to be disturbed. But I like to use my Sunday morning to read through what I wrote the night before and maybe write a little more. For some reason though, Dan doesn't get it that the previous night's "don't disturb" rules apply to morning writing time as well.

And so I get pestered with questions, bits of cheerful morning song, requests for things to pick up at the store when I go run errands later, and tales of what the cat or bunny are up to, and although it's always a lovely thing to have one's spouse in a happy and sharing mood, there are times when it's just aggravating as all hell. I read the same three paragraphs over and over, unable to get the full effect (or just check if there even is an effect) because of the pestering.

"Have you seen my running shoes?"

"Where's the sugar?"

"Does this coffee cup look clean?"

"Come see what the bunny is doing. He's so cute!"

Oh well. There's always tonight for writing.

My Story at Every Day Fiction

2008-10-24T08:36:00.001-05:00

My quirky romance "End Times" is the story of the day today at Every Day Fiction. Go check it out, and if you like it, be sure to leave a comment!

A Date and an Announcement

2008-09-30T11:54:00.005-05:00

First, we have a pub date! My quirky romance, "End Times" will be published in Every Day Fiction on October 24. Mark your calendars! In spite of the title, I promise it's not another depressing post-apocalyptic tale. Honest! One of the editors called it, "A sweet and unusual romance." It's a departure from my usual work and I'm excited that it found a home.

And next, it looks like Every Day Fiction is looking for slush pile readers. Here's the post where they're asking for volunteers. It sounds like it could be a good experiene and a way to make new contacts in the online fiction community, so if anyone has the time, get in touch with them and let them know!

Happy reading and writing, everyone!

News!

2008-09-25T14:51:00.002-05:00

One of my short stories has been selected for Every Day Fiction! I'll be sure to post the date when I know it and the link when it gets posted. Yay!

No Invitation Necessary

2008-09-20T20:13:00.008-05:00

NOTE: This Steal Tomorrow flash piece is my first flash fiction since Hurricane Ike. I wrote it for this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt. For those who don't know Danny and Danica from Steal Tomorrow, be assured that I'm being intentionally vague about their exact relationship in an effort to avoid spoilers for those reading the novel in serial format. If anyone wants more info, drop me a line at uhamp "at" yahoo "dot" com and I'll be happy to clue you in as time permits. I still have no internet at home, so I'm not online as frequently as usual. Please be patient.

***

Danica squinted at the computer screen. The message asked if it would it be a costume party. What a stupid question. Just because her birthday fell near Halloween didn’t mean...

With a smirk, she typed the non-answer, “I’m sure whatever costume you have on now will be perfect.”

A tap at the window made her glance toward the door of her bedroom. It was locked, thank goodness. Her father would kill her if—

Behind her, Danny parted the curtains and dropped into the room. “You didn’t answer my text.”

Danica stood up. “I wasn’t sure what to say. Besides, I’ve been busy answering stupid questions like whether or not people should wear costumes to my party. Hello, it says right on the invitation, ‘Sweet Sixteen,’ not ‘Halloween.’”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He threw himself into her vacated computer chair. “Where’s my invitation?”

Danica gazed at him in silence for a moment, not comprehending. “What do you mean where’s your invitation? You don’t need one. It’s a given.”

“If it’s a given, why didn’t you give me one? It’s bad enough you’re doing this lame girly thing on our birthday, but—” he grabbed the box on her desk that contained the unused cards. “The least you could’ve done is invite me.”

“But you’re family.”

“You sent one to Aunt Beth.”

“She lives in Chicago and probably won’t come, anyway.”

“Then why’d you bother?”

“Because it’s what I was supposed to do.”

“Then why didn’t you give one to Mom? It isn’t like she can’t come.”

“That would be stupid. Besides—” she snatched the box from his hand. “You and she promised to help decorate, so you’re already coming. Invitations are for people who don’t know all the details.”

Danny sighed and leaned back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You just don’t want me there. You think you’re too grown up to have your parties with me any more. You want to be all feminine, and next thing I know, you’ll quit going to the range with me, you’ll quit taking aikido classes, and then I’ll have to do all those things alone.” Before she could protest, he added, “Don’t think I don’t know you’re changing. You even bought a dress.”

“Have you been snooping in my closet again?”

“Only when you’re not around.”

“Well, duh. When else are you going to do it?” She tried to catch his eye but he was busy frowning at a piece of lint on the carpet. “I totally expected you to come to my party. I mean, sort of.” When he shot her a look from under his brows, she added, “It’s just I know you’re already laughing at me for doing this, so I thought if I sent you an invitation, you’d tell me I was being stupid. I mean, why go to all that trouble just—”

“Just for me.” Danny got to his feet and began stalking toward the window. “Thanks a lot.”

Danica lunged after him and caught him by the sleeve. “Stop it. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you were going to say, though. Isn’t it?” He jerked his arm out of her grasp and launched himself out the window with the noiseless grace of a cat.

Danica made to go after him, but then reconsidered. This wasn’t a mood she could jolly him out of in a matter of minutes. She would have to let it run its course.

She sank back into her computer chair, still holding the box of invitations. Inspired, she picked up a ball point and addressed one of the envelopes in neat block letters. On the invitation itself she crossed out some words, added others, and on the inside where she was supposed to note the date and time, she wrote, “Forever.” Then she slipped the card into the envelope and licked the gummed flap closed. Would he want to see the silly thing stamped and postmarked, too? She would sleep on that and decide in the morning.

In the meantime, another message had popped up in the lower corner of her computer screen. With a sigh, Danica set the invitation aside and began to type. “The costume you’re wearing now will be just fine.”

Post-Apocalytpic Writing

2008-09-19T10:26:00.007-05:00

Okay, Hurricane Ike wasn't exactly the Apocalypse, but I'm finding it hard to write about any of my usual post-apocalyptic themes and characters in the immediate aftermath of my own mini-apocalypse. When your life starts mirroring fiction, fiction itself takes a back seat.

Last night was the first time I could write any fiction at all, and I had to force myself to do it. I ended up writing a couple pages of a light, completely non-disaster novel I'm toying with. It felt good to get some writing done, even if it wasn't up to par.

Perhaps the most interesting outcome of this crisis has been the way my writing helped my real life in tangible ways. In researching my novels I've learned a lot about food storage and living without electricity. After the debacle that was Katrina, I moved my personal hurricane preparations into high gear, and it was a real sanity-saver to have a plan and be able to put that plan into action with no insurmountable missteps.

I've done a lot of writing this week, but it's mostly been of the factual variety. I've been journaling and working on detailed Lessons Learned reports to share later on my other blog for people who need ideas for their own disaster prep. Since I still don't have internet at home, getting such things posted will happen as time permits.

So I haven't been writing much fiction lately. My life has been edging uncomfortably close to my fictional scenarios, and reality has been as much as I can deal with. Last night was a start, though. I never wanted to live the lives of my characters, but more than ever before, the fiction can stay on the page, as far as I'm concerned.

Flash Fiction - Link Only

2008-09-07T10:38:00.003-05:00

Since I just posted a new Will and Diana flash below, I'll simply link to this weekend's Steal Tomorrow flash: The Beauty Queen. We're getting deep enough into the story now that future flashes will likely be contemporaneous with the story and not so much backstory. Just trying to avoid spoilers!

Flash Fiction Interlude: Ordinary Miracles A Will and Diana Adventure

2008-09-07T10:04:00.010-05:00

NOTE: New readers may want to read up on Will and Diana's world before proceeding.

“Close your eyes, pray to La Señora, then toss in your coin. Like this.” Sachi’s small iron coin splashed and made ripples across the surface of the pool.

“I didn’t hear you wish for anything,” Boeing said.

Sachi opened her eyes and sighed as if he were an ignorant child instead of one of their unit’s best marksmen. “If you say it out loud, it won’t come true.”

Diana nodded, hoping to forestall an argument. “I’ve heard that, too. But—” she glanced around, taking in the abandoned and partially-melted adobe church and its dusty yard bordered by the remnants of a wall. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Kind of a dump for someplace a miracle occurred,” Will added. “If it was so important, you’d think the locals would keep it up better.”

Coyote went to the edge of the wishing pool and peered into the water. “Lots of stuff down there.” He looked around like Diana had done, then dug in his pocket. “All that wishing must not have done any good. But what the hell.” He dropped in a coin and watched it sink to the bottom.

“Okay,” Will sighed. He dropped in his coin then made a furtive glance at Diana before closing his eyes and making his wish.

Diana went next, standing a long time with her eyes squeezed shut, her lips moving in silent prayer.

When she was done, Coyote laughed. “That was some wish.”

“I want a lot of things. But none of them are for me, so that makes it okay, right?” She looked to Sachi for confirmation.

While Sachi hesitated, unsure as to the rule on asking La Señora for more than one miracle, Boeing shook his head. “You’re all crazy. Wasting your money on a bunch of superstitious bullshit.”

“It’s not superstition,” Sachi said. “It’s the honest truth that right here a spring appeared when a little boy prayed to La Señora for water to help his village through a drought.”

“A fairy tale.”

“At least it’s not as crazy as the stories the older people tell us about airplanes and rockets that went to the moon.”

“But there were witnesses for those things,” Boeing reminded her. “And there’s evidence you can go look at in books and airplane graveyards.”

“There were witnesses at this church too,” Sachi sniffed. She pointed at the pool. “And evidence.”

Boeing opened his mouth to say something, but Will cut him off. “Come on, man. Humor her.”

Boeing fumbled in a pocket, approached the pool and dropped something in.

Sachi peered over the edge and frowned. “You’re not supposed to use wooden scrip. It’s going to float there forever.”

“You didn’t say what it had to be made of. Quit changing the rules.”

Diana put a hand on Sachi’s arm. “It’s okay. I’m sure it’s all the same to La Señora. Let’s go back. We’ve been gone too long as it is.”

As they rode their horses back to camp, they speculated about their upcoming assignment. The latest dispatch from their spies had indicated a new attack was imminent, with troops waiting in camps along the Mexican border and supplies arriving daily. Sabotage and diversion would be needed to keep the Mexicans busy until their own army could reach the area. It would be a dangerous job with a high potential for casualties and although they tried to talk casually about the matter, there was no mistaking the nervous anticipation that lay beneath their words. Would the wars ever end?

When they arrived at base they noticed an extra flurry of activity around the camp kitchen. Grateful for the distraction from their worries, they hurried to put their horses away so they could investigate.

“Cabrito?” Diana asked in wonderment. She had been anticipating yet another dull meal of nopales and boiled jerky, or maybe corn atole, not shanks of fresh goat sizzling on spits over the fire.

Paloma smiled and shrugged. “It wandered into camp a couple hours ago. It was healthy and had no markings indicating it belonged to anyone.”

Sachi wandered over and nodded sagely. “La Señora sent it.”

Diana pursed her lips in annoyance. Stray goats weren’t unusual. She was tempted to point this out, but just then the wind shifted and the scent of roasting meat filled her nostrils. Her stomach rumbled. The goat was welcome, no matter who sent it. It might not be a miracle, but it was something.

Flash Fiction Interlude: On the Bridge

2008-08-31T02:09:00.001-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is cross-posted at Steal Tomorrow.

Dark above. Dark below. The ring of boots on metal. Was it really his boots? Jay stopped and listened. Maybe the problem was his ears. Or his feet. He continued walking.

The clouds parted and the moon appeared. The water below sparkled—something to dive into and get lost in.

He leaned over the railing as the moon vanished again behind a cloud. Now the water was dark like the sky, but it was still there, waiting for him. Jump and it would all be over. No more pills and crazy raids he only half-remembered. No more waking up with bloody hands and patches of memory that felt like someone else’s nightmare. The water would consume him, pull him under, and he would become…what?

He took a step back and turned around, slamming into a pole he hadn’t noticed in the darkness. It didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt if you took enough pills and drank enough gin. Or vodka. Or whatever the group had managed to steal that day.

Sometimes it was the girls who brought him things. They asked him for food and protection from other boys. Then they would laugh as if the pandemic was a joke, and for awhile the world seemed right again, until he woke up with missing time and a girl he barely knew lying against his naked skin as if she owned him. That was what Trina had done, Trina who was supposed to be his friend’s girl. Oddly, there had never been a fight or angry word about the matter. And now there was nothing to fight over any more.

Jay moved back to the railing. No moon, no water, only an empty pit of blackness. But of course the water was down there. It had been there before, hadn't it? Was he in the right place? He frowned, wishing he hadn’t taken so goddamn many pills.

But now he had an idea. Wouldn’t the overpass be better? In the water, he might survive, but surely not if he leaped off the overpass. Yes, that was the better way to do it. He stepped away from the railing again, felt the world tip and fell to his knees, fumbling for something to grab onto.

He pulled himself up against a lamp post, breathing hard. He couldn’t get to the freeway in this condition. Not unless he crawled. In his present state, the idea didn’t seem preposterous. Crawling was safe. Hard to trip and fall that way. But wasn’t falling what he was after? Yes, of course. But one couldn’t fall just anywhere. It had to be from someplace high. He needed to smash his bones and break his skull so all the ugly memories would bleed out, leaving his body free and his mind pure.

Water wouldn’t do that. He would have to find a way to get to the overpass. But as he let go the light post, his knees buckled and he sank to the iron grate of the pedestrian walkway.

Water would have to do.

He dragged himself to the railing and pulled himself up. The dark water shimmered below, waiting.

Then a soft footstep beside him. A quiet voice. Unalarming. “Jay?”

He squinted at the boy in the pale light. Thin, about his own age, with large soulful eyes that looked like they could swallow a person whole. Sort of like the river.

“It is you, isn’t it? They tried to tell me it wasn’t, but—”

“Go away.”

The boy put a hand on his arm. “You know who I am, right? Your cousin Paul.”

Jay grunted and moved away, trying to shake off Paul’s grip. “Of course I know,” he lied. As if he could recognize anyone in the dark and after so many pills. What had they been, anyway? Pharmacy stock, that was all he knew.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“Dumb thing to do.”

“But you’re my only family and I care about you.”

“That’s because you’re stupid. I'm a Kevork now.”

“God's not stupid, and he loves you.”

“Not after what I’ve done.”

“If you’re truly sorry, he’ll forgive you.”

“There’s things I've done with the Kevorks that won’t get forgiven. Go back to your church group, or whoever it is you’ve been hanging out with, and read your fucking Bible.” He jerked his arm from Paul’s grip and moved a few steps away, the better to figure out how he was going to get over the railing.

Paul watched in silence as Jay struggled to swing a leg over the rail. “You know,” he said, “You could always try this another day.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You think if I sober up I won’t want it any more.”

“I promise if you still want to try tomorrow, I won’t stop you.” When Jay didn’t answer, he waved a hand in irritation. “Come on—what kind of lame suicide attempt is this? You can’t even do it in the condition you’re in. I always thought if there was something stupid to be done, you of all people could get it right.”

Jay leaned against the railing and looked at him, trying to understand this new tactic. The moon was brighter now and he could see the shadows and angles of his cousin’s face. He was thinner than he remembered, and seemed older. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s over—us, civilization, even your precious God.” He took a wobbly step toward him. “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed?” When Paul hesitated, he laughed, a mirthless sound. “Neither do I.” He turned back to the railing and tried again to hoist a leg over it.

“But if you die, how will you make things right?”

“You can’t do anything for the dead.”

“You could do something for the living. You used to like to help people.”

“Fuck off.”

“I love you.”

Jay looked at him, then turned away, unable to bear the kindness in Paul’s eyes. “I don’t deserve it.”

“We don’t always get what we deserve.”

“No shit.”

“Sometimes God gives us better, for no reason at all.” Paul held out his hand. “Come on, man. The bridge will still be here in the morning.”

Jay took a step toward him, stumbled, and felt Paul catch him in his arms. “I want to go to the overpass.”

“How about in the morning?”

“I don’t know—”

“It’s okay. You don't have to.”

Flash Fiction Interlude: First Do No Harm

2008-08-24T11:35:00.008-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is cross-posted at Steal Tomorrow.

Johnny wound the last bit of tape around the boy’s finger, securing the splint in place. “You’ll need to make sure this doesn’t get wet,” he said. “Do you have any rubber gloves or something like that?”

“My mom used to wear rubber gloves to wash the dishes.” The boy frowned. “But I don’t live there any more. And I don’t want to go back.”

Johnny recognized the look in the boy’s eyes. He had seen it a lot since the pandemic. Children who lost their families often couldn’t bear the memories associated with home. Sometimes it was more than just memories that sent them into the streets looking for new homes and new friendships. Many people had died where they fell ill, with no one to take them to a hospital or remove the body for burial afterwards.

With a small sigh, Johnny rummaged in a drawer and produced two latex gloves from his dwindling stash. “One for now, one for later if the first one gets torn. But be careful with these. And if you end up not needing the second one, bring it back.”

Johnny pulled a glove over the boy’s hand. The child’s fingers were so small that the latex fit neatly over the splint and Johnny had to secure the glove at the wrist with a rubber band. “You’re all set. How do you want to pay for this?”

“Pay?”

“I’ve got to eat too, you know. Food, water, batteries…what do you have?”

The boy stared with round eyes. “Nothing. I’m hungry, too.”

“Christ.”

This had been happening a lot lately. When Johnny had first set himself up in his mother’s old medical clinic, his young patients had been eager to pay. They had taken it as a given that no doctor would work for free, even one who was just shy of fifteen and working out of what he could read from books and remember from dinner table conversations. But Johnny had been too generous. He couldn’t bear to send an ill or injured child away just because he or she had nothing to offer. That wasn’t how he had been raised.

But things were different now. Supplies were becoming harder to find, more children needed his help, and now there was a violent new tribe on the scene, breaking into clinics and pharmacies, taking drugs for their own use and for barter. The Pharms had harassed Doc twice already and they had tied up supplies of many of the pain-killers and antibiotics he needed to do his work. Even if he could live off air like a Tillandsia plant, he still needed payment in order to barter with the Pharms.

Well, what was he going to do, break the boy’s finger again? “Go on,” he said. “Pay me when you can. But tell your friends I don’t work for free.”

The boy thanked him and hurried out the door, as if afraid Johnny might change his mind.

Johnny began tidying the room for the next patient, putting instruments and supplies back in their proper places, checking supplies, and wiping surfaces with bleach. He was writing in his notebook where he kept track of all his patients, treatments, and supplies, when a shadow in the doorway caught his attention.

The serious young man with the pistol on his hip didn’t look sick. Neither did the two armed boys behind him. Johnny jumped to his feet. “I’m not ready for my next patient, but if you’ll take a seat in the waiting room—”

“I’m not a patient.” The young man moved into the small room as if he owned it and stood assessing with critical eyes.

“Look, if you’re with the Pharms—”

“Nah.” He waved a hand. “My name is Reymundo Guzman Morales, but you can call me Mundo. I’m leader of the Regents and I need a house call. Are you the doctor?”

Johnny hesitated. Weren’t the Regents that group of kids who had taken over the Regency Hotel? He couldn’t recall what he had heard about them, but if it was something bad he surely would’ve remembered it. And they wanted a house call?

“I don’t do house calls. Why can’t you bring your patient here?”

“Too dangerous.” When Johnny gave him a skeptical look over the tops of his glasses, Mundo added, “It’s a pregnant girl, and I don’t want her out on the streets where she might get hurt.”

“I don’t know anything about pregnancy. Sorry.”

Mundo sighed and a note of vulnerability crept into his voice. “Look, Doc, we’ve got goods. We can pay.”

Johnny scanned Mundo’s face as he considered.

“Please?” Mundo ran a hand through his hair and looked at the ground. “Don’t make me have to kidnap you. I want my kid born healthy. Just tell me what you want.”

Now Johnny understood and for a moment he forgot that he didn’t know a thing about babies and had only the sketchiest understanding of female anatomy. This was an opportunity. A tribal leader with goods and armed guards needed him and was willing to let him name his price. “I need supplies,” Johnny said. “And protection from the Pharms. Every time I find a new source of meds, they show up and take them. Give me barter goods and a guard, and I’ll—”

To his surprise, Mundo shook his head. “I haven’t got enough guards to spare. The Regency Hotel is huge, or haven’t you ever been there? I can’t spare anyone to hang around here waiting to shoot a Pharm.”

“I can’t help you, then.”

The guards behind Mundo shuffled their feet, while Mundo sized Johnny up through narrowed eyes. “What are you really after, Doc? If you just want to practice medicine in peace, I can set you up in one of our ballrooms. You’ll have food, supplies from our forage runs, and guard protection twenty-four-seven.” When Johnny hesitated, he added, “You’re not particularly attached to this place, are you?”

Johnny looked around. He knew each wall chart, supply cabinet, and treatment room they were his own. Even the coffee-stained china cups in the break room were as familiar as his own name. He had been brought here as a baby so his mother could show him off to her co-workers. He had come here as a toddler and colored quietly under the receptionist’s watchful eye when his mother couldn’t get day care. He had listened to all the nurse and patient chatter, then quizzed his mother and father at the dinner table, always wanting to know more. How did antibiotics work? Why do you splint broken fingers but not broken toes? Johnny wanted to know it all and he forgot little. Yes, he was attached to this place. But he remembered the boy he had treated a few minutes ago and brought himself back to reality. There was something else his parents taught him about medicine, and it was more important than a mere building.

Johnny lifted his chin. “If you want me for a private physician, forget it. Go on and shoot me, if that’s what you think you need to do. But if you’re offering me a real clinic where I can treat anyone who needs me, I’ll do it.”

A smile broke over Mundo’s face and he stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

They shook on it and discussed the particulars of what Johnny, who Mundo insisted on calling “Doc,” would need. They agreed on a moving date, and then with a clatter of boots on the hard stone floors, Mundo and his guards left.

In the silence that followed, Johnny looked around. Nothing had changed, yet everything had. He picked up his pen and notebook, but didn’t know what to write. He ran his hand across a stack of brochures about diabetes and colitis, but couldn’t think what to do with them. He contemplated a chart of the major muscle groups. That would be useful. He would need to take that with him.

At a small sound in the doorway, Johnny looked up in alarm. A girl with dirty feet and ragged braids stared at him, then coughed again. “Are you—?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “I’m the doctor.”

“I can’t—I mean, I don’t have—” she held out her empty hands.

“It’s okay,” Johnny told her. “I’ve got a patron now. No one needs to pay me any more.”

Advertising

2008-08-19T22:14:00.004-05:00

I figured out how to advertise! I created a banner ad for Steal Tomorrow and bought a spot on my friend's serial, Dead End Streets. Go check it out-- my ad is at the top of the page! (Be sure to read Dead End Streets, too. It's full of fun characters, and you won't usually catch me saying that about paranormals.)

In other news, I got the trade paperback (6 x 9) version of Steal Tomorrow finished. The best I could do on price was $10.50, which is cost plus a few pennies to make a nice round number.

Chapter Two begins bright and early tomorrow morning, so be sure to stop by the blog and read!

Flash Fiction Interlude: Ars Gratia Artis

2008-08-19T01:56:00.002-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The action of this story precedes Steal Tomorrow. The story is cross-posted on my Steal Tomorrow blog.

May walked down the city street carrying two empty gallon jugs and trying to reconcile the evidence of her eyes and nose with what her brain still struggled to acknowledge. They were all dead—not just her parents, tutors and professors, but all the adults, from newscasters and bank presidents to hedge-trimmers and street musicians. The ones who died first got graves. Later, the dead were thrown into pits. The last of them still lay in the streets and buildings where they fell, hence the smell that May tried to counter by wearing a perfume-soaked scarf over her face. It helped a little.

She saw a few kids hawking bottles of water on a street corner, but although she was tempted, she continued on. Two blocks ahead was a park. The turf had been dug up for burial pits and a broad open area showed scorch marks from an attempt at mass cremation, but what May was after was the water. She walked the stone path to the canoe launch and stooped to fill her gallon jugs with river water.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

May looked around, nearly dropping one of her water jugs. The boy looked to be about twelve and although he was dirty, there was nothing about him that suggested danger.

“Everyone who drinks that water gets sick,” the boy went on. “Sometimes they die. It’s because of all the dead people.”

May turned away in annoyance and went back to filling her jugs. “I know what I’m doing.”

“But—”

“Shut up and go away.” May capped the jugs, refusing to look up. Ignorant child. Of course the river water would make a person sick if they didn’t properly treat it. But she was a chemist and the daughter of chemists. She went to college at sixteen and would’ve been in her third semester if not for the pandemic. She knew what to do to keep from getting sick off the water.

It occurred to her that it might be a good thing to share her knowledge with the boy. What would it hurt to explain how to filter the water, then distill or pasteurize it? She got to her feet and looked around, but he was gone. Stupid kid.

As she walked back to the room she was living in over a restaurant, she found herself unable to shake the incident at the river. What was she living for? Sure, she knew how to survive. Science had taught her a lot of useful things. But if she wasn’t going to teach others, what was the purpose of her own life?

She had the skills to put together a cocktail that would kill her quickly and with relatively little pain. Perhaps that was the best thing. It was either that or make herself useful to the other survivors, and she had spent her entire life doing what other people wanted. Child science prodigy May Ellison, credit to her parents and teachers, but really just a friendless freak who never got to do what she wanted to do.

A pack of dogs ran past, chased by children wielding baseball bats. A hunting party. Well, good luck to them. May paused so they could go by but as she resumed walking, something felt wrong. Something smooth was embedded in the sole of her shoe and she muttered a curse and stopped to remove it. The glass shard was bottle-green and caught the afternoon sunlight as she held it in her fingers.

A flicker of memory stirred. Mosaics at the art museum. Stained glass in the church windows. The glitter of fanciful costume jewelry on the necks and arms of the girls at her high school—girls her parents wouldn’t let her be friends with because she was so much younger and needed to study, study, study to win a scholarship to Harvard. She had spent all those hours poring over books and mixing chemicals in the lab when what she really wanted was to surround herself with bright, colorful things that sparkled.

May looked around the filthy streets, ignoring the curious stares of a group of boys sitting on the curb, passing a bottle back and forth. The glass of the bottle was brown and would probably sparkle too, once its contents were drained. She could smash the bottle, scoop up the glass, and…what?

What indeed? Who was there to tell her not to take the ugly, broken shards of civilization at her feet and make something of beauty? The road was littered with clear glass, blue glass, red and amber bits of plastic, and who knew what else? It was hers for the taking, and to hell with her parents’ goal of seeing her in a lab. They were dead, anyway, and so were all their dreams.

May dropped the shard of green glass in her pocket and picked up her water jugs, surprised that they felt lighter now. In fact, her whole body felt made of feathers and her heart fluttered with excitement. There had been a time when she thought she might have to wait half a lifetime to realize her own dreams, but who was to stop her now? She would go home and distill her water, and tomorrow she would begin scavenging art materials on the city streets. Her life would not be long—she was infected with Telo just like everyone else. But at least her life was finally her own.

Flash Fiction Interlude: The Principle of the Thing

2008-08-17T11:54:00.001-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This flash fiction extra is from the period before the action in Steal Tomorrow and is cross-posted on the Steal Tomorrow Blog. Thanks for reading, and be sure to check out the new Steal Tomorrow Forums and sign up for some fun discussions!

Cassie slipped from under the blankets and went to the window. She and Leila had hung quilts over the curtain rods the night before, hoping to keep some of the chill at bay, but she wasn’t sure it had done much good. She pulled a corner of the quilt aside and squinted at the pale winter light.

“Wake up,” she told Leila, without moving from the window.

Leila burrowed deeper under the covers. “You go. I’ll stay here where it’s warm.”

“We have to go together,” Cassie reminded her. “Safety in numbers.”

Leila pulled the blankets away from her face but made no move to get up. “Can’t we eat MREs today? Do we always have to go out foraging?”

Cassie folded the window covering back so she would have enough light to dress. Dressing was a relative term. Without gas or electrical service since the die-off, every place was cold and getting dressed to go out meant layering more clothes on top of what one already had on. She picked up a sweater lying across the back of a chair and pulled it on over the one she was wearing. “We agreed to the rules together, remember? Forage every day we can and save our food for the days we can’t.”

Grumbling, Leila got out of bed and reached for her coat. “Sometimes I think the dead people have it easy.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Cassie pulled on a jacket and fleece cap. “We have to keep trying.”

“For what? We’re infected. We’ll be dead in a year or two and in the meantime we go around eating bad food, trying not to get raped or beat up by a gang, and being cold and dirty in the meantime.”

“Maybe you’re dirty, but I’m not.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?” Leila went to the dresser and fumbled among the clutter for her gloves. “Like hell I’m going to get wet when it’s freezing out.”

“I offered you the no-rinse camp soap.”

“It stinks.”

“It’s lavender. And it smells better than you.”

Leila reached for her hat and tugged it on over her hair. “What’s got into you today?”

“I’m sorry.” Cassie rubbed her face. “I didn’t sleep too good. And I’m hungry.”

“I told you we should eat the MREs.” When Cassie didn’t answer, Leila shoved her hands in her pockets. “Well, I’m ready.”

Cassie grabbed her pepper spray, a few packs of cigarettes for trade, and a ring of keys, ignoring Leila’s sneer as she locked the door on their way out.

“If someone wants in, they’ll just break a window.”

“I know,” Cassie said, dropping the keys in her pocket. “But at least if someone wants to rob us, they’ll have to work for it.”

Leila shrugged and the girls headed down the sidewalk.

“Any ideas for where to forage today?” Cassie asked.

“I thought you had a plan.”

“The townhouses on Wilson Street?”

“They burned down.”

“Not all of them.” When Cassie didn’t get a reply, she said, “Okay, how about Wal-Mart? I know it burned, but those kids in Jason’s gang said it was becoming an open-air market.”

“Like I’d trust anything Jason and his friends would say.”

Cassie looked at her askance. Jason Tibbs had played football for their high school varsity team and had been nice to Leila their junior year, leading her to think he really liked her. “Just because he only wanted to copy off you in calculus doesn’t mean he’s dishonest about everything.”

“Whatever.” Leila scowled and looked away. “Wal-mart is as good as any other idea. Let’s go.”

Getting to the nearest Wal-Mart required leaving the neighborhood and following Ingall Road to the freeway. Ingall had a small strip center with a grocery store, a drug store, a dry cleaner’s, and hair cutting salon. This was where their mothers had shopped when they had no need to drive to the larger, better-stocked stores a few miles away. The girls had been here a few times since the pandemic and had no expectation that anything was different now. Nevertheless, the looked at the ransacked shops, broken windows, and graffiti with dismay.

“Hard to believe—” Cassie began, then cut herself off. Comparing the present to the past only made things worse.

When they got to the freeway feeder road, a dog leaped from behind an abandoned car, snarling. There had been a time not very long ago when the girls would’ve been terrified, but Cassie had her pepper spray ready and got the dog full in the nose. As he limped away, whining, Leila muttered, “This shit with the dogs is getting old.”

“I hear some kids are eating them.”

“That’s disgusting. But I guess if they only eat the dangerous ones—”

“A service to humanity,” Cassie said.

Leila laughed in a mirthless, half-hysterical way. She had done this a lot at the start of the pandemic, but hadn’t done so as often lately, as the winter cold and constant hunger sapped her energy for seeing irony in their situation.

“We’re not far now,” Cassie pointed out needlessly. “Let’s hurry up. I bet they’ll at least have fires so we can warm up.”

When they came within sight of the Wal-Mart, they saw groups of kids of all ages huddled in groups in the parking lot. Some had built small fires of scrap, some had set up tables and were trying to trade merchandise. Cassie and Leila moved cautiously among the sale items but were unimpressed. They already had gloves and winter scarves and had plenty of toilet paper from foraging in their neighborhood. The only kids selling food weren’t interested in Cassie’s money and wanted more packs of cigarettes than she had brought along for trade.

“We were better off staying home,” Leila said.

Cassie was about to reply when she noticed a group of girls huddled around a fire at the edge of the parking lot. They were dressed in short skirts and high heels and their faces were heavily made up. One girl in particular caught her eye. “That isn’t Emily, is it?”

Leila squinted at the pretty former drill team captain touching up her lipstick in the afternoon sunlight. “I think it is.”

They wandered over, startling Emily, who blushed underneath her makeup and returned their greeting warily. As they made idle chatter about the weather and where the best food supplies were to be found, Cassie couldn’t escape the feeling that Emily was rushing them, being purposefully vague in her replies, as if she wanted them to go away. After a few minutes, she saw why.

Three teenage boys with greasy hair and guns sauntered over and began looking the girls over. Finally the one who appeared to be their leader asked, “How much?”

Cassie and Emily exchanged a look.

“You should go,” Emily whispered as one of the other girls started negotiating.

“But you can’t do this. There’s other ways.”

Emily shook her head. “It’s easier than scavenging, and I bet I eat better than you.”

Leila had been listening to the negotiations and gave a small shrug. “We sure don’t ever get to eat Oreos.”

“Oh, come on.” Cassie frowned and tried to grab Emily’s hand. “You don’t want to sell yourself for a package of cookies, do you?”

Emily jerked away. “It’s easy work. And I’ll be dead soon anyway, so who cares?”

“We care. We—” Cassie looked at Leila for confirmation. “Come with us. We found some rice yesterday, and—”

“No way.” Emily shook her head and glanced toward one of the boys who was sizing her up with interest. “These guys have Hershey bars too, or haven’t you been paying attention?” She flashed the boy a smile. As he walked over, she muttered to Cassie out of the corner of her mouth, “Go away. Now.”

Cassie and Leila did as they were told and started back toward their neighborhood. They walked in silence for a long time before finally Cassie said, “You were right. We should’ve stayed home and eaten the MREs. That was depressing.”

“I can kind of see her point, though,” Leila said. “We work awfully hard and don’t have much to show for it.”

“But at least we haven’t compromised.”

“Maybe not, but does it matter?” Leila waved a hand at the trash and burned-out cars littering the deserted street. “Look at this place. We have no future, so why give a damn about the present?”

“I don’t know,” Cassie said, after appearing to think about it. “Sometimes doing right doesn’t make any sense, but you have to do it anyway.”

“So it’s the principle of the thing.”

Cassie took a deep breath and tipped her head back so she could see the startling blue of the clear winter sky instead of the muck of the streets. “Something like that. We may be living like animals, but at least we'll die like humans.”

Forums!

2008-08-17T01:44:00.004-05:00

I've added forums to the Steal Tomorrow blog. Feel free to drop by and request your membership. We'll be discussing more than just the novel. I want to encourage discussion about themes and issues brought up in the book. We can talk about writing, web publishing, POD, and all of that sort of stuff, too.

Drop by and sign up!

Updates

2008-08-16T00:01:00.005-05:00

Good news! Steal Tomorrow is now available in Kindle format. I don't know anyone who actually has a Kindle, but what the heck, right?

The entire first chapter of Steal Tomorrow is up now and I hope to have a short story "Extra" sometime this weekend.

If anyone is not too crazy about the formatting on my Steal Tomorrow blog or would prefer to read the story in full chapters instead of segments, it's being serialized at Readers and Writers Blog, starting Sunday. Readers and Writers blog also hosts other good reads, including Waiting for Spring by my new blog pal R.J. Keller. Check it out!

Announcement!

2008-08-10T23:58:00.002-05:00

Posting of Steal Tomorrow begins tomorrow (Monday) and there will be a new post every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Extras, character sketches, and oddments will also continue as time and inclination permit.

I've uploaded the book into Kindle format and it will be available for purchase later this week. I hope to have the trade paperback version available in a day or two as well. It will be cheaper than the pocket edition, once again due to Lulu's pricing structure, not my own.

Steal Tomorrow Now Available

2008-08-10T10:49:00.004-05:00

I've finished my line-edits and formatting, and Steal Tomorrow is now available in pocket-size format. I apologize for the price, but Lulu charges more for pocket books than trade paperback size. I added only enough pennies above cost to get an even number. I make about $.09 per copy, so please don't think I'm trying to gouge anyone!

I'll be adding trade paperback (6"x9") and Kindle formats soon, and I'll start the web serialization either tomorrow or the following Monday, depending how quickly I can get my act together.

For those who asked me privately, I did do a little querying on this book, but I didn't get any early nibbles, probably because the premise has been done, no matter how cleverly (I hope) I riffed off it. I also suspect there isn't a huge market for YA/Crossover fiction that references Shakespeare, the Bible, Sun-Tzu, and Ezra Pound, among others. You don't have to be well-read to enjoy Steal Tomorrow, because it's not a pedantic book, but you'll have a lot more fun with it if you catch the references.

Furthermore, I really want to get this story out in the world so I can get it out of my head. Every writer knows the feeling. If I snagged an agent tomorrow, I'd be lucky to see this book in print before 2010. I'm not in this writing thing for fame and fortune and I have a job already, thanks. So I'll do what I can to market this, but without the pressure of a publisher breathing down my neck, needing me to earn back my paltry advance, lest I be dropped.

No pressure, just fun.

Here's the link to the pocket edition: Steal Tomorrow. I'll be posting links to other versions when I have them ready, and check back later tonight or tomorrow for my final decision on when the web serialization begins. Try before you buy!

Drive-By

2008-08-05T00:46:00.002-05:00

Just a quick update so no one will think I'm ignoring this blog. I'm doing a lot of edits and pre-planning of future writing right now, which means not a lot of actual new writing. I've also had a heck of a month, losing my sweet Tidbit, getting stuck having to attend several family functions, a work-related party, and other disruptions to my normal routine. And now I've got a new bunny who is cute as the dickens, but quite a handful.

I would really like a few normal weeks about now. Normal weeks and normal weekends.

I'm still hoping to start posting Steal Tomorrow by the end of the month. I'm doing a lot of research on ways to promote it (cutting further into my writing time), and I feel good about the possibilities.

I've also got another "Steal Tomorrow Extra" in progress, and I owe a flash to the Flash Fiction Carnival. Now if only I could concentrate!

Yep, I definitely need a little normalcy here. Tropical storm notwithstanding, I think this might be the week that starts me back on track. I sure hope so!

Flash Fiction Interlude: Post-Pandemic Hoop Dreams (A Steal Tomorrow Extra)

2008-07-26T13:44:00.004-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This flash fiction piece about Julilla is cross-posted on my Steal Tomorrow blog. It is not part of the novel.

Julilla bounced the ball and looked around. Still too early. That meant she had time for a warm-up. She went through a routine of her own devising, dribbling and dodging imaginary teammates as she moved across the blacktop and back again, then to the free throw line for a few practice shots. The first one bounced off the backboard, but she was unfazed. Her first shot always sucked. She had envied her teammates who never needed those first practice throws, but a lot of those girls were dead now, and so was the coach, while she carried on, muddling through the post-pandemic wreckage.

She threw again and this time the ball slipped through the basket without touching the rim and bounced off the asphalt with a satisfying sound. Julilla leaped to catch it and followed up with a couple of quick lay-ups and a hook shot. As she hit her groove, she forgot she was hungry and alone. She forgot the ever-present reminders of the dead in the empty streets and shops. She even managed to ignore the sickly smell of rot that occasionally wafted from the direction of a nearby parking garage where bodies lay piled up, waiting for transport trucks that would never arrive to take them to the pits.

For a few blessed minutes, Julilla’s world narrowed to just herself, the ball, and the shadows of the dead and missing girls who she dodged and scored off of in her imagination. If she let her fancy take hold, she could almost believe she was playing for the high school all-stars again, rallying her team for the final victory while her coaches, classmates, and dear Aunt Veegee screamed her name and the college recruiters tapped madly into their Blackberrys.

A movement at the edge of the blacktop caught her eye, bringing her back to the present. The children were arriving, but there weren’t enough yet. She continued to practice, adding a few exhibition moves—ball between the legs, catch, over the knee and down again, then a high bounce with a little twirl before catching it and spinning it on one finger.

A few more children wandered up and one clapped.

“I got better moves than this if you’ve got food,” she called.

One boy had a few crackers. For him, Julilla showed off a little of her quick footwork, and shot three hoops over her shoulder in rapid succession.

Another girl had a box of raisins. For her, she performed a new routine she had been working on—a hard bounce, then see how many times she could clap and twirl before catching it. This pleased the girl and her friends so much that they started digging through bags and pockets, and Julilla added some hand jive moves.

The girls were giggling and pooling their food resources into something that might take the edge of Julilla’s hunger when a group of rangy older boys wandered up. The chattering girls and clapping boys fell silent and Julilla paused, bouncing the ball slowly and returning the group leader’s cool look.

“You a real basketball player?” he sneered. “Or just some kind of Harlem Globetrotter showoff?”

Patience. Aunt Veegee, God rest her soul, always said to wait to see what the other guy would do first. That way you’d have time to plan. “I’m here,” she said. “So I guess that makes me as real as anyone.”

The boy reached in his pocket and for a panicked moment she thought he had a gun. A lot of the older boys did these days, and sometimes the young ones, too. But instead of a weapon, he took out a Milky Way bar.

Julilla’s stomach growled and she swallowed hard.

“Eleven points,” he said. “You game?”

“Is that the prize?”

“If you win. Want to know what mine is if you lose?” His eyes moved across her body.

Julilla had seen that look before. It was the same way her mother’s ill-chosen boyfriends had looked at her, including the one who—well, the pandemic had been good for something, at least. A wave of anger swept through her, spurring the killing urge that her coaches had so carefully channeled into a winner’s drive. “I won’t lose,” she snarled, and tossed him the ball. “You can even go first. That way your friends can see you make at least one good move before I wipe the blacktop with your ass.”

“The only move on anyone’s ass is going to be mine on yours, baby.”

The boy made a fast break, dodging Julilla’s blocking moves and going for a lay-up. Julilla leaped to knock the ball out of range, but he crashed into her with his shoulder and she stumbled. The ball swooshed through the basket and he caught it with a laugh while Julilla recovered her footing and the children on the sidelines screamed foul. Julilla thought of calling him on it, but could tell by the way he was breathing hard that earning just one point had cost him. She only needed to hold him off and let him wear himself down. It was just like playing defense for the all-stars.

Over the next twenty minutes, they panted, sweated and cursed each other as the boy twisted and feinted, unable to lose Julilla as she hovered over and around him, sometimes knocking the ball from his hands, sometimes waiting so she could block his shots. She took stomps to her feet and elbows to her ribs, all of which he pretended were accidental, but as she saw him grow winded and she stole the ball again and again, she didn’t bother to call him on his fouls. All she had to do was outlast this bastard, and as she sank her last shot, she beamed at the crowd of cheering kids.

“I think I earned my candy bar,” she told the boy, as he leaned forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

With a malevolent glare, he stood up and reached in his pocket. He threw the Milky Way to the ground in disgust and when he raised his foot like he would stomp on it, Julilla lunged toward him. Fouls and bruises were one thing, but that was breakfast!

To her surprise, the boy’s friends grabbed him and pulled him back. “Let it go, man. She won fair.”

As they dragged him off the blacktop, Julilla scooped up the candy bar and ripped open the paper. Dear lord, how long had it been since she had eaten chocolate?

The little girl who had offered her raisins tugged at her shirt and handed up a bottle of water.

Gratefully, Julilla accepted. Putting nasty teenage boys in their place was thirsty work.

The girl still stared at her with big eyes. “M’am?”

Julilla stifled a laugh. She was too young to be m’am to anyone.

“Can you teach me to play?”

Julilla assessed. The girl wasn’t much bigger than the ball. “It doesn’t come easy. You willing to work hard?”

“Everything’s hard since the Telo.”

“It was hard before, too.”

“Yeah, but…”

Julilla nodded and broke off a piece of Milky Way for her. “We gotta make the most of what we’ve got. That’s how we’re going to get through this.”

The girl sucked on her candy and nodded.

Julilla held out her hand. “Come on, girlfriend. I think I can show you a few moves.”

Flash Fiction Interlude: Special Delivery(A Steal Tomorrow Extra)

2008-07-11T01:55:00.004-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This flash fiction piece about the twins is cross-posted at Steal Tomorrow. It is not part of the novel.

With a thwack, the knife embedded itself in the wood paneling. Danny flinched. “That was close, love.”

Danica picked up another knife. “It was supposed to be. You need to hold still.”

“I did. Your aim was off.”

“I’m never off.” Danica took aim but before she could throw, a knock on the door made her jump. “What the—?”

Another knock. This time Danny stepped away from the wall and started across the room. “Why would anyone come here?”

Danica put the knife aside and scampered after her twin. “Maybe someone heard about us and wants us for a job.”

“That would be nice, especially if they can pay in food or water filters.” Danny peered out the murky peephole. “I don’t see anyone.” He reached for the semiautomatic he kept next to the door. “Get ready to cover me, in case it’s trouble.”

Danica grabbed a .38 and waited while Danny fumbled with the bolts and locks. They were the only residents of the building since the pandemic, but that didn’t mean they were safe. In the early months of the die-off, gangs had roamed the area, but recently things had been quiet. So who was at their door?

A small box, apparently.

After checking that no one was waiting to jump him, Danny stood over the package and frowned. It was about half the size of a shoebox and wrapped in neat brown paper.

Danica peered around his shoulder. “UPS?”

“Very funny. It might be dangerous.”

“I’m sure it’s just an ordinary delivery. Some of the kids must be trying to re-establish a post office.”

“That wouldn’t explain why they brought something here. It doesn’t have our names and address on it. Maybe it’s a bomb.”

“Who would want to blow us up?”

“You never know.”

“Well, I think it’s harmless and we should open it.”

A debate ensued, in which the twins discussed possibilities as disturbing as explosives and anthrax to the more horrific notion that the box might contain a fruitcake from their grandmother, dead in the pandemic.

“Sometimes things get lost and don’t get delivered for decades,” Danica pointed out.

“Whatever it is, I don’t like it. I’m going to move it out of our doorway.”

“Why? It’s not in our way, since we always go in and out the window.” Nevertheless, she went into the kitchen and returned with a mop.

Danny pushed the suspicious package to the end of the hall and left it by the stairwell. He returned with a satisfied air.

As he locked the door and set the bolts, Danica asked, “If it really is a bomb, what if it blows up the stairs?”

“Then we won’t have to worry about any more deliveries.”

Danica threw herself onto the sofa with a giggle. “That would be nice. Maybe no one would bother us again, ever.” She stretched with the sensual moves of a cat. “I didn’t expect this much excitement on a non-foraging day.”

Danny stalked toward her with a grin. “The day’s not over yet.”

“What more could happen?”

Danny leaned over her and ran a hand up her thigh. “Do you need some ideas?”

She drew him to her with a satisfied sigh. “We do this every day, though.”

“Does that make it any less exciting?”

Before Danica could answer, there was another rap at the door, more urgent than before.

“Let them knock,” Danny said. He fumbled with the buttons of his fly.

Danica helped. “Right. We’re busy.”

The knocking continued.

Danica paused. “Maybe it’s important.”

“Nothing’s more important than you, babe.”

“Then we should find who’s doing it and shoot them.”

“Too much trouble.” He gave a little tug at her pants. “You going to leave these on, or what?”

Danica cast a glance toward the door. “I just wonder if—”

“Don’t wonder.” He pressed her shoulders into the cushions and kissed her until all urge toward curiosity was gone. By the time Danica squirmed out of her clothes so he could make love to her, the knocking had become a distant background noise, easily ignored.

An hour later when Danica wrapped herself in a robe and peeked out the door, she saw nothing on the empty stoop or in the vacant hallway. Even the original package was gone. "That's odd," she said.

"Everything's odd since the die-off."

Danica shut the door and leaned against it, frowning. "Yes, I guess that's the apocalypse for you. You never know what to expect."

"It's all about us now."

"So can I throw knives at you again?"

"Of course, love. Nothing matters but you."

Flash Fiction Interlude: In Dependence Day (A Steal Tomorrow Extra)

2008-07-03T17:32:00.004-05:00

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This holiday flash fiction piece accompanies my YA novel Steal Tomorrow and is cross-posted on the novel's blog

“So what’s this leadership meeting supposed to be about?” Cassie asked Julilla as they climbed the stairs.

“Fourth of July.”

Cassie hadn’t realized it was almost Independence Day. Who could keep up with dates any more? Since the pandemic, each day was like every other. She had even overlooked her birthday. Not that it mattered. Getting older was nothing to celebrate when you were infected with a retrovirus that would kill you before you were out of your teens. “We don’t celebrate our own birthdays,” she said. “Why should we celebrate the nation’s? Do we even have a nation any more? If there’s no more government, there’s no more country, right?”

“Beats the hell out of me.” Julilla pulled open the door to the patio and kicked the doorstop into place, muttering about “irresponsible brats” who let the doors fall shut, trapping the hot summer air inside.

Their leader Mundo and his girlfriend Kayleen were waiting on the shaded deck, along with the guard commander Alex and lead forager, David. Cassie sat as far as she could from David, ignoring the way he leered at her.

“You’re late,” he said.

“We were rewinding our sundials,” she snapped.

Kayleen blinked, not understanding the complex joke. She asked no questions, though, and reached for a bottle of sunscreen.

“You’ve got enough of that,” Mundo told her. “We’re not going to live long enough for you to get melanoma. Did you bring a pen? I need you to take notes.”

With a sigh of annoyance, Kayleen set the Coppertone aside and picked up a purple felt tip.

“What we need to decide,” Mundo said, “Is whether to celebrate the Fourth, and if so, how.”

“When is it, exactly?” Cassie asked.

“Don’t you ever look at a calendar?” David sneered.

“I’ve never seen one around here. Have you?”

Mundo waved a hand for silence. “It’s the day after tomorrow. The Thespians have invited us over for a production they’re putting on in conjunction with the Operatics. I think it’s going to be a musical.”

Cassie cringed. The last thing she wanted to deal with was another crazy performance by the tribe of kids living at the theater. Didn’t they have better things to do than go around declaiming and pantomiming? The whole world lay in ruins, and their answer was to write scripts and songs about it.

David saved Cassie the trouble of being the first to decline the invitation. “I don’t want to watch those freaks prance around in wigs.”

“And what are they going to do, exactly?” Julilla asked. “Set the Declaration of Independence to music and reenact the Battle of Bunker Hill? No, thanks.”

“The little ones might like some kind of celebration, though,” Cassie offered. “I think it’s good for them to celebrate holidays. It gives them a sense of normalcy.”

“There’s nothing normal about the Thespians,” Julilla said.

“I meant maybe we could forage some fireworks or something.”

Everyone looked at David.

“What? I haven’t seen so much as a sparkler since the pandemic. I could set something on fire for them, though, if you think that’ll make them happy.”

Mundo rubbed his face in frustration. “So it looks like we don’t have any good ideas for how to celebrate.”

“I don’t see why we should bother,” Julilla said. “Two hundred and forty years ago, a bunch of rich white guys told their government to stuff it. Big deal.”

“It’s more than that,” Alex said in his best ex-ROTC manner. “It’s about celebrating our freedom to choose our way of governance. It’s about honoring the sacrifices of those who died so we could be free.”

The little group lapsed into silence, thinking not of men in powdered wigs fighting for a free and independent nation, but of their parents, teachers and leaders. The death of the adults had left them struggling to understand their freedom and bewildered about how to make order from the wreckage.

“Creating a government is hard work,” Mundo admitted.

“So is keeping it safe,” Alex pointed out.

“Freedom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Cassie said. “It’s a lot of responsibility.”

David frowned and looked away. “It’s harder than I thought, I'll grant you that.”

Kayleen had been taking notes and now Mundo looked over her shoulder. “What are you writing, babe?”

“That freedom is hard. And that we should be glad we’ve made it this far.”

“So you think we should celebrate our own independence?”

Kayleen shrugged. “David’s right. It’s a lot of hard work.”

“Besides,” Cassie said. “We’re not really independent. We’re all in this together. What we should celebrate is Dependence Day—learning to get along when we’re all so different.”

Julilla agreed. “I can roll with that.”

Heads nodded, Kayleen made a few notes, and Mundo said he’d put the matter to a vote after dinner.

“But what are we going to do to celebrate this so-called Dependence Day?” David wanted to know.

They all fell silent again.

“Well,” Julilla finally said, “I guess it doesn’t matter, as long as it doesn’t involve Thespians.”

“Too bad the potatoes aren’t ready to harvest,” Cassie said. “Potato salad would be perfect.”

“I still think we should set something on fire,” David said.

“I’ll take ideas from the floor after dinner.” Mundo glanced around the group for confirmation. “We’ll do this thing democratically.”

“Democracy is what we’re all about,” Alex agreed.

“It's almost as hard as freedom,” Cassie pointed out.

“Got any better ideas?”

She shook her head. “Beats the alternatives.”

“Then we’ll take suggestions from everyone and put the best ideas to a vote,” Mundo concluded. “God bless America.”

“God bless us,” Kayleen corrected him.

“God bless someone,” Julilla said, standing and stretching. “We could all sure use it.”

Done!

2008-06-29T10:13:00.001-05:00

I've finished my first-pass edits. Copies will be going out to beta readers today.

Update!

2008-06-26T23:36:00.003-05:00

Sorry for the recent shortage of posts. I hope to finish my first big editing pass on Steal Tomorrow this weekend and then I'll have more time for other matters, like updating my blogs, writing more character sketches, excerpts, and perhaps even some flash.

I really do like having a print copy of my manuscript to do edits from. I can read and make notes anywhere, any time, and of course we all know from experience how different things can look on paper as opposed to the computer screen. And for me there is also the time of day factor. Things that seem brilliant at 2 am are...well, not quite so much after a night's rest.

I'm edging downward on my word count and I think I'll be around 95-96K when this editing pass is done. Funny how on the first draft, the goal is more words while on the edits, the goal is less.

Once my first-pass edit is done I'll be soliciting beta readers, so if anyone is interested, let me know!

Draft Book is Here!

2008-06-20T13:38:00.003-05:00

Yay! I came home for lunch and found my printed draft waiting on my front porch. Good thing I like my new job or I'd be trying to weasel my way out of having to do anything else this afternoon!

I'm still working on the front cover and haven't done the back, but you can see here the direction I'm going with it. And if you haven't bookmarked the blog yet, what are you waiting for? Sign up for the email updates while you're at it-- they're pretty nifty!

Update - More Web Content

2008-06-16T00:31:00.003-05:00

New post about shopping on the Steal Tomorrow blog.

Also, I have added a subscription feature so people can get updates via email. I would really, really appreciate getting a few guinea pigs for this. Thanks!

Another Update

2008-06-15T11:18:00.003-05:00

I've updated the list of Tribes at Steal Tomorrow to include an entry on the Librarians.

Updates on Works in Progress

2008-06-15T03:24:00.003-05:00

I've got some new stuff at the Oddments link on my Steal Tomorrow blog. Poetry, excerpts and reading list-- oh, my!

I've also started work on the sequel. It was hard getting those first words written. I hate that moment where you're sitting in front of a blank page, thinking, "Whatever I write, it'll be crap." But at some point you just have to go ahead and write something, anything, and it often turns out just fine. Besides, I'm of the opinion that the first few pages are usually for the author, not the reader. They get your head into the right place to write what the book is really about. If by the end of the book, the first part no longer suits, you delete it.

That's what drafts are for.

But the really good news about the sequel, aside from the fact that I started, is that I finally found out the motivation for my bad guy's behavior. Chicks and power are lame and overdone, so it had to be something bigger. I wanted him to have the kind of motive that a rational person might say, "Sure, it sounds good in theory, but in actual practice it's totally unworkable and unethical."

I think I have that motive! I'm going to get a lot of good (read: dark and weird) stuff out of this one!

But for now, go check out the Oddments! More content will follow over the next few weeks!

WIP Update

2008-06-12T11:54:00.000-05:00

I brought my word count down to 98K tonight and decided that I can't do much more at this point without a fresh perspective. I uploaded the manuscript into Lulu as a private project and will hopefully have my draft in my hands by sometime next week. I know from previous experience that a lot of flaws will jump out at me once I'm reading it in print, curled up in bed.

I have a new item posted on the related blog: an excerpt from the story and a picture. The excerpt was chosen because of the picture and not the other way around, so the text isn't really stand-alone. But it's my blog and I'll blog however I like, right?

In addition to posting the full story in serial fashion sometime later this summer, I'll have a download and print version available from Lulu. I might also have an option for people to sign up for an email of each day's post. Does anyone have any other ideas for me to consider?

Word Count Irony

2008-06-10T22:01:00.003-05:00

I'm in the first-edit phase of my WIP now. The break from it was nice and I read the whole thing through in about two evenings, made a punch list of items to address, and have been steadily working through it, in addition to doing little cleanups and tightening as I go.

Since I tend to write long, edits usually involve reducing word count, so I'm savoring the irony that while for months I got excited over my manuscript getting longer, now I'm excited to see it get shorter. I'm at about 99K now, down from 101K.

I'm toying with the idea of querying an e-publisher or two, although I think my purposes might be just as well served by posting as serial web fiction with a print version available via Lulu. I'd have to self-promote either way, and my way is faster and less pressure. I'm more interested in being read than being officially published at this juncture, and if I find my writing turning into another obligation on my To Do list, I'll just end up hating it.

In the meantime though, I'm working steadily at dropping my word count, whereas I used to celebrate increasing it. Life is kind of amusing that way.

Love and War(A Will and Diana Adventure)

2008-05-30T22:01:00.012-05:00

Will shifted in his saddle and frowned at the horizon. “Seems like we should’ve been there already.”

“It can’t be much farther,” Diana said. “We’re almost to Don Reymundo’s lands.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Diana fumbled in her saddlebag and pulled out a compass, squinting at the markings in the bright glare of the sun.

“We don’t need that,” Will told her. “The river has been to our left the whole time, so we can’t have passed it.”

They continued in silence for another mile, intent on their mission to deliver a message to the unit monitoring Don Reymundo’s growing fiefdom. As if Don Reymundo’s land-grabbing wasn’t enough, there were rumors he had allied with at least one of the northern states of Mexico, and this could not be allowed.

Will and Diana smelled the burn before they saw it—a heavy, sickly odor of more than just wood. Mingled into the charcoal smell of burnt cottonwoods was the choking scent of scorched plastic, trash, and flesh.

He and Diana kicked their horses into a trot. Ahead, they could make out the charred trunks of trees, the blackened walls of a small adobe dwelling, and the remains of a corral.

“Was this it, do you think?” Diana asked as she walked her horse through the ashes, skirting the grisly remains of humans and animals.

Will rested a hand on his gun, looking around as if there might be arsonists among the remains. Diana was about to tease him for his caution when a sound by the river caught her attention. She drew her gun and edged her horse closer to Will’s as a dirty figure dragged himself out of the brush by the water.

“Stay where you are,” Will shouted. “Who are you?”

The man looked at them with the pained expression of a wounded animal. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He dragged himself a few more feet and collapsed with a whimper.

While Will kept his gun trained on the stranger, Diana jumped to the ground and approached him. She squatted by his side but made no move to touch him because what had looked from a distance like mud and soot was something else entirely.

“He’s burnt pretty bad,” she said. “He needs help.”

Will dismounted and fumbled in his saddlebag for his canteen. He gave it to Diana, eyeing the man skeptically while she tried to get him to drink. “I don’t think there’s much we can do.”

Diana sat back on her heels with a sigh. “I know. It’s just—”

“See if he can tell us his name and what happened.”

Diana wet her bandanna and moistened the man’s lips, leaning in close so she could hear his whispered words. She murmured encouragement as he answered her questions and when he had nothing more to say, she asked if he had any message for his next of kin.

The man mumbled something, but she couldn’t make it out, so she asked him to repeat himself. Instead, he shook his head and fell silent.

“Do you want to do it, or should I?” Will asked.

Diana got to her feet and walked away. She had gone only a little way when she heard the shot and stopped. When Will joined her, he found her staring at the river. Her eyes were wet and when she turned to look at him, she swiped at her nose.

“What did he say?” Will asked.

“That Don Reymundo’s people did this. They took some of our people away as prisoners.”

“That's just what we need. A rescue mission.”

“His name was Jacinto Torres. He had a daughter.”

“What’s her name? Where is she? Did he have a message for her?”

Diana shook her head. “She was with Don Reymundo’s people.”

“So was this guy one of ours or not?”

“He was ours.”

Will fell silent, pondering the implications. Finally he said, “Well, I guess the message we were supposed to deliver is pretty useless now.”

“I guess so.”

“We’ll bury him, then go back and tell central command what happened.”

Diana nodded and looked around at the blackened landscape. “Hard to believe people who are supposed to love each other could do something like this.”

“Mother always says war is hell.”

“But why—”

“Don’t ask. You’ll make yourself crazy trying to understand other people.” Will tugged at his hat, then reached for her hand. “Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

On Vacation and New Blog

2008-05-24T02:04:00.004-05:00

Well, I had hoped to have more content than this before launching the blog for my new novel, but I wanted to leave my friends with something to look at while I’m out of town, so here it is: Steal Tomorrow. Each of the sidebar links has at least some content, and more will be added, perhaps even while I’m on vacation. I’m a veteran road traveler and can stare out the window for hours, but even I can only find so much stimulation in the flat, empty spaces of West Texas!

I’ll be adding tribe and character profiles, pictures, random bits of information, and outtakes throughout the summer. When I’m happy with the main story, I’ll post it, as well. I might even do some flash fiction based on the characters. Since the blog is so new and I still haven't settled into any fixed notions about what or how it should be, thoughts and suggestions are welcome.

Also, for any of my writing friends who don’t frequent my Tri-Bunny blog, be sure to stop by my vacation blog for the next couple of weeks. I’ll be posting pics and an accounting of my adventures nightly, wherever we have connectivity.

See you in two weeks!

Done!

2008-05-21T01:22:00.003-05:00

My draft weighs in at 101K. Things will get cut, things will get added, and numbers will change. It's a dark but fun story and I'm looking forward to getting it tidied up so I can start sharing it.

I started writing some web content and I should have enough to publish the blog before I leave on vacation. We've decided to board the bunny at the vet's, so we're heading out Friday or Saturday.

More in a day or two!

100K and Almost There!

2008-05-20T02:06:00.002-05:00

I broke 100K tonight (Monday). I'll be writing the last scene Tuesday night and then its time to put this puppy away for a couple weeks while I write web content for it and go on vacation (bunny permitting).

I'm looking forward to having some cool things to share very soon. I've been tinkering madly with my new blog and I have some pictures to work on for it, so I could have a url ready as soon as Wednesday!

Dropping In

2008-05-17T00:05:00.002-05:00

I apologize for the recent lapses in posting. Transitioning out of my old job, getting ready for vacation, dealing with a sick pet, and trying to finish my novel before I leave town have taken their toll on what little "free" time I have.

I'm at 95K on my word count and will probably finish the draft very close to 100K. Where it will end up after editing is hard to say.

I've started a blog for this project and friend Thomma's recent blog template escapades made me realize I'm not the only writer who can easily get sucked into making banners and mucking around with HTML and CSS codes. Right now I have a background image that is refusing to obey the no-repeat command. Nice. But I'll keep looking for a way to fix it because I'm stubborn that way and because one of my friends at work runs the university's web tech group. I have contacts. Insider knowledge and expertise. So why is it so much more fun to muddle with it myself? I get plenty of opportunities to cuss in real life. I don't need blogger for that.

Anyway, since I'm almost done with my first draft, I'll be taking a break soon to write some website content for the new blog. I'll have info about the story premise, the characters, etc, as well as photographs and other cool things. I'm leaning heavily toward publishing the whole story online once I've been through a couple good edits and a beta read or two. So look for more info about this project soon!

90K!

2008-05-12T01:08:00.003-05:00

I broke 90K on my novel this weekend! I'm definitely on track for finishing before I go on vacation, now that my vacation got pushed back a week because of my new job.

I've started a spiffy new blog where I'll post preview information about the new novel, and maybe even post the whole novel itself. I'm still divided on whether or not to seek publication and I'll know more once I've taken a break from it and started my revisions. But in general, I'm leaning more and more toward being a committed web and POD publisher until retirement gives me the time I would need to be successful in the world of traditional publication.

I'm not posting my new blog url yet, since it's still under construction. If time permits, I'll have the bare-bones version available for viewing before I leave later this month. I'll start populating it with information about characters and locations upon my return. It's hard to keep from working on it because it's a fresh and new creative project, which always gets me excited and eager to do everything right away. Patience is not my strong suit by a long shot!

But for now, patience is necessary. Time spent creating banners in PhotoShop for the blog is time not spent finishing the draft.

If only there were just a few more hours in the day!

New Story, New Word Count

2008-04-27T22:39:00.004-05:00

My story in Word Catalyst is up! A few of you will recognize it as one I submitted to a contest earlier in the year. It wasn’t what they were looking for, but it’s a decent little story and I knew I could find it a home without much trouble.

I passed the 75K mark on my WIP last night. At this rate I might just make my goal of finishing before I leave for vacation in a few weeks. I really would like to have the draft complete because vacations having a way of rebooting my brain and I’ll be able to tackle the revisions with fresh eyes immediately upon my return.

I think I might end up with something worth pitching. I’m at least not having much trouble coming up with a query letter in my head, which is something I can’t usually say about my stories. So depending on how this turns out, I may shop it around a bit and see what kind of response I get. If it turns into more hassle than my time is worth, though, I’ve got a lot of fun ideas for how to put this out on the web.

I'm sometimes tempted to post excerpts or character sketches, but I'm holding back for now because I think I may end up changing some names and making the story more dark and gritty overall (as if it isn't already). But I'm at that stage where the characters are pestering me all the time and sometimes it's hard to shut them up. The only way to silence them is by letting them out, so we'll see how much longer I can keep them bottled up like this.

Does anyone else have this problem with their characters, or am I just crazy?

Flash Fiction Interlude: In a Dry Land(A Will and Diana Adventure)

2008-04-14T22:02:00.013-05:00

NOTE: This previously-unposted flash appears in my Will and Diana Adventures book of stories. Readers unfamiliar with these stories may want to read up on Will and Diana's world before proceeding.

The donkey cart bounced along the road, its patched rubber tires churning up clouds of dust. Macy clutched the seat as the cart lurched into a pothole. “Watch where you’re going.”

Cascabel flicked the reins across the donkey’s back. “Maybe you should drive if you think you’d be so good at it.”

“Maybe we should camp closer to water.” Macy cast a glance toward the bed of the cart to make sure none of their containers had fallen over.

Sachi moved her horse closer. “There’s things I’d rather do than guard the water run, so I hope we find another well soon.”

“At least we get extra this way.” Diana said from where she walked her horse on the other side. “Direct from the source, where it tastes good.”

The other girls nodded. Water that tasted like plastic containers was only slightly better than no water at all.

They came down a hill and started the next rise.

“Hold up,” Diana said. “I think Balto’s got a stone.”

Cascabel stopped the cart and set the brake. Diana dismounted to check the donkey’s feet, but there was no stone.

“Unhitch him,” Sachi suggested.

Diana unhitched the donkey and sure enough, he was limping. The girls huddled to discuss their options, but their instructions for these types of situations had been clear. Sachi would ride back to camp for assistance while Diana would hitch her horse to the cart and try to maintain their progress at the annoying pace of the injured donkey.

The girls had gone half a mile in sullen silence when they saw a cluster of riders in the distance.

“That was fast,” Macy said.

Diana squinted at the horizon. “Too fast. And where’s our fresh donkey?”

Cursing, the girls scrambled for their weapons, but Diana knew with a sick feeling in her stomach that unless Sachi showed up with reinforcements, it was she who would have to defend the three of them. The other girls were only camp supporters.

The riders came nearer and it was clear they weren’t from an enemy unit, nor were they locals going about their business. These were young men dressed in flashy finery, desert pirates moving from one raiding opportunity to another.

If they had been a pack of starving wolves, Diana would’ve been less terrified. Unaffiliateds were unpredictable. They might trot past without a second glance or they might do something horrible, like—

“Maybe one of us would be enough,” Macy said. “I could—”

Diana glanced at her. Macy sat pale and wide-eyed, holding her pistol in a trembling grip. She had worked in a brothel and wasn’t above using her old tricks to distract an enemy guard, but this was different. “No.” Diana turned toward the men who were closing on them rapidly. “Make them fight for us.”

There was no time to unhitch her horse, so she walked to meet them, carrying her M16 in a way she hoped made it clear she knew how to use it. The men kicked their horses and swooped upon her, circling in a manner that called to mind the tales Apaches told of how their ancestors isolated enemies before a kill.

“What’s with the big gun, little girl?”

“Need a boyfriend? I’ve got a big gun, too.”

Diana tried to think, but the circling riders were making her dizzy. She could take out any one of them, but then the others would have her for sure, and Macy and Cascabel would be left unprotected.

“Are your friends as pretty as you? We can show you a good time.”

Dammit, where were Sachi and the reinforcements?

“What’s in the wagon, cutie?”

“Water!” she said in exasperation. “And will you stop and talk to me like normal people?”

To her surprise, they did stop. A man with pale eyes and a spattering of tattoos across his face edged his skittish horse toward her. He made no move to draw his weapon and instead twitched his shoulders beneath his velvet shirt. “You say you got water?”

“Yes. No jewelry, no batteries, no—”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Where you going?”

Diana had started to relax but now she moved the M16 back into position. “None of your business.”

Instead of taking offense, he looked away. When he met Diana’s eyes again, it was with a note of vulnerability. “I’ve got a guy laid up not far from here. None of us has had water since yesterday morning—”

“There’s a spring five miles back on this road.”

“And we’re less than a mile from a guy who’s dying.” He rubbed his face. “We won’t molest you. Just share, okay?”

Sensing she had no better options, Diana started walking toward the cart, indicating with a jerk of her head that the raiders should follow. As she drew near, she motioned for Macy and Cascabel to put down their weapons. “They say all they want is water. Let them take what they want.”

Macy and Cascabel stepped away from the cart and watched in fascination as the men grabbed the containers and raised them to their lips, gulping noisily and spilling water on themselves. One barrel was big enough for their horses and they took turns letting the animals drink. When they were satisfied, the man with the pale eyes approached Diana again. “We’re going to take some of this water to our friend.”

By now the others had mounted their horses, each carrying one of the smaller containers in his lap. They hadn’t gone far when the pale-eyed one jerked on the reins and cantered back. Macy and Cascabel scurried under the cart in a panic, but Diana held her ground. The man wheeled his horse in front of her and tossed something at her feet. “Thanks, pretty lady.” He kicked his horse again and chased after his companions.

In the silence that followed their fading hoof beats, Diana bent to retrieve the gold piece. It was a large one, heavy and valuable. She was polishing it with the tail of her shirt, her hands still shaking and her mind reeling, when a new movement on the horizon caught her attention.

It was Sachi.

With relief, Diana dropped the coin in a pocket. “Well, it’s about fucking time.”

WIP Update!

2008-04-13T03:37:00.006-05:00

I broke 60K here in the wee hours of Sunday morning, and I finally got my MC and her man in bed. Sheesh. I'd been trying to make that happen all week but between their chaotic lives and my limited time for writing during the week, I only just now got to that scene.

Well, it was worth it, both for plot purposes and because what's the point of having characters if you don't torture them a little by making them wait and throwing a few needless (to them, not to the plot) deaths between them and their desires?

A lot of interesting things are happening with this story-- themes I hadn't planned are emerging and characters are developing in unanticipated ways. I'm a little concerned that I may have too many characters and sub-plots, but that's a matter for the editing phase. For now I'm just enjoying being in the zone with these characters, and I hope they keep talking to me and get me to the end with a minimum of difficulties. Ideally, I'd like to be done with the draft before I go on vacation next month. At my current rate of progress, it just might happen!

Publishing and the Overworked Writer

2008-04-06T22:44:00.002-05:00

I’ve been thinking lately about the time commitments of mainstream publication.

I don’t know why this never occurred to me before (or maybe it did in a subconscious way) but if I were to quit writing for a little while so I could focus on submissions, and if I actually hit pay dirt and got an agent and publisher, would I even have time to do all that’s required of a modern author?

Looking at how constrained my writing time is already, I don’t know how I would manage the iterations of the publication process, the marketing (much of which is the responsibility of the author), the book signings, and all the other things it seems a traditionally published author must do, all the while working toward deadline on the next book and doing everything possible to make sure sales of the first book were sufficient to earn out on the advance and not get dropped by the publisher.

Sheesh. Sounds like I’d have to quit my job to do all that. Or at least quit running marathons, working out, cooking healthy meals and having Saturday lunches with my husband. For sure I’d have to give up something and I don’t have much I can really give up. I don’t watch TV unless something important blows up and I want to see the live news coverage of it. I don’t rent movies. I don’t go out to movies. I don’t do much blogging and I’m rarely on a forum more than ten minutes a day. I eat out only once a week and don’t go to bars, festivals, concerts, classes, or anything else. The only things I could cut back on would be work, sleep, exercise, healthy cooking/eating, reading the news, researching my stories, and writing.

In other words, I’d have to give up the very things that enable me to write in the first place.

Several of my blog friends have had recent breakthroughs on the road to publication and I’m going to be watching very closely to see just how much time is really involved in making that leap. If my suspicions are correct, I may be overdue for a little honesty with myself. I’ve been on the fence for awhile, dabbling in non-traditional publication methods, such as blog and POD, while holding back some of my work until I can pursue a more traditional route for it. Instead, maybe my strategy should be to just give my all to non-traditional publishing for awhile, embrace it and quit kidding myself that I can somehow find some extra time hidden under a stack of unread magazines or in the back of one of my cluttered closets.

I can always get back on the traditional publication track when I take my early retirement. And who knows? By then I might have a following and a New York house would be as thrilled to have me as I would be to have them. Or not. Maybe by then I’ll have very different ideas of what I’d like to do with my time. But one thing I know for sure: if the realities of traditional publication are incompatible with all my other life goals, something’s got to give, and it’s not going to be my health, my marriage, or my career.

50K !

2008-04-06T03:25:00.001-05:00

I broke the 50K barrier on my WIP tonight. Yay, me!