Tag Archives: Writer

Fishing for comfort

In response to photo-fiction 33

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“Give me two reasons.” I heard the shudder in her voice, she was trying not to let me hear the tears. She was being dramatic, like always. I told her as much.
“Please.” asking in that quiet way she had. The way she had each time she did this, each time I fell for it and indulged her fishing for compliments. I rolled my eyes and hung up. Not this time. I wouldn’t be sucked in. This was not my circus, I needed to get her off my back.

I woke up to 15 missed calls. Hell, when she wanted attention she really knew how to get it. Thank god for silent mode. I turn on the news, and there she is. Cute and smiling, confident. I drop my coffee mug. She was just being dramatic. Like she had been a million times. A million times she had called me in the middle of the night fishing for comfort. Looking for reasons to stay in this life.

Not this time.

First impressions

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Jessup rounded the corner in time to see a chair erupt from the plate glass window in the front of the address he had been given. The restaurants’ refugees invaded the quiet street. The former customer of the establishment clambered over each other and the shards of broken glass still decorating the window frame to get away from whatever it was that started the commotion.

Outside the group of three militiamen who were ambling along the other side of the street, chatting good-naturedly stopped and gawked. Jessup skidded to a halt. Too late, as one of the three pointed in his direction and gave a holler. So much for doing this quick and easy.

Luckily the confusion from the eatery was infectious. The few erupting patrons had become a mob of confusion as those trying to flee, clashed with those trying to run closer to see what had caused the ruckus. It was easy for Jessup to get lost in the fray, and find himself in front of the broken window.

The empty frame held a perfect picture of what misinformation and fear could do if delivered the right way and in the right amounts. The young militiaman in the establishment looked just about to piss himself as he faced down the source of the fray. A boy, no more than 15, sitting at the remains of a table, palms outstretched in surrender, looking just about as afraid and stupefied as the man who was screaming and pointing his weapon at him.

Jessup saw the potential for an ugly situation to turn hideous when he saw what had the militiaman crapping himself. The boy’s hands were on fire. More accurately, angry red flames danced across his palms. The boy, his eyes a bright cerulean, glanced back and forth in fearful awe between the end of the pistol and his flame covered palms.

The man kept screaming, even as the boy tried closing his fists and opening them. As the child tried shaking the hands, as if he were trying to extinguish the flames. Jessup saw the moment the man with the gun let lose his bladder and a bullet, and he was launching himself through the window when he saw bright blue eyes widen in shock and fear and then narrow in morbid determination. The bullet had gone wide, hitting nothing but a bottle of something oily and fragrant on the shelves behind the counter, but the flames now covered the whole hands, they had turned white and emanated a heat that Jessup could feel twenty feet away.

‘If they are going to shoot at me, then I must fight,’ the eyes said. Jessup, if he were having a civil conversation with the boy would have given him about 50 reasons why fighting with the man-boy, who now smelled of rotten onions and ammonia, was a bad idea. As it was they were in the middle of a potential war zone, with a mob forming and a veritable army on the way and there was no room for civil conversation.

Jessup leapt through the frame of shards and copied the boy’s submissive stance. He faced the boy but addressed the excrement soaked man-child quivering too hard to shoot either of them.

“Hey,” the boy just trembled in response. “You think pointing that thing at him is helping?” This time the boy offered a whimper and a squishy plopping sound emanated from his trousers. Jessup wasn’t sure if he was trying to suppress a laugh or a gag. “I would like to think putting it down would be a good idea.”

The gun clattered to the floor. Jessup now faced the boy.

“Hey kid.” Frightened eyes turned to the newcomer, one flaming palm also followed the motion. “You got a name?” Frightened eyes turned to the newcomer and the determination shifted focus. The man-boy took the chance to make a mad squishy dash though the agape restaurant door, but Jessup had no time to pay much attention.

“No name is fine. Do you know how to turn those off?” Jessup gestured at the hands, but his peripheral vision showed him that the crowd was looking less civilian gawker and more paramilitary by the second. Scared eyes shifted to the crowd, widened and then looked at Jessup. The boy shook his head no.

“First time this happen to you?” Nod Yes “Alright, so I’m here to take you somewhere safe. Would you be willing to do that?” Wide, scared, uncertain eyes just kept shifting from his face to behind him.

“Do you know what they will do to you?” Another nod, and tears misting up the corners of confused, wide eyes. “Kid you have the advantage, you have those, I have me and my wits and an order to get you to safety.” More staring, a mist became a dam, threatening to burst. “If I was looking to hurt you, I would have tried already.” The flames receded to the palms and returned to their original red. Not angry, these were flames of fear.

“Just don’t point those things at me, Ok? And I’ll get you out of here.” Jessup looked at the door to the back of the room. Actually he looked through the closed door, he knew his own eyes probably now blazed blood red, while he was using his abilities. The boys, eyes were wondrously wide when Jessup again focused on him. Jessup saw the core of flame in the boy, he saw the way it blazed and gutted, the flame mirroring the boy in uncertainty and fear.

Jessup motioned towards the door, and the boy took his que. He extended his arms out in front of him and allowed the red flames to spurt towards the door; the door simply parted and removed itself from their path.  Out in the alley through the smoldering doorframe, there were no souls to be found.  As if the mob in the front of the establishment had sucked all the living things out of the city immediately around them.

Jessup didn’t bother to ponder at it, he just ducked them around the alley and towards jetty at the end of the roadway. He splashed the boy with the cool water of the harbor and flung him, smoldering and confused into the dingy.

 

 

Foreign thoughts

In response to Photo-Fiction #83

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“Chineyyy!!! Gimme a small fried chicken fried rice!!” The man shouted over the counter despite the shop being empty except him.

I had grown accustomed to the racist slurs and the aggression of “hangry” people shouting at the child behind the counter. I had grown accustomed to the smell of garlic and grease as I toiled over the school books from which I was constantly interrupted.

“One small fried chicken fried rice,” I shouted in mandarin over my shoulder. My mother shouted back from the kitchen. “I’m fine, just trying to finish my homework before the dinner rush.” All in mandarin.

The man eyed me suspiciously, and I ignored him. It was him or someone like him, every day, gawking through the white painted iron bars. I thought nothing of it. Nothing at all until a red glow seeped into my peripheral vision. Nothing until a low growl registered in my hearing. Until the world went crazy as a flurry of fur, claws, and teeth raged against the iron bars. The bars moaning as they bent towards me. The heat of his breath and spittle, on my cheeks as the give in the bars let him get within swiping distance.

It felt like nausea, as I stood there frozen, in fear or terror. It felt like bile rising in my throat. It burned and then it exploded from my lips, blue-white flames that engulfed the thing that used to be the man that ordered a small fried chicken fried rice.

It cried and ran, a streak of burning fur, disappearing into the darkness. Before my mind could panic, the melody of my mother’s stories came back, stories of a proud people, a land of dwindling magic, of an exodus, fleeing progress. I heard fairytales. I heard my truth.

Coming out of the closet.

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It’s amazing the kinds of things you find yourself reading when researching a book. For me to really become comfortable with the concept of coming out of the closet, something my main character has to do, I began reading coming out stories. I’ve read about a million of them I swear, and honestly, I can relate.

Yeah it sounds strange. How can I, a straight girl, ever understand the mental and emotional stress of having to break news to your parents, friends and family, without the assurance that they will react well?

Well I’ve had to deliver news that I knew they would react badly to. No doubt about it. And believe you me, the backlash is still coming. But you know what? I’m still alive and life keeps demonstrating how it wants me to thrive despite all the pitfalls placed in front of me.

Though I must also admit I’m a little envious of some of these stores. The ones that ended in laughs and hugs, or even a stern word for not coming forward sooner.

Do I have anyone among my readers who has a story of delivering news you weren’t sure of? How did it end? Were there hugs and laughter? Or are you like me?

The Art of the Shameless plug and what comes next.

Now taking a lover.

Seeking eligible male for sexual rendezvous,

 must be unattached and not seeking romantic entanglement 

Please forward photo and current certified STI/STD panel to:

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Serious inquires only

Nope, I’m not trying to hire a gigolo, it’s an expert from my New release: Now Taking A Lover

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Available on Amazon, free with Kindle unlimited.

Apparently as an Indie Author I’m going to have to learn to plug, being particularly shy it’s a very daunting idea. But as the chief so aptly put it. “You can’t publish a book and hide it.” and he’s right. So I shall plug, but not to worry, I’m not the tacky spam streaming sort. The internet is safe from me.

One of the most frequently asked Questions I get now as an Author (I can call myself that now, huh?). Is,” what comes next?”

Well what comes next for me is, What Comes After. That’s the title of my next book. Which will be a novel. I’ll share the blurb and you can tell me what you thing. Here goes.

There is nothing easy about coming out of the closet. But Mila comes out only to find herself locked into the center of a conspiracy that has changed the culture of generations.

Will Mila be able to protect herself and her family, through What comes After?