Aphrodisiac Flash Fiction

I wrote this short piece for Romantic Friday Writers a in 2012. Since then, this is the post most of my friends recount to me when we discuss my writing. I thought I would re-post it just for fun (and to keep my posts more regular, a goal of mine).

Aphrodisiac Schmaphrodisiac

The goose was rubbed down with honey and citrus. I had been drawing cup after cup of rendered fat away for the past three hours. Oysters chilled on their bed of ice in my sink with only a little of my blood still staining the drain from my first practice shucking. The artichokes were steaming and the olive oil, caper, and dill drizzle was setting, drawing and blending flavors. The wine had been decanted, my prized Waterford red wine goblets, polished.

I had eschewed my regular floral perfume for a spicy cinnamon body lotion. My hair was loose, my cleavage bountiful. I had followed the Aphrodisiac Cookbook to the letter, but knew if all else failed, I could count on my breasts.

One way or another, I was going to get laid tonight. No, not 'laid'–seduced. My needs were basic; I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to feel. For so long I had been a wife and mother. Toward the end, when the Huntington's had disabled the man I married, I was more caretaker than wife. Now, with Jason finally at peace and the boys in college, it was time to be a woman again. I blinked away the threatening tears and checked my eyes in the mirror. The mascara was definitely worth the eight dollars, though the lip stain looked too contrived. Grimacing, I wondered if I should have colored my hair. The strands of silver among the auburn screamed, "Old lady." And no one seduced an old lady. No, they helped her open jars and cross the road. My skin was still smooth. Without the grey, I could, maybe, have pulled off thirty-nine. With the grey I was every inch of forty-seven. I ran a finger over my brows, and gave myself a smile. I looked... well, I look like me. And Mr. Harris, David, already knew what I looked like.

The chimes sounded. He was here. I took a deep breath and slipped my bare feet into the kitten heeled slings I bought years ago for a Caribbean cruise but never wore. They still felt sexy.

He stood in the doorway, tall and clean cut in his casual slacks. My son’s former soccer coach, I’d never seen him in anything but his team jersey and sweats.

“Good evening, Mrs. Walsh.” He smiled and brought his hand from behind his back. Roses.

I blushed like an idiot and took them, my smile  so big it hurt. “Gemma, please.”

“Sorry. Old habits.”

I stepped back and he stepped in, wiping his feet on the rug. I should have moved further back—I was too close, in his space. Before I could, he took my hand.

“I’ve been looking forward to tonight for a long time.”

His voice was deeper than I remembered. He was holding my hand—should I squeeze? Pull away? Stay limp? I blushed again, burying my face in the roses. Jeese, you’d think I was sixteen, not someone who couldn’t open jars.

“David,” his name sounded decadent on my tongue, “would you like some wine?” I gestured with the bouquet, but stayed beside him, my hand warm in his.

“Umm, yes,” he cleared his throat, “Or no. Not now. Christ, I’m no good at this.”

“Good at what?” My voice was breathless.

He stepped closer, tracing my cheek with his finger. My breath caught in my throat as he leaned toward me.

            “This,” he whispered. Lowering his head he brushed my lips with his. His hand cradled my jaw, his fingers spearing back into my hair.

I leaned closer and he pressed his mouth more firmly against mine. Closing my eyes, I melted into him and he wrapped his arms around me.

The roses fell to the floor, the timer on the oven beeped, and the wine continued to breathe. None of it mattered. This man, David, he wanted me, grey hair and all, without aphrodisiacs.

Fan Fiction for Romantic Friday Writers

Romantic Friday Writers Prompt:  Write up to 1000 words of prose or poetry from famous lovers in famous stories from the past, recent or distant.

I love this idea. For some reason, the first couple I thought of was Titania and Oberon  I had all sorts of ideas, then started with the idea of writing it in verse... then I realized I was putting too much into it and the fun would be gone. Next was the super obvious Lizzie and Mr. Darcy. They needed to get it on -- but then I felt like I'd be messing with something sacred.

Thank goodness inspiration hit in a timely manner. Below, I give you, at 1050 words, Mr. Bennet from Pride and Prejudice and his first meeting with Mrs. Bennet (née Gardiner). Because there were no first names within the story, I improvised. Enjoy.

In Which Mr. Bennet Meets Miss Gardiner

 “Good Lord, she is enchanting, isn’t she William?”

William Bennet turned to look the direction his brother indicated, and saw nothing but a cluster of debutants giggling.

Charles did all but point with his flute of champagne. “Beyond the virgins, next to Lord Foxley. How much do you think she costs?”

William saw her then, her unpowdered gold ringlets piled high, still scarcely reaching Foxley’s nose. A petite little thing, a pocket Venus, she couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Her clothes indicated money, but there was an innocence to her, unjaded and honest, that set her apart from the rest of the ton. Something was different about her. Sipping his wine, he asked, “What makes you think she’s for sale?”

“Look at the way she laughs, she reeks of merchants. No gentleman will wed her, but there is already speculation at Whites about who will be the first to bed her.”

“Then those men are not gentlemen.” William tugged on the points of his waistcoat. “It is barbaric to plan the ruin of a young woman based solely on her connections or lack thereof.”

“Ah, William, so full of righteous fury at the injustices of the world. I’m surprised you came tonight if you despise all your peers so heartily. You might find these events more pleasurable if you did your thinking with,” he gestured crudely, “another head.”

William willed the tension from his jaw. He would not rise to his brother’s baiting. Bowing just enough to be polite, he excused himself.

He was here to find a wife. He didn’t have the fortune to attract a titled woman, nor the romantic inclinations to woo one. Really, women were befuddling, a riot of emotions that he could never understand. Still, as the eldest son, he must marry and sire a son lest the entail pass to Charles who would do nothing but drink it into ruin.

A slap on the back broke him from his thoughts. He looked up to find Foxley grinning at him like a fool.

“Miss Gardiner, allow me to present you my dear friend William Bennet.”

Lost in his thoughts, he’d walked straight towards them like some lovesick fool.

“Your servant, ma’am,” he said with a bow, “I…”

Whatever he’d been about to say was lost, gone, the moment his eyes met hers. Though her face was in calm repose as a lady’s should be, her eyes were smiling, laughing, as if daring him to laugh with her. A deep brown, fringed in long, dark lashes, they were a stark contrast to her blond brows and hair. Remarkable.

“I fear your beauty has quite undone my friend,” Foxley continued, plucking a fresh flute of champagne from a passing server. He took Miss Gardiner’s almost empty glass from her fingers and handed her the new one.

“My Lord, I really should not have another. The bubbles go straight to my head.” She smiled, looking up under her lashes, her eyes flashing with amusement.

“I insist,” Foxley crooned. “It is, after all, your debut upon the ton. Make the most of it.”

“William, there you are!” A shrill voice assaulted him from behind as his mother slapped him in the back with her fan. “Why are you dallying with your friends when you should be finding a wife?”

Foxley snorted, too gauche to pretend not to hear, but Miss Gardiner just smiled at him softly and took a sip of her champagne then set it on a passing footman’s tray.

“Mother, allow me to make you acquainted with Miss Gardiner. I have just found out that this is her first ball. Miss Gardiner, this is my mother, Mrs. Katherine Bennet.”

“Your mother did not host a ball in your honor then?” Somewhere in the last ten years, his mother had lost her understanding of tact.

“Father wouldn’t hear of it, but Mother was able to gain this invitation and so,” Miss Gardiner spread her gloved hands before her, “here I am.”

“And who are your parents, child?” His mother hedged closer, pushing him aside with her panniers.

“Jacob and Margaret Gardiner of Hampstead Heath.” Miss Gardiner explained, holding her chin with confidence despite his mother’s scrutiny. “Father is a banker…”

“A banker’s daughter!” His mother stepped back as if burned. “How on earth did you gain entrance to Lady Spencer’s ball?”

“Lady Spencer is my aunt, Mrs. Bennet.” The young woman’s polite words held an edge, though her eyes continued to smile.

William hid his own smile when his mother did not respond. She could hardly give the cut direct to the hostess’s niece no matter her unfortunate parentage. He cleared his throat and held out his hand, “Miss Gardiner, would you please do me the honor of joining me in this dance?”

She slipped her gloved hand into his and gave a curtsey, “Of course, Mr. Bennet. You are too kind.”

#

Her laughter danced along the breeze ruffling the oil lamps suspended on the terrace. Her hand snug in the crook of his arm, he fought the urge to hold her closer still. He laid his hand over hers and noted the fair skin of her arm above her glove, beneath the fall of lace at her elbow, dust over with goose bumps.

“Are you cold, Miss Gardiner? We could go inside.”

“Not at all, Mr. Bennet, but I thank you for your concern.” Turning her face up to him, she bit her lip, drawing his eyes to her sweet bow of a mouth.

“If it is not bold, I would ask you to call me William.”

She looked away as a rosy blush covered her cheeks. “Not too bold, William,” she whispered his name. “And you may call me Elizabeth, if you wish.”

“Elizabeth,” he whispered her name in turn then pulled her hand to his lips and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “May I call upon your father on the morrow?”

She gasped, happiness clear in her eyes, then stilled herself once more. “Yes, William. I will tell him to expect you.”

His mother may well die of apoplexy and Charles would label him a fool, but William didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, they could all go to hell so long as he could gaze into Elizabeth Gardiner’s fine eyes.

#

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

Thank you Stacy McKitrick for tagging me in this blog hop. This tag morally obligated me to answer the following questions (not that I'm complaining -- any excuse to promote my writing):

What is your working title of your book?
My current project is titled Possessing Karma, but I'm not 100% sold on the title. It's a play on words, which I like, but a little cheesy. Karma is the name of the main character and she gets possessed, so there's a literal meaning. Of course, there is the idea of what goes around, comes around, and Karma lives in a haunted home where the ghosts of two lovers are stuck in a cycle of violence and sex, karma for their lives.

Where did the idea come from for the book?
The idea came from a dream. I've been to New Orleans a few times and LOVE it. The city, the history, the streets, the streetcars, the shutters, the brickwork, the accents, the food, even the vomit in the gutter at 2 am. Love it.In my dream, my husband and I had gone back and rented a place famous for rekindling passion. What no one knew (but me) was that it was haunted and the passion came from being possessed. I woke up with the image of the apartment in mind and the sexually aggressive nature of the haunting. Yes, it was one of those dreams -- sort of. It was also scary.

What genre does your book fall under?
Romance. The subgenre would probably be suspense. I hesitate to call it paranormal because that implies the love aspect is with paranormal beings. My love story is with two humans. The supernatural, while sexy in parts, is more of the antagonist. It is set in modern times.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Joe Manganiello would be Philippe Jarreau, the chain-saw artist/sculptor who purchased the trashed building and turned it into his studio and two condos. He's a solid rock of man, a nice guy, part of the flow of New Orleans, whose brawn makes up for any less-than-macho creative tendencies.
Halle Berry, but with pale blue eyes, would play Dr. Karma Betancourt. She goes by Kay because Karma is such a whimsical name. Multi-ethnic, with no real sense of belonging to any particular group or culture, Kay is a professor of religious studies. She has always felt like an outsider, until she arrives in New Orleans for a teaching position at Tulane.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Karma unwittingly rekindles a century old romance and finds herself the focus of a dangerous, sadistic, ghost.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Agency, please. Please?

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Not finished. I started in late June. I plan to finish by the first of the year.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Karen Robards meets Sylvia Day, maybe? Difficult question.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?
Both my husband and my critique partner urged me to move away from the historical Elizabethan era romances I've been writing. I had this idea and they both told me to go for it. I figured it would show agents I was multi-faceted, but that Elizabethan would remain my niche. I'm not so sure any longer. I love this project. It's my best work to date and I have two more supernatural romantic suspense stories percolating, just waiting for me to finish this one so they can be written.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Two words: Haunted House. Who can resist the curiosity? This book is sexy, spooky, and emotionally stimulating. It takes you to past and present New Orleans.

Here's the hard part -- Tag, you're it! (only if you want to, that is)
Raquel Byrnes - Edge of Your Seat Romance
Tanya Reimer -- Life's Like That
Taryn Tyler - Taliesin
Roland Yeomans - Writing in the Crosshairs
Morgan Shamy - Writings and Ramblings of a Redhead Writer

Rules for The Next Big Thing Blog Hop:

***Use this format for your post
***Answer the ten questions about your current WIP (work in progress)
***Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over and meet them.

Ten Interview Questions for the Next Big Thing:
What is your working title of your book?
Where did the idea come from for the book?
What genre does your book fall under?
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Include the link of who tagged you and this explanation for the people you have tagged.

Romantic Friday Writers

It's been a while since I've participated in a Romantic Friday Writers challenge. This one was:

We’re looking for chilling stories of ghosts and haunted locations – and maybe even love from beyond the grave.
A romantic element is essential, but we’re looking for stories with a thrilling edge of fear to add to the romantic tension building between our Hero/Heroine.

I chose to highlight a section from my work in progress, Possessing Karma. In this story, Karma (going by Kay) has recently moved in to a refurbished town home in New Orleans’ French Quarter. She and Philippe, her neighbor, have both lost time while together with only flashes of memory implying they were sexually involved. Karma thinks she’s going crazy. Philippe suspects something paranormal.

In this scene, Philippe has just come home to secure everything against a coming tropical storm. This 979 word selection is from chapter seven..

I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

He stopped, before her door. “Kay? I heard you come up earlier. Just wanted to know if you needed help with the shutters.”

Waiting, he laid his forehead against the plaster wall. He listened, anticipating the creak of her stairs, the metallic click of her lock… nothing.

“Huh,” he muttered to himself and knocked again. Still no response.

“Okay, then.” He turned the key in his own door and went inside. It was almost as muggy as outdoors.

Stooping low he untied his work boots and left them on the mat by the door. He wasn’t a neat freak, but didn’t want to risk tracking debris from the workshop over the polished wood. Someday he hoped he’d just think of them as functional floors instead of works of art. He unclasped the buckles on his overalls and stepped out them. He hooked one foot under them and kicked them in the general vicinity of the laundry hamper in the closet off the kitchen.

The wind rattled the windows again, howling around the building in harmony with a roll of thunder. In his socks and boxers, he stepped into the rain pelting the second floor balcony outside his living room and closed the shutters over the windows. After securing the bars in place, he closed himself back inside, pulling the bright green shutters closed behind him then locked the French doors.

So much for needing a shower. He stripped off his soaked socks and padded upstairs, checking that he didn’t leave puddles in his wake. Uncaring if anyone saw him in his shorts in the storm, he stepped out onto the third floor balcony outside his bedroom. Nope, he wouldn’t need a shower after this. The stinging assualted him, the drops almost angry in their wind driven strength, each drop a shock of cold in the trapped heat radiating from the city.

Barefoot and soaked, Philippe turned his back to the storm and focused on his task at hand. Two out of three French door shutters secured, he turned to watch the storm. The sting of the rain nothing against the chaos of the sky, of the haze blurred rooftops spread before him. Shielding his eyes against the wind, he leaned over the figured iron balustrade to look around the tall wood fencing separating his balcony from Kay’s.

She stood there, driving rain plastering her long hair to her neck and shoulders. For someone naked and soaking on her balcony in the face of lightning, she looked relaxed – her hands in soft repose, laying gently on the ironwork. He wanted to sculpt her.

Was she crazy?

“What are you doing?” He shouted over the next rumble of thunder.

She simply turned her head, looking at him, her eyes an eerie silver glimmer in against the rich cocoa of her skin.

“Secure your shutters and get inside!”

Her lips curved into a smile, as if she were amused by him. She did not respond, but turned to face him. Placing one hand on her breast, she gasped and closed her eyes. He watched, spellbound, as her fingers traced tiny swirls in the water drops, never quite touching her nipple.

He pushed his wet hair from his face, watching the water stream down her naked body. A rivulet started at her shoulders, flowing in sleek plains down her breasts, to join in the center and stream down her abdomen. She was glorious, one with the storm. Yes, he had to sculpt her – but first he had to get her inside.

Crazy woman.

“Don’t you want to touch me?” Her soft voice carried over the storm.

“Kay, get inside.”

She looked different somehow. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but her skin seemed darker. And, of course, she was naked. He’d seen her partially nude before, but made a point not to stare. Right now, there was no way around it.

“I knew you would come for me.”

“Kay, are you nuts? This isn't just rain – the wind can carry debris, there will be lightning.”

She seemed to have no issue with her vulnerable state. If anything, she welcomed him.

“You need me. I’m under your skin, a sickness in you.” Her voice echoed in his mind, clear and soft in spite of the steady drum of the rain.

His skin tingled, a shiver running down his spine. Philippe gasped at the jolt of sensation, of the soft caress of the rain, the almost painful pleasure of the pressure of the wind against his finger tips, tickling his scalp. Stepping back he looked at his own hands, sure he was in dream.

His arms reached toward the divider, straining with an uncoordinated heaviness. With a crash, the boards splintered, flying around him. He felt himself wince at the stinging pain above his brow. Lifting one hand to his forehead, he laughed when it came back slick with blood. He gulped greedy breaths at the joy of sensation, marveling at his living body. The way the muscles of his abdomen contracted with each breath, the taste of soot that coated each raindrop, it was magnificent.

Barefoot on the tile, he took one heavy step, then another until she was an arm’s breadth away.

“I knew you would come for me. You have no choice – not any longer.”

“I crave you always.” He reached for her just as lightning split the sky. In that single burst of light, she seemed to glow, outlined by a reflection of herself.

Philippe fought against her pull, against his own body’s response. What was he doing here? It wasn’t safe. Instead he heard his own voice say, “Does that please you? Does the surety of my desire make you feel powerful?”

She smiled, smug and sensual. God, how he wanted her – he always did, always would.

The back of his fingers grazed along her cheek, her jaw. Her responsive shiver sent a dusting of goose bumps all over her skin.

“This body pleases me.”

This is a collage of inspiring images for my project. Karma is a religious studies professor, Philippe is a chainsaw sculptor.

Did I Notice Your Book? Blogfest

As part of Ciara Knight's blogfest, I chose to talk about Skeleton Woman by Mingmei Yip.

I met Mingmei at the Romance Writer's of America 2012 conference in Anaheim, Ca. She was sitting at the same fire pit after hours at the bar. I noticed Kevan Lyon of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency, but was nervous about just dive-bombing her with my pitch. Mingmei, represented by Marsal Lyon, told me to go for it -- that the worst she could do was say no. Courage thus fortified, I attacked.

I ended up talking with Mingmei for a while. She told me about her books and gave me her card. I ordered Skeleton Woman when I got home.

Skeleton Woman is set in 1930s Shanghai in the midst the growing Western influence but the traditional Eastern values. A glamorous veneer hides the ever present danger. Intrigue, the life or death situations, showmanship and style sets the scene for an impossible love. For the main character, love is not an option when survival is the goal. The stakes high and the characters multi-faceted. I began this book over the summer, then lost my Kindle. I found it again last night and am just waiting for it to charge so I can finish the story.

The writing style is very formal in the way of English as a second (or third) language. The way the story loops back on itself reminds me of oral traditions. After the first chapter acclimated me, the pacing became comfortable and I found myself enjoying the author's voice very much.

Second Campaigner Challenge: Water Pear

Blame this on the 2nd Crusader Challenge.

This is waaaaaaaay outside of my box. I dabbled in poetry as a teenager as an expression of my angst, but not really since. It's almost enough of a bizarre phenomenon to warrant recording the date.  I have no idea why I was drawn to write a poem, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. This poem addresses:

  5.  Write a poem/flash fiction piece (in less than 200 words) about the water pear *without* using the words “pear”, “spoon”, or “droplet”.

It is definitely less than 200 words (at 83). I actually felt like its natural stopping place was after the 2^nd verse, but opted for quantity over quality. Since I write romance, I made it a sensual experience.  I actively dislike the “toothsome delight,’ but I can’t think of anything better.

Joy in the Wanting

Spray dusting my skin

Cool, sweet, springtime fresh

Surprised, awed, I blink

My beaded lashes

Paint my blushing cheek

With soft, wet kisses

Longing for the taste

Just a reach away

Honeyed mist floating

Teasing my senses

With false promises

Gone in a flash. Lost.

Incorporeal

Unattainable

Tasting my own lips

With my seeking tongue

A lingering hint

Finds what could have been

No succulent flesh

No toothsome delight

Just a memory

To tantalize me

Or is it torture

To know I’m denied?

Thank you for reading my submission, #61. I look forward to reading through the other entries.

Hook, Line, and Sinker: Take Two

I posted the beginning of my WIP for Justin Parente's 2/13/12 blogfest. I have less than 10k words on that project. When I say it is a work in progress, I mean it. The readers agreed that it was rough. Well written, but not a  hook. I agree. The story had not started yet.

My Karma book is a departure from my era and subject. Karma is an experiment and I am very early on the learning curve. I am even considering changing it to first person. I know, crazy. I have faith it will be a good book -- but right now it's too early to judge.

So, just to salvage my reputations, here are the first 491 words from the work I am currently editing, Courtly Abandon (my 3rd Elizabethan historical romance). Please enjoy it more than you did the last one. :)

Holme LeSieur, Nottinghamshire, 1573

Jane hefted her farthingale and skirts past her knees as she sprinted across the orchard. Rufus, the elderly hound and her companion for the morning, loped wide circles around her. She was glad he was enjoying himself but hoped he would not trip her. She had to get to the split log fence at the edge of the orchard without becoming disheveled. Arriving at the property line she straightened her skirts, praying she was not already too late.

Out of breath, she leaned against a thick apple-tree trunk and ran a smoothing hand over her artfully tousled blond curls and net coif. She had looked both ladylike and wanton when she left the house. Now she hoped her exertion had brought a rosy glow to her cheeks that would make any hot blooded man think of bedding her. Of course Sir William, Viscount of Kingsley, was not any man. He was the man she was going to marry. She would make him a wonderful wife, he just did not know it yet. More interested in farming, he had not even noticed her flirtations. At least she hoped that was all it was. She could not abide being married to a stupid man.

At least her first husband had been sharp witted. Though quite a bit older than she, he had treated her well and she had been fond of him. She had also enjoyed her widowhood. Immensely. But, it was time to marry again and Lord Kingsley was convenient, comely, and amiable enough.

He frequently made a morning round of his lands. Jane liked to make herself visible whenever possible. Bringing the dog along had seemed like a good idea at first; should Lord Kingsley happen to pass by, he would see her as a lovely young maid, full of life, delighting in country pleasures. What man could resist such an image?

Jane straightened her emerald green silk skirts and leaned back against the tree in a nonchalant pose. Lord Kingsley would never know the encounter was staged. And, Jane looked down to make sure both breasts were still contained, he would get an eyeful.

She waited, adjusting her position a few times. Perhaps she had been too late? Rufus’ bark made her jump.

“Mistress Radclyffe,” Viscount Kingsley’s called out a greeting, “What a pleasure to see you out so early.” He remained astride. Though his voice was courteous, there was no sign of eagerness to see her.

“I love spring mornings and the scent of the world coming alive. Everything is so… fertile. The earth is ripe.” Nicely done. Honest, suggestive, and sure to play to his interests.

            The Viscount jumped off his horse, but kept hold of the reigns as he toed the ground, careful not to get mud on his boots. He sniffed the air. “Right now I smell dung.”

Dung? Really? Viscount or not, the man could use a lesson in courtly manners.

First Campaigner's Challenge: Flash Fiction

I'm excited to be participating in the first campaigner's challenge of Rachael Harrie's 4th campaign.

This short features characters from my Elizabethan historical romances. Mary, in Courtly Scandals, feels like a failure as a woman because she has been told she can't have children. In my epilogue, I show that to be untrue. Here, I give her the wonderful, drug free experience of natural childbirth with a reasonably clean midwife in 1573. Without further ado, here is my 223 word flash fiction submission. I tried, but I could not hit the 200 on the nose.

 

            Shadows crept across the wall of her confinement chamber. They were the only proof time was passing. That, and the contractions that wracked her body.

Frances stood by the bedside, her hand strong around Mary’s. “Breathe through it. It will be over soon.”

Mary closed her eyes, the orange glow of the candles filtering through her lids as she dragged in another breath. It wasn’t the pain that disabled her, but the fear. Opening her eyes, she silently scanned the faces of the women surrounding her. Were they afraid for her?

The pain that wracked her body had her upright in a nonce. The midwife hurried over, rubbing herbs between her hands before she crouched between Mary’s legs.

She nodded to Frances.

“It is time.” Frances sat on the bed behind her, pulling Mary’s back against her chest. “With the next one, bear down. Hard.”

Mary clenched her jaw, growling past her teeth as she pressed back against Frances. There was so much burning pressure..

“That was good, Mistress Fitzjohn.” The Midwife crooned, her hands a steadying force.

“The baby…” Mary started to cry as the next convulsion overtook her.

“Push!” Frances called from far away, just beside her ear.

Mary let the scream free as she spent the last of her strength.

“A girl!”                                                                        

             A wail filled the room as exhaustion over took her and everything faded.

The above image is at a small Renaissance faire in So. Cal, October of 2006. That is my youngest daughter, Clara, sleeping in my arms. Both daughters were products of c-sections, so I have no real experience with the pushing process.  :)


Addendum: I added the words in bold at the end so it didn't appear that I killed Mary off. Some of the comments made me realize that her death was implied. And yes, chances for death in childbirth was 1 in 4 for the mothers. That same percentage held for infant mortality. Then for deaths before the age of 5. And again for deaths before the age of 25. The good news is if you made it to 25, you were in it for the long haul and could live until your teeth fell out.

107, by the way. :)

Peeves About Blogging and Life in General

Here are some of my peeves, in no particular order.


1. No, I am not a robot. I do, however, have a hard time confirming that when I try to leave a post on your blog (Especially if I'm doing it from my phone). I took off the anti-spam word verification thingy last April during the A-Z blogfest and, since then, have only had 1 spam (which blogspot caught all by itself). Not only does it make it more labor intensive to leave a comment, I know that there have been times when I left the comment, select "post comment" then left the page. I don't know if a robot check came up and/or if my comment posted at all.

2. People who sign up for a blogfest and don't participate. Seriously, don't even sign up unless you are ready to schedule your post. Yes, life gets busy -- but it's busy for the other bloggers who are stopping by to visit. I assume you signed up because you'd like to be a part of the online writing community. If so, don't alienate or irritate people by wasting their time.

Poltergeist Peeves in Lego Harry Potter

3. People who make a mistake, get caught, and blame the person holding them accountable. Really, if you messed up, own it. No, they did not get you in trouble - you got yourself in trouble. Be a grown up. If you happen to be a parent, help your child grow up and accept that they make mistakes that have consequences. Or, if you happen to be a child, start down the path toward being a grown up by being responsible for your own actions. As much as you want to point the finger, you have no one to blame but yourself.

4. If someone tells you to stop doing something and you care about what that person thinks about you, stop doing it! If you value their esteem and don't wish to cause hurt, take their clear communication of "STOP IT!" as the queue to stop. Anything other than that is purposeful bullying.

5. If you get a critique on your writing, don't argue with it. A critique is a gift of the other person's time. They are trying to help you, not be malicious or hurtful. If they see a problem, maybe there is a problem. And if you have to explain what you really meant, then obviously the reader didn't get it and, yes, the critique was valid. I have held back from leaving negative critiques to people I don't know (or rather, who don't know me and won't have reason to think my opinion is valid). I'm not doing them any favors by being nice. What I would do was compliment the positive aspects and just not mention the negatives. Anyone who ever got a critique from me that said they had very lyrical writing, that was my nice way of saying their prose was unreadably purple and overly verbose. I am being more forthright from now on.

This applies to self-published writers that argue with negative reviews. Seriously, just be happy that real readers (not friends and family) took the time to review your book. That means people are reading it, right?

6. If the shopping cart return is right next to your car, why didn't you put it away? You, sir or madam, are an ass.

7. Non-smokers who choose to sit outside, right next to people already smoking, and cough/complain loudly.

8. Smokers who choose to sit right next to families even though there are plenty of open seats further away, and smoke. Then they give the kids dirty looks when the kids (loudly) want to know what smells bad.

9. People who are not crystal clear with their wants/needs/etc... out of reluctance to appear confrontational. This is a problem of mine - in effort not to be offensive, I back down immediately when an aggressive personality wants to change my viewpoint. I always thought there was no point in stating my opinion at that time because they'll just take it as a challenge to change my mind. Unfortunately, my silence is often viewed as tacit agreement. IT IS NOT. Unless I state differently, I stand by what I said. I have to make myself crystal clear. If you don't like something, speak up. If you don't, you'll end up going to a Mexican restaurant when you really wanted Chinese food and then sulking. Or worse. And, yes, it can get much worse.

10. People who take a contrary opinion in an open exchange of ideas as a direct attack. For the record I am not opposed to gay marriage. I am not opposed to stem cell research given certain regulations. I think it's the parent's job to teach their children about sexuality, not the State's. I am pro-small business and anti-big government. I think McCain could have been a great president, but Sarah Palin scares me. I do not believe in government hand outs, bail outs, or that people should be entitled to unemployement because they are too unpleasant to work for anyone (this is about a specific person, not people on unemployment in general). I am not in favor of socialized health care, but do think that medical insurance needs to be re-engineered. I think voting on party lines based on being part of a party shows either ignorance of lack of conviction. I think voting for something you know nothing about is reckless. I think No Child Left Behind is the Federal Government's way of butting into Constitutionally laid out State's rights by dangling a $ carrot (and is crap). I think every child is capable of being great in different ways and that standardized testing does not account for everything.
So, now I have stated my opinions. I respect your right to disagree and will not take it as a direct attack. I am confident enough in myself. If, however, you feel the need to jump down my throat or cry, you are now meeting peeve #10. If you, however, realize I'm entitled to my opinion and not trying to change your mind or shove my beliefs down anyone's throat, we're good. For the record: I don't share my opinions on these subjects with my students. It's important to me that my students develop their own opinions, not parrot mine.

Thank you for letting me vent. To think, this all started because I was catching up on commenting on the last blogfest and got frustrated with the security checks. Then it snowballed. From the list, you could probably surmise that I've had a frustrating week (or so).

Feel free to add to the list.

BTW, it is a peeve that Peeves was not included in the Harry Potter movies. The scene where Fred and George let loose the swamp in the school and Peeves gets to go hog wild is one of my favorites from the books.

Hook, Line, and Sinker Blogfest

I am entering Justin Parente's Hook, Line, and Sinker blogfest using the opening from my brand-new-me contemporary paranormal romance. Since the blogfest is over a month in the future, this is me being optimistic that I will have finished the first draft of Courtly Abandon and be more invested in my unnamed new project (Haunting Karma? Passion Past? Karma Moves Into a Haunted Condo? Karma's Ghosts? Sexy Ghosts? Possessing Karma? Bad, Bad Karma? -- actually I just brainstormed more successfully now and sort of like Possessing Karma. Although Bad, Bad Karma is funny.... I digress).

Blog details:

Date: February 13, 2012

Where: In My Write Mind blog, and your own

Objective: Post your 500-1000 word hook and critique other hooks posted by participants

Suggestive topics to consider when critiquing:

• Does the character have a personality I can fall into easily? This includes any dialogue exchanged.
• Is the world around them set up to compliment the character as they're introduced?
• Are there secondary characters to assist with the hook?
• Lastly, would I read more?

So, without further ado, here are the first 1161 words (it felt weird to cut it off 2 sentences from the end of the chapter) from my current w.i.p. Something Something Karma Something. I'm really looking forward to reading the other entries. I hope you enjoy mine.

Kay had everything organized in order of size. If she knew what information the attendant would ask for first, she would have set it up that way for efficiency’s sake. As it was, she had a nice little stack in her hand that resembled irregular stair steps; California driver’s license, luggage tags, passport, and a tri-folded printout of her online flight reservation just in case.

Not that she needed her passport for a national flight, but one could never be too careful.

The bored bottle blond behind the desk signaled for her to step forward. The girl was pretty enough. She obviously put effort into the ritualistic hygiene required to attract a mate, but the dullness behind her eyes made Kay think it would be best if this woman did not procreate.

“Monique, is it?” Kay always made a point to address people by name, if the name was available. Based on Monique’s name tag, she had been with the airline for three years. “My name is Kay Betancourt. I have reservations on flight 6730 to New Orleans.”

The girl did not make eye contact and simply retrieved Kay’s license from the neatly fanned documents she had placed on the desk.

“I have your reservation here: Karma R Betancourt, business class. I do not see a return flight booked – is that correct?”

Kay nodded.

“Do you have any luggage to check?”

Kay shrugged her shoulder, hefting her over packed small suitcase. “Just my carry-on.”

“Alright-y then.” The girl looked less bored. Maybe she was wondering what a thirty-something woman travelling alone with no return flight was planning to do in New Orleans. If she wondered, she did not ask; she merely nodded, printed up a page, folded it, tucked it in a small folder, and placed it on the desk. “You are all set. Please go to gate 52. You flight should begin boarding in the next twenty minutes or so. Thank you for flying with us, Miss Betancourt.”

Kay tucked the small folder in her purse and fought the urge to correct Monique. Doctor Betancourt. She knew better than to care about such trivialities – she would never see Monique again and the correction would just come across as pompous.

Reaching her gate, she found a seat that afforded a view of the rush – people coming and going, most of them in a hurry. The tired looking woman wearing sweats, carrying a screaming toddler obviously was more focused on reaching her destination in one piece than being a part of the social networking around her. A young man, military, probably a Marine, sat straight and proud. His eyes were open to the scene around him, particularly to the activities of the young woman across the corridor at Gate 53. That young lady was enrapt in the pages of a book, her face flushed. She kept licking her lips and fumbling with the top button her blouse. The book, though obviously a paperback, had a brown paper jacket cover. Kay wondered what type of book she was reading – the woman obviously felt some shame about reading it in public, either that or she was very private. Then again, if she were truly private, she wouldn’t be sharing her personal reactions to the author’s fantasy with complete strangers in an airport. She was both separating herself from her environment and adding to it.

Kay stopped her musing from bordering on poetic. Yet again, she was on the outside looking in, observing human interaction as if through a window. As if she were not part of the scene itself. Which she was – passive or active, she could not avoid physically being there in the moment. It was just simpler for her to observe rather than participate.

“Flight 6730 to New Orleans will now begin boarding for premier guests.”

Kay stood up automatically and retrieved her paperwork, her California Driver’s License and boarding pass. She stepped into the short line and noticed the young Marine’s eyes on her. He was not subtle in his appraisal. Kay always found being ‘checked out’ interesting. Did the man find her body pleasing? How did his subconscious assess her breeding capacities? She certainly had full enough hips and bust to imply she would create healthy children. Her overall physique was strong, but not too well muscled to imply that she would not accept his alpha dominance. She was clean and healthy, her face appropriately symmetrical. Overall, she knew herself to be a good specimen. He met her eyes and held her questioning glance for a moment before looking away.

Dismissed, yet again.

Not that she wanted that young man to pursue her, but it would be interesting to hear an honest answer as to why she was not worth approaching.

Then again, she already knew the answer.

She was weird. Off. Regular women did not analyze the data that drove mating rituals, they just participated. They depended on instinct and chemistry. Kay could not do that. She could not simply be, she had to know why.

It was her turn at the gate. She handed her boarding pass to the attendant.

“Miss Betancourt, welcome to flight 6730. You will be in seat F3.”

“Thank you.” Again she held back the correction. Doctor Betancourt.

The retractable tunnel between the airport and the plane shook with each step. Gentle suction from the intense air conditioning ushered her onto the plane and the flight attendant showed her to her seat.

The good looking man, no more than twenty-four, repeated his rehearsed lines. “My name is Todd. Let me know if you need anything more. Enjoy your flight, Miss Betancourt.”

Kay smiled and almost held herself back. “Doctor.”

Todd turned back to her. “Sorry?”

“I am Doctor Betancourt.”

Todd’s face remained neutral. “My apologies, Doctor Betancourt.” His voice did not betray whether or not he felt her insistence at the title was ridiculous.

Maybe it was. The only universally accepted caste system in California seemed to be based on wealth or popularity: Kay had established her social rank academically. She would never gain notice or import by being gregarious or vivacious. No, she elevated herself into an elite social rank by her own intelligence and work ethic. She was a Doctor. That meant something; perhaps it meant more than driving a Mercedes or wearing Prada shoes. Or maybe it didn’t. At least it meant something to her.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to pry,” the older woman in seat F2 turned to her, her voice polite, “but did I hear you say you were a doctor.”

Kay smiled. It did matter. “Yes. I am a doctor.”

“Wonderful! I was wondering if you could take a look at this bump on my arm. My daughter says it’s nothing, but I can’t help but worry…”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you.” Kay was not in the least bit sorry, but it was the right thing to say. “But I’m not a medical doctor. I am a doctor of anthropology and sociology.”

“Oh.” The woman looked stunned for a moment. “Oh, well, that’s very interesting.”

To her credit, she did not try to appear interested.

            They would be in New Orleans in six hours. 

So there is my intro. Kay is moving to New Orleans to start a new job, her first time as a real adult outside of the bubble of academia.

Aphrodisiac - Romantic Friday Writers

This is my first submission for Romantic Friday Writers. I apologize that it is only the long side at 655 words. This is also my first time writing in first person. Or contemporary. Basically, this bit of flash fiction is completely different from anything I've ever done. I have, however, cooked a goose before.

Enjoy.

Aphrodisiac Schmaphrodisiac

The goose was rubbed down with honey and citrus. I had been drawing cup after cup of rendered fat away for the past three hours. Oysters chilled on their bed of ice in my sink with only a little of my blood still staining the drain from my first practice shucking. The artichokes were steaming and the olive oil, caper, and dill drizzle was setting, drawing and blending flavors. The wine had been decanted, my prized Waterford red wine goblets, polished.

I had eschewed my regular floral perfume for a spicy cinnamon body lotion. My hair was loose, my cleavage bountiful. I had followed the Aphrodisiac Cookbook to the letter, but knew if all else failed, I could count on my breasts.

One way or another, I was going to get laid tonight. No, not 'laid' -- seduced. My needs were basic; I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to feel. For so long I had been a wife and mother. Toward the end, when the Huntington's had disabled the man I married, I was more caretaker than wife. Now, with Jason finally at peace and the boys in college, it was time to be a woman again. I blinked away the threatening tears and checked my eyes in the mirror. The mascara was definitely worth the eight dollars, though the lip stain looked too contrived. Grimacing, I wondered if I should have colored my hair. The strands of silver among the auburn screamed, "Old lady." And no one seduced an old lady. No, they helped her open jars and cross the road. My skin was still smooth. Without the grey, I could, maybe, have pulled off thirty-nine. With the grey I was every inch of forty-seven. I ran a finger over my brows, and gave myself a smile. I looked... well - I look like me. And Mr. Harris, David, already knew what I looked like.

The chimes sounded. He was here. I took a deep breath and slipped my bare feet into the kitten heeled slings I bought years ago for a Caribbean cruise but never wore. They still felt sexy.

He stood in the doorway, tall and clean cut in his casual slacks. My son’s former soccer coach, I’d never seen him in anything but his team jersey and sweats.

“Good evening, Mrs. Walsh.” He smiled and brought his hand from behind his back. Roses.

I blushed like an idiot and took them. My smile was so big it hurt. “Gemma, please.”

“Sorry. Old habits.”

I stepped back and he stepped in, wiping his feet on the rug. I should have moved further back – I was too close, in his space. Before I could, he took my hand.

“I’ve been looking forward to tonight for a long time.”

His voice was deeper than I remembered. He was holding my hand – should I squeeze? Pull away? Stay limp? I blushed again, burying my face in the roses. Jeese, you’d think I was sixteen, not someone who couldn’t open jars.

“David,” his name sounded decadent on my tongue, “would you like some wine?” I gestured with the bouquet, but stayed beside him, my hand warm in his.

“Umm, yes,” he cleared his throat, “Or no. Not now. Christ, I’m no good at this.”

“Good at what?” My voice was breathless.

He stepped closer, tracing my cheek with his finger. My breath caught in my throat as he leaned toward me.

 “This,” he whispered. Lowering his head he brushed my lips with his. His hand cradled my jaw, his fingers spearing back into my hair.

I leaned closer and he pressed his mouth more firmly against mine. Closing my eyes, I melted into him and he wrapped his arms around me.

The roses fell to the floor, the timer on the oven beeped, and the wine continued to breathe. None of it mattered. This man, David, he wanted me, grey hair and all, without aphrodisiacs.

An Unfortunate MeMe: Underclothes

No thank you to Taryn Tyler for tagging me. Okay, fine. Thank you. This was fun in a silly way. :)

In this MeMe, I have been given a number of questions pertaining to underclothes.  Here goes:

Betsy Johnson Chantilly Floral

1. What do you call your panties / underwear / undergarments? Do you have any commonly used nicknames for them? Underwear, underpants, and less commonly, panties.

2. Have you ever had that supposedly common dream of being in a crowded place in only your underwear? No, but I have had dreams where I was naked.

3. What is the worst thing you can think of to make panties out of? Polyester (within the realm of realistic). in the realm of fantasy, I would choose a) nettles b)jellyfish c)fiberglass.

4. If you were a pair of panties, what color would you be, and WHY? I would be, depending on mood, either a very delicate soft pink and lacy (but comfortable) or black and hot pink and lacy (and not designed for long term wear).

5. Have you ever thrown your panties/underwear at a rock star or other celebrity? If so, which one(s)? If not, which one(s) WOULD you throw your panties/underwear at, given the opportunity? No, but I recently suggested my sister do so. She's going to see Tom Jones in concert -- I think throwing panties is a requirement.

6. You’re out of clean panties. What do you do? I go commando and put some laundry in the wash.
7. Are you old enough to remember Underoos? If so, did you have any? Which ones? Yes. I had Princess Leia underoos.

8. If you could have any message printed on your panties, what would it be? Look Away!

9. How many bloggers does it take to put panties on a goat?  None. There is no goat.

And, out of human kindness, I will not tag anyone. But feel free to tag yourself if you are so inclined. :)

Blogdentity

I think one of my biggest hurdles in blogging lately has been my lack of blogdentity.  When I started blogging I wrote musings about the writing process.  Sometimes my subjects were random (most of the time) but I always worked them back to writing.  Occasionally I shared samples from my w.i.p. for a blogfest, but I stayed consistent with myself. I liked to read blogs from other writers going through the same struggles I was, and I thought my blog would appeal to like minded people.

I did not notice at first, but bit by bit, my blog started getting taken over by blogfests. THis is when I started loosing my blogdentity. April's A-Z blogfest was the icing on the cake. I have been struggling  since then to get my head above water in the blogosphere.

In attempt to return to my roots I stepped away from all blogfests. This was a mistake. Blogfests held me accountable to a timeline and helped me pace myself. Solution, jump back into blogfests but in moderation. I will not participate in more than 3 blogfests in a month. Give or take 2. Or 3. We'll see. The point is, I think I can still be me and contribute to the greater blogging community.  The most important thing is that I stay true to myself. I learned this in regard to my writing projects, now I learn it as applies to my blog.

So, in being true to myself, here is a blog post about nothing in particular but linking vaguely back to the theme of how the writing process. Not really awe inspiring, I know. But I hope it gets me back on track.

What do you do to stay consistent with your blogdentity?

Mojo Tagged Me

Thank you Mojo for your tag.

1. What's the first thing you do in the morning? I hit snooze, sometimes more than once.  Then the usual ablutions followed by waking my kids up with snuggles.  They prefer my way - Daddy wakes them up by clapping.

2. How old do you feel? Most of the time I feel fairly young, as in the ingenue with wide eyes and trust. Then I remember I'm not young and have to be the one making tough decisions. Or I'll be made aware of how uncool I am. Things that I think of as happening a couple years ago actually happened fifteen years ago. Then there are times my body reminds me I am not young. When I try to demonstrate a cartwheel or help my daughter practice her jigs. Yes, I still have a strong point, but I cannot do a full extension any longer.

3. What's your sign and does the description match your personality? I am a Leo, with a rising sign in Virgo. People tell me I read Virgo, but that's because I'm too insecure to let my Leo-ness shine.
Do I believe in it? I believe that there are social, economic, etc... factors that effect your development that can be attributed to the time of year you were born.  As to the stars themselves I remain skeptical but not belittling.

4) How do you like your caffeine? Coffee with my flavored creamer. I do not respond to caffeine like normal people. I find coffee soothing, relaxing, but that may be more the act of sipping a hot beverage than the chemical itself.

5) Favorite cartoon character? This is difficult. I used to have a crush on the blond archer from Dungeons and Dragons. I enjoyed Hiccup from How to Train Your Dragon. I quote Doug the Dog from Up frequently.  As a child I wanted to be Peter Pan, then as I got older I switched to Wendy.


Watch out bloggers-whom-I-follow, you might get tagged.

Once More Into the Breach

The A-Z blogfest really worked a number on my goove.

I usually check my blog, write and schedule a couple to post, respond to comments, and check the blogs I follow before I get settled in to a writing mode.  It can take a while, but it keeps me connected and allows my train of thought to settle on more writerly thoughts.

With the A-Z blogfest I wrote twenty-four posts and scheduled them before the month of April began. The only posts I wrote during the month were M and Q.  Coupled with April's ridiculously busy schedule, this meant I spent a very minimal time in the blogosphere. I was terrible of checking the other A-Z posts and did not even follow up with my own comments until after I had completed all 26 letters.

While this was not good in the world of blogging, it was even more detrimental toward my current projects. I have hardly written anything for a month. A month! I had hoped to finish Courtly Abandon by the end of the school year (6/10) and that day is rapidly approaching. So, with this blog post I hope to reestablish my mojo and jump back into the fray. I will post this shortly, then check other blogs, then (duh-duh-duhhHH!) write.  Tonight I will write a good thousand words of quality story. I will write forward without going back to add Jane's father into chapter five or change Baron Whosit's name.  I will press on and be productive.  It will be wonderful.

That said, now I have to actually do it.  So, without further ado, here I go.

Wish me luck. :)