Flash! #flashfiction Sudden Rain

I've (finally) posted a new flash story for spring. The story, Sudden Rain, is a short literary piece.
Check it out on the flash! page of my website
or at Readwave

#Snippet Afterglow--Mitch and India

Update! Reader voting for best contemporary, the category in which Afterglow was nominated, begins March 17  and runs through March 23.

You can vote HERE

Because Afterglow was nominated for a RONE award this week, I've gone back and dug out one of my favorite snips from the story. Mitch and India have become friends--and maybe, just maybe, Mitch is looking for more


Here's the snippet--

“How’s Allie?” Mitch asked the next day when I went to pick up more shoes.

“Hurt. Angry.”

“I told her it was hard. I was pretty upset when my parents

split.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“And you get over it. I was totally annihilated when my

marriage split, but I got past it. It’s been two years now.”

“You were married? And divorced?”

Mitch nodded as he opened the door to his storage room. “Yup. You’re in good company. I know what it’s like to be the walking wounded.”

“What other secrets are you keeping from us, Dr. Tinker?”

Mitch turned on the light and stood holding the pull string. “Not that many,” he said softly. “No more than your average guy. If you stick around, I’ll share a few with you.” He smiled, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes, concern maybe, or longing. It matched my feelings and that made me a little uncomfortable.

“Like what, for instance?” I said, wanting to melt the discomfort away. It worked. The smile rose into his eyes .

 “I’ll tell one if you will,” he said.

“I like gravy on my French fries,” I said.

“Yummy. I sing along with my iPod when I’m alone.”

 “What kind of music?”

“Springsteen, mostly. No fair, that’s two. You owe me one.”

“The River is one of my favorite albums.”

“And?” he raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Okay. I really like to finger paint. And sometimes after school I paint at a kid’s art easel.”

“Landscapes or portraits?”

“Portraits mostly. Your turn.”

“I still watch Scooby Doo.”

“Hallmark commercials make me cry.”

“I had a huge crush on you when I was ten.” The room went very still and we stood there staring at each other. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine. You’re not ten anymore. Heck, I’m not thirty anymore.”

“I have changed considerably. You haven’t. Not really. Not that much.” He turned towards the shoes. “So, how many boxes do you think your trunk can hold?”

Find out more about Afterglow HERE

White Room Snippets; Opening Lines

I was told, once, never to begin a book with the character waking up. That is, of course, exactly how I started Dancing in the White Room. Though Mallory is not waking so much as lying awake.

The alarm goes off at four-thirty, and I stare at the skylight of our sleeping loft. Bell

bangs on the clock to keep it from singing out again. I turn my back and nestle under the blankets. It’s almost March and it shouldn’t be as cold as it is—five below last night according to the thermometer propped outside the kitchen window. The temperature inside’s not much warmer. Bell would probably say I’m the one causing the freeze. We spent the past few days fighting. I did my share of pleading and cursing. I refused to help him pack his gear.

I wait for it, the hand that comes to my waist soon enough. Bell’s long fingers caress the contour and follow up under the curve of my breast.

“Mallory, you awake?”

I try to decide if I should answer him. I try to decide whether I want to have this conversation again, the one we’ve had off and on for the last six months, ever since he let slip he would be going back to Alaska to do the glisse on the West Rib of Denali.

I’ve never been good at pretense, so I turn to face him. His face is angular in the gray light of the room. His blond hair shuffles around his shoulders. He reaches over, his arms still warm from the down of our comforter, and kisses the arch of my shoulder.

“I’m going to miss that.” His voice is as inviting as a warm bath in the winter. It would be easy to fall into his warmth, easy to make this goodbye tender and inviting,the way our goodbyes usually are. Soft and intense, full of a kind of sweetness that can hold us,both of us, for a week or a month. A goodbye that promises a return, that says we’ll be here again, together.

Today, I push him away. I’m in no mood for sweet goodbyes. Last minute lovemaking won’t change his mind. And what I want is a mind change. What I want is a turnaround. I’m too stubborn to settle for less.

Dancing in the White Room is now available at TMP and Amazon

#Write-A-Thin First Week Update

Last week, I blogged about joining in the Women Fiction Writer's Association Write-A-Thin, a month long write-and-edit- a- thon where each writer sets a single goal. My goal is to finish a draft of Willow, the fourth novella of the Anton and Lenora series. A lofty goal, and if I get a good chunk of it done I'll be content.
In the interest of keeping myself on track, I plan on posting weekly updates of my Write-A-Thin progress.
I've had a pretty good week. It's been cold and I'm still eating Christmas Cookies--which is great for a sugar high! I've got lots else to do, playing catch-up after the holidays, so I'm pleased to have 4,000 words  on Willow. At novella length, I'm aiming for 20-30 K when it's finished. The content will determine the length.
In Willow, Anton and Lenora sail to Shanghai. Here's a snippet of what I've written this week--Still new and uncut, from the opening scene of Willow:

One look at Lenora’s countenance on that bright lit morn let me know I had made the right decision. We stood in the garden of our little cottage and though we were far from the goings on at the square, Lenora’s skin was pale as milk and I wondered if the ordeal—both the memory of what had happened and what was about to transpire-- made her ill.

“You should not trouble yourself so.” I took her by the hand and hoped she could feel the sincerity of my words.

“I wish there were some other way to bring him to justice.” She looked out over the bay. The view had always brought solace to my heart and I hoped it would do the same for her. She was a daughter of the sea, the daughter of a ship builder. We held a love of the sea in common, Lenora and I.

“We will sail away soon.” I kissed her fingers and she put an arm around my waist. “We will put this misfortune behind us.”

#FridayFlash--Bent Guardrails, Route 99

The inspiration for this short short story came from a photograph by David Torcoletti. (You can view the image HERE)  The road reminds me of the place I grew up. I like the black and white, which gave the picture a somber feel, as though it were a reminder of some old sadness.
I posted the story at ReadWave yesterday and then decided I'd like to post it here as well.

Bent Guardrail, Rte 199

It's old, that's a fact and that may be why it's bent. The guardrail, I mean. It's been guarding the pasture since before I can remember. Even when I was a girl, long before David and I got married and bought the farm from old Mrs. Tucker, it was there. At least, I think it was. I have a vague recollection of such things. I rode the school bus past this stretch for thirteen years and I must have, at one point or another, noticed the guardrail. It must have been newer then. Maybe it had glint and shine, like the new piece of rail that's being put in at the intersection. The place where they need to fill in the gash made by Billy Garrison's Plymouth.

Billy rode  the school bus, too. He used to sit up front, near the driver. Mr. Moses didn't like trouble, and Billy was trouble from the get go. Folks around here would tell you  it comes as no surprise that Billy's short wild life ended at the corner of 199 and 10 . That's what happens to the Billy Garrisons of the world. They don't live long and they don't go out easy.

 David and I have lived in the farm house for ten years now. The road is long and straight here and I suppose that makes a difference. There are no sudden curves or stops that could trip somebody up in the middle of the night. The guardrail here guards a gully. And not a particularly deep gully, at that. A fern filled little ditch, it's nothing like the steep bank up road a mile.

When we were kids, Billy and David and I used to play down by the bridge that crosses the river just before the intersection.  Billy liked to jump from the bridge. He jumped easy, covering the distance between steel and water with his arms spread like wings, always trusting the water would be deep enough. He’d climb out of the river with water caught in glistening drops on the thin spikes of his bush cut and dripping from his cutoffs and the T-shirt he hadn't bothered to take off, smiling. He always smiled when he'd tangled with something dangerous and won.

"Come on," he'd say, "Nothin' to it. You're not chicken are ya?" David always took the dare. His thin arms flailed in circles as he careened toward the water. Billy would sit on the embankment watching and laughing.

I only jumped once. I remember it, remember the falling, the way the cold river hit me like a hammer, the breathlessness as I sank far below the surface. I remember being awed at how Billy could take in all that terror, how he'd search it out and revel in it.

I think about Billy a lot these days. David has caught me staring at the road more than once. He doesn't ask, the same as I don't ask when he stops at the intersection and waits even though there's no traffic coming. He walks out to the bridge often. He and Barney lumber up the road together, the old dog limping beside David's narrow legs. When they come back, David's eyes are marked with something I can't put a light to.

The days are quieting now. Summer's moving on. Traffic going past the house to Mullet's lake has slowed. Soon it will stop all together and we'll be deep in snow again.

I find myself missing the summer, the way it was when we were all still in high school. The way we'd all go to the lake together, me and David, already cemented even then, and Billy with whatever girl. 

David and I got married two weeks after high school graduation. Billy was the best man. It was hot that day, hot as it is today. There wasn't anything but a fan at the VFW hall for the reception. I remember it clear as yesterday, how David and I were dancing and Billy  cut in. Up close, he smelled of cigarettes and gin from the open bar. He stumbled a little, and when I asked if he was okay, he stopped leading and we just stood on the dance floor. He  held me so tight I nearly couldn’t breathe.

The last time I saw him, we’d had a cookout at the house and Billy sat at the picnic table, the ash of his cigarette long in his hand. My kids played tag in the yard while David flipped burgers on the grill. That's the picture I keep of Billy, the ice cubes sweating in his drink, his eyes focused on the yard, and everything in them just watching.