Meet The Character:BESHAR

here's another excerpt from Ignited. This is chapter six and a character introduction for Beshar. He tends to be fan favorite. I hope you find him as interesting as I do:

Beshar, Tenth of the Thirteen, tried to stay indoors at night. His life in the arena was demanding however, and this wasn't the first time he had been summoned after hours, nor would it be his last. He was grateful his business there had been concluded within an hour, with any luck he would make it back to his chambers before the sun fully set. Though it was early in the evening, the pits had all been ignited and they cast shadows that flickered and danced on the clay buildings and homes that made up the city. The arena was close to the palace where he made his home, close enough that he'd felt he could walk, Everflame knew he could use the exercise. Now, he regretted his earlier desire to try his hand at fitness.

You should have brought more men. The three Samur that followed flanked behind him and to either side but even with the security of his Samur he felt naked and vulnerable. As a member of the Thirteen, assassins were a constant threat. He quickened his pace, gazing sharply from left to right, drinking in the sights around him. The city smelled horrid of course. The rank odor of the poor wafted up to him, attacking his sinuses and he pressed a perfumed handkerchief to his mouth to ward off the pungent smell. What was that? Sewage and rotting meat? He shuddered delicately. He was never walking to the arena again.

The palace rose up ahead of him. Emblazoned by the light of the Everflame, the glass monstrosity twinkled and glowed a brilliant orange against the sandy dunes surrounding it. When he got inside he would enjoy a nice steam and a bottle of wine, maybe two.

The palace had been his home for the last twenty years so Beshar did not notice its sparkling brilliance, or the fact that the fourteen majestic glass towers were awe inspiring in their size and architecture. Built decades ago, the palace was made by Torches who heated the surrounding sands into a fine sheet of glass and manipulated the malleable glass into tall twisted peaks. The architecture of the palace was beautiful and unmatched by anything in the world but Beshar saw none of that because to him, the palace was simply his home. To be more accurate, the Tenth Tower was his home, but the towers were all connected to make one fantastic unit.

A small group of people, upper-class by the look of the fine cotton of their robes, strolled toward the palace. A few took leisurely swigs of water along the way, most likely to flaunt their wealth to any who might observe. New money. Where were they going at such a late hour? The palace closed its gate every evening and no one, aside from the Thirteen, were granted entrance after sunset.

There were four of them, three men and a woman, and Beshar realized that though they were all wealthy to a degree, only one of them had a Quad in tow. The four guard men gave Beshar and his men a careful once over.

“I think it's scandalous.” The voice came from the women and Beshar walked closer, eager to overhear any gossip she might share. There was power in information.

“Where do you suppose he is? It's unlikely he'd tour the cities so late in the season.”

One of the men snorted. “He didn't leave for a tour without anyone noticing.”

“Then where has he been? He hasn't been seen for two days...”

The people turned down an alley and their voices faded with them. They were more than likely headed to the theater, it was the only source of entertainment this close to the palace, and for a moment Beshar toyed with the idea of following them. He dismissed the thought quickly, it was better not to stay out any later than he had to, besides, he had an excellent vintage waiting for him.

He continued on his trek to the palace, mulling over the conversation he'd overheard. It had been a pitiful excuse for gossip. He was aware, of course, that the First had been missing at court, he hadn't been seen in days. The rest of the imbeciles that made up the Thirteen might have accepted the explanation of the daughter of the First, but Beshar was a man of intellect and the facts remained that her story didn't add up. The daughter of the First claimed that her father's illness wasn't serious, but if that was the case then why hadn't he attended council meeting? A minor illness would not keep one from his duty of ruling an entire republic. And yet, if the sickness was serious enough to warrant an absence from council meetings, why then had the First not seen the palace surgeon? Beshar knew that he hadn't, he'd paid handsomely for that knowledge and had the man followed for good measure. The surgeon had not been summoned. The daughter of the First was up to something, and Beshar's mouth watered at the opportunities that arose from her deceit. What was she up to? He couldn't wait to find out.

He was almost to the palace, he had only to cross one alley and then he would arrive in front its gates. The gates, while also made of glass, were reinforced several times over; they were both beautiful and effective.

He hesitated for the briefest of moments in front of the alleyway. It was short and narrow, darkened by the height of the two buildings on either side of it. The courtyard pit did little to light the alley but Beshar was not afraid of the dark. The absence of torchlight only made things safer.

He strolled forward, ready to relax with his steam and his wine but he was stopped by a firm grip on his forearm.

He frowned down at the offending appendage before dragging his stare up to meet the imposing figure of Kenjiro. His head Samur shook his head slightly, indicating that there was a potential threat just ahead.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through Beshar. He was no fighter, when trouble arose he relied on his wit and and the power of his wealth to see him out of it. Once again, he wished he'd thought to bring more men. The darkened alley loomed before him. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the worse.

“Who goes there?” He called out. He was surprised at the deep timber and authoritative ring to his tone.

A figure stepped forward, it was hard to distinguish features in the light of the distant fire pit but Beshar assumed it was the form of a woman based on the tiny size of the figure and the unctuous sway to the hips.

“Hello, Beshar.” The voice purred over his name as it stepped ever closer.

He was right, it was a woman. She was dressed entirely in black, loose black trousers and tunic, with her hair knotted at the nape of her neck and a black silk mask covering her features.

He dipped his upper half into the semblance of a bow but kept his gaze trained on her face, what he could see of it in any case.

She smiled beneath her mask.

“Such the gentlemen.”

“My lady. It appears you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I am woefully unaware of the name of the beauty that stands before me.”

She chuckled, shaking her head at his flattery.

When she made no move to say anything else, Beshar sighed. “Would that I could stand here before your presence for the rest of my days but alas, a bottle of red calls my name.” He took a step forward, Kenjiro and his other two men kept pace.

She held out a halting hand and the four men stopped, waiting to hear her words. It galled Beshar to do so, but he would gain no information from simply cutting her down where she stood. Well, ordering his men to cut her down in any case, he eyed the dagger that gleamed from its sheath on her hip.

“You have been summoned.”

“I was,” Beshar nodded. “It was an invitation, I chose not to accept.”

“An invitation was polite. You will not like what happens next.” Her voice still purred but she fingered the dagger at her waist, stroking its silver handle.

“I'll take my chances.” He could afford to be brave with Kenjiro and the other two standing there.

The woman sucked her breath in sharply, there was a faint whistle as the air blew between her teeth.

“You are a fool.”

Beshar smiled, nodding his acceptance. “So I've been told before. But I think once you get to me know me you'll find that I'm actually quite smart.”

She snorted and turned back toward the alley. She walked several paces before she turned sharply on her heel. She frowned, shaking her head and clucking her tongue in a sound of disapproval.

“You're wrong you know. Only a fool would defy him. We'll be watching you.” She turned and disappeared into the darkened alley.

  Beshar watched her walk away, panting hard in an effort to stop the wild beating of his heart.

Outlining Your Novel

To outline or not outline?

Yes, that is a question. For some of my writer friends, the idea of writing a novel without an outline is terrifying. Melody G argues that without an outline, one risks the idea of writing an entire manuscript without a plot. She has a valid argument.

And yet, I wrote Ignited, an 88,000 word manuscript without so much of a character sketch. It was fun and freeing. I was nearly forty thousand words in before I decided on a villain. It was until I'd reached seventy thousand words that I discovered how I wanted the manuscript to end. Writing Ignited without an outline was a grand adventure. And I would do it again.

I have a full outline for Submerged (book two in my series) and in fact, I've outlined the subsequent books, even though I'm nowhere near ready to start writing them. In my opinion, it would be impossible to complete the series without an outline,(or extensive notes to keep all my characters straight)

George R.R, Martin once said that there are two type of writers: either the architect or the gardener. The architect meticulously plans their novel before writing it where as the gardener drops the seed of an idea and allows it to grow as it will. (I paraphrased his words but you get the idea)

I'm proud of how Ignited turned out. If I hadn't had the faith in myself to just write Jura's story, it might have turned out differently.

SO if you're reading this and you find that you're a writer who writes with outlines, I challenge you to toss away the blueprint. Try being a gardener, you never know what you might grow.

A Twitter Breakdown for Your Book Baby

As you know I've been searching for agent representation for Ignited and anyone who has gone through this process can you tell that it's hell. Honestly the most miserable thing I've ever done in my life. Melody G. my dear friend and fellow unpublished author had the brilliant idea of contacting one of our old professors to ask for tips. Her best piece of advice: Twitter.

I'm (for the most part) computer illiterate. SO when you want me to learn a new social media my defenses immediately go up. Why was this necessary I thought? Our old professor explained that the publishing world is evolving, and part of that evolution involves Twitter. SO I bit the bullet and joined. Hey, I've mastered Facebook, how hard could it be? Once you get used to the fact that you can only post 140 characters at a time and once you fully understand the power of hashtags (# for any people who have spent the last three years under a rock) I found that Twitter was everything she'd promised. Better even,

I present to you the top hashtags that have been helpful to me:
#askagent-- this one is awesome. Use it to ask questions to people in the publishing know. Ask a brief to-the-point question and just like magic someone (usually) responds
#amwriting--this one is nice because it flags you as a writer. Use this hashtag whenever you make a comment about your current WIP or just to get in contact with other writers. I'm pretty sure half my followers have come from my use of this hashtag. Along these lines you can also use #amediting or #amreading. Basically, use these to put yourself out there!
#pubtip-- use this whenever you've learned something insightful about the industry and would like to share OR type this in the search bar and watch your screen fill up with all sorts of helpful tips on the world of agents and publishers

There are endless hashtags. Aside from using those, and probably a bigger interest than building your platform from scratch, is that Twitter gives you the power to stalk agents. No, I don't mean in the creepy stand outside their house while breathing hard way (do NOT do that) but in the innocent hey, you there, I see what you're about. I think this is what our professor was trying to tell Melody and me.

NEARLY EVERY AGENT IS ON TWITTER.
I know. Crazy, right?

Simply type the word agent in that magic search bar on the top of your Twitter screen and start following. I suggest you follow everyone. Obviously you can't submit to everyone out there (submitting your hard-boiled crime novel with themes of erotica to a poor soul who only represents Middle Grade novels is a big no-no) but I can promise you that at one point or another the agent will post something helpful to you. Maybe it's a nice #pubtip, or maybe it's advice on how to craft your query letter, or how to submit. Maybe even tips on the writing process itself. The possibilities are endless.And best of all..."stalking"a gents MAY just lead you to your dream agent.

It was on Twitter that I found my dream agent. He had a funny profile pic so I knew he had a sense of humor and he claimed to be the one true king of Westeros so I knew he was well-read. I put myself out there. I told him I wanted to have his book baby. He responded with a face palm but I knew that I had entertained him for the moment and this gave me the courage to submit. I queried, and three weeks later I received the letter every girl (every girl, right?) dreams of getting. The agent asked for a sample of my work. So no, we haven't signed a contract and while my work gets reviewed I can do nothing but wait with bated breath but I'm not worried. Maybe he and I will have that book baby together but if he doesn't there are still dozens of agents out there that I can submit too. And thanks to Twitter, I can get in contact with every one.

Query Letter

For those who don't know: a query is a short, concise, oh so professional letter that introduces you and your book to potential agents. It's basically mandatory to write one if you have any intention on publishing your MS with any of the big houses (there are few exceptions). I have a query that I'm shopping around now for Ignited but so far its produced limited success. I hope that's because it just hasn't fallen into the right hands. But who knows? There is always room for improvement! If you come across this post and think you have any pointers that you would like to share I'm sure myself and my readers would love to read them. Here is my current query for Ignited:

In a world where water is currency and the manipulation of fire is a rare and dangerous skill, a young woman must discover the price she is willing to pay to save her father, and possibly her country.

Ignited, an 88,000 word Young Adult novel, is a fast-paced fantasy thriller that will fit in with other popular novels in its genre, such as Mistborn and Cinder. Set in the Sand Sea, Ignited is a departure from the typical elements of magic and culture found in standard European fantasies.

Jura, the only child of the First and most powerful of the Thirteen ruling houses in The Republic of the Sand Sea, has long eschewed the intrigue and backstabbing of the political machine her father runs. When her father is incapacitated, seventeen year old Jura must take up his mantle and keep her family safe from the power grasping members of the Thirteen.

Jura would rather spend her time holed up in her room reading books but when the safety of her family home is threatened, she must battle with her wits and deal with dark political secrets. While juggling death threats and societal affairs, Jura struggles to come to terms with her new identity as interim ruler of the Republic.

Succumbing to the pressure of court, Jura unwittingly sentences Tylak, a former slave, to his death. Drawn by the secrets and beauty found in his eyes, Jura decides to test the limits of her political power and frees Tylak from prison in hopes that he might lead her to a cure for her father's entrapment and her own salvation. It's only a matter of time before Jura discovers the truth: her father's affliction and Tylak's strange abilities are the first warning signs of a greater catastrophe for The Republic.

Filled with dragons, gladiators, magic and mystery, Ignited follows a host of characters through trouble and turmoil. Each of these characters struggles to find their place in a dark world that grows more dangerous with each passing day, where fire dancers and wild beasts clash in an arena, and slaves are captured from their homes and sold in underground markets. Beneath the watchful eyes of the Thirteen, Jura finds herself facing a bigger threat than she ever imagined.

I am an avid YA fiction reader and hold a BA in Creative Writing from the University of South Florida.

Thank you very much for your time and for considering Ignited.

Edit, Revise, Repeat

We are finally moved in! I can't stress how much I missed my internet service, I've truly forgotten how I lived fifteen years ago. I have't been wasting my time dear readers, I've been writing! I'm still sloshing my way through the first draft of Felix's story, things have become exciting with him so I expect to finish the first draft of his story before the end of the year. And I started a new project with a friend (well two technically but one is barely more than a few hundred words in so I won't count it yet). It's MC is named Tristan but my passion in the story is with his sassy sidekick Rory. More on that story as it develops...

The real excitement is with Ignited. I've edited, I've listened to criticism from colleagues, I've revised and edited some more. I added four entire chapters because a dear friend insisted that I was cheating my readers out of some QT with my characters. I am SO PROUD of my finished work. My future editor might still have some words to say about it, and that's fine but I feel very accomplished. The novel has most definitely come a long way from where it started. The word count is now up to 88,000 words, which I think is thrilling and just a bit insane (who would have thought I'd have that in me?!) and I am so excited for the next step!

Meet the Character: JURA

Her robes were on backwards. Jura wondered if anyone would notice, the gold and purple stitching on the formal black court robe was only slightly different in the front than the back. She didn't have time to sneak away and change before the council session started. Dwarfed by the massive walls towering around her, she inhaled sharply, letting her breath slowly leak out between clenched teeth. Had the justice dome always been so tall? She lifted her thick maiden's braid as a trail of sweat escaped from the nape of her neck to drip down the stiff collar of her robe. She sidled to a pillar on the least populated side of the dome, and pressed her back against the cool marble.

The members of the Thirteen milled the concave room, flitting in and out of conversation and tossing distrustful glances at one another. No one else was wearing the traditional court robes and Jura suddenly remembered that they were only used on voting day or when foreign diplomats were present. She bit her bottom lip and her blood rushed into her cheeks. Wearing them now proved her inexperience, wearing them backwards showed she was an idiot. Her spectacles slid down the bridge of her nose and she sighed as she shoved them back up. Why had she even worn the damn things? The glasses, not the robes. Although they were both giving her trouble. She scanned the room and noticed that almost all of the Thirteen had arrived, the council meeting would start in a matter of minutes.

If the council didn't accept her, her house would lose everything.

Kader, Eighth of the Thirteen, was making his rounds with refreshments. The members of the Thirteen took turns serving one another, and Jura was grateful that she didn't have to add the duties of serving girl to her growing list of anxiety. Kader stopped in front of her to offer water from his silver serving tray. She reached for a glass and was about to bring it to her lips when she became aware of the Eighth's beady black eyes following her movement. She paused, her hand faltering in mid air. Water was the standard beverage during council meetings. Not only was pure water a nod to the Thirteen's stature, it was also the most difficult liquid to poison without detection.

Jura rolled the glass in a slow circle, watchful for any residue that might have stuck to the clear glass as it tilted. Was he watching to see if she would drink it or just curious because she didn't belong? She raised her eyebrows and forced the corner of her lips to tilt upward. Kader inclined his head politely before turning to offer water to another council member. She deliberately set the glass down on the floor beside her. She wouldn't drink from it, just in case.

Denir, Fifth of the Thirteen wore a low cut golden gown that clung to her figure. She flirted prettily with Jabir, the Seventh, a tall narrow man in neutral shades of gray with dark curly hair and a devilish gleam in his eye. He leered down at the Fifth. Jura seemed to remember that he was married but she couldn't say for sure. She struggled to place a name for a few of the others but couldn't remember any except that of Ahmar, the Third, and father of her closest friend. He was in deep conversation with a man who seemed impossibly wide for his short stature. The fat man's jowls quivered as he spoke and he leaned back from the Third nervously, his hand hovered just above his sheathed dagger. No one, aside from Kader, had even acknowledged her presence. If she had acted when she first had the thought she might have been able to sneak away before--

"Daughter of the First, good evening. I almost didn't see you there, skulking away in the corner as it were.” Velder, Second of the Thirteen lifted a hand in greeting as he walked toward her.

“Making a new fashion statement, I see?" He raised his eyebrows.

Jura muffled a groan. Of course he noticed her fashion faux pas. She grimaced and bobbed a quick curtsy, "Councilman Velder. How good to see you.”

"Indeed. And how very odd it is to see you. Where is the First? It's nearly time to start the session.” The councilman's long, tapered fingers stroked his thin gray mustache.

This was the moment she'd been dreading. Council meetings were closed to all except the voting members of the Thirteen families, she knew that. Jura was not the voting member, her father was, had been for the last twenty years, and now they were stuck with her.

"Yes. I mean, no. That is, the First is...indisposed." Not for the first time, Jura resented the fact that she belonged to the first house of the Thirteen.

Velder frowned at her. "Is that so? His presence is needed to preside over the council meeting."

"I understand," she mumbled. Father hated when she mumbled. Her fingers flew up to her throat, as if scratching at her tender skin would send the words pouring out. She just had to spit something out, anything.

Anything but the truth.

"Councilman Velder the First is--"

"Absent for the second day in a row.” Velder's eyes narrowed. “The people of the Republic can not rule themselves. The First--"

"The First is indisposed." It came out as a shout and she lowered her eyes, frowning at her shoes. People would stare.

"He is unwell," she said softer. Her tongue darted out to moisten lips gone impossibly dry. She wished she'd drank Kader's offered water, even poison was better than this.

"I will judge in his stead." There, the words were strangled, but she'd said it.

Velder hid his chuckle beneath a gloved hand. "With all due respect the Thirteen would never approve."

“The Thirteen? Or you?” Velder had never liked her. He didn't seem to like anyone. Jura bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. Her hands were shaking, so she squeezed them into fists by her sides. She was seventeen years old, hardly a child. She could do this, she had to do this. More than anything she wished she was back in her rooms, buried in her books and far away from the vultures of the court. But things were different now, had been for the last three days. There was no turning back.

He would never forgive her if she caused their house to lose Rank.

She pushed her dangling spectacles up the length of her nose and glared at the councilman. At least she thought she was glaring, it felt like she was squinting up at him, and she hoped she appeared stern. She felt ridiculous.

“I am the only heir to house of the First.” He didn't respond and she took the opportunity to raise her voice and address the room. She flinched when her voice came out as a high pitched squeak. “It is my duty to serve as First interim if my father is incapable. His sickness--” She frowned, correcting herself, “his minor illness has forced me to step forward and fulfill my duty as his heir. Who will oppose this law?”

“Not I,” chimed out Fatima. Jura rewarded her with her best smile. Fatima currently held low Rank, she was from the House of the Eleventh or Twelfth. Jura could never keep the Rankings of the lower houses straight, they were never stagnant. The councilwoman probably thought her quick approval would secure her Rank when the next vote occurred.

“I second it,” Ahmar, the Third, boomed. Father of Amira, Jura's closest friend, and her best bet at gaining quick acceptance from the Thirteen. The giant of a man tossed a curious smile in her direction.

Jura hid her sigh of relief behind her grin. His approval was all she needed, the others would all follow.

Velder stepped back, bowing low. His face was apologetic, but his tone dripped with sarcasm as he straightened and said, “of course I, as a humble servant to the laws of our great Republic, would not have a place to question it. I will naturally accept your ruling. It's such a shame his Greatness is too ill to issue the proclamation himself..." he trailed off, raising a bushy brow.

She let out a sigh and squared her shoulders, glaring up at Velder. This time she was sure it was a glare. Good, if she didn't appear tough the vultures would peck at her. It was only a matter of time before someone discovered her secret.

"The council has spoken.” Thank the Everflame. She shot another smile in the direction of Fatima and Ahmar.

“Consider this matter closed and call the council meeting to order." She brushed past him and hurried up to the dais before he called her bluff.

She tried to keep her pace normal, the result was an awkward cross between a jog and a shuffle, as she made her way across the dome to her father's chair. She stumbled into the seat.

It was the duty of the Second to call out the beginning of the session and Velder did so as she straightened in the imposing glass throne meant for her father. Like most of the palace, the massive throne was made entirely out of glass. This late in the day, the setting sun shone through the crystal clear domed ceiling, casting out prisms of pale pink and dusty orange that shone down on her and created a natural spotlight. Jura clasped the seat of the throne, squirming against the rigid glass. She focused on the beauty of the curved glass room that sparkled in the glow of the departing sun and tried to ignore the fact that all eyes were on her. They probably all saw her as a little girl playing dress up. Well, she had more important things to think about. For instance, how was she to lead a meeting that she had never attended?

As acting head of council, she was granted three votes. The house in the number two Rank held two votes, and the rest held one. The First also had final say on any crimes worthy of a death sentence and in all matters of war. Though they held weekly meetings, the council only voted on the rankings of the council members once a month. Today was not a voting day. At least something was going her way.

The Thirteen seated themselves along the long stone row of benches ahead of her and the first citizen was called for judgment. After a few minor issues were judged, Jura began to relax. The session was going smoothly and there were only two citizens left to place judgment.

The first was a complaint between two merchants. One merchant argued that the other was poaching on his district by setting up a stand not far from his own and selling wares duplicate to his own. The other merchant argued that his product differed. Jura granted the second merchant a stake of property in a neighboring city but placated him by giving him more property than he'd had before. Easy. Velder called in the final citizen.

"This is Tylak,"Velder sneered. "Citizen of Ish." His voice dripped with condemnation. 

Tylak was a slave name and yet he had citizen status. Interesting. It was rare for a slave to gain enough wages to purchase his freedom and even rarer for a slave to be granted such freedom from his owner. Jura leaned forward.

"Tylak is charged with thievery," Velder paused, meeting her eye. "The council suggests execution."

Jura squeezed her father's chair so tightly she feared the glass would break off in her hand. It was true that execution was the maximum punishment, but it was seldom carried out. Especially not for a crime as petty as thievery.

"I see," she whispered.

Velder smiled.

She cleared her throat. "What did the accused steal?"

"Fire. From an empire torch no less."

Impossible.

"Is this true?" Jura looked down at the young man, his appearance was unkempt, but he appeared strong rather than haggard. His dark hair was greasy and hung in lank locks over his face.

The man shrugged.

Velder's eyes burned into her. She looked up at him. "What proof stands against the accused?"

"He was seen outside the palace gates carrying a torch and he is no Fire Dancer. Where else would he have acquired it? He has stolen Fire from the palace and as such has stolen from the Republic. This is unnatural magic at work, this man is clearly dangerous. To not mandate an immediate execution would make the Republic seem weak."

Jura understood his implication. The Second was testing her. Pompous, manipulating worm. If she did not order this man's execution she would appear weak and she would lose any footing she'd gained today. But how could such a man, how could anyone besides a fire dancer, have accomplished such a thing?

"Tylak, was it? Tell us how you accomplished such a feat. Answer me truthfully and you will be spared." She ignored Velder's glare.

The young man lifted his face up to her and she resisted the urge to gasp. The man had gray eyes that cut into his chiseled features and smoldered with hate. He was beautiful. He was terrifying. Jura swallowed against the massive lump in her throat.

"I didn't steal anything. But kill me, I don't care." He spat at her feet.

Velder backhanded the man and he fell to his knees, head bowed. He said nothing else. "Greatness, his insolence must be punished."

Jura could not take her eyes off the man. Could she really sentence this man to his death? Did she even have a choice?

She nodded. "See that it is done." The prisoner was escorted from their judgment hall. Jura watched him leave.

“Was that all?” She couldn't wait to get out of there.

Velder nodded.

Jura stood up, wishing nothing more than to run to her chambers and tear off the insufferable robes. “Velder, call the session to a close”.

She hurried from the auditorium and was jerked to a stop so quickly her glasses flew from her nose.

“Flames,” She mumbled, stooping down to pick them up. She pulled her arm from the stubborn grasp of her friend Amira.

If the circumstances were different she would have been happy to see the friendly face. Amira could have befriended any one in the court and for some reason she'd chosen Jura. While Amira had a busy social calender, Jura preferred to spend her time alone, and spent much of her free time gardening or reading in her room. Amira was opinionated, tall, and beautiful, a direct contrast to Jura's tiny quiet frame.

“I thought I saw you enter the judgment halls,” her friend squealed. It was a trait that bothered Jura in most people but on her best friend it was endearing. “Tell me everything! And how did—wait, are your robes on backwards?”

Stalling for time, Jura adjusted the delicate frames of her spectacles and once again perched them on her nose, only to have them slide down the bridge and dangle precariously. She should have left them in her room.

“What's going on?” Amira pressed.

Immediately, Jura wanted to tell her. Amira had just returned from a tour with her father. It was the first time the Third had opted to take his daughter instead of his younger son and the girls had yet to catch up after a summer apart.

She wanted to fall into Amira's arms and cry to her that she had just killed a man. That she didn't want the position she was thrown into, that she was worried for her father.

But she couldn't tell her anything.

“My father is ill,” she said slowly, working out what information was safe to share. “It was my duty to attend council in his stead.”

Amira's eyes widened. “I can't believe you did that,” she was squealing again. “Well, tell me everything. How was it, what happened? Your father must be on his deathbed to allow you to attend the session.”

“Nothing serious, I'm sure he'll be back in no time at all. He'll definitely be back by next week's meeting.” Jura forced a smile as years of conditioning kicked in. She couldn't give away too much information, many houses had fallen because they'd thought to confide in a friend. Her father would want this kept a secret.

No one could be trusted.

Her Quad stepped up behind her and Jura started at their arrival, still not used to their presence. Unable to attend the meeting, the four bodyguards had been forced to wait outside the Justice Dome's imposing double doors. They appeared now, a silent towering mass. Grateful for their intrusion, Jura excused herself to flee to her rooms. Amira would have to wait.

She entered her chambers and dismissed her house staff immediately, needing to be alone. She ripped off the robes and they landed in a heap on the cool stone floor. She sank down beside them and let the hot tears slice down her cheeks.

She had just killed a man.

He'd known that she would and he'd hated her for it. And she'd given the orders to end his life. The knowledge was crushing.

She drew in a shaky breath and wiped at the tears, they served no purpose and even though she never wanted for water she knew better than to waste it. Father hated when she cried.

She had to figure out how the man had managed to steal Fire from the palace. Perhaps his explanation would lead to his freedom. She shouldn't have allowed Velder to bully her into the execution. If she talked to the prisoner, convinced him to admit how he'd done it, she might be able to reduce his sentence before his execution was carried out. And although she didn't want the man's death on her conscience, she had to admit that questioning him served another purpose. If the man truly did know how to accomplish the impossible perhaps he held other secrets. Maybe he held the key to helping her with her father.

It was unlikely she could maintain control of the Thirteen for very long. She needed to find a cure for her father's sickness and she didn't have much time. It was only a matter of time before someone would demand to see the First. What would she do then?

Jura had never been good at keeping secrets.

She knew she was alone in her salon but she thoroughly checked again to be sure. She frowned down at the ornate floor rug before pulling it back to reveal a heavy trap door. The door was large and imposing, it took all her strength to pull it open. She descended the small ladder into the darkness, blinking to adjust her eyes.

The man inside was bound and gagged, he stared up at her with furious dark eyes. He tried to speak, but the gag prevented it. Jura knelt down beside him, careful not to get too close.

"Hello Father."

Writing Prompt: This Isn't What It Looks Like

Here is some flash fiction that I wrote for Writing Prompt Wednesday, hope y'all enjoy!

“This isn't what it looks like!” I dive for the bed, frantically scrambling for something to cover myself. A loose article of clothing, a tangled sheet, anything.

She slams the door behind her, blocking any exit and when she speaks her voice is a shrill scream that rings in my ears.

“Isn't what it looks like? Come off it Jamie. You're naked...in my bed!”

She has a point. I'm panting heavily from the short burst of activity and it takes a moment for me to catch my breath. In the mean time, I shove myself further beneath the safety of the bed's comforter.

“Emily, I know you're probably mad.” I peep out from beneath the covers. If she wanted to attack me she would have done so already, Emily can get feisty.

She's tapping her foot and her arms are cut across her heaving chest. Her face is flushed to candy apple red and the corners of her mouth are slashed downward, toward the stained shag carpet.

Yeah, angry is probably an understatement. What had I been thinking?

I sit up, dragging the comforter up to my chin as I do so. My eyes dart down to the rumpled bed before resting on Emily's face.

Em's wide brown eyes glisten with unshed tears, she always cries when she gets real angry, and I scan the popcorn ceiling for answers.

When none come I turn back to her and lift my chin, prepared to face the consequences of my action.

“You have every right to be mad. I promised this would never happen again and here I am...caught in the act. Just calm down. Forgive me? I'll do anything.”

I move toward her, tugging my safety blanket along with me.

Her bottom lip quivers and she shakes her head, jerking away from my touch.

“Just get out of my room.”

I nod. The fact that she's still speaking to me means that forgiveness will come. She just needs a little time.

I drop the comforter and run from the room. That's the last time I try on my sister's clothing without asking.

Tales of a Sixth Grade Werecat

I couldn't introduce the idea without also letting y'all meet Felix. I hope you like him as much as I do. Here is the first chapter of his story:

The house sits on the edge of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by Alabama forest and the smell of rotting wood permeates my nostrils. I hesitate on the sidewalk, reluctant to walk the length of the long stretch of gravel driveway toward the house.

It is late August, but the chill of the evening hasn't started and as I wipe my palms on my T-shirt I leave damp marks down its front. Was I really going to do this?

I look over to my friend, Jay, for support. He answers with an near imperceptible shake of his head. He doesn't think I should do it.

Behind him, the trio of boys straddle their bikes. Brent and Lenny look bored, Ethan is grinning.

“You don't have to do it, it's okay if you're too chicken.” He grins with crooked teeth. The other boys slap him on the back and snicker.

He's right. I don't have to do this. But it wasn't okay if I chickened out. That kind of thing follows a kid. Tomorrow is the first day of sixth grade and there is no way I am starting it as a coward. Felix the Chicken.

“No,” I whisper the word. “I'm doing it.” I say louder and stride toward the door.

There's no such thing as witches. Witches are for Halloween, movies, and video games. Witches exist for those weirdos you sometimes see on the street lingering outside that New Age store downtown. This house, this decrepit two-story monstrosity, does not belong to a witch.

I clench my hands into fists so the guys won't notice them shaking and begin to walk forward.

I don't believe in witches, but I have heard the stories about this house, the house of the town witch. Somehow, my feet continue to shuffle forward.

I'm almost up the driveway.

“Felix, I gotta go.” Jay's voice is hesitant. He's reluctant to leave me but his parents will ground him for life if he's even a minute past curfew. His parents are strict that way.

I shrug him away and toss up a careless arm in farewell. It doesn't matter if he sees me do this. I just need one witness. After Ethan sees me enter the witch's house he can never make fun of me again.

No one has ever gone into the house before. People don't even try to knock, not even the girl scout's during cookie season. Once, an older kid broke the kitchen window and went inside on a dare. He was never seen again. All the neighborhood kids knew that story. If I survive this, I will become a legend, no one will ever ignore me again.

The neighbors all seem to ignore Miss Gray. Mom does too, she calls her old house an eye sore and often frowns at it from our driveway. I think Mom's feeling are just hurt because the old lady had returned Mom's batch of Christmas cookies a few years back. Mom had left them on her front porch with a cheerful bow and a card that read “Happy Holidays”. Less than an hour later there had been a knock on the door. Mom answered it and found our cookies, Miss Gray was already limping back to her home.

That had been one of the few times I've ever seen her, not everyone can say that, and it gives me the advantage. And now I am going inside her house. Or, at least I will try. Miss Gray doesn't have a car so there is no way of knowing if she is even home or not. What if she is? What if she was lying in there, dead? We've all heard stories like that. Or worse, what if she came home while I was inside?

I look over my shoulder and meet Ethan's eyes. He seems surprised that I'm going through with it. I straighten. Lenny and Brent no longer look bored. Yup, here goes.

The floor boards of the porch creak under my weight, surprising, considering I'm barely seventy-four pounds. I peer into the windows but they are filthy, smeared with pollen, and I can't see if there is any movement inside. I wipe my palms on my jeans and knock on the door. After a few moments, I knock again. Still no answer. I try the handle and the door swings open easily. It doesn't creak, I expected it to creak, and shake my head in disappointment. I stand in the doorway and turn back toward Ethan, he waves me forward.

He had bet that I couldn't, wouldn't, go inside. I was about to prove him wrong. I step over the threshold and close the door behind me.

The house smells, but it doesn't stink. It kinda smells like a mix between peppermint and tobacco. Of licorice and stale potpourri. It's not spooky inside either. A quick look around leaves me disappointed. There are no cobwebs or spell books, and the house is actually clean, like someone just dusted and polished the dark wood floors. There isn't much furniture, a small couch with an ugly floral pattern that mom would hate and an old Baby Grand Piano that mom would love. We have one in our living room. I never play it, gave up after just two years of lessons. Music is not for me.

A quick peek in the kitchen proves it to be just that, a kitchen. Also clean and full of the normal appliances. No dishwasher though. One of my chores at home is dish duty, I couldn't live without a dishwasher.

The dining room has a small wooden table, there are no place settings but there is a lace table runner that was probably white at some point in time but is now yellowed with age. There is a plate of food left out and I frown as I walk toward it. Is Miss Gray home and just out of sight? Perhaps upstairs?

The plate isn't really a plate of food after all, just a pile of bones. Fish bones. I recognize the shape though the bones have been entirely picked clean, even the eyeball. The empty socket stares back at me. Gross.

“Miss Gray?” I project my voice so that it's heard through out the house. No reply. “You might not be a witch but you're still creepy.”

I decide to explore upstairs. I've already been wandering the house for about five minutes, but Miss Gray doesn't seem to be home and I can't pass up the chance to see the rest of the house. Ethan and the boys will never believe this. Maybe I can find something to take back with me as proof, something beside a pile of fish bones.

I grab a hold of the smooth bannister and make my way up the stairs. They are the curvy kind, the sort that twist around on themselves and I'm enjoying the experience, I've always wanted to go up these kind of stairs. As I curve to the top I notice an ornate mirror in the upstairs hall, something shiny reflects back at me from the table below it.

At the top of the landing I stop in front of the mirror. A silver pendent lays on the table. It's flat and circular, the braided silver curves in on itself again and again in an intricate pattern. The pendant should probably be attached to a silver chain instead of the long leather cord. I pick it up by the dark leather cord and hold it in front of me. Mom would call it ugly, but I think it's cool looking and put it in my pocket. Now I have proof.

A movement up above catches my eye and I look up in the mirror to see the angry face of Miss Gray behind me. I spin around and race for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I trip over a step, and reach for the bannister to catch myself. I miss, and my hand clutches at air. A quick yell rips out of me as I tumble down the last remaining steps. I land on my back, my head smacking into the hardwood floor. I hope the boys didn't hear me scream.

I can't do anything but lay there and try to breathe. I mean, that really hurt. My heart seems to have slammed up into my throat and my ears are making a strange buzzing noise. I eye the stairway for Miss Gray but the only thing coming down the stairs is a cat. It leaps the rest of the stairs and lands on my chest.

Had I been wrong? Did I truly see Miss Gray? Or had I only seen a portrait reflected in the mirror? Surely Miss Gray would have followed me down the stairs after my fall. She hasn't though, the only thing that has is this cat. A tri-colored tabby with wide golden eyes. Those eyes blink down at me, holding my gaze.

I finally catch my breath enough to sit up and the cat springs from my chest to land nimbly at my feet.

I draw in a ragged breath and wipe at the thin line of sweat that coats my forehead. It doesn't seem like I've broken anything. I rotate my wrists and neck, and sway back and forth at the waist, stretching my back. Yup, nothing's broken. I'm just the idiot that was almost killed by a cat. And not even a black one. Miss Gray is definitely not a witch.

I rise to my feet and rub at the back of my head. Even through all my hair I can feel that a knot has started to form. I am going to have one heck of a bump later.

“This is all your fault,” I say to the cat. It blinks at me and releases a plaintive meow. I nod my head. “Well, I forgive you. I shouldn't be in here anyway.”

I really do need to leave. The sun has already set and Mom is going to be pissed that I am late for dinner. I squat down and stretch out my hand, intending to pet the cat. It hisses back. My hand falters, catching in mid air. Did it just not want to be touched, or did it think I would try to hurt it? It seemed friendly, well, it had before it decided to hiss at me.

“Just wanted to pet you,” I say. I thrust my hand toward its furry face before it decides to run away.

It doesn't run away. Instead, it hisses again, sits back on its haunches and swats at my hand. The cat's claws dig into the back of my hand and I jerk my hand back to suck at the tiny droplets of blood that form from its scratch. Now, not only is my head throbbing, but my hand feels like it's been stung by a hornet. Good job, Felix.

“Stupid cat,” I mutter. I stand up and limp toward the door. The cat watches me leave.

It is dark outside and I hurry down the steps of the front porch.

“Well, I did it.” I call out to the boys. Shouldn't I be greeted by cheers? Or at least an attaboy? Instead, I'm greeted by silence. The moon is bright over head and my blue bike is bathed in its light. My blue bike, and nothing else. The boys have all left. What a bunch of jerks. At least they saw me go inside, no one could ever call me a sissy. I hop onto my bike and begin to peddle furiously toward my house at the end of the street. My last day of summer was nearly over, and it had mostly sucked.

Were Cats

I was watching the show "Being Human"when it all started. The show is found on the SciFi channel but I've watched the U.K. version of it and really liked it. One of the main characters is a werewolf. I love werewolves, but like vampires I think they are overdone.
Okay, so yes they are "overdone" but there is a reason they are so prevalent. They just work. Our culture has always been interested in the fantastic. The stories of vampires and werewolves go back for decades, centuries even. And with each new story I think, "not again" before I eagerly sit down to watch or read.
So I jumped on the bandwagon. Sort of.
Werecats.
Okay, so it's not exactly an original idea. I certainly didn't invent the idea of a human shifted into a cat. Thanks to the True Blood series "shifters" are a thing brought to the limelight. Then there are shows like "Teen Wolf" or "The Vampire Diaries", which bring the problems of being supernatural into high school.
But where is the representation for the middle-school age range? And what about werecats?
I was more than intrigued.
Like most of my ideas I let the concept marinate in my mind for a bit before I brought the characters to life. I'm now proud to say I'm well into developing the story of Felix. A precocious eleven year old turned werecat.
I'm having tons of fun getting to know him and I can't wait to find out where his story will take me.

poor man's travel

I think if I should ever acquire a bit of money my first order of business shall be travel. The Elements series (loosely titled so because I'm not sure what it will eventually be) takes place in several worlds created by me. As much as these lands are figments of my imagination, I want them to be based off of truths. How else would I achieve anything close to realism in a world seeped with magic and fantasy?
I spent the morning watching documentaries. Namely, the National Geographic's spread on wild India and China peppered with a few episodes of Survivorman. I found these past few hours to be exceedingly helpful, particularly because I find research books dull and because I'm a far cry away from being able to afford to travel to any of these places on my own...at least, not anytime soon. If I gain any measure of success, perhaps I will beg my publishers to grant me a trip to Asia. In the mean time, these Netflix documentaries are working just fine.
I'm partly through the seventh chapter of "Submerged", a scene I found somewhat boring between Jura and Tylak. I put it aside for now but plan on attacking it tomorrow. After I spend the evening plotting out how to torture the couple in an effort to spice things up.
Coralynn, though mainly a spoiled brat, is stealing into my heart in much the same way as Kay and I think "Submerged" will feature a good healthy dose of them both.

In further news there has been no more evidence of the mouse though I know he's still out there, probably planning his next attack. There are those who argue that I just need to set up some traps but honestly, I haven't got the heart.

Meet the Character KAY

I haven't done an excerpt in a while so here is another character intro. This is Kay, she tends to be everyone's favorite. Book one introduces her but it's in book two that she really starts to shine...

Kay opened both her eyes and smiled. She leaped from her bed throwing on pants and a tunic from the day before. She pushed the sleep out of her eyes and washed her face and mouth before running outside towards the corral. The morning sun was more pink than orange as it peeked over the puffy white clouds. The clouds hung so low in the sky Kay almost felt she could reach out and grab one, well if daddy held her up.

Kay's father was the biggest, strongest and most brave around. Kay knew there was a lot more to the world than her family's acreage but she never had the urge to explore. Their homestead had everything she could ever want. Daddy had built their home himself with his own two hands. Kay often sat in his lap and stared at those hands. His fingers were long and capable, his palm big and hard. Daddy never minded when she climbed up, not even now that she was ten years and getting big for cuddles.

Mama stopped her at the gate and Kay skidded to a halt, annoyed that she hadn't woken up earlier, Mama might not have caught her.

“Where are you going, young lady?” Mama's face was warm and loving as always yet she narrowed her eyebrows in an effort to appear stern. Kay knew that Mama meant it.

“I just want to see him, please Mama? Just for a moment I'll be so quick.” Kay shone down her full smile, the one she showed her mama and daddy when she wanted them to see just how good of a little girl she was. “Please, Mama?”

Mama remained firm. “Chores first. I can't be expected to do everything myself.”

Kay wanted to ignore her mother's wishes but instead thought about all the work Mama would have to do by herself if she neglected her chores. She turned around and headed back towards their house.

Kay had to help Mama with the numerous day to day chores that kept the family functioning.

There were chicken and rabbits to feed. The garden needed constant care and Kay was in charge of watering the plants as well as harvesting the ripe vegetables. The house always needed a good cleaning and laundry was in need of a washing. It was mid morning before Mama announced that Kay had completed enough chores and was permitted to go outside to the corral.

Kay needed no further prompting and ran from the house, kicking up trails of dust as she ran up the dirt road that led to the north barn. The best barn. The building was located on the edge of their property atop a large dirt hill which stood out against the otherwise rolling green hills. She stopped short in front of the massive building. Made of shiny metal and wire the structure leaped from the ground, two double doors dominated the front of the square building. Eager, Kay opened one of the doors.

As the door opened she was immediately aware of the blast of heat that hit her skin and her lungs, the tell tale characteristics inside the north barn. She smiled at the familiar feel and smell of the room. “Daddy, are you in here?”

Her father appeared from the opposite end of the barn. He smiled and waved her over.

“Be careful now, Rumble has a bit of a temper today.”

Kay laughed, “Daddy you say that about Rumble everyday.”

The dragon in question lay curled on his side in a roped off corner of the barn. He opened one lazy eye at the mention of his name but didn't move. Too old to still breed, the dragon lived there out of habit more than anything else. Rumble had been in her family decades longer than Kay, than her father even. Kay had asked her father once how old Rumble was. When he'd been unable to answer she'd demanded the answer from Rumble herself. She'd stood atop his giant magnificent snout and stomped her foot until he'd opened both of his monstrous eyes. The giant black orbs stared at her blankly. Mama had been so scared she's wept like a baby and Daddy had been so mad after he got her safely off she'd gotten a whooping. She'd been six years old. Kay felt that Rumble would never hurt her and it appeared the old dragon was content to spend the rest of his days sunbathing in various spots in the pastures outside the barn. He always returned to the barn at night.

Kay reached her father and fell into his arms. Daddy swooped her up in the air just as she'd known he would and she laughed. “What are we doing today?”

Her father was an important man. Kay had grown up seeing a constant stream of people that traveled across the Sand Sea to trade with her father. They gave furs and and gold and formed pieces of art. Some gave spices or water so fresh and clear there was none sweeter. The list of products traded always differed but the people all came wanting one thing, dragons.

“I caught a new one, she had her guard down. Drinking at the lake this morning,” he pushed back Kay's wild brown curls. “She's pregnant.”

Kay squealed with delight. She loved to watch baby dragons grow. They were born small enough to hold in her hand with shiny scales and dark glistening eyes. The grew fast though, reaching Kay's own size after just a week and they were curious and often got into squabbles with each other and their mother, testing their strength and power. They were intelligent too. They understood when feeding times were and they were aware that they had to return nightly for dinner and the security of the barn. Raised in the barn they seldom ever sought escape and dragons born at the barn were the easiest to train for breeding, probably because they imprinted with her daddy at such a young age.

“Can I see her?” Kay hopped from one foot to the other, twisting her hands in circles. “Oh may I?”

But Daddy said no and instead ordered her to look after Rumble's breakfast, arguing that the newly captured dragon needed time to adjust. The mother dragon would be chained now and though distressed at her capture she would also be nesting and preparing to give birth. Mama had informed them both more than once that Kay was under no circumstances to be placed in any dangerous situations. A newly caught mother dragon would fall under the category of such a situation. More than anything Kay wanted to watch but knew that Daddy would never let her. Probably because he was scared of Mama. Kay didn't know why her father was so frightened of Mama but she could tell that he was because he never went against Mama's wishes. Kay thought it had something to do with the way Mama would cock her head to the side and scrunch up her eyebrows, she could look pretty mean when she did that.

Kay fed Rumble, carefully setting down his portion of mixed meat, today several fat pigs and a bird, a turkey maybe? She left his meat as well as several bushels of vegetables in front of the dragon before she leaped far from the pile and shouted out, “now Rumble!”
The dragon lifted his noble head and blew a stream of fire over his offering. Once the food was sizzling and smoking he devoured his portions, swallowing the meal quickly and sniffing the air around him. Kay had heard the terrible stories of what happened to dragons across the Sand Sea and had asked Daddy about it once. His face had looked very angry and his voice was firm.

“It's not our business what happens to the dragons we sell.”

Kay had kicked at the ground while she thought over this answer. “But don't you feel sad knowing you're giving the dragons away to people that are just going to be mean to them?”

Daddy had been very firm. “We do not give the dragons away Kay. We sell them to pay for the things we need to survive. Don't you love all of your toys? Don't you love where we live?”

“Yes Daddy,” Kay had answered solemnly because she really did love her life just the way it was, she just felt bad for the dragons sometimes.

Mama was always particular to Rumble, more so after Kay had provoked him and he hadn't attacked. She saw him as a member of the family and was constantly reminding Kay that she was lucky to have such a friend in Rumble because most people never got to know dragons and no one counted one as a friend.

Daddy suspected Rumble's natural friendliness towards the family and particularly Kay was just because he was so old and though Mama would always agree it sometimes looked like she wondered.

Kay sat in the dirt beside Rumble, careful to give him plenty of space while he finished his breakfast. She watched him for a moment, smelling her hands and wrinkling her nose at the smell. No wonder dragons had such smelly breath. Finished with his meal Rumble licked the ground where it had been and then sniffed at the air, flicking his forked tongue in and out before fixing one dark eye on Kay.

She held up her hands, “No more. You'll just have to wait for dinner.”

Rumble grunted and twin lines of smoke curled up from his nostrils. Kay watched them, mesmerized. Dragons could come in a variety of colors and Rumble was a deep red color that Kay imagined must be the most beautiful color in all the world.

“It's the color of rubies,” Daddy had once said, showing her a small red stone. Kay had wrinkled her nose at the shiny rock. It was pretty, and while the hue reminded her of Rumble it did nothing to capture the sparkle in his scale or his richness of color.

“You wouldn't hurt me,” she whispered softly. She stood up slowly, keeping her eyes trained on Rumble's mouth. The dragon stood unmoving. She reached out her arm, careful to unfold her fingers one by one, to keep her breathing slow and normal.

“Easy Rumble, I'm not going to hurt you.”

“He's not worried that you'll hurt him,” her Daddy's voice was calm and even. “Come away from him baby.”

Kay sighed and did as she was told, turning her back on the dragon and walking towards her father. She could feel Rumble's eyes watching her leave.

“He wouldn't have hurt me, Daddy.” Her voice was impatient but she was careful not to whine when she presented her case. Daddy always said that if she pleaded her case like an adult she would be treated like one. “Rumble has never been aggressive before. And you even said that when I stood on his nose when I was a little girl he didn't look like he was mad at all.”

Daddy smiled, showing his even white teeth. She liked when they peeked out from behind his scruffy beard. “You're still a little girl.”

Kay narrowed her eyes, “Daddy I'm presenting a case here.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” he smiled, lifting his arms in surrender. “Please continue.”

She cleared her throat. “Because Rumble has never acted aggressive towards me and due to the fact that we have established a relationship,” she was pleased to see Daddy's eyes widen at her using such big words. “I propose that I am allowed to try and pet him.” And try to ride him, she added silently to herself. She knew the importance of picking her battles and instead finished her case with, “please Daddy, just let me try one time.”

Her father seemed to actually be considering it, that is, he hadn't said no and was staring off at Rumble when an opening door sent in a rush of outside air. The cool air tickled her sweaty skin and Kay shivered from the goosebumps.

Her father spun around at the open doors and smiled at Mama who stood in the doorway. Though her mother respected Rumble she would never approve Kay's efforts to get closer. Kay sent pleading eyes on her father and he squeezed her shoulder before ushering her to the door by keeping a large steady palm in the small of her back.

“Is it time for me to help get lunch Mama?” She was quick to ask before Mama questioned what they'd been talking about.

“It is, why don't you wash up?” she smiled at Kay before turning serious eyes to her husband. “That's not why I came out here though. There's a buyer here.” Her tone was meaningful and Kay was aware that her parents were communicating, she was missing something and she scowled, she hated being left out. She knew better than to ask any questions however and instead scampered off to the kitchens hoping to reach home before her parents in hopes of gaining a clue on the new buyer.

She ran as fast as she could, ignoring her parents calls that she wait and pumped her tiny legs as fast as they would take her. When she reached their house she was sweaty and breathing hard. She opened the back door and skipped inside, pleased to see the visitor sat waiting inside their small family kitchen. The kitchen smelled of warm bread and Kay smiled deeply at the visitor feeling very satisfied.

“Hello,” she said ripping the corner off the fresh loaf and popping it into her mouth. Mama made the best bread, it was hot and melted in her mouth.

The buyer looked different than the others. In place of the heavy wool robes the man wore a light tunic not dissimilar to her own. His pants stopped just under his knee and ballooned slightly at the bottom. She was interested in his odd clothing but was more fascinated by his shiny bald head. The man's dark eyes slanted down at her.

“Hello,” his voice was low and musical. “You must be Kay.”

Kay smiled, she liked feeling important and she was. The daughter of the dragon catcher, the greatest dragon trainer that ever lived. She stood tall.

“I am.” She inclined her head but didn't demand to know the stranger's name because she didn't want to be rude. When he didn't offer it she cocked her head to the side and thought of what she could say.

“Rumble is my favorite but he's not for sale.”

The buyer's eyebrows lifted and he smiled, “Is that so?”

Kay nodded, feeling braver. “Yup, he's my friend one day I'm going to ride him and everything.”

“Aren't you scared?” The buyer widened his eyes and looked down at her impressed. “What about his big teeth and all that fire?”

Kay shrugged her shoulders. “I'm not scared, Rumble would never hurt me. Besides if he uses his fire at me I'll just move it away.”

“Kay, go to your room.” Her father had appeared and he filled the doorway. He did not look happy.

“Daddy I--”

“To your room.” He didn't even look at her, his eyes were trained on the buyer. She fled from the room but stopped just outside in the hall. She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath trying not to scream. She wouldn't throw a tantrum. Only babies threw tantrums and she was ten years old.

“What are you doing here?” It was her father's voice, he was asking the buyer.

“Is it true? Does Kay have the gift?” The buyer's voice. Kay straightened at the mention of her name.

“I asked you what you were doing here?” It was Daddy's don't ask me again voice which meant that he was good and angry. The buyer would have to apologize now.

“You know why I've come.” The buyer's voice sounded more amused than frightened. Kay frowned and took a step closer to hear what her daddy whispered.

“You can't have her,” at least that's what it sounded like to to Kay and she pressed against the wall, wanting to get closer but scared they would see her. “She belongs here. With her family.”

“It's her duty. Did you think to hide her from us?” The buyers voice was angry now. “ Did you think we would never find out?”

“You can't have her.” Her father repeated and Kay was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude. She was sorry she'd ran ahead and she didn't want to know any more about the mystery man she only wanted him to leave.

She heard a thud and the sound of scuffling and confused and frightened, she turned and ran to her rooms.

House Mouse-1 Lexi-0

I've been hard at work at revising Ignited and outlining and drafting Submerged. Sorry for the terrible excuse, "I've been too busy writing to write".

SO while I'm nowhere close to completing either project I forced myself to step away and drop a few lines. 

I've joined some writing groups via the good old social network, I'm not sure how helpful they've been, but, if nothing else, my twitter and facebook newsfeeds are now flooded with writing prompts and questions, so that part is kind of nice.

I postulate that I am a fine example of a "country girl". I live in Alabama, I love Luke Bryan's bootie, I drink sweet tea and eat grits for breakfast, and I own a fine pair of boots made from Mexican leather...and yet, my life is a lie.

Last night I treated myself to an utterly lazy evening involving a bottle (yes, a bottle, don't judge) of pinot grigio, cheese (I love cheese) and a mini marathon of The Big Bang Theory. My illusion of a perfect night was shattered when what do you suppose ran across my kitchen floor?

A mouse. A horribly tiny, not in the least bit "cute", scurrying mouse.

I screamed, wailed like a banshee is probably more accurate, and leaped to a standing position on the couch even though the mouse in question was actually several feet away.

I stared at the spot on the kitchen floor, blinking and praying that I had been wrong, perhaps I'd had too much wine, perhaps I was just seeing things...it rn across the linoleum floor for a second time.

This time I could do little more than let loose an exasperated moan and squirm further back into the safety of the couch while I stared at the cracked linoleum, terrified it would make another appearance.

It didn't.

However I had a terrible night's sleep, I kept envisioning the mouse coming into my room and crawling into bed with me, don't laugh, they can climb walls.

In short all my grand ideas of being a "country woman" are gone. A good country woman would never fear a tiny ol' country mouse. They probably wouldn't freak out over grasshoppers either but that's another story...

Beach Bound

I'm leaving tomorrow to spend a week at the beach. So naturally I went to the bookstore to stock up on reading material for the week. I won't be posting while I'm gone but expect some new material when I get back! I have a short story that's been bouncing around in my head trying to escape and maybe I'll try my hand at some poetry. Hope everyone enjoys their week, I know I will :)

meet the character: ASH

He pulled the heavy volume from it's place on the tall shelf and stared down at in with some reverence. The chronicles did not yet include him but they would. Ash was known as the greatest Fire Dancer of his time, and his era had come to an end. He didn't think his imminent departure from the arena would affect him in such a way, surprised to feel that the pain was physical, it started in his gut and spread from his belly up into his chest. Or perhaps it was just heartburn, he thought disgusted with himself and his rotting body.

There was no place more sacred to him than the Arena. The blood stained dirt, the acrid scents that inflamed his nostrils, the rush of a screaming crowd. The people of Mir 'Or had loved him and Ash had loved the sensation.

It won't be so bad, he lied to himself, trying to stem the ever flowing numbness that threatened to engulf him. Never again would he step out onto that dirt. Never again would he hear his name echo on the cries of thousands. He had enough wealth to last until the end of his days and he would never want for water but his fame.... His fame had been fleeting and in the eyes of future spectators he was already forgotten.

He blew the thick layer of dust off the tome and opened it, careful not to overly disturb the brittle pages. So many, he mused. The art of Fire Dancing had been applied to the arena for centuries and there had been many heroes. Each had had their moment to bask in the love of the people and each was immortalized in this chronicle. It was all Ash had left. He poured over the names of the hundreds that had come before him, some names brought a smile to his thin lips while others caused him to sigh. There were so many he didn't know.

He heard the call of the trumpeters and turned towards it. The battle royal was beginning. The sound was precious to his ears and his blood sang in response to it's call. He must have followed the noise down the sacred halls because he found himself at the doors that opened up to the arena, unsure how he'd gotten there.

“Still here old man?” Timber grinned. Young, arrogant and the current favorite in the arena he was a massive man that towered over Ash's own frame. Ash was far from small but in the shadow of Timber's presence he felt weathered and stooped. Had he really left the arena little more than an hour ago? The moment was already as fleeting as yesterday.

“Lay off him,” snapped Kindle. She placed a gentle hand on Ash's shoulder. “Come to watch me kick his ass?” Her blue eyes sparkled as she adjusted her breast plate.

A Fire Dancer's armor covered their shoulders, chest, back and face. The arms and legs were left exposed to allow for maximum movement in the arena. Many Dancer's had their careers ended from a badly timed move that had left their appendages as noting more than smoldering stumps. Ash's own eyebrows had burned off more than once and he sported an ugly scar that ran up the entire length of his right arm. He looked down at the scar now, remembering when it had been red and angry. Now it was white and almost forgotten, like him.

Timber snorted. “That would be something to see. Stick around old man, let me show you what the Dancers are doing these days.”

Ash nodded, “I'll stay for the match. Give you a few pointers after.” Kindle squeezed his shoulder.

Timber grinned, “I saw your little exhibition this afternoon. I think I might have something new for you.”

Ash ground his teeth and said nothing. His afternoon stint had been nothing more than a farewell show and apparently everyone knew it. He'd fought Smolder, a massive beast that had killed dozens of Fire Dancers in her prime. Now she was used mostly in the training arena, sparring practice for new cadets.

The trumpets sounded again and Ash felt his body hum with the excitement of a new battle. One that he would not participate in. He followed the two dancers through the heavy doors that led into the arena and took his seat in the glass spectator box reserved for trainers, owners and the upper society of the Republic. He was greeted by a polite smattering of applause and a few handshakes. His name had not died yet.

He'd never watched from the spectator box before and there was something to be said for the experience. Though Ash preferred to be out in the open where he could feel and smell the action, the air behind the glass wall was sweet smelling and slaves waited eager to refill their master's wine and offer fan service against the scorching heat of the flames. Ash took his seat next to Beshar, a lesser member of the Thirteen and apparently the owner in this match.

Beshar shook his hand enthusiastically. “Ash! We've met once before, after you slaughtered Reckoning. That was some fight.” He continued to work Ash's hand up and down. Ash was used to men of all rank fawning over him, and it felt good to have the attention of one of the Thirteen. “Are you working as a trainer now?”

Many retired Dancers took on cadets to train in the ways of the arena. Ash had given it little thought though the idea held some appeal. Perhaps through training a new Dancer his legacy would live on.

“Scouting out the competition.” Ash had to shout because the spectators in the arena had begun to shout. Were they chanting Timber's name? He ignored them. “Who have you got today?”

“Wildfire, making her debut.” Beshar wiped at his brow with a perfumed handkerchief. “She's small but agile as they come. We might see some blood tonight.” His face was hard and eager, an odd expression on his pale round features.

Arena battles could end in three ways. The owner could call an end to the fight to protect his investment at which point the Dancers would be awarded a win and the owner was allowed to take his beast home to be used for breeding purposes. This was seldom done as even the owners liked to see the Dancers bring out blood. The second was a fight called off by the Dancers themselves. If a Dancer was feeling overwhelmed they could concede defeat and take a loss. A loss forced them to remove themselves from the arena and recoup for a minimum of three moon cycles. When and if, the dancer returned they were almost always out of favor with the crowd. Ash would have rather died in the arena then call for mercy while he licked his wounds. The final and preferred ending to the arena battle was an all out battle royale. Two Fire Dancers entered the arena with the beast and in the end only one, dancer or beast remained standing.

The inaugural trumpets sounded and Ash leaned forward in his seat. Timber and Kindle began to turn and leap across the dirt arena, warming up their bodies and exhibiting an exotic display for the crowd. The sound of the metal gates rolling back indicated Wildfire's release and the crowd grew silent in anticipation of her debut.

She stepped out slowly and as always the first sight caused Ash to swallow a lump in his throat. She was magnificent. A clawed foot, a gleaming green scale. Her head appeared, her neck arching and eyes searching as she sniffed the air. Her forked tongue flicked out tasting her surroundings. She hissed and smoke curled from her nostrils. She leaped from the arena ground and took flight, causing the crowd to roar in delight as she flew up and circled the dome of the arena.

The spectator box darkened under her shadow and Beshar slapped Ash on the back shouting a whoop in delight. “Didn't I say she was something?”

He rubbed his hands together and Ash smiled at the reverent look in the owner's eye. This wasn't his first dragon but Beshar was certainly proud of this one. And he should be, Ash thought, admiring the dragon's display as she circled the arena, her body a sensuous display of twisting gleaming scales. She bellowed her fury, a stream of molten fire shooting out against the sturdy glass ceiling of the arena. There was no escape and soon, angered, she would land and fight the dancers. It was the way, Ash wished he was out there, though he knew his knees could never handle another fight with such a young dragon.

Timber and Kindle stood at the bottom, Kindle nervous and hopping from foot to foot, Timber calm and still as a stone.

Wildfire landed on the ground causing the arena to shake from her crushing weight. She turned on Kindle first, propelling a line of fire directly at the young dancer. Kindle leaned back, throwing out her arms as she did and the fire rolled away from her, ricocheting off the glass of the spectator booth. Beshar jumped and Ash chuckled, it had begun.

Furious, Wildfire flicked her tail around and Kindle leaped over it, somersaulting in the air and landing nimbly on her feet. The crowd roared. Timber was making his move. While Wildfire's attention was captured by Kindle he leaped towards her, his assegai gleaming in the sun as it plunged into her chest.

The dragon roared and turned towards Timber simultaneously swatting Kindle with her massive tail. Kindle bounced off the arena floor and lie still. Timber's weapon was stuck in her scales so he twisted backwards, performing a series of twisting leaps to stay in motion. To the crowd, the fire just appeared around Timber's twirling form. To Ash it was a thing of beauty. Timber pulled the flames from the dragon and held onto the fire, bonding it to him and spinning faster, feeding oxygen to the growing flame. He was a tornado of flames, spinning ever faster and the crowd screamed in exultation as Timber released the fire at the dragon. The flames wouldn't hurt her and were mostly for show but what a show it was. The crowd was going crazy. He almost looks as though he's creating his own flames. The notion was impossible but Ash grudgingly admitted to himself that Timber was as good as he'd claimed. Wildfire spit fire back at Timber in retaliation and Ash watched him pull it around him and shoot it up towards the dome. The crowd oohed and awed.

A Fire Dancer's ability lay in their power to manipulate the flames to move around them. So long as the dancer anticipated the moves of the dragon and understood their body, Fire was as harmless to them as it was to the dragon. Timber leaped forward to retrieve his assegai and yanked it from Wildfire's chest causing blood to spray across the dirt. The dragon trumpeted in pain and spit another ball of fire that Timber deflected easily with a twisting leap. The fire curved around him and hit the dirt near Kindle's still form. Timber shook his assegai in the air and the crowd really was chanting his name. Ash was so caught up in the fight he didn't care. Let them call out Timber's name for in this moment he was a god and Ash was living through him.

The dragon continued to blow fire at Timber but he had caught the rhythm of her breathing now and she was no match for him. When she raised up on her hind legs he took the opportunity and plunged his assegai deep into her exposed belly, ripping it open. Blood and gore spilled across the arena floor and Wildfire gave a final cry before collapsing to the floor in a heap of dust. As the dust settled around them Timber straddled the fallen beast and raised his assegai to the chanting crowd. His eyes met Ash in his glass chamber and his smile deepened as he inclined his head. Ash suddenly felt impossibly cold and rubbed his arms against the chill.

“She didn't last very long,” Beshar mumbled disappointed. He stood up to leave and Ash followed him not wanting to watch Timber accept his winnings.

HIM

Today I'm sharing poetry. I am by no means a poetic person so this probably won't happen often.

HIM

He spilled himself on me

I wanted him to fill me

To feel me

Drowning on this brackish water

Sinking 

Like a stone

He chips away at me

Bit, by bit, by bit....

I love this

My First Novel

Hello. It's strange, starting a blog was never something I had an interest in doing but I read that it's something I should do so here it is. If nothing ever comes from this I can officially say that I'm beyond proud of myself for this moment here, right now. I've just finished my first novel. No, it's not published yet, I honestly haven't even begun any of the necessary steps that would achieve this goal and yet... I feel accomplished. I wrote a novel.
I can easily say I've been on a writer's high for the last week. I'm not sure if that's a thing but if runner's get to be high then why can't I? I mean I suppose I could go about it in other ways but what I'm talking about here is something free of pharmaceuticals, something that I achieved all on my own.
I've always wanted to be a writer, back since I was five years old and I wrote my first story about a young girl who travels through a mysterious door back to the time of dinosaurs. It was written on yellow legal paper and was mostly illustrations because I didn't really know how to write actual words but I think my mama still has it somewhere and I still remember the story.
I've always wanted to write.
But it's hard to actually do it. To find the commitment to sit in front of the computer every day and hammer out the images dancing in my head, to force them into words that make these images come to life. I've started dozens of stories but this one I actually finished. And I like it.
So yeah, I'm pretty proud of myself.
It's a fantasy novel.
I've always had an interest in magic. I think deep down it's because I've always wanted a little magic in my life. I'm so lucky to have found a way to capture that. The process of writing this book has been magical and if nothing else happens I'll always have that.
It still needs a title.
While writing it I pushed the idea of worrying over a title out of my head and instead focused on getting the story out. But now that it's done the worry has returned. The saying is that one should never judge a book by its cover...but its title? I know when I'm searching for a new book from a new author a catchy title is what draws me in.
The thought terrifies me. I thought writing and finishing (still amazed I finished it) a novel was the hard part. But now that it's done there's so much more to stress about. What will I name it? Will it get published? What if I find a great title AND it get's published but no one ever buys it? Or worse, what if people don't like it?
Yes I have lots to worry about (thank God for wine) but for the moment I am happy to push these worries aside because I wrote a novel. And, for now, that's enough for me.