Althea's Appetite

“Do you think this shirt will fit me?” Althea asked shoving her chest out holding a cotton t-shirt against her. “My breasts are deceptively large.”

Addie shrugged a tight smiled plastered across her face. “Yeah… I don’t know.”

The smile fell from Althea’s face her eyes narrowed at Addie, “do we have a problem.”

“Ummmm” Addie’s eyes darted around searching for an escape. “Yeah, I don’t really know what you are talking about.” The gentle sound of the phone ringing back at the counter saved Addie from another one of Althea’s inappropriate outbursts. “Oh I have to take this.” Addie said racing back to the front of the store snatching up the receiver before Althea could say another word.

Althea stomped out of the boutique annoyed. What did she have to do? Why did people always respond for her like that? She was just being friendly! Maybe they were just jealous of her and her deceptively large breasts.

Althea wiped the back of her hand across her glistening, oily face and smoothed her lank hair as she looked around for another store to torment. All Althea really wanted was a friend– someone who wouldn’t be put off by her brazen attitude and superior knowledge on all subjects. Althea had been to all of the stores in the past week and had made quite the spectacle of herself as she so enjoyed doing.

“What to do, what to do.” She mumbled as she briskly marched down the street liking to pretend she had purpose even when she didn’t. It made her feel important.

The rumble of Althea’s stomach reminded her it was time for lunch, but she had been banned from every restaurant in the area due to her instance that every neighboring table only order the food she recommended after all she was an expert. She was being helpful, she was a professional.

Before Althea made it back to her car she noticed a sign down an alley blinking in a slow rhythmic way which demanded her attention.

“Well they haven’t unjustly kicked me out.” She said aloud hoping one of those other restaurant’s heard her. She would just take her business elsewhere.

Althea burst through the door rattling the blinds. She immediately sighed loudly and waited with her hands on her hips. After ten seconds of waiting she yelled “Hello! I'm waiting here.”

A tiny man with large ears and a hunched over back came out of the back wiping his hands on his apron. “May I help you?”

“Duh, this is a restaurant I'm here to eat. Gosh, the service here is horrible.”

The man raised an eyebrow at her “you may sit wherever you like, but I'm not sure we have anything you would want here.”

“Well can I at least see a menu? I swear have you never run a restaurant before in your life. Once I worked in food service for 3 hours so I am sort of an expert if you need any advice.”

“No, I think I can manage. We have nothing prepared yet for today.”

“What is that I smell.”

The man coughed “It is a soup I really don’t think you would want it…”

“I’ll take it.” She cut him off. Althea hated being told what to do. She was a professional she knew what was best in every situation no one else’s opinion mattered in the least.

The old man’s frail, thin shoulders pulled up, “Whatever you say.” He disappeared back into the kitchen and moments later came out with a steaming bowl in his hands. Sitting the cloudy yellowish broth in front of her he stood back and waited.

Althea pointedly picked up her spoon and rubbed an unseen spot from it before dipping the utensil in the pungent liquid. The old man grimaced as she swallowed the spoonful of broth.

Althea looked up at him triumphantly “Needs salt.”

He quickly sat salt on the table and escaped into the back room where a room full of other twisted old men sat waiting for him to return. “Fellas, she is eating the boner soup.” Every mouth in the room fell open as they looked back at him. “Couldn’t talk her out of it.”

“What will it do to her?” One of them asked.

The old man wrinkled his nose and bared his false teeth, “can’t really say for certain.”

The group of men thundered out of the room and fought to see around the corner at what was happening to the girl.

“Oh my, it’s bad.” One of the men said “Look at her.”

“No, that was the way she looked when she came in.”

“Well go out and talk to her.” They encouraged him pushing him through the door.

The tiny old man walked back up to her talk “May I get you anything else?”

“Just my check, I am very busy and important.”

“Seriously, it's on the house. Are you feeling alright?”

“I'm always perfect, do you have a problem with me.”

“Not at all.”

“Well I never… I am a paying customer.” Althea stormed out of the restaurant while the old man watched her flabbergasted.

“What happened?” Someone called out from the back.

“It didn’t work.” Another one said.

“But it has been tested,” another person insisted.

“I guess it doesn’t work if you are already a dickhead.”

-33-

Feet on the Ground, Head in the Clouds

Someone once said, I think it was Mark Twain though I have also heard something similar attributed to Jane Austen, “Write what you know”.

I understand the reasoning for this advice. The things you know are easier to describe, easier to bring to life with words. Making a character live in a real city you are not familiar with or describing the taste you have never experienced would be difficult to pull off with any depth. However I have trouble buying into this notion completely. Sorry, Ms. Austen and Mr. Twain, but I disagree to an extent.

With DARK CORNERS I took a lot from real life. Obviously not everything, but there is a fair portion of the story I can back up with real life experiences. For this type of story I think the advice works because with this type of tale, psychological mystery with paranormal element, one foot has to stay firmly grounded in reality.

However, as I dive deeper into the world of PNR with the GUARDIAN TRILOGY I find there is less and less I can draw on from my own life and the more my imagination takes over launching me on these journeys into the unknown. I believe when writing PNR what you know is the appetizer, but imagination becomes the entree. There is something very free about being able to bring to life everything that lives in your head and create from nothing until it comes to life.

Do you write what you know or let your imagination run wild?

Photo by Kim

The Right to Write

Today, I feel like a writer.

Yep, I said it. I feel like an actual writer. I know we all talk about how we are real writers even if we aren’t with a publishing house or anything like that and I am completely behind that. But today, today I feel it.

Most days, if I am being honest, I don’t think about whether or not I am a writer. It has yet to become a question that haunts me. I just plug away at what I am doing because I love it, no titles necessary. If someone tells me I am not a writer because I haven’t published my book yet or because I plan on being indie so be it. That is their opinion and it doesn’t change anything about what I am doing or why I am doing it. I have stories to tell and will tell them one way or another.

The difference in today is a little thing I like to call validation. When something happens that makes you feel validated as an author it is an incredible feeling. While I was sleeping last night I received two emails. The first one was from a critique partner of mine who just finished reading one of my books. This isn’t someone I know or have ever even met just an unbiased pair of eyes looking at a chunk of my soul on paper. And she liked it! Her exact words were “Wow! Incredible! I was interested and intrigued the whole time! Excellent, excellent story!”

My second source of validation was from my editor. I got back my first ten pages from her, the professional, and she said “You completely pulled me into your story, and as some hard stuff has come up in my family, it was really nice to lose myself in Ella's world even if it was for just a little while.” It takes an awful lot to make me smile at 7am , but these fabulous ladies managed.

It all feels very real today.

What makes you feel validated in your life?

Family Remains

This is a short story I have been working on that is outside of the mystery/PNR I normally write. I hope you enjoy it.

Violet stood up tall, stretching her aching back in the middle of her daddy’s cotton field. Acres of green leaves, brown bolls, and fluffy white tufts lay before her. Strands of white cotton floated peacefully in the still, heavy summer air. Violet tilted her head to the left then the right loosening her neck. Angry blisters and bright red cuts scrawled across her small, delicate hands from the picking cotton. The sun was beating down without mercy on the dry, scorched earth causing sweat to trickle down Violet’s back. As she continued to stretch her older sister Haute looked from under the brim of her hat at her disapprovingly. Haute was a sturdy young lady which came from years of helping her father in the fields. She had a stern face and serious dark brown eyes however she was pretty in a majestic, almost queen like manner. Haute scared Violet, she scared most people.

“Violet, get back to work before Daddy sees you.” Haute said leaving no room for argument.

Violet did as she was told because she knew disobeying her sister would get both of them in a heap trouble. Their family operated as a well oiled machine. Each child looked after the one immediately below them in age. So when one was in trouble, they all were trouble. Violet glanced over at her younger sister Rachel who was also helping in the field. Rachel’s mind was prone to wandering to who knows where. Luckily, she was standing by their momma who was the only one who could keep her focused on a sultry day like this. Violet could hear momma softly singing a hymn with Rachel as they picked. She could see daddy and the men working on ahead paying no attention to the girls behind them. Just a normal day on the Moody farm.

The entire family helped with the farming in whatever way they could be of use. Haute told Violet when she complained that “many families are worse off than us, some don’t even have food.”

The Moody family always had plenty of food and nice shoes for church and school. Some nights when it was too stuffy to sleep Violet would overhear her parents talking about something that she surmised must have been bad. They said words like “depression” and “crop prices plummeting” which Violet didn’t understand, but naturally feared the worst. She asked Haute about it because she was older and knew almost everything. Haute said not to worry daddy would take care of everything, but Violet could see she was worried too. Everyone was worried.

The sun as relentless and unforgiving as ever made the air wavy with heat. There was a thickness to the air that made it hard to breath, but the work still had to be done so Violet pressed on until her mother, Annie Moody, gave a nod to her daughters that it was time to go inside to prepare supper. A surge of energy flooded Violet at the notion of going back to the house. Each of Annie’s daughters fell in line behind her as they walked through the rows back to the neatly kept two story, white farm house. The yard was several degrees cooler than the field thanks to a couple of ancient, gnarled oak trees that provided shade for their home.

Violet watched little Rachel take hold of momma's hand as they walked towards the house she saw her momma try not to cringe as Rachel’s tiny fingers brushed against her open sores. Instead of pulling away as Violet would have done her momma hummed a song that she seemed to make up as she went. Violet skipped behind her mother, full of energy and sunshine, happy to be out of the fields. A patch of wild flowers off in the distance caught her eye. She made a mental note of where she saw them so she could pick them for her momma the next chance she got. Violet always delivered the flowers with a kiss on her cheek just because she loved seeing momma smile. Violet glanced back at Haute stoically following behind fanning herself with her large brimmed hat. Haute never picked wild flowers or played games with her sisters.

Once inside the girls were sent to quickly wash up. By the time Violet and Rachel made it back into the kitchen there momma working on supper and Haute was on the porch plucking a chicken. Momma nodded towards the porch and Violet nudged Rachel. They took off racing towards the door, but Violet made it faster because she was older and taller than Rachel. Violet sauntered out the door hands on her hips crowing loudly about winning their impromptu race. Rachel's face scrunched up as if she might start crying.

"Violet." Haute snapped "Quit fooling about. Work on the beans." Violet minded me older sister pulling Rachel behind her.

“Haute, will Lee Buck be joining us this evening?” Momma called out through the window.

Violet knew momma didn't like Lee Buck. She knew this because momma always used his full name like he was in trouble. She also knew it because she had heard her momma say something to daddy about it one evening after all the children were supposed to be in bed.

“I do not like that young man.” Momma had said“I cannot imagine what Haute sees in him.”

“He could be a good provider for her.” Daddy said in his slow resonating voice. "The Buck farm is the largest in the county."

“There is something not right about him,” Momma insisted “something cruel in his nature. Can’t we do something to stop this, Dallas? She's only fifteen.”

Daddy was slow to answer as was his way “That's the same age you were when we got married. If we stand in her way it will only make her want to go more.”

Violet looked back at her sister finishing with the chicken and wondered if Haute knew how their momma felt.

"I believe he will momma.” Haute replied back.

“Once you finish with the chicken why don’t you get cleaned up. I'll finish up supper.” Momma told Haute.

Violet nudged Rachel and made kissy faces causing Rachel double over in a fit of giggles. Haute cleared her throat with such authority Violet's head immediately snapped over to her. Haute got that from their Daddy. All Haute did was shake her head and admonishment washed over Violet who began immediately snapping beans again.

"Are you gonna marry Lee Buck, Haute?" Violet asked after a few moments of silence.

"Stop talking nonsense." Haute said "He has not proposed to me nor is he likely to."

"Good. I don't like that Lee Buck." Violet told her sister "He has a mean face, a big nose, and little Martha Miller said she saw him kick a dog."

"You hold your tongue, Violet." Haute said standing up with a bare chicken in her hands and walked into the house.

Violet watched her sister go earnestly hoping she didn't marry Lee Buck.

Rolling Writers

I just joined a writer blog hop, so welcome newbies and tried and true alike. This seems like fun, if I can ever figure it out as the technically challenged. Here are the rules to join:



1) (Required) You must follow my blog and Some Sharp Words

2) (Required) You must follow the guest poster featured in the blog hop post.

3) You must add you name to the link bar.

4) You must copy these rules, the hop link and the featured question with your answer on your own blog. This blog serves as a place for new followers to say hi.

5) Follow, follow, follow. This is about networking, people, making connections with people in your community. So talk to us. We don't bite!

6) If someone stops by, says hi and follows you, the polite thing to do is follow back.

7) Comment here and introduce yourself and you just might find a new follower or two.

Ok so I think, may be wrong but I think, this week I am supposed to answer the question and next week it will be someone else.
What inspired you to start writing?

There isn't one incident that made me say oh I should be a writer. I began writing short stories in junior high and always enjoyed writing. But I stopped writing them in high school and college. After college I had so many story ideas floating around in my head I decided I should put them to paper and viola, here I am.
This is the blog hop for the writing community. Every Friday writers who blog come together and hop! Leave your name and URL of the FF post and we'll come visit you too.

Memetastic

Well so I was tagged in this Memetastic Award business. I am not sure what it is but that bear in the picture seems to be having a good time( either that or he is a Twilight vampire look at him sparkle), so who am I to judge? Any the rules are as follows:

1. You must proudly display the absolutely disgusting graphic in a post

2. You must list 5 things about yourself, and 4 of them must be bold-faced lies. Your readers are to guess which one is the truth by posting a comment on your blog.

3. You must pass this awesomely, prestigious award on to 5 deserving bloggers.

Best of luck grasshoppers.

1. My favorite serial killer is Ted Bundy

2. I am a nevernude

3. My favorite singer is John Mayer

4. I do not have an action plan to survive the zombie apocalypse

5. I do not make up other songs to the tune of Dark Wing Duck.

So now your job is to guess which one is the correct answer in the comment section the winner will receive...absolutely nothing. Muhahaha. Actually no I will write you a short story of your subject matter choosing similar to that of Witch Balls. That's my best offer.

Now for the truly mean part as if shooting stars, balloons, and vampiric bears weren't enough. The new winners of this award are....

1 S.E. Gordon
2 Michelle Ferguson
3 S.J. Wright
4 M. G. Ainsworth
5 Khloë Kamalis



Witch Balls

Once upon a time there lived a free spirited woman named Yve. She liked to twirl through the rain storms, make whistles out of the greenest blades of grass, and touch everything that caught her eye. Yve often sang at the top of her lungs as she walked down the street and had the best conversations with the brick wall inside the newspaper foyer. People didn’t quite know how to handle Yve as she was a bit strange, but she hardly noticed the odd looks or raised eyebrows. Yve was happy in her own small life of no significance to anyone, but herself.


One day Yve was walking through a part of town that was completely unfamiliar to her. She had stopped for a scoop of her favorite coconut ice cream, but as soon as she stepped out of the ice cream parlor the delicious ice cream began to melt pouring over the side of the cone and down her arms faster than she could stop it. She became so preoccupied with the sticky mess she didn’t pay attention to where she was going and managed to find a street that was entirely new to her.

The street was narrow and dark though the sun burned brightly overhead. Yve finished off the last of her ice cream cone as she came to the front of a little shop nearly hidden in the dense brick walls. If it were not for the sign stating the shop carried witch balls she would have missed it all together. Yve hoped they would have a restroom where she could wash her hands and she was terribly curious about what a witch ball was.

The dull klong of the door chime and the blast of frigid air as she walked into the shop made goose bumps cover her flesh. It was a wonderfully, strange place. Mismatched shelves covered the walls. Each shelf held mysterious glass jars filled with strange looking spices or twigs or leaves. One shelf in particular caught Yve’s attention. It was the only shelf with doors closing its contents from the view of the public. Yve meandered her way towards the shelf need to see what was on it. When she reached the checkout counter she called out in her sing –song voice.

“Hellooooo”

There was no reply so Yve walked around the counter laying her hands upon the peeling green paint of the old cabinet. She looked left then right. No one was her this was her opportunity. She opened the cabinet to find the top shelf contained jars of bird feet, reptiles, and eyes. Her nose crinkled at the sight.

The next shelf had the most wonderful glass balls. They swirled and sparkled enticingly. Yve licked her lips and took another look around the store. She wanted to feel the ball to see if it was as light and airy as it looked. She wanted to feel the smooth surface beneath her hands and feel the coolness of the glass. If she was extra careful with it what could it hurt?

Yve studied each of them finally decided on the pale robin egg blue ball with swirls of purple. Her hand closed around it and Yve felt a tug in the center of her stomach.

The store keeper came out of the back room. “Hello.” Said the old woman “Is someone here?” She asked again seeing no one. “How did that cabinet get opened again?” The old woman looked in her cabinet and counted her witch balls to make sure they were all still there. “Oh I see we have a new guest.” She said poking the blue ball rattling Yve inside. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to touch things that don’t belong to you?”

Moral of the story don’t touch someone else’s balls without permission.