Halloween 2024

Here it is - my annual story for the season. Hope you like it.

Halloween 2024

Before the Floods

            Tree. Free. Me. Tree. Free. Me. Tree. Free. Me. Tree. Free. Me. Tree. Free. Me.

The words floated, they pounded, they jabbed, they sank into my brain as I tossed and turned in bed. My nice, comfortable, too expensive bed. In my very nice house, a mansion really. At a very settled time in my life. Minimal drama. Maximum (for me) relief. Lots to be grateful for. The agonizing was long over. I’d made my decision, now I was going to live with it.

Yep. I was living the life I’d worked so hard to have. A life that was safe now from the turmoil of the world outside of my own little kingdom. I’d made my peace with what I’d done. I couldn’t save them all, so I chose to save none. Now was not the time to throw the proverbial monkey wrench into the works, as my life could be dubbed.

            Why would trees need to be freed? Illogical, and the result of all the bad news that tried to taint my decision to survive. To continue for humanity’s sake. To live to build again, when the world would need me the most. No way I could save the world, so I’d save myself.

            I got up, fetched a water glass, sipped, staring out the bedroom window at the woods bordering the mowed-and-unnaturally-green chemically-saturated grass of the backyard. For late August, the weather was surprisingly cool, and I had to choose between putting on my pajama top or shutting the windows. I chose pajamas. Glanced around my bedroom. Checked out the antique clock on the wall, couldn’t read it by moonlight. Never could, but I always tried on bright nights like this. Checked my phone. It was working, which meant satellites were still circling Earth. Mass destruction was in the distance, I hoped. Two in the a.m. Of course it was. My mind decided I’d had enough rest and needed to get back to work. My survival depended on it. My plans to finish fortifying my beloved mansion. But not this second, I told myself, feeling unsettled by the three words haunting my sleep.

            Sighing, I started to climb back into bed when the words floated through my brain again. And again. I don’t like being hounded by dreams. In fact, I hate it. Giving up, I turned on my bedside lamp and added an afghan to the top sheet. Maybe if I read a few pages, sipped more water, warmed up, I could get back to sleep. Picking up the book I had put down just two hours earlier, I opened to the next page I’d marked. A worn-out, page-tattered copy of an old Dick Francis novel, I had practically memorized its lines. Which was the point. No thought process needed. Just the reassurance of an ethical, fearless, and honest hero. Happy ending. Bad guys get their just comeuppance. Was I the hero or the villain in my own story, I wondered.

            This time the words appeared on the yellowed pages of the paperback. In 20 point Times New Roman. A ticker tape of three repeating words. Rubbing my eyes, I decided I was assuredly not crazy, just work-exhausted. I build. Big buildings. Buildings that dominate the skyline. Buildings that unmistakably say I am here and I will stay with you forever. The same sort of message given off by the pyramids and the Teton mountains. Long after I am gone, the buildings I created will survive. Whenever humanity regains its sanity, that is, I will be remembered.  I’d put the same passion and expertise into creating my safe place, this house that was my refuge.

            The towers I built will be my legacy. I have no family, no children, no relatives left alive. So when I built this mansion on eight acres of forest, I saw it as my offspring. Unlike my superstructures, I injected every corner of this dwelling with my taste, my personality, my flights of fancy. While distinctly modern, it’s filled with antiques I collected from all over the world. My bed is one of my favorites – a four-poster that once held the likes of British kings and queens. I had created a museum of sorts, for future generations to admire, to study, to mimic. For those lucky few who would make it through the coming mass destruction.

            It was going to happen. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name. Noah Holbrook.

            But now, those three damned words were scrolling across the underside of the tester, refusing to let me alone. Tree. Free. Me.

            “Screw it.” Now I was talking aloud. Really smart, I told myself. Throwing aside the covers, I slid my feet to the Persian carpet once more and felt around for my slippers. This called for a drink. Heading downstairs, I hesitated before hitting the button that opened the wall of windows facing the backyard. The moonlight was having an odd effect on me tonight, one I attributed to overwork and overtiredness. I wanted to bathe in its silvery essence. I needed its cold glow on my skin. Before I could strip naked and run around that expensive grass like a crazy man, I hustled myself to the mini-bar in the kitchen and reached for the first bottle. With no idea what I’d grabbed, I added a Waterford tumbler and hauled it and the bottle to the room that opened up to the yard with another touch of a button. Sliding glass disappeared into the side walls as if by magic, an effect that tickled my fancy. Normally. Not now, however. Sinking into my leather recliner, I propped the liquor on my knee and studied my yard before I took a swallow. Before I realized what was happening, the Waterford slipped from my other hand and smashed to smithereens on the marble floor.

            The trees. They’d moved closer to the house. I swear it’s true. Dark, hulking oaks, frothy maples, mundane pines, they all had crept to within a few feet of the patio outside the sliding doors. No mistake about it. I could feel their encroaching energy, their shimmering leaves just waiting to fall at my feet. I took a swig from the bottle, barely registering the taste of the bourbon. I had to be dreaming. Had to be.

            But I felt the heft of the bourbon in my hand. Heard the crunch of broken crystal beneath my slippers as I rose to my feet. I’m a man of power, of authority, of wealth, I told myself. I don’t hallucinate. I face the facts without fear. Before giving myself a chance to think about it, I strode onto the patio, the night-cooled slates beneath my feet soaking dampness through my slippers. Shaking the bourbon bottle at the trees, I thought I’d give them hell. A real talking-to. Wait until I find out who masterminded this little scenario, I yelled at the forest. He’ll get pink-slipped so hard, he won’t be able to find his balls.

            A small dogwood, scrawny and almost leaf-bare, shook its branches at me. Clearly, I was being reprimanded by a junior partner of the forest. Before I could tell it to take its sorry self back to where it had come from, it spoke. “Tree. Free. Me.” At least I thought it spoke, although the words may have been echoing in my brain alone.

            “All of you have the same problem? Well, look at it from my viewpoint. I’m not nuts. So you aren’t here. Don’t care what you say. Tree-free-me, hellfire and damnation. This is a nightmare for the ages, and I’ll wake up just fine. Like always.”

            As I stood there shaking the bottle of bourbon at my nightmare, the trees moved in unison. Roots and all. Lifting the slates, they came to within feet of where I stood. I smelled their greenness, their loamy detritus, and worst of all, felt the rough bark of the branches that reached for me, stroking my head, my face, my shoulders. The bourbon hit the ground, adding to the pungent odors swirling in the moonlight. I couldn’t have cried for help if the fate of humanity depended on it. Shaking, I tried to beat their branches away from me, but they were stronger than I.

            They were pulling me into their forest. Into the deepest, darkest place where no moonshine would ever reach. Helpless to resist, I couldn’t keep my balance and fell, landing on my face on the ground they’d chewed up around me. Dirt filled my nostrils, my mouth, my ears. Yet still I heard those three words. Tree. Free. Me.

            “Alright!” I tried to scream. Soil flew from my mouth. “You win! I’ll do it!”

            Everything stopped. The trees. The sounds. The world. The trees had won. They’d done what my conscience couldn’t. What I’d been begged to do. What I’d told myself was impossible, so why try? Standing, I smoothed down my rumpled pajamas and wiped what I could of the dirt on my face. I spit soil from my throat.

            “You may come in,” I croaked. “Be my guests.”

            Wood cracked, it screeched, it split with a force that equaled that of a thousand bombs. People emerged, all colors, all sizes, all nationalities, squeezing from the interior of the multitude of trees. Blinking, hands outstretched, they gathered around me, touched me tentatively, all silent.

            “I’ve been waiting for you,” I said, realizing it was true. I’d been kidding myself that I could maintain my lifestyle for my own survival. “The ark is ready.”

            Now I knew how the original Noah must have felt. Compelled to build and build and build some more. Opening the door in the hull to whoever and whatever showed up. My mansion, my stocked pantry, my many rooms, awaited what the trees had brought me. When the end came, we would be safe. Safe until a dove brought us the branch of an olive tree, and we could emerge into a world forever changed.

            My legacy would not be my superstructures, after all.

Out West

We’ve been back about a month now from a long trip across Wyoming, into North Dakota. Started in Jackson Hole at the airport, where we passed under an arch made of antlers to our waiting ride to Jackson Lodge. I must admit, the Tetons made me want to stare at them for hours. I’m not the climbing-mountains kind of girl, but they pulled me in, and if I’d had the ability, equipment, stamina, or time, I’d have tried. At least a little bit.

We tootled down the Snake River in a raft for about ten miles, loving the beautiful day and all the soaring eagles and whatnot. I won’t go into every detail, but I found the landscape both foreign and familiar simultaneously. Wide open spaces, rugged mountains, burned hillsides with lodgepole pines poking up like black pins holding everything together - and I was back in Eastern Turkey. If we’d been driving on Roman roads I’d have been right at home. Yellowstone may as well have been Mars. Small towns, Native Americans everywhere, speaking their own language, and I was in my element. Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse monument ended our trip, and while I was pleased to see them for myself, I had moments of “why do this to a lovely mountain?” When I learned that the sculptor of the Crazy Horse site had five boys and five girls who worked with him or their mother from the age of five. I wondered what kind of childhood they could have had, sacrificed to their father’s compulsion.

The Powder River Valley came to life, as I remembered all the research I’d done for my westerns. The Johnson County War narrowed down to one bullet-hole scarred barn, and I met a retired cutting horse named Misty that I’d have traded everything I have to bring her home. Such intelligence. Such grace. A horse among horses.

Escaping the oppressive humidity of Virginia is good for the soul and body every now and then. We loved Wyoming. But home is still where I belong. I missed our dog. I missed our cat, and most of all, I missed our family. Home feels good.

Summer, Cats, Gardenias etc.

The dog days of August are here early. June has been, to use an appropriate cliche, a scorcher. I’m keeping the oven off as much as possible, preferring the grill or microwave, or even just sandwiches, to standing in a hot kitchen feeding the troops. I remember one hot summer in Ohio when my mom decided she was going to make cherry jam since the cherry trees in the yard had a bumper crop. The kitchen almost steamed with heat and humidity as she put up preserves. I think I lasted about ten minutes helping her pit the fruit. I was all of about six or seven years old, so I can be forgiven my fickleness. I don’t remember eating the jam, just how hot the kitchen became that summer.

We have inherited an older cat from a church friend, and Barney, a tiny gray sweetie with a white moustache and paws, has already made herself at home. She’s tolerating the dog, who ignores her with great tact, and giving her favors to one member of the family, who is wildly happy to have a cat sleeping with her. I should give a medal to the dog, who accepts whatever living creature we bring home with great equanimity.

The best part of this heat and humidity is the gardenia and pikake bushes. The back yard smells like heaven, sweet and widespread. I’m going to be bereft when they stop blooming.

The writing suffers from a daily urge to play in the garden, do some weeding, and dredge up old, moldly pie cones from the mulch. But I’ll get there.

Ghosts

Sometimes, I feel surrounded by ghosts. I know, I know. Creepy. But not really.

What I mean is, some characters in older books show up unexpectedly. I’ll be stumbling down the aisles in the grocery store, and I’m not thinking about what kind of cereal the crew would like, but Henry in the Tal Jefferson books. I’m still stuck on whether or not to kill him off, even though I know book 4 needs him to die. I just can’t kill him. I’d cry too hard to write the scene. He’s right beside me as I have this internal argument, nodding when I say he has to live. As a result, I buy the healthy granola no one will eat and blame it on Henry.

Mythmaker, Elizabeth McFarland, can appear out of the blue. I wonder what she’s been up to in the years since her last appearance in the series. Is she still happy? Does she still long for the plains way of life?

Real life, real people are not adverse to giving these ghosts a place in my life. My Beloved never balks when I bring up a character from a book and talk about him/her as if they’re in the room with us. He understands. They’re real to me.

Ghosts. I live with them every day.

Short Story -Five Sisters

I wrote this story as an intro to the character Ruella McQuaid, heroine of one of my fav feminist western romances, star of The Girl and the Gunslinger. Hope you enjoy, but fair warning - some bits are pretty brutal.

Five Sisters

            The season was almost too late for crossing into the Territories, but Mark McQuaid was built of sturdier stuff than most immigrants to this West of the United States. Winters in Scotland were naught to fear, and nothing could be more harrowing than a snowstorm in the highlands. He knew his hearty Scottish sheep would welcome the cold, which he fervently hoped would descend soon.

            Crossing the ocean with the few sheep he hoped to use to start his empire had been nothing short of a bother, so he had welcomed the travel across the rough land with his stocked wagon and substantial oxen. A Scotsman knew oxen, he was proud of saying, and he’d bought well. The sheep soon gained their land legs, and the wide expanse of unsettled land told him he’d made a wise choice. Of course, he’d never have left the highlands if his wife hadn’t died, young and so pretty his heart still ached at the memory of her sweet face. With neither child nor reason to stay, his four surviving sisters all married and scattered long ago, he’d sold the homestead and packed up what belongings he’d need, the spinning wheel and carder the women in his family had used for generations, and bought his ticket for America.

            All this passed through his mind as he checked his map and compass again, estimating the remaining time he’d spend on the trail. The wind picked up, the sheep lifted their heads to sniff, and he shivered just a hair under the woolen shirt his sisters had made for him for his wedding. He’d thought it would be a good luck gesture to wear it on this new adventure. But he’d been warned before he left the last town where he’d stocked up on supplies that he was getting into Indian raiding season, with the moon growing brighter and the horses feeling frisky.

            The few Indians he’d met so far had seemed more sad than bloodthirsty. Sure, he wasn’t going to let his guard down, but he wasn’t going to delay claiming his land until next Spring, either. All the wagon trains had departed weeks earlier, so he’d had no choice but to go it alone. All in all, he thought he’d made the right choice. He could forge his own pace and path, and his sheep wouldn’t bother anyone else. He knew most farmers and cattlemen in this country disliked the creatures, but that didn’t bother him. He’d show them how to raise sheep the right way, so the grass didn’t die because of overgrazing. Once he had firm contracts to supply meat to the railroads to feed the men laying the tracks, he’d branch out into other endeavors. Like selling cleaned wool for spinning into cloth. His highland sheep possessed the warmest wool of all, and there was no reason he couldn’t show these Westerners how many ways they could use it.

            Just as he had about decided to stop for the night, whistling for the dogs to pull the sheep closer to the wagon so he could set up the temporary corral he’d designed and built to keep them close, he saw something tan flapping in the distance. Using his long view glass, he adjusted the eye piece until he saw a wagon with its cover torn loose. No horse, no oxen, no one moving came to his vision, despite the long hard look he gave the situation. Something was wrong, and aye, he knew instantly he’d have to find out what.

            Setting up the corral and ordering the dogs to keep the sheep within its confines, he decided he’d walk to the abandoned wagon. If he didn’t come back, the sheep would eventually break free and scatter, but the oxen would have to wait to be rescued if he didn’t unhitch them, so he did. They, too, he tied loosely to their stakes, knowing if they were hungry enough, they’d work themselves loose. Pulling the rifle from its hiding place under the wagon seat, he propped it over his shoulder and began the long march to heaven-knew-what.

            He’d heard tales, of course. Stories about the atrocities committed by the natives against the encroaching white men. Honestly, he couldn’t blame them. As a Scotsman, he still hated the presence of the English on Scottish land. The battle cries of Culloden would never be forgotten. Still, he’d be cautious in his approach – he’d been warned that the Indians were particularly good at traps. Having set some himself, he knew a bit about keeping out of them.

            The canvas cover wasn’t just loosed from its tie-downs. The fabric had been shredded, the wagon itself covered with arrows and some bullet holes. Running his hand along the wagon’s sides, he felt how loose the boards were and wondered if it was the result of a roll-over or just bad craftsmanship. He knew he was procrastinating. Whatever was in the wagon bed, it was attracting the carrion birds circling above, so it must have been a recent kill. The hairs along his arms curled, and the tingle down the back of his neck had him holding his breath as he shouldered the rifle. He only hoped whatever was in the wagon was already dead, so he didn’t have to fire a mercy bullet. Putting down a suffering animal was one thing, a human being, another.

            The red-haired woman lay prone, her nightgown rucked up, her swollen belly cut open. She must have been very pregnant. The man curled at her feet had lost the top of his head to a scalp knife and his throat to the same thing. The blood dripping through the bottom of the wagon made a faint splash as it struck the ground. Bile swirled in the back of his throat, and he had to fight the vomit that wanted to come up. He’d seen plenty of death, being raised on a farm. But nothing like this. He would never forget the woman’s face, the blankness in her eyes, her slack mouth silenced in mid-scream.

            Crossing himself, Mark added a few curses to the short prayer he muttered for their poor souls. He’d have to make camp so he could bury the couple, and here he was, right in the open where he was a target should the Indians decide to make a return foray.

            “Hellfire and damnation,” he almost shouted. But there was no avoiding it, he’d have to move his team and sheep closer. At least he had the dogs for a warning.

            He was turning to retrieve his wagon when he heard a soft cry, like a tiny kitten. Wouldn’t it be like these dead souls to have a cat instead of a dog to give the hue and cry when danger lurked?

            “Here, kitty, kitty,” he crooned, loathe to leave any living thing that had survived this brutal killing. He didn’t want to think about what had happened to the baby. It had probably ended up as dead as its parents, hopefully, quickly.

            “Come out, kitty,” he soothed. “I won’t let the sheep eat ya.” Kneeling, he peeked under the wagon, hoping to un-see the dripping blood but knowing it was impossible.

            The next sound froze him in place.

            “Mama,” came the soft cry. “Mama.”

            Holy mother of God, Mark prayed, let me be hearing things. This couldn’t be. Squinting, he pulled his hat from his head so he could wiggle farther under the wagon. “Anyone here?”

            He hoped he received no reply. “Anyone? Child, are ya hurt?”

            “Mama!” came the cry again, this time stronger. Reaching under the wagon bed, Mark inched his fingers around the area. The latch wasn’t far from the edge. A wooden peg, it slid into the bed until it was almost flush. A good way to hide valuables. Working it loose with his fingernails, he hit his head as the bottom dropped out with a child following after. A small, red-headed child with a white, tear-streaked face and a blood-soaked dress, she lay on the ground, so still he thought she must have died after her last breath calling for her mother.

            “Wee one,” he tried to sound gentle but the words came out as a growl. He knew how to handle a young child, his baby sister had been born when he was thirteen. “Child, do ya live?”

            Her eyes fluttered open, her mouth gasped for air, and she let loose with a wail that would have awakened the dead. “Mama! Want mama!”

            Scooping her into his arms, he gave up all noble ideas of burying the dead and reading from his Bible over them. He had to get out of there, and fast. If the Indians were anywhere close by, they’d hear her screams from this dreadful place to kingdom come.

            “Hush!” he whispered in her ear, running as fast as he could for his wagon. His oxen weren’t swift, and there was no way he could outrun men on horses. But he could kill a few if he could get this child inside the wagon and quiet. Of course, he knew better. No toddler would stay quiet when she absolutely had to. He figured she’d been scared into silence by her parents’ screams, until he’d spoken aloud. Speed was his only recourse.

            Wrapping her in a quilt made by one of his five sisters, he settled her quickly in a corner of the wagon. Her big blue eyes followed his every move. He saw her throat working as she tried to swallow. From the look of the tears soaking her face and the top of her dress, she’d cried enough to wring every last drop of liquid out of her body.

            “Here,” he offered his canteen, holding it to her baby lips. “Drink.”

            She took a tiny bit, spit it out, and proceeded to wail as if he were hitting her.

            “Dogs!” He hadn’t time for this. She’d die if he couldn’t get them to safety. “Dogs, alert!” he commanded.

            Leaving the child, he dismantled the corral, grabbed the youngest ewes and tossed them into the wagon with the girl. Snapping the reins and the long whip he didn’t like to use, he roused the oxen to lumber faster than they preferred. He wasn’t a man who hurried things, and they’d gotten accustomed to his fair and easy ways. Disliking this new driver, they snorted and stomped, but they picked up the pace.

            Far, too far, in the distance, Mark’s refuge beckoned. The mountains. He’d have a fair fight if he could reach the mountains. Having done it all his life, he understood how to use terrain to his advantage. The enemy was new, its ways brutal and incomprehensible to him, but he’d keep this child alive as long as he had breath in his body. With red hair like her mother’s, the little girl was born to be a fighter. That, he respected. Besides, his youngest sister, Ella, had had the same red hair.

            God had placed him here, at this place and at this time, to keep the child safe. Many years had passed since he was responsible for more than the barley crop and his sheep. Even his sisters didn’t need him any longer. Glancing in the wagon, he saw her face, wrapped in the quilt, marred with tears and dirt, slack in sleep.

            Yes, he’d keep her. He’d raise her. He’d be her da. With five sisters, he knew a bit about raising a young girl child. As twilight fell and he had to stop the wagon, he was already planning on naming her Ella. Maybe Ruella, to keep her distinct from his sister. Ru because she might come to rue the day she was born.

            Ella had. Not this Ella, though. If God had set her in his path, surely, He would guide her on a steady and worthy life. He figured he had about fifteen years to make sure.

            Mark McQuaid, middle aged sheep farmer from Scotland, a solitary man with few wants but big dreams, added one more item to his list and checked it off. This child gave him a reason to succeed. Someone to inherit what he was going to build for her future.

            Camp made, oatmeal cooking over the small flame, he fed the dogs and oxen, then shook the toddler awake. “Hungry?” he asked before he lifted her down to sit beside the fire.

            She grabbed the porridge bowl from his hands and dug in with both fists, eating so quickly she spilled half down the quilt. Laughing, he sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens above. She’d live. One day, he’d tell her about her parents, but by then, she’d be more McQuaid than he was. He felt it in his bones.

            The dogs curled around her to sleep that night, sensing her need for both heat and protection. Leaning against a wheel, he cradled his rifle in his arms and listened in the blackness that was this strange and lonely land for an enemy he could not see. Stars crowded the sky as they did in the highlands. Glancing up, he wondered if this land would ever feel like home.

 Didn’t matter. For the third time in his life, he had someone else to protect, to live for, to succeed for. He hadn’t been able to save his sister or his wife, but by damned, he’d saved Ruella McQuaid.

Better late than never. . .

It’s been a while. . . .I won’t run through all the myriad and crazy reasons why. Just know that I’m back!

Skyler and I have been editing both cozy mysteries, which is taking us longer than usual because we’re such perfectionists. The third book should be in the works now, but it’s not happening until we get home from our two-week getaway. Even though the hands aren’t on the keyboard, I’ve been thinking about the hero’s journey for our librarian hero, Molly Bell. Cozies are, by definition, set in small spaces, small towns, with regular folk who must step up to the plate to solve whatever crime has occurred - be it a stolen bee hive or a body in the coffee shop’s walk-in freezer. Blood and gore are at a minimum. Language is clean. Sexy scenes stop at the door, if they even get that far. I must admit I was feeling caged in by the conventions, until I realized every character still has to have a hero’s journey, even in cozies. What will our brave and intrepid Molly Bell learn about herself, her town, her relationships? Will she bring that knowledge back to her everyday world, or will she keep her cards close to her chest? We have our trickster, our mentor(s), our boon companion, all of whom are quickly becoming some of my favorite characters. These may well become some of my favorite books when we’re finished with the series.

If you haven’t watched ASTRID on PBS Masterpiece, please do. It’s in French, but the subtitles aren’t bad. For a while there, Raphaelle said “merde” a lot, which was translated into “dammit” by the prudish translator, but now it’s given its true meaning in Season 3. Shit. LOL. On y va! The mysteries are original, Astrid’s journey an autistic woman into her much brighter future is wonderful, and her mentor/friend, the cop Raphaelle Coste, is the perfect person to help Astrid succeed.

Halloween 2023

Better late than never.

Nowhere to Run

(c)2023 Tracy Dunham

            Shay hadn’t left the apartment in months. No reason to. She’d stocked up on canned goods, spent every last dime she had on prepper food guaranteed to last fifty years, and stashed gallon jugs of water in every free corner of her small abode. She could barely walk from room to room. If anyone had prepared for the end of the world, it was Shay Woods.

            Other preppers had done the same, and before the Internet went down, they’d kept each other apprised of the latest grim news and any possible havens reachable before all the roads were demolished. Taking out bridges and dynamiting highways had been a noisy and effective deterrent to those who thought they could run away from the world’s self-destruction. Now, short wave radios were waning, power sources were worth all the gold in Ft. Knox, and she hadn’t heard another human voice in over thirty days. Good thing she was accustomed to her own company. Preferred it, in fact.

            In college, she’d been a futurist. Without the gift of clairvoyance  or even glib guesses, she’d been able to predict the horror coming down the world’s roads with alarming accuracy. She’d been labelled a freak, as one after another of her predictions became reality, but she didn’t mind, not really. She accepted her freak-dom with, if not joy, at least understanding. People were afraid of those who told the truth, especially when it was ugly and scary.

            Standing at the large French doors in her living room, Shay watched as the gray sun set, sinking below the few tall buildings still standing. Most had been blown to smithereens by the bombing that started with one small faction of ecoterrorists, which then escalated into major widespread destruction when outside nations decided to intervene. Like dominos, old alliances fell and it was soon every man, every country, every continent for itself.

            Shay had chosen this apartment building after studying its plans in the city’s planning office. Its construction was designed to withstand major earthquakes as well as devastating hurricanes. Even though she had to walk down twelve flights of stairs to get in and out of the place, when she still could, she never felt unsafe. When her building folded, she reasoned, so would the last of civilization. Maybe by then she would be ready to fold with it. She didn’t know what kept her going. One day, she reasoned with a calm clarity, she’d hit her personal wall.

            Sighing, she poured herself a small glass of water. She was rationing everything with precision, meaning water was only for consumption. She’d grown accustomed to her body odor and wearing clothes that smelled like old gym socks. She peed in a bucket and tossed the contents over her balcony whenever it rained silver streaks of pollution and ash that had replaced the cool showers of the past. Europeans had done the same with their chamber pots throughout the dark ages and into Shakespeare’s day. Why should she be squeamish?

When the last of the anemic sun disappeared, Shay stretched out on the floor of her balcony and waited for the night to come alive. This was the moment when she counted the humans she could see with her night vision binoculars, night crawlers she called them, who crept through the shadows, hunting for food and, when desperate enough, other humans to eat. By now, their numbers were tumbling. She knew herself to be safe, for she’d designed her own security system to keep intruders out. If, by chance, a crawler did breach her building, she’d designed an escape hatch. She never went to sleep without her survival backpack at hand. Still, no one had any clue she was still in the building. Soon though, she feared she’d be alone. Even a nightcrawler was, in some odd way, a comfort. Tonight, however, crawlers were scarce. Feeling even more alone, she decided to turn in early.

Back in her interior bedroom, windowless and therefore safe, she lit one of her dwindling supply of candles and pulled out a tattered paperback. She’d never read novels until she realized many science fiction books had, to her amazement, predicted much of what was happening in the world. Finally, she’d branched out into mysteries, thrillers, even romances. Her favorites were now cozy mysteries, where small, quaint towns served as the backdrop for not-too-violent murders, and charming townsfolk bantered and gossiped their way into finding the killer. Collecting the books from abandoned book stores and libraries had stopped, however, when it became too dangerous to leave her building.

She had many favorites, but the ones containing animals who helped solve the mystery, and others with recipes in the back that the characters cooked for their fictional friends, were top of the list. Tonight, she pulled out one of her very special paperbacks, Death in Danbury Hills. The rolling mountains of Piedmont, Virginia, was the setting for a literary mystery involving a descendant of Charles Dickens and a lost love letter. Shay loved imagining she worked in the library run by the principal character, Molly, and that she shared Molly’s grandmother’s Victorian house with her.

Keeping an eye on her candle, Shay was forced to blow it out before she’d finished half the book. By now, she could recite lines of dialogue, but she still liked re-reading it and putting herself into the scenes. Imagining herself in the story, she fell asleep with the opened book lying across her chest. Dreams came easily when she slipped into sleep reading. Normally, they gave her a sense of peace her world had destroyed in reality.

Tonight, her sleep and her world were shattered in one second.  Shay’s dream exploded into the present, and she was aware that her safe haven had been breached, and she was at extreme risk. Rolling off her bed, she grabbed for the shotgun she kept under it and aimed it at the bedroom door. Trying to control her breathing, she felt lightheaded and almost on the verge of fainting. She’d never fainted before, and she wasn’t about to do it now, she told herself sternly.

Sounds of rummaging came from the pantry where she’d stockpiled her most used food items, tuna, chicken, chick peas, and jam. Cries of “yes!” and “we’re in fat city now!” reached her through her locked bedroom door. If she didn’t move quickly to stop them, the nightcrawlers who’d breached her system would not only take all her supplies, they’d find her. And she wasn’t going to let that happen.

Strapping on her holster, she filled every pocket with ammo. Her night vision goggles rested on her head, and she made sure she had the shotgun loaded and ready. Most of the nightcrawlers carried semi-automatic weapons, but she’d observed that they were wildly inaccurate with them. She, however, never missed. Solid, old-fashioned shooting practice had served her well. She’d have to move her apartment after this, because she couldn’t stand the smell their decomposing bodies would make after she killed them. After all, she couldn’t very well dump them over the balcony, because the ground level nightcrawlers would grow curious about the person who killed one of their own and try to track her down.

They would find her. The proof was in her kitchen, crawlers chortling as they ransacked her hard-earned freedom.  She glanced at her backpack. She could run, hide. Glancing at her closet, she weighed her options. Push open the overhead hatch in the closet and pull herself into the tunnel she created, or stay and fight. Fighting was risky. There could be other crawlers in the building. Once her security had been breached,  other crawlers would follow this group. Still, she wanted to kill them. Plain and simple. They’d pay for destroying her peace, her haven. Her very means of survival.

The doorknob to her bedroom rattled. She’d installed security locks worthy of a top secret facility. They couldn’t open the door, but they could blow it to smithereens if they had the means.  She had to decide this very moment. Slip all the locks open and begin firing – or run for the escape hatch.

“Hey, let us in,” one of the crawlers shouted. “If you ain’t dead, we’ll show you a good time!” He sounded half drunk. Shay wondered where they’d found alcohol.

Too much time thinking, she told herself.  Get out of your head and act, she commanded. Turning to her bed, she grabbed the mystery she’d been reading and stuffed it in her survival backpack. Within seconds, she’d closed the closet door behind her, removed the panel in the ceiling, and tossed her weapon and backpack over her head. Leaping, she grabbed the edge of the hole and strong-armed her way up and into the darkness. Breathing hard, she slid the wooden panel back over the hole. She’d stay where she was until she was sure they’d gone away, then she’d inch her way through the air ducts to the ladder she’d found that rimmed the elevator shaft. It would take her to the building’s basement, and from there, she’d decide on her next steps. One thing was for sure, she would die before she allowed herself to become a nightcrawler, gnawing human bones from long-dead bodies. Her arms were shaking and her feet throbbed by the time she reached the bottom of the ladder.

The building’s maintenance crew had a small office in one corner of the cavernous basement. Otherwise, the basement was filled with chicken-wire enclosed cages used by residents to store their luggage, their Christmas ornaments, furniture they couldn’t bear to toss. She thought of holing up in the office, but if the crawlers got this far, that was the first place they’d look for her. Wandering up one aisle then down another, she decided to settle in a cage that held an enormous old armoire tucked in the back and several other huge, solid wood pieces of furniture from a hundred years ago, if not more. Nothing in the cage was useful to a crawler. Using her pocket knife, she popped the lock and made sure that when she replaced it, it would look as if it hadn’t been opened.

Her night vision goggles were giving her a headache. For the moment, she was safe. Opening the armoire, she decided it was big enough for her to lie down on the bottom. Draping her backpack over a wooden hanger, she pulled out her book and her water bottle. With her shotgun propped in the corner, she made sure her extra ammo was handy before she allowed herself to relax for a few seconds. Using a trick she’d invented when the world was exploding around her and she desperately needed to sleep, she mentally put herself in the fictional town of Danbury Hills. In her mind, she walked its sidewalks, scuffed the falling maple leaves, and stopped at the drugstore to buy a cup of tea, Earl Grey. Here, she was safe, the world was sane, and she had never seen a nightcrawler eating another human. All the tension and fear of the past half hour melted away, and Shay slept. And slept. And slept.

The nightcrawlers spent days breaking into every apartment. None of them held the treasures that Shay’s held, so they figured whoever lived in the apartment with all the food had to be around somewhere. After all, they had posted guards on all the entrances, so no one was getting in or out without their knowledge. When they got to the basement, they sliced through the chicken wire cages, finding nothing to eat or kill with, until they got bored with the whole thing.

Shay felt happy for the first time since the end of the world. She helped Molly solve the murder of a famous literary sleuth in the Rare Book Room of Danbury Hills’ lone library. She listened to Dani play the piano, and even gave lovelorn Sheriff Jim advice on how to woo librarian Molly. Shay had no burning desire to wake up. The nightcrawlers had done her a favor. She’d known she’d have to make a choice, and she did. She stayed in Danbury Hills.

Before Halloween....

I’ll post this year’s Halloween story as soon as I decide if I like it or not. Was severely tempted to write about “The Others” who appear to inhabit our house, but the tale cuts a little too close to the bone. We’ve come to accept The Others as fellow inhabitants, but I’m still not happy with their various ways of making us feel creepy. That said, it’s another story. I digress big time.

I’ve been involved in doll making recently. Took a class from the very talented Unicia Buster and fell in love with her stuffed dolls. I’ve taken her basics and added twists of my own, and now find it hard to hang onto them. I started out showing the first dolls, with different hairstyles, to friends one day at Olive Garden. A 2 yo little girl and her mother walked by, and the little girl, Lexi, had to have one. She chose the doll with bubble-gum and multi-colored curls, clutched it to her chest, and refused to look anywhere but at the doll. Lesson learned. The dolls now have crazy colored hair. I’ve given a boy doll to the 2 yo son of my daughter’s best friend, but her 5 yo had to have one too! A few have gone to the Children’s Hospital, and I’m currently finishing a batch more for them. I’m having a lot of fun.

My daughter and I are on Book 2 of our cozy mystery series set in a small town in Southwest Virginia. Hopefully, we’ll get another one finished before we start bringing them out. We’d like to have a book ready for each holiday or season. The adventures of Molly, the librarian, and her friend Dani, a music teacher and shop owner, are keeping us busy!

Summer ain't summer unless it's hotter than. . .

add your own adjective. Hades? Hot potatoes? All I can say is, it’s hot, hot, hot. I like to pretend I can take the heat, but I’m bluffing. It’s been h311 this summer in Virginia, and I, for one, have no intention of sitting on hot sand, umbrella or no umbrella. On one hand, my lack of desire to brave the elements has an up-side - I am getting more done in the office. The forsythia can stay leggy and wild until it gets below 80 degrees. And as for the garden weeds, have at it. They’ll be here in another month.

Patience is not one of my virtues, I am ashamed to admit. But now and then, I like to stop cold and assess what I have to admit is a plethora of nostalgia. On days like today, my grandmother’s front porch in SW Georgia was a cool oasis, with oscillating fans, high ceiling, a swing and bouncy metal chairs, tile floor, and a big pitcher of iced tea on the table for one and all to imbibe. Neighbor ladies would gather in the afternoon, bringing movie magazines discarded from the beauty shop, and sit around, sipping and gossiping about stars and neighbors alike. Their perfectly coiffed hair, sprayed to within an inch of its life, never budged. Summer dresses stayed perspiration free, as they wielded paper fans from their various churches. As a child, I was ignored, except for a request to fetch more lemon from the kitchen or extra cookies from the jar on the counter. I could listen for hours to their soft Southern accents, their lady-like laughter, and hope that one day I would be welcomed into the circle as a fully participating gossip.

It never happened. Those wonderful ladies passed away before I could get back to the porch. I’d been too busy “lawyering,” as my grandmother said, in a disapproving tone of voice. I’m sure I was the subject of some discussion on a hot summer afternoon, and at least I made it that far.

Tinker Mountain Writers Workshop

Finally home after two weeks on the road (or ocean, as the case may be). Spent last week at the TMWW at Hollins University, and while I wondered before I got there if I’d make a mistake, I hadn’t. Fabulous four days. Worked hard. Learned something new, which is always a delight. As an added bonus, the people in my workshop (advanced novel) were serious writers and keen insight. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to advance their writing, since the array of offerings covers the gamut. The craft talks in the afternoon were worth the price of admission, alone.

Now on to rewrites! LOST GIRL will be cleaned up and ready to rock in two weeks! (she said optimistically.)

Living Dolls

I took a doll making class from the very talented and patient Unicia Buster, and was it ever fun! I’ve made dolls from fabric in the past, but not this way. Usually I make a yarn wig and sew it on, but these dolls require every stitch of hair to be hand sewn. Very labor intensive. The good news is, I’ve found a use for my fabric scraps, and when I say these dolls have wild clothes, I mean it. Their faces are painted on, not embroidered, and they each look very different, I think. So far I’ve made seven. Black curly hair, hair the color of confetti with sprinkles, red curls, brown twisty hair - I’m also using up my leftover yarn.

The most fun about the process is that I get to imagine who these dolls are and what has happened to them up to the day they arrived in my sewing room. Naming them requires trying on a few monikers, to feel out what fits. Naming my children was easier! Once they’re sewn, stuffed, painted, dressed, have extra nighties and knickers, I set out to find them a little child, preferable in the two-year-old range. While showing them to my writer friends one day at lunch, a lady came up and asked if she could buy one. Of course I told her I would be happy to give a doll to her, so she brought up her about 2 daughter (cute as a button and named Lexi), who grabbed the doll with the confetti hair and hung on for dear life. My day was complete.

The second doll went to a two-year-old daughter of an Afghan refugee. Heaven for me. Now I’m eagerly awaiting who will show up to claim the next doll. When all seven have gone to their next homes, I’ll make some more! Their stories are endless, and I’m eagerly awaiting what they’ll be.

Writing with Someone Else

When that someone else is someone you love, you worry that this is a Very Very Bad Idea. I am here to tell you, it isn’t! My beloved daughter and I have started (and are 43,000 words into) a cozy mystery that both amuses us and keeps us out of trouble.

We’re both Pantsers, I’m happy to report. Being pantsers means we spend a lot of time throwing ideas against the wall to see if they stick. If they do, and it means a rewrite in an earlier chapter, she makes a note of it, and we trudge onward. I do the typing because in the general scheme of things I’m a better speller, but she still catches me now and then. I type, she follows, adds phrases, words, and says things like “Mom, a twenty-something would never say that!” I believe her, being nowhere near twentysomething for a long time now.

The best part is, we’re amusing ourselves. We’ve even laughed out loud at dialogue coming out of our characters’ mouths. The best part is, we’re spending a couple of hours a day together, and that’s priceless. No matter where The Lethal Library ends up, we’ve had a ton of fun.

Writing in the midst of Christmas Chaos

I spent much of today setting out Christmas decorations and supporting my husband’s DSD. (Daddy Santa Disease) My Beloved adores Santa figures. Me, I’m into snowmen, but a house can hold only so many figures for the season, and Santa wins. I did convince him there were a few that were just too ratty and sad to use, and I hope he actually disposes of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found them tucked into a bin next spring, next to the lawn fertilizer. The writing suffered, she said hanging her head in shame.

I had the best of intentions to get to work early this morning, but cyber shopping issued its siren call and I fell off that cliff. Once more, I hang my head in shame. I reasoned that shopping this way keeps me out of stores and away from any possible contagion a la Covid, but I really prefer to see the merchandise in person, handle the fabric, check that sparkle IRL. Not this year. A ton of things have changed since the two years of lockdown, and shopping is a major one.

I’ve been meaning to write up my notes from the writers’ intensive workshop I did in Johnson City, TN, a few weeks back, taught by Steven James. Speaking of post-pandemic life, it was miraculous to meet fellow writers in person once again, to talk shop, and generally rejoice that we’re still here and still scribblers of the mighty pen. It always helps to hear how other writers process the work (and the joy and the doubt and the fear and the blank pages) when life is semi-back to normal after two years of hell. Shows us we’re not alone.

I heard Louise Penny on the CBS morning show today, and she said there’s one motto she keeps in front of her as she’s writing. It’s “No fear.” That’s it. Says it all for a writer.

Annual Halloween Story! Yes, for about the thirtieth year in a row, here it is...

The Transformation

The classic cabin in the woods. Seventeen acres of pristine woods and pasture surrounding it, with a stream that runs close enough to be called a tumbling brook. Large pond. All sounds perfect for a vacation for the super-stressed, doesn’t it? That’s what I thought.

            When my boyfriend suggested we take a long weekend away from the city, I was envisioning a swanky resort with room service and valet parking. Nope. Being a big fantasy reader (how did I end up with him, anyway?), he’d located a replica of a house in some fantasy book he loved. Complete with thatched roof and an outhouse, it met his dream standards. Not mine. But I wanted to be a good sport, and he’d already paid the deposit, so I agreed to go along with him living out a small part of his dream. Very small part, thank goodness.

            Since the weather was turning colder, I packed my long undies and a down bathrobe. The idea of an outhouse grossed me to the max, but for two days, I could do it. It would be like a permanent portapotty, right? I loaded up on toilet paper and hand sanitizer. I also added my coffee maker (there must be electricity of some sort, I reasoned) and a cooler full of snacks I loved. If he was making me camp out in the cold, I got to pick the food.

            The drive to get there seemed interminable but that was probably because we were on single lane rural roads most of the time. Nothing like miles and miles of uninterrupted views of stubbly corn fields and dilapidated barns. This stretch of America was proof positive that the American farmer was a dying breed. I wasn’t feeling very cheerful, to say the least, when we turned off the paved road onto a dirt driveway, which seemed to extend for miles. By the time we’d bounced over and through every pothole in the dirt, I was ready to turn around and find the closest motel.

            “See, there it is,” Ryan poked me in the arm as he stopped to get the full view of our vacation house. “Just as the description said, rustic and charming. Right?”

            If I were ever to air my dirty laundry in public, like those idiots on Reddit, this was the moment to join the crazy class. “Rustic and charming? Are you kidding? It’s a hovel. They should be paying us to stay here!” I could see it now – “Am I the AH for wanting to kill my boyfriend for renting a disgusting, primitive, ugly place in the middle of nowhere for a romantic weekend?” Responses would be: Not the AH! Of course you should kill him!”

            Pulling out my phone, I tried to google nearby hotels. I was NOT staying in that falling-down heap of wood and straw. If I’d wanted to mimic medieval peasant life, I’d have booked a room in a Scottish castle resort.

No signal. Of course. “Honey, let’s get out of here and find some civilization. This place is a dump.”

            Before Ryan could protest, a man emerged through the round door of the hut, thumping a big stick and crying “Ohye! Welcome to your slice of heaven!”

            All I could do was stare. His long black hair fell in dirty clumps past his shoulders, while his clothing was a mass of stringy bit and pieces of fabric, rounding his body as if he’d dropped and rolled in manure and grass. I swear, his face was just as dirty. The worst part was his expression. His eyes said he was much too happy to see us, that we were just the tasty morsels he’d been hungering for.

            “Ryan, get back in the car,” I commanded as he got out to, of all things, shake the man’s hand. He didn’t even cringe. My skin was crawling.

            “Sweetie, meet Hubert, our host. Everything’s ready for us, and he’ll give us a tour of the amenities.”

            I swear, my legs refused to let me get out of the car. I wondered where Hubert buried the bodies and if we’d get a tour of that little detail. “Thanks, you take notes,” I called to Ryan even as I twisted and turned in the car to try for a single bar on my phone. No luck. If Ryan had left the keys in the ignition, I’d have driven off after giving him ample warning. I didn’t like the way Hubert was walking my way, big stick poking the ground with each step as if he were killing the dirt.

            “Can I give my lady a hand?” Opening the passenger door, Hubert leaned in so closely, I could smell every inch of him. Definitely something dead. Like a possum or rat. I thought. I mean, I’ve never smelled a deceased possum or rat, but I’ll bet I’m dead on.

            “No thanks. I’m good.” I cursed Ryan under my breath as Hubert turned away and marched back to my almost-ex boyfriend. “You two go on without me.”

            With a shrug, Ryan did just that. When they’d been swallowed up by the dark forest that surrounded the hut, I hopped out of the car and began jogging back to the main road. There had to be cell tower somewhere. After all, it wasn’t as if we were stranded in Middle Earth. If worse came to worse, I’d sleep in the car until I could convince Ryan that if he wanted to live, he’d take me home. Or at the very least, back to civilization.

            I didn’t think the driveway was that long, and since I’m a pretty good runner, I certainly didn’t worry about running out of steam. But I did. Finally, I had to stop my jog. Not only was it getting darker by the minute, but the road stretched as far as I could see. Which was well beyond what we’d just covered in the car. I was beginning to wonder if I was hallucinating.

            Giving up, I slowly jogged back to the small clearing with the hovel. Ryan didn’t seem concerned by my absence at all. “If you’d stuck around for the tour, Hubert would have shown you the outhouse. No need to go in the woods.”

            I couldn’t say a word. Glancing at the car, I saw the trunk was open and empty.

            “Coulda used a hand unpacking,” Ryan complained. “What did you pack anyway, rocks?”

            I wished. I would have bopped him in the head with one. “Books. Since there’s nothing else to do.”                    

            “If you’d come with Hubert and me, you’d have seen all there is to do! There’s a blacksmithing shop, which we can use to make pokers and things, and a weaver’s shed, and a pottery, and a place to do woodworking, and  . . . .”

            I held up my hand to stop him. “All of which sound like this is a village, and no thank you, I’m not interested in any of that. I have no need for a poker, unless it’s to stick it in you for dragging me out here to Hellville.”

            “Well!” Huffing with indignation, Ryan’s face turned red, then an interesting shade of eggplant. “You could try, Sophie. I mean, it’s part of the experience.”

            “This wasn’t how you sold me on this weekend, Ryan, be honest. I’ll bet we’re sleeping on straw pallets in that awful place.” I pointed at the hovel.

            At least he had the decency to be chagrined. “There’re blankets on top.”

            “Oh my God.” I didn’t really think there’d be straw beds, I was kidding. “The outhouse was one step too far for me, and now you expect me to sleep on the ground, essentially? Who are you? Do you know me even a tiny bit?”

            As I said the words, I realized that he had no idea why I was upset. I’d always seen him as easy-going and calm, rolling with the flow. I, on the other hand, acknowledge that I’m wound up tighter than a drum, and it’s always been easy to let Ryan keep our lives smooth while I work out the hard stuff. If he didn’t understand me, I sure as heck had underestimated him.

            Looking puzzled, Ryan tried to take my hand to lead me through the tiny door of the cottage, if it could be called that. Snatching it back, I backed away from him as fast as I could.

            “I want to go home, Ryan, right now. I’ll send an Uber or someone to pick you up Sunday. Give me the car keys.”

            Staring at me as if I’d grown horns, Ryan advanced towards me too quickly for me to dodge his hands as he grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged me under his arm.

            “Whoa! Cut that out!” I squirmed at first, and when that didn’t work, dug in my heels and tried to sit down. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I was fast realizing this wasn’t the Ryan I thought I knew.

            “Give it a chance, Sophie. Just for an hour or so. I’ll drive you back to the nearest town after that, if you still want to leave. Get you a hotel room.”

            “Nearest town, ha! We left civilization two hours ago! I want out now, and if you don’t let me go, I’ll swear out a warrant for your arrest. This is kidnapping!” I kicked him in the shins, but my soft-soled shoes made no impression. When that didn’t work, I leaned down and bit his arm.

            The next thing I knew, I awoke on packed dirt, dressed in a horrible garment that could only be described as prison garb in a horrid shade of brown, my feet bare, my watch and jewelry missing, and my hands tied to two posts set in the floor. “Ryan!” I screamed. “Let me go!”

            Clearly, I’d underestimated my former boyfriend. And I wasn’t kidding about the kidnapping charges. I would see him in federal prison for this. What on earth had possessed him? Had he had a psychotic break? Had he been planning this the whole time we’d been together? Why me? He knew I wasn’t the kind of woman to take abuse without fighting back.

            I had to pee. I was thirsty. And hungry. And the dirty little room was getting darker by the second. “Ryan,” I yelled repeatedly. No one came.

            I don’t know how long I was tied up, but I finally drifted off, my head aching and my anger unquenched. When this was over, I was never leaving civilization again. That was after I killed Ryan, of course.

            When I awoke, daylight was drifting through the holes in the thatched roof. I stared at my surroundings, noting the clunky wooden furniture, a table and two hairs, and a set of shelves. The fireplace was emitting some heat from a bed of coals, and an iron pot hung over it on a metal hook. I assumed someone was cooking, which gave me a glimmer of hope. If I could convince anyone in the vicinity to untie me, I was ready to run like the devil was on my tail. A devil named Ryan.

            Footsteps crunching twigs sounded outside the hovel. “Help!” I croaked, my throat parched.

            “You’re awake! Good, I’ll get you some breakfast.” Looking happy and chipper, Ryan smiled down at me. “Do you want honey on your mush?”

            “I want you to let me go, you madman. Why are you doing this?”

            “Tsk, tsk. Labels are so 21st century. Forget them and you’ll be so much more pleasant to live with.”

            “I’m not going to live with you ever again,” I spit back at him.

            Kneeling in front of me with a wooden bowl in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, he scooped up what can only be described as the most disgusting food I’d ever seen. I clamped my lips shut.

            “Okay, have it your way,” Ryan sighed. “It won’t be long now, anyway.”

            “What won’t be long now?”

            “The transformation. Everyone’s so excited to meet you.”

            “Who is everyone? Ryan, have you been here before? Have you been planning this all along, the whole time we were together?” I couldn’t imagine I’d been so dense as to not see how unbalanced he was.

            “Oh, this is my home, sweetie. My real home. I knew it the instant I read about this place, so I visited a few times to get things ready for us. I knew you were the one to share it with me.”

He looked so pleased with himself I could have scratched his eyes out. “It takes a real survivor the make it in my world, and I realized the first time I met you, you had the right stuff.”

            I couldn’t believe I was arguing with the same Ryan who taught third grade, loved to bake and cook, and went along with whatever plans I made for us with no complaint. But now that I thought back on it, why hadn’t I questioned his compliance, his adoration? No one fell in love that fast. I should have had my guard up from day one, but it was too late.

            “You’ve played me, haven’t you? From the start.”

            Shaking his head, Ryan set the bowl of mush on the hearth. “Maybe a little. But I grew very fond of you. You are so successful, so wired to make it work. Anything you touch, you turn into gold. It wasn’t easy transferring your accounts into mine, but I’m pretty good at that kind of thing.” He shrugged as if he’d made a new dish for me to admire.

            “My accounts?” I could barely get the words out.

            “It takes money to run this world. We may look like simple people, but we aren’t. On our planet, we’re the explorers, the astronauts, you would call us. We’ve been here a long time, and so far, role playing has kept us safe from recognition. You people love a good play, great actors. We provide that. But it does take coin of the realm.”

            I wanted to wake up from this nightmare. Right now. “Are you trying to tell you you’re an alien?” I could barely get the word “alien” out.

            “You make it sound so, um, illegal. As if we crossed a border at midnight, trying to stay away from the Border Patrol. No, sweetie, we’re not aliens. If any lifeform is alien, it’s yours. But if you really want to, I think you can transform. Become one of us. I hope so, I really do. I’m awfully fond of you, and we’re not a species that forms attachments easily. You’re the first one of my girlfriends, as you call it, I’ve wanted to keep. You won’t live as long as we do, but I’m hopeful that you’ll, shall we say, fit into our colony here while you’re with us.”

            “Colony? How many of you are there?” If I was dreaming, this was a helluva an intricate one.

            “Not enough, not yet. That’s why we’ve been perfecting our transformation standards. So far, it hasn’t been a raging success. One cat, a couple of dogs, and a strange bird that speaks a language none of us recognize. But I know you’ll be our first human transformation. Well, not exactly human. Just more like us in our original forms. I can’t wait for you to see me as I really am. I know you’ll love me even more.”

            “If you expect to use all this crazy talk to get you out of the legal consequences of your kidnapping me, you’re very mistaken.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking, without much success.

            A bell rang outside, to be followed immediately by more bells with varying tones.

            “Good. All the rituals are complete. I wish you’d eaten, it would make the transformation easier, I believe, but maybe a few bites now before we do?”

            I recoiled as he shoved a spoonful of mush at my mouth. “No way in hell. It’s probably loaded with drugs to knock me out.” I watched enough true crime TV to know how maniacs worked.

            “It’s not, but that’s actually a good idea. I’ll make a note for next time.” Rising from his haunches, he set down the bowl and reached around me to untie my hands. By the time the knots on my second hand were loose, I knew it was now or never.

            With a swiftly placed kick, I jerked my hands free, and pivoted to run when an iron grip tightened around my throat. “We’re not built like your men, sweetie. It’s all just for show. And to keep women satisfied. But we feel nothing down there. Now come quietly, or I’ll be forced to drag you tied up. I know your dignity doesn’t like that image.”

            He knew me too well. Besides, if I could keep the ropes off my arms, I’d have a better chance to fight, to escape. I refused to believe I was doomed to whatever torture he’d devised for me. Sagging against him, I pretended to surrender.

            “Don’t hurt me,” I whined. I hated the sound of my voice, but whatever it took. . . .

            Scooping me into his arms, he carried me out of the hovel and into a weak sunlit morning. No birds sang, no squirrel chatter, nothing but the sound of my own strangled breathing as I found panic and revulsion at the same time. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen into his trap so easily. If I survived, I promised myself I’d hire a private detective before I even met a man for coffee.

            “What’s your real name? I think I deserve to know that much.”

            “Interesting. Most women ask where our home planet is located. I knew you were unusual from the start, my dear.” He chuckled, at least that’s what I thought he was doing. “It’s Grymph. I know, it’s hard for human to pronounce, but after the transformation, you’ll say it easily. And understand its meaning.”

Yeah, it means crazy person, I told myself. By now, we were emerging from the forest into a clearing, where a very tall man, at least that was my assumption, draped in long black robes, stood on a raft at the bank of a pond. Or lake, I couldn’t tell which. Disgusting long hair dyed an odd shade of eggplant hid his face.

            “We are ready,” my captor announced, I assume for my benefit. You bet I’m ready, I thought, getting ready to jump. I kept in shape swimming at the Y, so I had no doubt I could cross that pond before they could catch me. All I had to do was get into the water with my legs and hands free.

            Purple-hair guy stomped a big stick on the dock three times and started gibbering nonsensical words. Setting me in front of the guy, my captor forced me to my knees. All the better to slip into the water, I decided, checking out the far side of the pond for signs of any more crazy men in long robes. Inching sideways, I edged my feet over the dock, leaning over as if in prayer while bracing myself with my hands against the wooden boards. I was tensing to roll sideways into the water when it happened.

            Kicking me hard in the side, Purple-hair knocked me into the water before I could take a deep breath. Startled by the cold, I floundered for the surface, not sure which way was up. Before I could find my way up, something grabbed me by the middle and hauled me close.

            I tried to scream, but water filled my lungs as I flailed and scratched, kicked and jabbed. My throat burned like fire as black circles swirled behind my eyes. I wasn’t ready, not at all.

            The boyfriend and the man in black stood aside as the cheetah struggled to climb the pond’s bank. “Not again. I thought you said it would be different this time. We need breeding stock, not more cats.”

            “At least it’s not a kitten. This one’s a big cat.” The boyfriend shook his head. “I guess I miscalculated. Thought we had her for sure.”
 

Sewing v. Writing

Summer. Hot as Hades. Humid as a wet blanket. All cliches about the South, and every one of the true. I hate to say it’s been keeping me away from the keyboard, but it’s true. Plus (and here’s the real scoop), I discovered a site that sells the most beautiful colors of linen and went wild. Watermelon pink, deep sea blue, pale cornflower blue, white as a wedding dress. Yep, my fabric stash floweth over. And I can stay inside in the AC and not feel guilty as the garden clogs with weeds.

I discovered that I really like sewing on this fabric and heaven knows, my family loves what’s coming out of the Viking. I keep thinking I’ll make one more top, one more pair of slacks, then put the darned stuff away so I won’t be tempted. I have always loved to sew - it’s a way to disappear into the white noise of a running sewing machine and think. Not about edging, not about French seams, not about facings. I’ve already pinned or basted by that point. Nope, my mind wanders into story land. Why can’t my heroine in Catered Crimes admit she wants to inflict severe damage on them that dun her wrong? Why can’t her best friend pull her back from the brink? And what about my small town thrift store owner who likes to remake old clothes into modern creations? Why can’t she admit she loves her best friend’s widower? Then I forget to pull out a pin before the sewing machine runs over it, and wham! Broken needle. Always takes me too long to change it out for a new one. Story in my head disappears for the next few minutes, and it’s hard to pick up the mental thread once again. But I do.

Still, that’s how I work. Stew around a bit in total isolation, letting out a few dribbles and drabs to the fam to test their reactions. I hadn’t planned on working on two books at once, and maybe I”d better cut it out if I ever want to finish the books.

I’d thought sewing was an out-of-fashion activity, but I was wrong. A woman in town posted that she would love to sew with others, and was anyone out there who felt the same way? She’s had over 700 responses! People, especially women, love to connect over our creative projects. A few men have joined, beginners who want to learn to sew, and they’re more than welcome. It’s a racially diverse group with all levels of expertise, and it’s fun. Old-fashioned flat-out fun. I know I need to limit my time so I can get these books completed, but writing is a lonely business. These few months of sewing frenzy have felt like a holiday from that isolation.

Now back to winding another bobbin.

Long Overdue Post but there's been a war, etc.

No excuses. But Covid and the war in Ukraine have done a number on me - I realized I was turning into one of THOSE people and it was time to stop. So I am backkkk.

This post is about prickliness and kindness. My daughter rescued a pygmy African hedgehog from a kid who’d lost interest, and it was nothing but a ball of prickles. Didn’t want anything to do with being touched, lived a solitary life in its cage with only a hamster wheel for fun. She’d take it out of the cage to let it run around and all it did was try to find a place to hide. She worked on it, held it despite the ball of needles it was, talked to it, and generally forced it to like her. She’s good at that. Animals all adore her. And finally, after months of work, Nesta responded to her love.

Nesta would curl up on my daughter’s chest, snuggle with her under the blankets, and run around for fun. We were all impressed. Then the horrible effects of interbreeding (African pygmy hedgehogs are bred in one place, Petersburg, Va.) struck. Wobbly Hedgehog syndrome. Fatal within months. Nesta staggered like a drunkerd, unable to walk. She had an infected toe. The vet operated because Nesta was so cooperative. She became a fav at the vet’s office. Antibiotics, steroids, and an array of meds were prescribed. Nesta never complained. And she lived on. For a year. Then longer, much to everyone’s astonishment.

We babysat Nesta while our daughter was on vacation, and giving her meds was no problem. I’d turn Nesta on her back, scratch her tummy and under her chin, and she practically waved her little feet with pleasure. We supported her while she tried to walk, and she managed some steps all on her own. When she grew tired, I’d stroke her sides, the spikes laying flat as she responded to my touch. She seemed happy.

Then suddenly, Nesta gave up. She left us, and we all mourned and missed her sweet self. And I was left with a lifelong example of how kindness and love can uncurl a ball of prickliness. In people as well as animals.

Prickly people drive me crazy. Why be unlikeable? What caused you to shut out all kindness and empathy? More than ever, I’m convinced it takes seeing that person through the eyes of love, no matter what. Because somewhere underneath that ball of spikes, there’s a soft tummy that wants to be petted. That will respond to the healing touch of love. In animals as well as humans.

What will the reader remember?

Dr. Dawn Field posted a series of questions to ask oneself about your novel. The one that struck me was “What do you want people to remember about this book?” Interesting question, yes? So I started to think about it in relation to the book I’m currently working on. I was stumped. Flat out flummoxed. So I started with other books, some published long ago, and asked that question.

Time and time again, the answer that came to me was “the characters.” Did I make them life-like enough? Are they true to themselves within the confines of the book? Do they ring false at all? I have to say, I like my people, as I call them. They live their own lives within the framework I give them, but they grow organically, and mostly by themselves. If any of them start wandering outside the lines of the story, I have to rein them in. Sometimes I promise them their own book, and make sure they have a new tale to look forward to.

This must have grown out of a childhood spent pretty much alone, playing with dolls who were as alive to me as flesh and blood. We moved quite a bit, and my dolls were my one constant. We had many conversations over the tea set my mother brought me from Hong Kong.

Is there anything you’ve taken from my books that sticks with you and if so, what is it? Would love to know.

Interesting question

A reader with a wonderful Mattaponi surname wrote and asked if I’d ever been to the Mattaponi reservation. I couldn’t tell if she'd read my novel, Murder on the Mattaponi , or not, but it’s a classic murder mystery book. In fact, I have been to the Mattaponi reservation, starting with attending a pow wow with my young children, who were thrilled to be invited to dance. That spawned a deep interest in the Virginia tribe, which grew when Newport News tried to steal water from the Mattaponi river, which is part of the reservation, to fill their city reservoir. My family, children included, marched in opposition and were very vocal about it. Thankfully, the Corps of Engineers put a stop to the steal. For once, justice prevailed.

From there, I began reading whatever I could find about the tribe and its long history. The idea of setting a mystery on the river grew, and over several years, I worked on the novel. For those who don’t know, I wrote a seven book series using the history of the Kiowa, known as the Mythmaker books (which I will soon get up on Amazon, since I got the rights back from the publisher). Researching the Kiowa was the work of several years, just as it was for my mystery novel, and I learned so much. I also visited the reservation for those books. Of course, the 19th century was nothing like it is today, but as an author, I used my imagination to go back in time. I was as accurate as I could be, but ultimately, a book grows organically. The story is the master.

All fiction novels are just that - fiction. I approach all my books, whether romance, adventure, thriller, or mystery, with great respect for my characters and what drives them to be who they are in their lives within the pages of my novels. I want them to be true to themselves and their stories. At least, I try for that.

The times they are a-changin'

It’s been an unsettling kind of Fall. Rain and more rain. Cold nights, warm days. Feels as if we’re on a precipice of some kind of change, and I have no idea how to prepare for it. Very odd. I’ve reasoned that my disquiet harkens to the still-persisting pandemic that most people have decided is over. Gone. Finished. And it’s not. We’re still facing the Monster and the Monster hasn’t blinked.

I, too, would like to go back to the pre-pandemic “normal,” but I know it’s not possible. Empty shelves in grocery stores, difficulty in buying cartridges for the printers, no new cars to shop. . . ah, the problems of a rich society. Maybe it is time we go back to basics, live on what we can grow, wear what we sew, huddle close to the fireplace when the temperatures drop. It’s not going to happen, and I, for one, am grateful because I lived through two weeks with no power after Hurricane Isabelle. Not fun. Not fun at all, boiling water, no refrigeration, hot, sticky weather you couldn’t escape - the list could go on and on and on. I would have killed for a bag of ice and a quart of ice cream.

We’ll face whatever comes and handle it as we always do. Some complaining, some wonderment, some gratitude for what we still have. Scratch that - a lot of gratitude.