Get Ready for Summer with the Girls

All the Summer Girls by Meg Donohue
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

All the Summer Girls by Meg Donohue is the perfect poolside book for the summer! Sometimes all you want to do is immerse yourself into someone else's life. With this book, I was able to completely lose myself in the lives of three friends hoping to reconnect with each other after years of avoided conversations and presumed betrayals have seemed to tear them apart. I have to admit that the plot line was a bit predictable but it's forgivable. Any book that I can't wait to pick up and start reading again is a winner and well worth referring.

View all my reviews

One Step Too Far is Just Right!

If you are desperate for a new book to put on your must-read list, One Step Too Far ticks all the boxes. April 15 is the publication release date for this provocative and enticing read, so you won't have to wait long. This is the story of a woman who feels she can only face a tragic event in her life by walking away from everyone she loves and completely refashioning her life.

The book's setting is in England and,much to my fancy, is written in typical British slang. Although I am a Midwest girl, I am also a glutton for British sayings. Not a day goes by when shat, bugger, nutter or bloody hell doesn't fall from my lips, so right there my credibility with some of you may be shot to bloody hell, but no matter. 

One Step Too Far is intriguing and the ending, I am ashamed to say, caught me off-guard. I do feel that the end of the second part of the book into the third became a little gratuitous as if the author were trying to live out her own fantasy. There were just parts that seemed so unbelievable; however, that is what fiction is all about, right? So, perhaps I shouldn't be so quick too judge. But overall, I loved this book and couldn't put it down. 

Check it out April 15, 2013. Thank you, NetGalley and Kirk Parolles Publishing for allowing me the pleasure to read this book. 

Whistling Past the Graveyard

Stars: 3.5

Here is my Saturday evening book review! I announce this like I write a book review every Saturday when, let's be honest, some weeks I barely have enough time to read the stop sign at the end of my street. But, tonight I have a book to share with you.

Whistling Past the Graveyard, by Susan Crandall is the perfect mid-summer read for the beach or poolside reader wanting to escape back to Mississippi,1963. Crandall presents Starla, a fiery, red-headed 9 year old who doesn't like being told what to do or who to love. After a Fourth of July incident has her fearing reform school, Starla runs away to Nashville in search of the mother who abandoned her. Along the way Starla meets Eula who has her own set of troubles that soon include Starla.

I hate spoilers, so I won't be giving away any plot lines here. What I will share with you is that this a good coming-of-age novel that could have been a great opportunity to shed light on the racial tension during the 1960's. Unfortunately, it fell quite a bit short for me. The story moved along swiftly and the characters were believable, but at times when Crandall could have gone very deep, she only skirted the surface. In this way, the book was disappointing.

However, I enjoyed the characters Crandall created, especially Starla. Even though the book did not explore the core themes as much as I would have preferred, it is a touching, heart-breaking, at times hilarious  account of a young girl learning life's lessons of love and loss a little too soon. Put this on your summer reading list.

Whistling Past the Graveyard, by Susan Crandall is set to be available for public availability on July 2, 2013. Thank you, NetGalley for allowing me the pleasure of reading an advanced copy. 

The Burn Palace - Review

It always feels wonderful to have finished a good book. The Burn Palace by Stephen Dobyns is no exception. This is the first review I have attempted in a long time and, truth be told, I have contemplated this review for over a week.

First, for those of you who are new to my style of reviewing I will share this with you. I do not believe in revealing spoilers. Feel free to keep reading. I won't give anything away. I promise.

Secondly, my word is not divine. Even though I often believe I am right and the rest of the world is full of nonsense, I know that that isn't really true. So, take this or leave it. If a book sounds interesting to you, try it out and prove me wrong.

Okay . . . onto the review.

Overall, I give this book 3 stars. The plot was decent and the characters intrigued me, however sometimes I felt there were just too many characters in this book. I couldn't always keep up with them. Of course, it took me a while to read the book, which could have contributed to the disjointed nature I felt the novel presented.

The dialogue was lacking for me, however there was one phrase in the prose that stayed with me for the remainder of the novel. I enjoy books that offer a perspective I have never contemplated before and this one phrase provided that unique perspective.

". . . here was the victim and here was the horror, and the one stood beside the other like a man next to an elephant."

Does this phrase resonate with you and the different tragedies that may affect your daily lives? It forced me to consider that sometimes the tragedy, like a school shooting, takes on a persona all of its own, separate and apart from the actual incidence. What do you think?

Amateur Wisdom

Every day I am reminded that I am failing to live up to my potential to be the writer that I know I am destined to be. There are a million reasons why I make both conscious and subconscious reasons to continue to sabotage my progress. I won't bore you. However, all it takes it watching other people living out their dream; taking ordinary words and stringing them together in such a way that they create an intricate tale that entices the reader to say, "Just one more page," to make me quiver with fear that I will never realize that success.

Then I look in the mirror and say, "Screw that!" I am a success. Yeah, you didn't see that one coming, did you? Sure, my novel has been a perpetual rough draft for way too long. But I have penned words. I have created an imaginary place with characters the breathe deep inside the recesses of my soul and to me that is success on a personal level. Some may say psychotic, too. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion.

Therefore, this post is for all of my creative friends who have ever felt they do not measure up to their definition of success or another person's definition of achievement. Too much creative time is wasted on comparing yourself to others. Stay devoted to your passion and success will find you!

And, while you are mulling over that little bit of amateur wisdom check out this wonderful quote by Madeline L'Engle that I found over at the Write on Edge community.

Hitting the Home Stretch

I feel like I have been in limbo lately, constantly working with little down time. I am well aware that today is December 13, but I feel stuck back in November. Today a few things were cleared from my very full plate and breathing is a bit easier. Only a bit, though.

While I still have ALL of my Christmas shopping to accomplish in the next 11 days, I did manage to get my New Year cards ordered from Shutterfly this afternoon. Last year, I switched gears and decided to start a new tradition by sending New Year greetings. Normally, I do stuff like this to purposely be different. However, I simply failed to manage my time adequately enough to get the cards out on time. Time management is a problem I continue to struggle with, a reoccurring theme throughout 2012. In fact, this year I was certain I was going to miss my new year deadline and have to start sending out MLK Jr. cards.

One important holiday task is now checked off my Christmas to-do list. Time to hit the home stretch hard, find some Christmas spirit and get the rest of those tasks done. Just 11 days. Breathe!

Anyone out there feeling pressured and overwhelmed this holiday season?

Stationery card

View the entire collection of cards.

Refocusing

My husband is in the beginnings of an entrepreneurial journey. After losing his job, nearly 3 weeks ago, he has decided to pursue a passion that he has never been able to fully realize. He started a blog and I have been encouraging him, gently nudging him; okay fine, I will call it what it is: I have been lecturing him on the necessity of updating his blog everyday. Then it hit me today, when I was doing laundry because there is never a better time for self-examination, that I am a hypocrite.

Ever since my husband lost his job, I have been in the trenches, buckling down and doing nothing but working hard to earn an extra dollar. Why? We are not destitute. We are the lucky ones who have some savings to help us manage as my husband begins his business. I think I decided to use this life change as a time to ignore and procrastinate. I have spent to much time ignoring this blog. I have forsaken my own creativity. It is time to refocus. Time to start taking my own advice and engaging in my blog and my life a little more.

So, today the family and I spent time wandering around a neighborhood park. I indulged in the crisp autumn air, focused my energies on creativity and family. The picture at the beginning of this post, I took this afternoon. A simple farmhouse, yet it felt so good to discover something to fuel my creativity. Take a look at this picture.

Just an outhouse, but you never know what you might find that lifts the spirits. How do you refocus when life begins to drag you down, when you get stuck in the mud of surviving?

Ready to Read

Well, again, it is past 10:30, my eyes feel heavy and I am tempted to simply let sleep take me off to dreamland. But. . . I am resisting because I am so excited to start this new book by Liz Jensen.

This book is set to be available in January 2013, but I was lucky enough to get an advance copy to read and review. Stay tuned for my review coming to you soon!

Chilly Morning Run

This morning I ran in my first race since the end of August. It felt great to be back competing again. The past few months my training has been sporadic and I cannot determine exactly why I have been slacking. This race was supposed to be a goal setting race. I wanted to place in my age category, but all it takes is lack of motivation when training to derail simple goals.

I received a medal anyway. And, quite honestly, I didn't blow it royally. I finished my 5K in chilly temperatures with 3 layers on in 30:48. Not my best time, but only 2:48 away from my goal. The brutal part is I torture myself by looking at the times that other women in my age group placed and if I had finished on goal pace I would have placed 3rd instead of 20th. Ridiculous how a couple walk breaks and a few minutes can change the race.

Did anyone else run in a 5K this weekend? How was your experience?

Ode to the Purse

Wow! It has been months since I have had time to sit in front of my computer screen for a little blogging time. With all these months away you might think I have something monumental to write to you today and you would be . . . WRONG!

I am calling this post "Ode to the Purse." Why? Well, tomorrow is the official start of fall which means it is time to change out the purse.

First, I must say thank you and farewell to my trusty and reliable Kate Spade tote. You served me well this summer at dusty ballparks, picnics and amusement parks. You made me feel special and one-of-a-kind. You even made me fall in love with vinyl which is something I never thought I would be capable of. Yes, dear summer purse I will miss you, but it is time for Isabella Fiore to make her fall debut!

Here she is! My fall beauty that I proudly wear on my shoulder has been released from her protective cloth bag where she has rested since February. Her words are an inspiration to me all season long. Whenever I feel hopeless or the winter blues set in I read Faith, Love, Hope and feel all warm and snugly again. My husband doesn't get my love affair with this purse. He equally doesn't understand the cost of this bag. Some don't appreciate my bag's elegant, hippie flair. That's okay. All that matters is this purse is mine and I get to enjoy stuffing it full of nonsense for the next few months.

Am I crazy? Am I the only person who goes this crazy over a handbag?

The Journal

The Secret Sits

We dance round in a ring and suppose,

But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

This is the prompt that I found waiting for me for my Write on Edge challenge this weekend. There were many ways I could go with this prompt, but I decided it was time to address some family secrets in Carly's Story. This is a continuation of Family Dinner, but I wrote the previous excerpt months ago. So, if you go back in time to read that excerpt pardon any confusing transitions. Still a work in progress.

I hope you enjoy my take on this haunting Robert Frost poem. If are new to my writing and leave a comment, please let me know where I can find your writing so I can get to know your story, too.

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Image Courtesy of Fuel You Writing

The journal pages, touched and seen only by its’ author, now lay exposed on the kitchen table. The secret tumbled from the page causing the three of us to sit in silence, each absorbing the truth in our own private way.

“I remember that night.” Ilsa finally spoke. Her words soft, barely escaping her throat. She coughed, forcing the words to come out louder. “I remember that night.”

Greer sneered. “Impossible. You were a child.”

Ilsa ignored Greer. She reached for the journal, held it in her lap, and stroked the words her late sister had written. “We went to bed later than usual that night. Momma had been gone working an overnight shift to have the bakery well-stocked in the morning.”

Greer added, “She pitched a fit about leaving us alone that night. Dad hadn’t come around in days.She was worried he’d come around drunk, out of control.”

“Lena wasn’t home. Where did she go?” Ilsa questioned.

“The movies with a neighbor girl, “ Greer filled in. “She always had that ability to make friends. I was never that lucky.” Greer spoke this sincerely reminding me that she had loved her sister.

Ilsa continued to recount her recollections of that night . “Daddy never did come home, but Lena did. I woke up when the moon was high. Someone was crying.”

Tears started to pool in Ilsa’s eyes. I felt tears stinging my cheeks, too. “It was Lena. Huddled in the corner crying she didn’t look like a young woman, but a child. I remember wanting to ask her what was wrong, because I had never seen her like that. She was always so happy, so strong. No matter what hell we were enduring she was our light. I felt like a coward. I never went to her. I never asked what was wrong. I burrowed down underneath the blanket and went back to bed.”

“The next morning she was her usual self. I almost forgot about what I had awoken to.” Ilsa shut the journal, but kept it in her lap.  “I never knew he raped her.”

Oddly, relief consumed me. Months of keeping my mother’s secret, months of pent up anger would now not be mine alone. Ilsa and Greer would share my sorrow. I knew it was selfish, but I needed them to share this truth with me.

A small, nondescript noise came from behind me. John’s heart had grown weaker as the weeks wore on, he managed to shuffle from his room to the kitchen. The grief exposed on his wrinkled face verified that he had heard the entire conversation. He pointed to the journal and confessed.  “ Hell will soon welcome me and my sins.”

Taboo

A long week of writing for other people. Now, I have finally found a bit of time to carve out for myself and my own tales. This piece of creative writing is inspired by the Write on Edge community and the Red Writing Hood prompt. 

This week we were encouraged to write about the forbidden, the taboo. I chose to use this prompt to continue writing about my character, Carly. This small excerpt is a continuation from a previous excerpt, Who am I? 

I don't think this piece creatively challenged the concept of taboo, but I have been mulling over this part of my story for so long that I decided I need to get it out of my head. So, I hope you enjoy my interpretation of taboo.

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Lying in the stillness that the raw hours of night often bring, I focused on keeping my breath even and soft. I was not entirely sure who I was hiding from, but I suspected that I wanted to shroud my former self from the person I had become.

I watched Yves sleep, his smooth, olive chest different from David’s pale Irish complexion. His mannerisms of sleep were different from David’s, too. David would thrash, throw about the covers. He always seemed to be fighting the relaxing calm sleep could bring. Yves lay on his back, lips closed, and his body still; content in the tranquility of sleep.

At that moment, I realized my mistakes. The multitude of mistakes that I had made up until this point did not matter. They were minor, fixable. What had happened in this apartment, this bed, would have no other option, but to change the course of my life. I loathed myself. How despicable could I really be? I lay here in this bed, comparing my husband and this new lover. Everything I had accused David of being, I had become. I was an adulterer.  Not an innocent bystander swept up in blinding love. If only that were the case, then I could plead no contest. But the facts were blatant. I made this choice to alter the course of my life. The wedge that had been building between David and me for so many years had finally become a gorge. This one senseless and selfish act had officially divided us. David didn’t know this yet, but I did. A vast space existed between us now and there was not a bridge in sight to repair the damage.

Vibrations echoed against the nightstand. Out of my left eye I saw David’s name light up the screen, out of my right eye I glanced at Yves to make sure he was still asleep. This new territory left me paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do. David had called continuously as the night wore on since he had sent that first text about John being taken to the hospital, but clearly I had been preoccupied with my sin. Now, I knew I couldn’t ignore the urgent nature that the calls indicated.

Quietly, like a bare whisper, I slid out from under the covers. I arranged my clothes on my body to resemble someone respectable, not a liar. I smoothed my hair, but without a brush I feared it told a story I would rather not elaborate on this evening.

I stood over Yves. I considered waking him. I considered leaving a note. But in the end I left without a word, without consideration. 

Fairytales

Today's blog post is about fairy tales. Although, reader beware. This is not your typical, happy ending fairy tale. This post is a creative writing piece based on the following challenge by Write on Edge and is a continuation of Carly's story. For those of you who have been following Carly's story, I have a new look this week. This blog layout works so much better for me, so I hope it doesn't confuse anyone. Promise I am here at this address permanently.

Here was the challenge:

For Today, we gave you a short challenge. Three fairly generic passive phrases. Your goal was to make them active in a short scene, either fiction or non-fiction. You could choose one, two, or all three to play with, but you only had 100 words.

[he/she/I] was devastated by [...]

[feeling] was experienced by [...]

[person/thing] was possessed by [...]

Don't worry. While this post may be a little daunting and dark, I generally do believe that a positive outlook on life can make anyone experience a happy ending. 

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Fairy Tales

Fairy tales are a waste of brain cells. They are for crack-heads possessed by a desire to believe life must, and will, always provide a happy ending. Unfortunately, crack is not my drug. Instead, I am a stoner; stoned into a numb existence devastated by circumstances that have contributed to the boiling anger that relentlessly propels me to make rash, pathetic choices. Secrets and deceit have crippled my daily life, crippled my marriage. These secrets have come to define David and me more than any of the happier moments we experienced together. Yep, fairy tales are crack and will never satisfy your cravings.   

Brain Dead

Yesterday was energetic. Tonight I feel brain dead. Does anyone else feel brain dead. I think an entire day of writing for other people has left me to exhausted to add my WOE post tonight or to even properly comment on my fellow writers' works. Added to the to-do list for tomorrow.

This also means I am not uploading wedding speeches tonight. I will begin work on that tomorrow. Some days I feel like Scarlett O'Hara -

"After all... tomorrow is another day."

In all seriousness, I wrote an article today reviewing a shoe website which pumped me up (like the shoe reference) to share my new Asics Gel 1170 with you.

I don't usually get overly enthusiastic about athletic shoes. I prefer to act giddy about a new pair Jimmy Choo's - that is if I actually had the coinage to buy a pair of Choo's. There I go getting off track again.

But for those of you who do not know, I am a runner as well as a writer. Running fuels my creativity. I have a little blog called Racing Warrior. You can visit it here.

Up-close and personal

I have been running in my Asics Gel 1160 since September and over 500 miles so it was time for a new pair. I put off buying them because I am cheap, but my aching shins and my reluctance to run forced me to make the purchase.

I am thrilled to in my new running shoes and ready to fuel my creativity.

That's all for tonight, peeps! Going to soak in a hot tub and read my newest download on the Kindle Fire, The Neighbors Are Watching. The jury is still deliberating on the potency of this book. The story has potential, but I question the writing. I will let you know the final verdict.

Creative Fuel

First, let's start with some housekeeping business. If you look to the right of your screen, you will see an enormous amount of blog entries today. I am not that incredibly awesome or inspired to write so much in one day.

I am in the process of switching blogs and I didn't want any of my devoted readers (who as of this writing have no idea I am switching - but will soon) to miss out on previous chapters. Again, not awesome, just trying to get some blog housekeeping under control.

On that note, this is my first official blog on Eloquently Spoken. Let me assure you that I will not overwhelm you with vocabulary that makes your head spin. One can write eloquently without being pretentious. Thank goodness, because I never take myself that seriously. Yes, my husband is disagreeing as he reads this, but that's his opinion.

See what I mean? Does that photo look serious? That's my daughter and I being a bit cliche standing in front of an outhouse at a local park. 

Moving on . . . I entitled this post Creative Fuel because sometimes we all need  downtime to refuel and get our brains uncluttered in order to find our creative juice.

I spent the morning dipping my toes in the cool water of a creek bed, listening to children splashing and watching my daughter try to catch fish with an orange bucket.

They were drawn to the color, but were a little too smart to get caught. A fun morning that energized me to the extent that it is now almost midnight and I am going to force myself to say goodnight.

Need my rest so I can add some wedding speech examples tomorrow. Did I mention I write wedding speeches? Hmmm. . . well, if not, I do. Every pun was intended.

Paying What You Owe

Originally posted April 16, 2012

This piece is an excerpt from  Annie's Story . It has been inspired by this Write on Edge prompt:

This week we asked you to write about a time you or one of your main characters had to repay a debt. The debt can be legal, like sending taxes to the government or paying off a credit card, or it can be something promised in a back room deal, sealed by a handshake more binding than a written contract

I would love to hear from anyone stopping by. Please leave comments and critiques. If you leave a comment, please be sure to leave your website name so I can visit you, too.

Okay, here we go . . .

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“Help me.” The words were hushed, broken. The familiar voice flavored with a sobbing gurgle.

“Where are you? Are you hurt?” I cupped my hand around the phone, whispering while looking over my shoulder. As always, Sarah’s timing was abysmal. Officer Pershall had just stepped out of the room. Not feeling that is was necessary to tell me where she was going, she simply requested that I, “Hang tight.” Typical police procedure meant to keep me on edge.

“Don’t say anything.” Sarah begged.

Given the circumstances, I wasn‘t exactly sure what that meant. “You did this?”

“Annie, stop!” The gurgling became more intense. I could imagine her nose inflamed , the way her shoulders moved rhythmically up and down when she would cry hard. “ I just want you to know I am safe.”

The call disconnected. What did I owe her? I was glad Eddie was dead. I was relieved, almost giddy, to finally know that I would be able to sleep without wondering if I would awaken with the pawn shop gun held to my temple or worse, one of Eddie‘s hunting knives held against my throat. This was his favorite weapon of torture. But what did I owe her?

All my life, I have been indebted to someone or something. Poor money management skills as a young adult taught me the perils of being in debt. Losing my car, having wages garnished to pay back outstanding loans were a hassle, but I never expected these things to keep me from being safe, independent. In hindsight, I realized Eddie wasn’t the only one who placed limitations on me.

But financial debt can be repaid. How do you pay back those debts that have no monetary value? A truly personal debt.

I started to rummage through my received calls to see if I could locate the number Sarah had called from. I didn’t expect to find it. Sarah was smart, as smart as someone on the run can be, she would not allow her number to be traced. She also had money. Money buys anonymity.

Instead, I accidentally hit the icon for my picture files. A bright, happy picture of Kate and Eddie slapped me in the face. A recent picture. Maybe three months ago.

The giddiness melted away. What did I owe Kate? My Kate. The teenage girl so distraught by her father’s death that I had to literally rock her to sleep last night.

Personal debt is a hellish, nightmare where nobody comes out the victor. Where did my loyalties lie? Who would I protect when the storm started to rage out of control?

“Annie?” Officer Pershall startled me causing my hand to jerk, the phone splattering to the floor breaking apart, the SIM card, the battery, the case all dislocating from each other. “Did something happen?”

“Everything is fine.” I scooped up the pieces of my phone and shoved them in my bag, pushing the stray hairs off my face, trying to appear calm.

Pershall studied me, then walked around behind her desk. Sitting down, she picked up a black remote. Without words, she pushed a button and the wall mounted television behind me came to life. On the screen, I saw myself. My hand cupping the phone, my lips moving. Replaying my phone call from minutes earlier.

Pershall paused the image. “Let’s talk.”

 

BLT - Bullshit, Lies and Treachery

Originally posted February 17, 2012

“You ready?” The waitress barked. Hello, my name is Macy said her nametag. A cute, bubbly name that did not fit the big-boned, gum-chewing waitress poised at the end of the table ready to take our order. Scolding my judgment, I snapped the large rubber bracelet around my wrist.

Eddie grinned his toothy smile. The type of smile that pulled you in, gave him his way every time. “Two BLT’s, two cokes and pour a little magic into those glasses.” He handed her a five dollar bill.

Macy stared. He smiled again. “I know Don is working the grills. Saw his truck out back. He‘s the magic man.”

“Whatever,” Macy turned to leave.

“Wait,” I called out. “Can you just bring me a water?”

Eddie wouldn’t allow an answer. He held up his hand, shook his head and motioned for her to scram.

“You don’t like them BLT’s anymore?” He smacked his lips. “Only better ones were down in Louisiana.”

I moved carefully in this verbal boxing ring choosing my words. One wrong word, phrase and I would be up against the ropes. “With the guacamole in the middle? I should never have worn Sarah’s shirt that night. Damn sauce oozed all down the front. I do remember you liked taking it off later.”

I flirted. I hated using sex to manipulate Eddie. Eddie leaned back against the vinyl booth, the pressure of his back causing the small cracks in the vinyl to split just a little more. I wondered when the cracks would become irreparable.

“Good thing ain’t no guacamole here. You sure as shit don’t need that. Starting to look pregnant again. Bad enough I had to see you fat for the real thing. Don’t need you to look like that just for fun.”

I fingered the bracelet. Pulling it back just enough to see the scabby wound, minor compared to other lacerations but more dangerous because Eddie had used a razor. Bitch, I can make this end now, but today is your lucky day.

 

Fat? My body, not to mention my soul, had been starved for so long that I was wasting day by day. Concealer from the cosmetics counter couldn’t hide the deep purple under my eyes. Denied the ability to leave the house whenever I wanted, my skin was pale from lack of sunlight. I spent so much time in darkened rooms because of Eddie’s paranoia that the large sunglasses I wore when I was allowed to leave were sometimes to hide trauma, but also because the sunlight hurt. I had become a vampire devoid of humanity.

 

Evidence

Originally posted at a much earlier date, but I didn't record it. Oops!

Write on Edge asked me to write this week with no restrictions, but to put effort into developing a weakness that I may feel my writing has. This week I chose authenticity. Sometimes, I feel that I write with a flat, unconvincing voice. So, here is my shot at a little authenticity. Also, I thought I would try my hand at a little mystery as well. Feeback is most appreciated! The formatting is being persnickety. Please ignore any weird formatting.

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   "The weapon was recovered,” the woman officer said over the phone. She had told me her name, but I had let it evaporate, unable to absorb one more piece of information.

   The officer paused. Papers shuffled, the computer’s keyboard tapped. “ A Colt 1911. Most likely stolen.”

   Most likely,

my brain repeated.

 

   The gun had been found behind a trash can in a women’s restroom at the Harbor Point Marina. A toddler had found it. Why would Sarah leave it in such an obvious place? And where children could find it? The gun had been emptied leaving the threat minimal, but it didn‘t make sense.

   And the Harbor Point Marina? That is where Eddie and I had our first date. I wondered if Sarah knew, a poetic gesture signaling the end of where it had all began.

   A Friday night, late in the autumn when people were less interested in a mid-western amusement park built on the shores of a man-made lake. That first night had been quiet. The rides were emptied. Eddie joked that he had paid everyone to stay away. He wanted me all to himself, he said as we hovered above the ground in the Ferris wheel. The first clue. But when you are seventeen, in love for the first time, you ignore those warning signal pings.

   “Can you trace it? I returned to the conversation. My active participation was a requirement to avoid suspicion. Although, as the wife of a murdered man I had more than enough motive to kill him. Suspicion would never entirely unwrap itself from me.

   The officer coughed. Her voice was hoarse. The beginnings of a cold. “No serial number. These guns are common. Any pawn shop will have an assortment of these and are unlikely to be of any help.” Again, another pause.

   “Annie, the night Eddie was discovered, the first officers on the scene found something . An unique necklace; strings of black, Tahitian pearls and yellow emeralds. Expensive. Few places sell these. They are easy to track.

    Robert Cavanaugh bought one for his wife, Sarah. Your sister. Robert doesn‘t know where she is. Would your sister have seen your husband that night?”

    I could not answer. Years of experience with on-the-spot lying to cover up and I had nothing. All I knew was that three weeks ago my pawn shop gun disappeared and then Eddie was dead.

 

 

 

 

Fate

Originally posted June 16, 2012

Well, it has been a while since I linked up with Write on Edge. I have been blessed with having a multitude of freelancing opportunities come my way, but it has meant an unscheduled hiatus from my personal writing.

This week WOE challenged me with this prompt:

This week we asked you to write a fiction or memoir piece centered around the idea of fate. Your characters (or you, for the memoir writers) don’t have to believe in fate for it to play a role in their lives; sometimes the lack of belief in something makes it all the more polarizing in our lives.

I decided to apply this to my Carly storyline. Had a little trouble with grammar, punctuation, especially on the brother/sister part. So, any critiques regarding to punctuation and grammar would be helpful. I think my brain has just been over-extended these past few days.

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My brother thrashed in the hospital bed, tugging at the handrails not in an attempt to loosen the restraints. No, it was an uncontrolled fit, a result of the mixture of booze, pot and mental instability. It hurt like razors digging at my skin watching him out of control like this. Unable to find words to soothe his obvious pain, I started breathing evenly counting to whatever magic number would make my own heart stop racing.

“I love it!” he screamed joyfully. His drunken face was twisted into an odd shape of amusement mixed with irrepressible facial tics, another result of way to many chemicals in his body.  If this had been five years ago, and we had been enjoying a night out on the town, I would have been laughing hysterical at his comedic appearance.

Unfortunately, those carefree brother/sister moments had been snuffed out by an ever growing presence of a chemically dependent demon that seemed to want to possess my brother’s body. I watched his hands thrashing, the restraints digging into the bandages encircling his wrists. Tears wanted to fall, but I knew they would be useless and not helpful.

“I LOVE IT!” he screamed louder this time. A nurse poked her head in the door and I held up my hand, signaling that we were fine.

For hours, though it felt like days, I stood by my brother’s bedside listening to him ramble about how much he loved Jim Bean, how pot made him the King of the World and so happy. He explained how fate had determined this night. Fate and genetics were responsible for his actions. Fate was his enemy. He was doomed to repeat the genetic tendencies of bad choices. He never once spoke of being able to create his own fate.

I wanted to tell him that fate was transparent. That fate was feeble, hinging solely on a person’s belief in destiny.  For a man who claimed to be atheist, that God could not possibly exist, I found it amusing that he used fate as excuse to continue to live life in a downward spiral.

I wanted to reason with him, beg him to stop. He was the only connection left to our parents, I kept silent. No matter my feelings about fate one thing was certain. You can’t reason with a drunk.  This night had to be left to fate and I hoped it was on my side.

 

Home

Originally posted May 26, 2012

I have been extremely busy this week finishing up some freelance work that is alot more work than I anticipated. Any one else out there ever bitten off more than they can chew? And it is a holiday weekend of course. Hot, sunny and begging me to come outside.

However, I couldn't pass up the chance to continue working on my wanna-be novel. The WOE prompt this week was short and sweet, so I decided to take some time and add this small excerpt from my larger work. If you have been following Carly's story, this piece may have you thinking, "What the ----! Where did this come from?" I promise it has a place in the story.

The prompt this week was:  Location, location, location

This week we asked you to focus on setting to deepen the reader’s connection to your story. You had the choice of using the setting to help develop your characters, your plot, or simply the mood of your story. Memoir writers could describe any setting in their past that holds meaning in their lives.

Cam’s protag experiences the elements a little too closely in The Storm.

We want to see the world your characters inhabit. In 250 words. Please only link up if you did the prompt and try to visit as many linkups as possible.

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Image courtesy of Free Public Domain Pictures

Momma opened the door. The over-whelming stench of leftover garbage slithered into my nostrils, assuring me this house would be like all of our other dwellings. Stagnant and revolting.

I should be use to this smell, I scolded myself. A nomadic existence did not afford the best living conditions. In all honestly, nomadic is a romantic word not worthy of our domestic journeys. Being jobless and entertaining numerous shortcomings did not leave much room for habitable living conditions. The Spencer family could afford squalor; nothing more.

Barely large enough to be considered a shed, the house creaked, sagging loudly as Momma and I stepped over the threshold. The eye didn't have to travel far to inventory the contents of the home. Three rooms: a common space, a kitchen with a wood-burning stove to cook meals and a bedroom. The bedroom was too small to accommodate a toddler, but we would be expected to sleep seven.

Noticing a large, galvanized metal tub sitting near the back door in the kitchen, I quickly understood this would be another home without indoor plumbing. I spied a decrepit out-building through the kitchen window. The pissing hole, I presumed.

"Lena!" My mother's voice trembled in my chest. I was at attention immediately. "See that?"

She pointed at black specks scattered across the kitchen floor. "Damn bastard rats. Two just scurried that way. Get the broom from the truck and knock their asses out of here. Then clean up their mess."

Walking to the truck, I sighed and blinked back useless tears. Welcome home, I thought.