Jump to content

Search the Community

Showing results for tags 'womens fiction'.

  • Search By Tags

    Type tags separated by commas.
  • Search By Author

Content Type


Forums

  • Novel Writing Courses and "Novel Writing on Edge" Work and Study Forums
    • Novel Writing on Edge - Nuance, Bewares, Actual Results
    • Bad Novel Writing Advice - Will it Never End?
    • Art and Life in Novel Writing
    • The Short and Long of It
  • Quiet Hands, Unicorn Mech, Novel Writing Vid Reviews, and More
    • Novel Writing Advice Videos - Who Has it Right?
    • Unicorn Mech Suit
    • Audrey's Archive - Reviews for Aspiring Authors
    • Writing With Quiet Hands
    • Crime Reads - Suspense, Thrillers, Crime, Gun!
  • New York Write to Pitch and Algonkian Writer Conferences 2025
    • New York Write to Pitch 2023, 2024, 2025
    • Algonkian Writer Conferences - Events, FAQ, Contracts
    • Algonkian Novel Development and Editorial Program

Find results in...

Find results that contain...


Date Created

  • Start

    End


Last Updated

  • Start

    End


Filter by number of...

Joined

  • Start

    End


Group


AIM


MSN


ICQ


Yahoo


Jabber


Skype


Location


Interests


Website URL ID

Found 9 results

  1. Dreaming about your future is a euphoric exercise; making it happen tests you to the core of your being. Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard gave a name to the action of a person faced with a choice that can’t be rationally justified: they take a leap of faith. Dreaming of being an author when you’re too busy to breathe, requires such a leap. Still believing you can find your great love when you’ve been hurt too many times, requires such a leap. In my case, I inadvertently chose to fly instead of jump. “Ms. Gregory, here’s your seat,” the flight attendant said, motioning with both hands as she presented the aisle chair in front of the last row in first class. “Can I assist you in getting settled?” Looking around at the spaciousness of the cabin, I couldn’t help but compare it to my usual stuff-them-in-like- cattle seating. It felt surreal. “Thank you, I’m good,” I responded. “And please, call me Meg.” She nodded and gracefully turned to assist the next passenger. I sat and fastened my seatbelt on the Korean Air flight from JFK to Incheon Airport, with a laughable flight time of 12 PM to 5 PM. If only it weren’t for the 13-hour time difference making East Asia a day ahead of my North American Eastern Time zone. As the realization of the trip hit me, my insides rippled like ginger ale poured into an ice-filled glass. Korean passengers surrounded me, all speaking their lyrical language. The use of the suffix honorifics -yo and -nida, among others, combined with many words ending in vowels, makes the language soft and musical. Yet, a litany of Anglo swear-words telling someone off is nothing compared to an angry Korean honorifically, ironically, and eloquently, berating someone who was owed respect: …nida. …Nida. … NIDA! I started watching Korean TV programs, or K-Dramas – the historical, fantasy, and rom coms being my favorites – during the COVID pandemic lockdown. The need for something… anything… new during this time was a healing tonic and I grabbed onto them like a teased child finally retrieving their precious item from a callous game of keep away. As someone with untreated ADHD (‘That’s not a real condition,’ my parents scoffed), the desire to experience anything unique was overwhelming. As I wrote in my article, there were times when watching a few K-dramas in the evening got me through another day without a meltdown. If someone confessed their love for a seatmate, I’d understand at least part of it, having absorbed a few words and phrases based on repetition and reading the English subtitles. Otherwise, it was going to be a lonely and long flight. That was alright though. I had the outline of a novel I was eager to work on. I'd wanted to be an author since reading my first Harry Potter book, and I'd been writing stories ever since. I also brought a book to read. I suspected I’d mostly worry about the upcoming television interview about the article I wrote. As I waited for takeoff, I ruminated on the reason I was sitting on this flight. “There is an age-old argument amongst people of European descent, whether French, Spanish, or Italian is the language of love. I put forth another candidate for consideration – Korean.” So began the opening statement to my article, “Korean: The Language of Love.” I wrote the article to better understand my fascination with Korean television: a bit of scholarly and celebrity research, combined with self-examination. Pleased with the results, I pitched it to several lifestyle magazines. To my great amazement and joy, Vogue magazine accepted the article, and upon publication, it took on a life of its own. Soon Vogue-Korea had translated and published it, followed by a Korean tv cultural news report. However, I was unprepared when English language channel ROKBC-TV reached out and offered to bring me there for an interview, which included an expense-paid two-week vacation as my reward. My initial reaction was disbelief, followed by hesitation. I’m a small-town girl. The fashion and entertainment industry always felt distant from the reality of my life. What would I possibly talk about? However, international recognition was not something to pass up. Naively I hoped it would jumpstart my writing career and allow me some breathing space to follow my life-long dream. Besides, their offer of an expense-paid, two-week vacation excited me, and that would be mine alone to enjoy. How wrong I was. “What can I get you to drink?” a flight attendant asked. “Water’s fine,” I assured her. I’d have a glass of wine with my dinner, hoping a drink would help me sleep. How I’d get myself onto Korean time before the dreaded interview I wasn’t sure. I’d have one full day to get used to the time difference and realistically I knew that wasn’t enough. Come to think of it, I’d have two drinks with dinner. Suddenly the voices behind me grew louder, and the tone of one of the speakers was filled with vitriol. My stomach began to churn. I suddenly wished that ginger ale illustrating my excitement had been flat. ‘You have to learn to deal with conflict,’ I heard my sister Hannah chiding me. Two years older, she was the me I wished to be. Competent, organized, and confident, she held an important position with the state. She’d know how to handle an interview and even direct its focus. She was the daughter my parents were proud of; I was the ‘Oh Meg, when will you ever learn?’ one. As young children, my sister and I were frequently left to our own devices. Indeed, Hannah and I joked we were feral kids. Our next-door grandparents often fed us, and we slept there regularly. As we got older, we got little parental advice. Whether it was a boyfriend or a college major, the choices were ours to make, and then live with the consequences. They weren’t unloving parents; they were just more involved in their own lives than in ours. Amazingly Hannah turned out to be organized and focused, while I seemingly drifted from one bad decision to the next. One might be excused for wondering if we were raised by the same couple. “So, I told that American asshole to stick it!” An audible sigh. “They all suck!” This was spoken in perfect, albeit East Asian accented, English. His tone shook with the intensity of his indignation. Oddly, the voice also seemed familiar. Suddenly, I felt the jolt and heard the thud of something hitting the back of my seat, followed by the reverberation of the impact. What the ….? Wow! Not only is this guy technically insulting me, but he’s smacking the back of my chair! One would think he’d use his own language at least. But then again, I was the only non-Asian in first class, so maybe he didn’t want others to understand. Also, I was sitting in front of him. My 5 foot nothing stature made me barely visible during ordinary circumstances and the seatbacks were high. Invisibility was my superpower. I employed it liberally as a teenager, however, as an adult, I’d found it problematic. One had to be noticed to achieve success, and it’s especially difficult if that one was short and a bit of an introvert. I wasn’t the type who evaded others, indeed I liked working collaboratively. But interactions with strangers were uncomfortable for me, and I rarely initiated them. That was why my reaction to this encounter was so out of character for me. I turned and looked back at the two men sitting behind me. “I think you’ve painted us with too broad a stroke.”
  2. April 1989 Southport, Maine Someone had told her once that the red house had withstood years of abuse from the gales and never faltered because it had good bones. But the house that fishermen looked to as a landmark in the fog was now a beacon of neglect. Galene stopped at the front door and scraped her fingernails along the siding. Red paint peeled off in shards. At least she’d had the roof replaced last year. She tussled with the finicky lock and cringed as the door creaked open in protest. The air inside smelled like must. Furniture covered in white cloth. Dust motes dancing. A memory tugged at her. She shook it off. The large windows in the parlor stretched across the room, affording views of both Sheepscot Bay and the ocean beyond where a flock of gulls soared on an updraft, monitoring the water below for prey. A few landed on the granite ledge overlooking the bay. They still nest there, she thought. All these years and they still know to come home. There wasn’t time to linger over memories though. She needed to find her journal that she’d stashed years ago. A flight of steps led her to the attic and a flip of the switch bathed the room in a muted yellow glow. She yelped at the sight of the dress mannequin in front of the only window in the room. At first, she thought it was a real person. No. Just a ghost standing watch over the scattered remains of the people who once inhabited this house and didn’t take the time to clean up their mess. The chest was on the floor next to the mannequin. She unlocked it with a key, yanked it open, and the first thing she saw was the silk dress she’d retrofitted when she was seventeen. For him. She pulled the dress out of the tissue paper she’d wrapped it in, examining it in the natural light. Surprisingly, there were no moth holes. Standing up, she draped it over the mannequin where she had first discovered it, falling in love with the fabric’s silky embrace. Oh God, don’t do this to yourself. Move on. Find the damn journal and get the hell out of here. She returned to the chest. On top of a Montgomery Ward box that held her wedding dress was the trilogy of the sea by Rachel Carson. They belonged to her dad, and she read them to him almost every night until they had both read all three books at least twice, memorizing entire passages. Her eyes pooled, and she wiped at them with the back of her sleeve, getting mascara on it. She took the books out, set them aside, and rummaged around the bottom of the trunk until she felt the leather-bound journal. Lifting it out of the chest, she swung around, startled by a sharp bark. A yellow lab bounded up the stairs, its claws scratching the wooded steps, and sprinted directly at her, almost knocking her over. “Sit!” she said, grabbing for the collar as the dog licked the back of her hands and wagged its tail. “Sit, Beebee.” “There you are. Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Sasha stood in the doorway, hands planted on her hips. Arms akimbo. Galene let go of the collar and pulled the journal to her chest. “Jeesh, Sasha. Beebee scared the hell out of me.” Sasha stepped into the light. Her curly black hair now white, her blue eyes just as vivid as they’d always been. “BeeBee, come.” She motioned for her dog. “What are you doing up here?” “How’d you know I was here?” “I was walking BeeBee and saw a car with out-of-state plates and…you know you left the door wide open to the house?” She strode across the room and embraced Galene. “Why didn’t you tell anyone when you were getting in? We could’ve picked you up at the airport.” “I didn’t want to put anyone out, so I rented a car.” Sasha stepped away from her and poked at the journal. “Found your old diary?” Her dark brows slanted. “I remember that thing. You were always writing in it. Look, if there’s anything about me in there that my kids shouldn’t know about I suggest you burn it.” “It’s about me. Not you. And don’t worry. I won’t let it get into the wrong hands. I just want to read it again. I stopped by the house to find it. Thought it might jog my memory about the summer I worked for Rachel Carson. I need to think of what I’m going to say at the memorial.” Sasha rolled her eyes. “I know. That’s all everyone around here is talking about.” There’s not much else to talk about on this island besides other people’s business and the latest catch, Galene thought. But didn’t say out loud. “Where are you staying?” Sasha continued. “I got a room at Newagen.” “Lucky you. I hear they’re booked solid. You’ll be hobnobbing with all the bigwigs. The Governor is staying there as well. You sure you’re ready for this? There’s going to be a huge crowd.” “I lecture to a room of over a hundred students every week. I think I can handle it.” Sasha swiped a piece of hair away from her eyes. Galene recognized the dark red nail polish on her fingernails, chipping off like the paint on the house. “Oh, my God! Is that the dress you wore to the boat club party years ago? You kept it?” Sasha took a handful of the fabric in her hand. “I always loved this dress.” Galene stopped herself from telling Sasha to leave it alone because she didn’t want to come across as unkind in the short time she had here. “I’m only here for a few days,” she said to change the subject. “I’ve got to get back for finals week.” Sasha’s dreamy gaze remained on the dress. A smile formed on her lips, most likely remembering a time when they were both young and determined to makes something of their lives. A passing thought, a disturbing memory perhaps, caused Sasha to chomp down on her lower lip. She turned her attention to Galene. “Why’d you keep it?” “I don’t know,” Galene said as she choked back tears. Damn it, Sasha. Leave it alone. Maybe Sasha noticed the raspiness in Galene’s voice, because she let go and stepped away from the mannequin. Galene headed toward the stairs, Sasha right behind like a collie nipping at her heels. “Come on BeeBee,” Sasha called, and the lab barreled past them, almost knocking Galene over. “Do you know what you’re going to say at the memorial?” “I’ll figure it out.” They ended up in the parlor surrounded by white drop cloths, layers of dust on the mantel, and a fireplace that hadn’t felt the lick of flames in ten years. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. She’d given up on the place. Stopped renting it out because she didn’t feel like hearing renters complain about the lack of water pressure or the broken slats on the deck. She only did the bare minimum for upkeep, as was evident by the peeling exterior. Her brother kept telling her to sell it. The value of coastal property had quadrupled since her father-in-law bought the place in the 1960s. Sasha hugged her unexpectedly, and the warmth of it settled her. “I know it’s difficult for you to make the trip back. But I’ve really missed you.” “I’ve missed you too, Sasha.” “Then why don’t you plan to stay longer?” “I can’t.” “Then come back when the semester ends. Fix this place up. Have you forgotten how nice the summers are here?” “It’s hard not to,” Galene said. “Don’t take it personally. I’m usually tied down by my research.” She failed to mention that her summer stipend hadn’t come through. The funders were rethinking their commitment to her work studying the impacts of global warming on the marine life in the Salish Sea. “I’ve never taken it personally. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you made a pit stop to this place to find a twenty-five-year-old diary so you can reminisce.” Galene clutched the leather journal closer and stalked outside to the car. “It’s not reminiscing. It’s research.” She stepped into the car and shut the door. Sasha rested her elbows at the window as Galene put the car into gear. “Sure it is.” *** Her attention drifted to the murmuration over the fir trees dotting the coast. High above the audience on the lawn, the starlings were putting on their own choreographed show. The surf muffled their song, but she knew they were communicating to each other. How else could they accomplish these aerial theatrics?. They alighted en masse onto the branches of a tree, and on cue, pitched back into the air, circling, fanning, creating waves of black smoke along the horizon. From her viewpoint on the deck at the Inn, she imagined they were harassing the hawk waiting restlessly in the tree. He finally gave up and flew away. “…am happy to introduce one of our hometown heroes to the environmental cause, Dr. Galene MacGregor.” The clapping brought her back to the stage, to the event, to the people on the lawn waiting for her to speak. With a nod and a smile she took her place at the podium and focused on the audience. She’d learned long ago to keep her attention on the last row, a trick mastered when she felt seasick on a boat. Keep steady. Not that she felt seasick, but a feeling had crawled up her arms, tingled the back of her head, made her brain buzz. She couldn’t pinpoint it. Clearing her throat, she unfolded her notes and found them unacceptable. All of the lectures in the world hadn’t prepared her for this. The crowd waited expectantly for her to speak. The blood drained from her head, their faces went blurry. Was she about to faint? “Uhm. Do you need a moment?” the last speaker, the mayor of Booth Bay, whispered in her ear. Shaking her head to bring back some energy she said, “I’ll be all right.” Someone handed her a glass of water. She took two gulps, faced the crowd, and spotted her brother, Sam, in the front row next to Sasha. Galene spoke, “The other speakers here have spoken about Rachel Carson’s influence. Her message to us all about the perils of neglecting the natural world. And she’ll always be memorialized for that. But my memory of Miss Carson is of a warm, caring, private friend. She became my mentor when I desperately needed one.” Galene locked eyes with her brother to register his reaction. Noting none, she continued. “My mother died when I was young and the summer I met Rachel my entire world changed. Growing up on a small island, one doesn’t realize the vast opportunities that lay beyond the shore. Cloistered. I recall using that word about my life.” A few people chuckled, and she imagined it was one of her many cousins who were in the audience. “But Rachel made me recognize the potential I had when women like her, especially women scientists, were not taken seriously. Her critics, called her all sorts of names: spinster, hysterical, a mystic instead of a person of science. Through it all, she held her head high and showed true grace. Because she knew. She knew she was dying. And no one could take away her fortitude, her belief that as part of nature, it was up to nature to decide when her time came. As she told her best friend, Dorothy Freeman in one of her letters, reminiscing about a time she and Dorothy sat right here and watched a migration of monarchs over the lawn where you now sit, ‘…we felt no sadness when we spoke of the fact that there would be no return. And rightly—for when any living thing has come to the end of its life cycle, we accept that end as natural.’ “She was a keen observer. Her trilogy of the sea is a poetic account of the life cycle on the variety of species who rely on the ocean. I think she’d like most to be remembered not as the woman who catalyzed the environmental movement. But a biographer of the sea. Because it was here, by the ocean, she was happiest.” The applause died down, she regained her composure to allow a wide smile to break across her face, took another gulp of the water, and sat. The master of ceremonies announced a cocktail hour followed by dinner for those guests that had reserved tickets (tickets had cost three hundred a person and Galene doubted Sam or Sasha had forked out the money for a lobster bake when it was their lobster catch everyone was going to be eating). People came up to the deck and wandered inside when the breeze picked up and a chill descended. As she followed the crowd into the bar, Sam took her by her elbow. “Hey.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “We’re not staying.” “I didn’t think you would be.” “Come to dinner before you leave?” “Sure. I’m here until Tuesday.” His hair was still the same tawny brown, flecked with gray at the temples. His expression hopeful as he said, “Call us?” “Yes. I’ll call in the morning.” Sasha came up to say goodbye just as a man strode up and said, “Galene.” She did a double take. Although they were inside, he hadn’t taken off his black-framed wayfarer sunglasses, the type that were popular in the sixties and were making a comeback with celebrities. He lifted them onto his head and her heart caught in her throat. It was him. “James?” It came out as a croak. “James?” Sasha took the familiar stance of hands planted on hips. “Oh. My. God.” Galene widened her eyes at Sasha, communicating without saying, shut the hell up. And go away. “James, you remember my good friend Sasha?” He grinned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling like they always did, making him appear cheerful. “Of course.” His hair, once a deep brown, was now totally gray. His face had turned jowly, one reason she hadn’t recognized him when he took his seat on the lawn. That and his padded middle. No wonder she had felt unsettled before speaking. She’d seen him without recognizing him right away. He’d always been so chiseled. And without the bronze summer tan she remembered from their youth, he appeared—doughy. Galene hoped Sasha recognized her pleading expression after all of these years. “Sasha, so glad you came today. I’ll see you tomorrow? I know you have to go.” “Yes. So right. See you tomorrow. Goodbye, James.” And Sasha parted, leaving Galene to face the guy, now a man, she’d loathed for half of her life. “My company donated a lot of money to the Nature Conservancy for the upkeep of her preserve,” he said to explain his presence. The Rachel Carson Salt Pond Preserve in New Harbor was one of many memorials. “That’s nice,” Galene said, sounding as if her tongue had swelled to twice its size. He coughed into the back of his wrist. “I…uh…would you like a drink?” “Yes. A Chablis please.” She watched him make his way to the bar. As he did, a few people patted his shoulder, spoke into his ear. He threw his head back and laughed at a joke someone told him. Who were these people and how did he know them? Why was he here? He came back, handed her a glass, and as if on cue said, “When I heard you were speaking, I knew I had to come. We spent a lot of time in those tidal pools. You me and Trevor.” His eyes skimmed over the top of his tumbler of bourbon to meet hers. Ice tinkled in the glass as he sipped. “How is Trevor?” His face changed. “Trevor died in Vietnam.” “Oh, I’m so sorry. He was such a good spirited kid.” “Mother was crushed. She never recovered.” “That’s terrible.” It surprised Galene he talked about his mother with no note of bitterness in his voice. Losing Trevor must have been the end of what was left of their miserable family life. He put on a smile. “You look the same. And I hear you’re doing wonderful work out at the University of Washington is it?” “Yes.” “Still tramping around in the seaweed?” “Kelp beds. I study the impact of warming ocean temperatures on the kelp beds.” “Ahh…that global warming stuff. You take that seriously?” She bit her tongue. Took a long draw of her wine. “Well,” he continued, “I always knew you’d do something with yourself.” “Really?” She wanted so desperately to remind him of their last conversation, where he told her she’d move to Boston to be with him. “Did you ever get into Harvard?” She hoped this was a dagger that would ward him off. Send him scurrying. “Haha. That’s a long story. I own a company now. Real estate.” “Good for you.” His eyes grazed over her figure. “Get back home much?” “Rarely, I’m sorry to say.” She wasn’t, but it felt like she was supposed to say this. “Is this your first time back here since…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say what should come next. The awful summer of 1962 that had started out so sweet and ended up so tragic. Though out of tragedy she had love. He shook his head and puckered his lips. “No. But that’s probably going to change.” “There you are.” A young woman, Galene guessed was in her late twenties, came up to them and slid her arm into his. He patted the back of her hand. “Galene, meet my wife, Violet.” “Nice to meet you.” “You as well. You gave a wonderful speech.” Violet smiled politely, looked around as if finding Galene non-threatening, and not worth the effort. “Look at this crowd! Everyone is here.” She sounded like a chirping chickadee. “Hey, I just saw Farrah by the bar. I’ll be right back.” And she took off. “You were saying?” Galene said, trying to keep her expression neutral. Inside, she wanted to scream. He raked his free hand through his thick, wavy hair as his gaze followed his wife sashaying to the bar through a thick crowd of people. After taking the last swig of his drink, he puckered his lips and said, “I’m planning to buy the red house. The one my dad owned way back when we first met.” Galene dropped her glass, and it shattered, wine coating the floor, slithering around her feet. Everyone’s attention turned to them and a hush fell across the room. She felt like she was under a microscope. A server scurried over with a rag, wiping up around her shoes. “I’m so sorry,” Galene stammered. “Are you okay?” He was actually concerned for her. “I’ll be fine. I just need to sit,” she said. He took hold of her by the waist and guided her to a chair in the lounge by the fireplace. People gave her a wide berth as they passed. She inhaled and stared into the flames, afraid to look him in the eyes. “It’s probably jet lag,” he said. “Yes.” “I’ll stay with you until you feel better.” “It’s fine. Don’t worry. I have a room upstairs. I think I’ll go lay down.” “Wonderful. Then I’ll see you again.” “What do you mean?” “We’re staying here too.” Galene Early Spring 1962 Southport, Maine There’s gray, and there’s black and white. Gray times are those when you make concessions to survive. Black and white times are when you won’t. Today is gray. A fox got into the coop last night, chased the hens off their nests and ate the eggs. Dad doesn’t know yet. My brother Sam forgot to close up the coop before he went out, and I don’t want to give our dad another reason to be mad at him. So, I’m off to find gull eggs. The temperature was arctic last night, but as dawn creeps over the horizon, it provides a glimpse of warmer weather. The heat builds with the rising sun, coursing through my limbs, my face, my breath, as I venture out onto the rocky shore, slick with sea spray and small pools of water reflecting the silvery dawn mist. The herring gulls, with their muted gray wings, are less aggressive than the black backed, and smaller, so I start with their nests. I throw a pocket-sized rock to shoo a gull from her nest and snatch an egg before she can pierce my hand with her beak. It’s warm from her incubating and a wave of guilt washes over me briefly before I place it in the wicker basket. We need to eat. The indignant bird has a partner who joins her, circling in the air above my head. I move to another nest. Alert, this pair torpedoes my feet with their bills. I dodge their attacks as best I can, and they peck at my rubber boots like a small hammer. They’re in a frenzy now and my luck will run out soon if I don’t hurry. I’m able to take four more eggs before being chased off by one of them nipping at my hair. Their squawking protests echo as I run away. The things we do. If Sam had closed the coop, I wouldn’t be here wanting to screech back at the birds. “Sorry, you can always lay another one, but we’ve got to eat.” A few pairs of black-backed gulls have nests on the farthest ridge. As I approach, they flap their wings. One lifts its beak, opens wide and screams. I remind myself that their protective instincts aren’t half as bad now as they will be once the chicks hatch. When I was the height of Sam’s knees, he took me out on this ledge to see the chicks, warning me to stay away from the nests. I may have gotten too close, or not have paid attention to his warning. A pair of black-backs rose in the air above us, dropping an enormous plop of white and green slimy mess on my head. Sam laughed while I cried. I approach with caution. A gull pulls out of her nest, runs right at me, her wings unfolding and flapping like a red flag to the flock. There are gray and there are black and white moments. I just washed my hair last night. This is a black and white moment. I back off, turn, and stumble over a small boy. “What’re you doing?” he asks. From his small stature I guess he’s too young to know much of anything. “I’m collecting gull eggs,” I say, pulling the basket to my chest. “Who are you?” “Why?” Searching the sea behind him for answers, pointing at the gulls dipping into the waves. “They eat the fish. The fishermen pay me. To control the population.” “What fish?” “Herring. That’s why they’re called herring gulls.” He’s wearing a pair of un-scuffed Buster Brown shoes, a white button-down shirt, gray flannel pants, and a jacket. And from the sound of his accent I’d say he’s from away. “You’re going to dirty those,” I say. He shrugs and smears the toe of his shoe against a rock. “I don’t care.” “What’s your name?” “Trevor.” “How old are you?” “Nine.” “Where are you from?” “Boston.” It surprises me his accent doesn’t give that away. “What’re you doing here?” He gestures to the red house looming on an outcrop of rock at the end of the island. “My dad just bought that house. We’re staying there for the summer.” The locals call it the red house because of the brilliant red paint job. Though it’s actually owned by the Hemburly family. Or it was. Old lady Hemburly died a few years ago and her nephew inherited it but he lives in Texas and rarely comes back to Maine. Built a century ago when sheep grazed, the land is now flanked by fir and spruce. There’s a ribbon of stone wall embedded in the forest of trees. I haven’t been in the house since I was a little girl and I recall that the inside of the house was run down. So was Mrs. Hemburly. And I remember the views in the main parlor where she sat in an old velvet chair with views of the ocean on one end of the room, and Sheepscot Bay at the other. I set my basket of eggs down and put out my hand. “Well, nice to meet you. My name is Galene.” He puts his small hand in mine. It’s smooth and warm like the eggs. “What kind of name is Galene?” If he weren’t so young, his bluntness would be annoying. However, it’s not the first time someone has asked me that. My father named me after the Greek goddess. “It means calm seas.” “Oh.” He scratches his head and we both hear someone call, “Trevor!” In the distance, a young man stands on a boulder, cupping his mouth to the breeze. “That’s my brother James. I need to go now. Nice to meet you, Galene.” “Nice to meet you too, Trevor.” He pivots, runs toward his brother, and when he reaches him, points back in my direction. I pick up my basket and head back home. When I reach the road, a Cadillac comes out of the driveway of the red house. Trevor and his brother James are in the back seat. James’ dark eyes assess me under the rim of a tweed cap. I trip on a small rock and he turns away just as I find my balance. Trevor puts his face to the back window, flapping his hand. I wave back before James grabs him by the collar and pulls him into his seat. *** It’s a short walk past the red house to mine at the end of the road. Our Labrador, Candy, flops on the ground, languidly guarding the hen coop. “Too late,” I tell her. Her ears prick up, but she doesn’t even bother lifting her head as a fly buzzes around her nose. Green tufts of grass and dandelion greens peek out from under the melting remnants of a late spring snow along the side of the barn. The air smells like warm earth and salt. It’s the kind of day to open the windows. I pick some dandelion greens for breakfast and put them in my basket. My brother Sam comes out of the barn, sits on a bench, sliding his boots on over thick wool socks. “Where’ve you been?” “I had to collect gull eggs. You left the coop open last night.” “I know,” he says. “Candy was barking, so I ran out just in time to stop a coon from carrying off with one of the hens.” “The eggs are gone, or crushed. It was a mess.” Sam grunts but won’t acknowledge his mistake. “Go feed Dad. He’s been asking for you. And then I need you to come with me today. Louis can’t make it.” “Is that why you’re going out so late?” “Don’t be fresh.” He sweeps an oil stained hand through his unruly hair. I was about to ask him why his sternman wasn’t showing up, but he wouldn’t let me. “Go on now. Dad’s waiting.” Dad’s sitting by the wood-burning stove with a blanket draped over his laps. He’s staring out the window, what he sees, I’m not sure. Blue sky? White clouds? Or just watery images? “It’ll rain later,” he says, sensing my presence as I place the basket on our old wooden kitchen table. He can predict the weather. I’d say it was because he’s losing his sight, or maybe the arthritis flaring, seeping into his bones. But there’s more to it. As long as I can remember, even back when I was a little girl and my mother was still alive, my dad spoke about the weather with inevitability. He feels the air and knows which direction the wind will shift; knows to batten the window hatches when a Nor’easter no one else predicted is working its way up the coast. His uncanny sense of weather made him one of the most enduring and prosperous lobstermen in our town. Until he had given it over to my brother. Sam didn’t have Dad’s intuition about where to place the pots for the best catch, how to navigate tricky waters, and his timing was all wrong. I think he’s not up to it. My Dad blames it on the alcohol. Sam goes to the tavern with his friends almost every night and, as Dad says, five dollars spent is five dollars not made. I throw a slab of butter in the iron skillet and it sizzles. “Sam asked me to go out with him today. Will you be all right?” Dad shrugs. “Ayuh.” I crack a gull egg over a bowl, add milk, whisk it into a froth, and add the dandelion greens. There’s enough bread in the box for the two of us. I hope Sam ate already. “Wasn’t planning on going today. Sasha might call,” I say as I slather the toast with the rest of the butter, cook the eggs, and scoop them onto a plate. The smell alerts Dad to get out of his chair. He walks across the floor of the living room with a measured gait, both out of caution and because of his arthritis, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Eat more, Galene,” he says, scraping some of his eggs onto my plate, which makes me feel guilty. “A family bought the red house,” I say. “From away?” he asks. His gnarled hands reach for his coffee mug. Arthritic knuckles bulge, years of lobstering written all over them: scars from rope cuts; knife wounds; age spots from the sun. “Boston,” I say. “Figures. The house is in such state I don’t know whether anyone from town could afford to fix it proper.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Gull eggs?” I set my fork down. He knew. Of course, he’d know the difference in taste, while I couldn’t tell. “I stole them from the nesting birds up on the ridge.” What I don’t reveal is that Sam left the coop open. Although I want to. He grunts and scoops a forkful in his mouth. “Only get to taste them in the spring. Always like the taste. Did they get you?” He was the one who taught me how to collect the eggs years ago. “Almost.” His eyes graze past me, a fond memory lurking somewhere. There’s a fire in the stove, and wood close at hand. I telephone the neighbor, Mrs. Peterson and ask her to check in on Dad at lunch. “We should be back by evening,” I say. I leave a plate of pickles and ham in the cupboard. “Louis isn’t good for your brother,” she says. “I have to go now.” I don’t want to listen to Ida Peterson lecture me about my brother’s lobster business. There’s nothing I can do about it, anyway. Dad and Sam had always been a team until Dad’s sight went. He tried to hide it from us, but we noticed small things. The way he’d grasp at the side of chairs as he made his way across a room, fumbling in the cupboards for the tea, his hands wandering over containers of porcelain until they landed on the hard metal tin box. “Here, Dad, let me help you,” I’d say. And he’d brush me off with an impatience that struck me as odd. “He’s losing his sight,” my brother told me one day six years ago after they got back from lobstering. “How do you know for sure?” I said. “Because he almost killed me today.” My brother was not one for melodramatics. “What happened?” “The fog rolled in and we were passing the lighthouse and he didn’t spot Davey’s shoal until we were almost on top of it.” “Is that the whole of it? Maybe it was the vapors? Anyone can lose their sense of direction in the vapors.” Sam shook his head. “No, Galene. Admit it. We’ve known for some time. He almost tripped on the stool walking into the kitchen. He says it’s the malaria. He says it’s the lingering effects.” How could malaria still plague my dad years after he fought in the Pacific? Sam insisted it was too dangerous for Dad to keep lobstering. At sixteen, he quit high school to take over the business. I was too young to help, so he recruited a local boy named Louis. But I’m seventeen now, old enough, and Sam trusts me to bait the traps when Louis was busy or sleeping off a night at the bar. I don’t like it though. It’s hard and my hands end up red and raw from working the lines, even with rubber gloves as protection. The sound of the truck horn startles me. “Come on!” Sam shouts.
  3. CHAPTER TWO - Introduces protagonist, antagonist, setting, tone, inciting incident, and primary conflict. CHAPTER TWO _______________________________________ Mallory They say life can change in the blink of an eye. Mine changed in the carpool lane. After I pulled myself out of bed, after the blur of packed lunches, signed permission slips, and kisses, I received an unexpected email while dropping the girls off at school. One I wouldn’t notice or read for another thirty-four minutes. Those thirty-four minutes on that fateful Friday were filled with blissful ignorance of how the life I had built for myself would start crumbling around me. It seemed like just another ordinary day. I drove with the windows down. The California sun hit my face, and the wind blew back the loose strands of my hair. I sipped my coffee and sang along to Train’s Drops of Jupiter album. I swung by the dry cleaners and picked up Ryan’s suits, returned a call to my mother, and waved to Rebecca, my husband’s administrative assistant, who I passed at the intersection of Broadway and Fillmore on the way home. I stopped in our driveway and chatted with our neighbors, who were trimming their annoyingly immaculately maintained hedges. If I had known what was sitting in my inbox waiting for me, I wouldn’t have done any of those things. When I finally was sitting in front of my computer, I didn’t recognize the sender of the email. It was from a generic Yahoo account, truthteller55@yahoo.com, but the subject line was two simple words: Read Me. It was the type of email I usually disregarded as spam, but the subject line was so simple it caught my attention and made me pause. It came across as a pleading and urgent request from a friend, not the typical “Bad Babes All Access” junk mail that I deleted upon receipt. I clicked the subject line and staring back at me were two lines of text and an image that changed everything. Mallory, I debated sending this but decided I would want to know if it was me. This isn’t a one- time thing. Ryan has been cheating on you for months. I am so sorry. I froze. My hands shaking. The empty, nauseous feeling in my gut grew. Panic and fear swept over me as I hesitantly scrolled down to view the entire image. A grainy picture loaded on the screen, one that would live on in my head unwelcome for years and be recalled by the smallest of triggers. In it, my husband was in his office standing in front of his desk, not working. He was standing between the legs of his assistant, Rebecca, while she sat atop his desk. Her head was thrown back, mouth open in ecstasy. Even with bad lighting and a poor angle, his eyes appeared to be smiling while he licked up her neck. They thought they were alone. They were wrong. I could feel my face getting hot, the blood pooling in my cheeks as I stared at the screen. I closed my eyes and tried to take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, but it didn’t work. The rhythmic thumping of my heartbeat picked up pace and grew louder in my ears as I scrolled through the email and analyzed all the details of the photo, over and over again. Driving myself crazier with each passing minute. I scrutinized every piece of punctuation, every curve of their bodies, and every conversation I could recall having with Ryan in the weeks leading up to today. I scanned my memory trying to remember every interaction I had with Rebecca. Every time she answered his phone, added something to his calendar, or greeted me as I walked passed her into Ryan’s office. Were there tells I had missed along the way? She had been his assistant for three years. How long had this been going on? I would have been caught off-guard less if someone had driven a semi-truck through our house. After all, car accidents happen every day and are an expected part of life, but this betrayal was earth-shattering. How could he do this to the girls? What are they going to think when they find out? Who else knew? Were they all laughing at me? How long have I been lied to? The pathetic clueless wife. I continued spiraling and obsessing. I counted the number of words in the message and would later realize while lying in bed that night, that it was the same number of minutes it took me to open the email after it had been sent. Thirty-four. It surely couldn’t be a coincidence and must mean something. A sign. A warning from the universe. My mind raced days, weeks, and months into the future as I tried to strategically plan every action and counter-reaction that might happen once I confronted him. After several hours of my crazed examination of anything I could recall or get my hands on, I stopped and called Colleen. Ryan might have been my husband, but Colleen was my person. She answered on the second ring and listened patiently as I spilled all the details, my concerns about the girls, how the situation would play out if I ignored the email versus how it would play out if I confronted him. Then I repeated for the hundredth time, “I’m so embarrassed. This is going to crush them,” and she interrupted me. “Stop! Please stop it. Mallory, breathe and hear yourself. I just listened to you go on about how this would affect the girls, how you couldn’t believe he could do this to them, how you don’t want them to grow up in a split home, and never once did you say how upset you were he did this to you. How hurt you are. How angry you are. How betrayed you are. How you don’t want to think about how he likely has been inside another woman or -” “Stop, Colleen. I don’t want to think about that,” I interrupted, my voice catching in my throat as I tried to clear the image from my head. Seeing it on paper or in my inbox was one thing but having the image of his infidelity live out inside my head was too much to bear. My imagination was a dangerous place where extreme scenarios played out daily. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head in frustration. “Of course, you don’t. No one does. But don’t you see, you aren’t jealous or scorned for yourself. You’re reacting for the girls. Mal, be honest with me for a minute. Did you see this coming? Are you even in love with him anymore? Because for someone that just found out her husband has been having an affair, you aren’t nearly as pissed off or hysterical as you should be”. Instinctively, my hand squeezed down on the arm of the chair, and I leaned forward defensively. “Seriously, Colleen? I find out my husband is cheating on me, and this is your response? I’m hanging up now”. “Mal, wait...” But I didn’t wait. I hung up before she could get another word out. I picked up the cold cup of coffee I had been nursing for almost an hour and walked to the back patio, propping myself up in one of the wicker chairs. Knees pulled to my chin, I stared out across the meticulously manicured lawn in a daze. Ryan had paid more attention and care to our grass than our marriage. Not a blade was out of place. Clean, straight, crisscross lines showed where he had pushed the mower the night before. How had I missed this? I braced myself for the tears that were supposed to come, but they never did. I willed them to the surface. Nothing. Instead, anger bubbled. I stood and marched through the house directly to our master bedroom, threw back the door to our walk-in closet, grabbed his overnight bag from the top shelf, and began angrily balling up and stuffing his clothing inside. Shirts, ties, pants, shoes, anything I could grab. Some went in the bag still on the wooden hangers. I couldn’t be bothered to do it neatly. I didn’t want to have to look at anything that reminded me of him. When the bag was full, I grabbed the empty laundry basket from the corner and started stuffing his belongings into that too. Within minutes, his side of the closet was empty except for a row of empty swinging hangers. Throwing the overnight bag on top of the full laundry basket, I made my way back toward the backyard. The corners of my lips crept into a smile as the grass tickled the bottom of my feet. I closed my eyes and began throwing his belongings across the lawn. When the last shirt hit the ground, I marched toward the spicket and turned on the sprinkler before walking back to my chair on the patio to take in my work. I don’t know how long I sat like that, watching the sprinkler go round and round soaking his clothes and shoes and leaving muddy puddles on the lawn. An hour? Two? But when I was able to pull myself back to reality and named my feelings: anger, distrust, and rage, I realized sadness, jealousy, and shock were not among them. Colleen was right. She usually was. I picked up my phone and hit redial. “You don’t need to say it,” Colleen answered. “I’m sorry.” “I know you are. So, we’re going to leave him?” Colleen asked reluctantly. Bracing herself for my honest reply. “Yup,” I spat out, smiling at her use of we instead of you in her question. Even now she had paired us together as a dynamic duo. “I had that unread email in my inbox when I waved at her this morning. She is cheating with my husband, and she fucking waved at me like she wasn’t going straight to the office to slide her hand down his pants. I feel like a fool.” “Oh girlie, I wish I could make it better. Why don’t you drop the kids off at your parents? Give yourself some space and time to think and come stay with me in New York for the week. A change of scenery would do you good.” I sat up straighter in my chair. A flutter of hope filled my chest as I considered her offer. I hadn’t taken time alone in years. “I’ll book you a flight out on Monday morning. You won’t need to do a thing. Just pack and drop the girls off at your parents'.” “Okay,” I answered quickly before I could think my way out of it. “I love you.” “I love you, too,” she responded. I could hear the hug she so desperately wanted to give me in the tone of her voice. I set the phone down and stared out across the lawn strewn with Ryan’s sopping wet clothes. The blood rose in my cheeks again. Each perfectly cut blade of grass that hadn’t been touched by the sprinkler or my temper tantrum seemed to taunt and anger me further. Screw Ryan and his stupid lawn. I’d see to it that he knew the grass wasn’t always greener on the other side.
  4. My best friend is going to die. And it’s my fault. That was the accusation screaming inside my head—like the chorus of a heavy metal song—when the doctor came striding in, asking about tacos. “Chicken or beef?” the nurse added. She was wearing magenta scrubs bright enough to blind someone. Maybe both their vision had been compromised. Could they not see the body right in front of us? “It’s this little game Doctor Mullion likes to play, asking what she should order for lunch,” the nurse explained. “My personal vote is pork.” Little game? My best friend is going to die. And it’s my fault. After rubbing a spurt of sanitizer onto her hands, the doctor took a few steps closer. “So Molly—it is Molly, right?” I must have nodded. “Molly, you’ll have to forgive my growling stomach. But I heard you might be able to help us figure out what happened to your friend. As far as you know, is this her first benzodiazepine overdose?” “No—no. See…that’s the thing,” I stammered, distracted by the tube protruding from Cate’s mouth. A different doctor had intubated her upon arrival, breezing out the door before I could ask any questions of my own. “This isn’t some sort of drug overdose. I keep telling everyone that, but no one seems to be listening.” I then sucked down a deep breath before repeating everything I’d already told the EMTs: What Instant Ten was. How I’d gotten it. And what I suspected might have gone wrong. “So let me get this straight,” the doctor said, folding her arms across her chest. It was impossible to miss the side glance she and the nurse exchanged—confirmation I was next in line for a drug test. “You think your friend’s overdose isn’t an overdose at all. It’s a side effect from a magical invention called Instant Ten…which you got from a girl named Van?” She didn’t let me answer. “And may I ask…is this so-called Instant Ten something you’ve been using as well?” I admitted that it was. “But obviously, I had no idea it was dangerous.” “Right. But then doesn’t it seem a bit odd you aren’t suffering any sort of life-threatening reaction yourself?” Life-threatening. My best friend is going to die. And it’s my fault. I shook my head, determined to prove my point. “I know how this all sounds—like an episode straight out of The Twilight Zone or Black Mirror. And I have no idea why the same thing hasn’t happened to me. But I promise it’s the truth!” I then began rummaging through my purse—a cesspool of toys and used tissues and half-eaten granola bars—insistent on showing them Instant 10. “Just give me a second, and I’ll find it again.” “That really won’t be necessary,” the doctor said, dodging the miniature fire truck I’d accidentally tossed toward her head. “Molly, I’m sure this is all a big shock. However, let me assure you, we see BZD overdoses each and every day, and these are the telltale signs: vomiting, muscle slackness, erratic breathing, pupil dilation, loss of consciousness…” She was ticking symptoms off as casually as a waitress reciting beverage choices but didn’t get the chance to finish. Because the machine hulking in the corner, watching over us like an armed guard, suddenly switched from chirping to red-alert beeping. And as a swarm of nurses came charging in, barking new accusations—Respiratory distress! Plummeting oxygen levels!—Cate’s bed went churning out the door. “Wait—what’s happening? Where are you going?” I tried to keep pace with them in the hallway but was quickly edged to the side by the fluorescent nurse. “They’re moving her to the ICU, which is facing significant capacity constraints. But I promise your friend is in good hands. Let’s get you back to the waiting room, okay?” “But I can’t just leave her. You don’t understand!” And despite my ongoing protests, with a few quick steps, the nurse somehow steered me all the way back to the ER lobby, asking that I take a seat. Instead, I paced alongside the front desk like a caged tiger, my mind jumping from regret to panic to despair—an exercise so exhausting, I eventually collapsed onto one of the blue padded chairs. Head falling into my hands, I allowed my fingernails to dig into the tender flesh where the hair had been ripped from my scalp just minutes before the ambulance came hurtling into my driveway. I wondered if I might go into cardiac arrest. A survival mechanism: my heart’s way of rejecting further trauma. There simply wasn’t a world in which I could handle another loss of this magnitude. Not after what had happened to my mother. My best friend is going to die. And it’s my fault. But wouldn’t Cate herself be the first to say that I needed to stop thinking negative thoughts? Positive visualization! Manifest your thoughts into reality. I closed my eyes, trying to picture her laughing instead of gagging on that tube. I opened my eyes. I’d tried to stop her, hadn’t I? But had I tried hard enough? I whipped my phone from my purse, anxious to see if Van had finally replied to my earlier barrage of messages: 10:04 a.m. Van? R u there? Something’s wrong VERY WRONG I know u said not to share Instant 10 But it was used w/o my permission And now … Something terrible has happened PLEASE CALL ME 10:12 a.m. Van, I’m serious CALL ME NOW OR I’M CALLING 911 10:33 a.m. I am BEGGING u to help me This is a matter of life and death!!! Still nothing in return. Such cruel silence—the opposite of the instant gratification I’d been conditioned to crave by the glowing box held in my hand; a hunk of glass and precious metal that could do anything I told it to. Almost anything. It couldn’t fill Cate’s lungs with air. It couldn’t undo the past. My thumbs had just launched an attack on the screen—violently tapping a new round of messages to Van—when a blur of movement filled my peripheral vision. Looking up, I expected to find the same nurse from before. But there was no magenta. Only gray. Gray blazers. Putty-colored pants. And the blur was actually two people. People who I could tell weren’t hospital staff. Just like the officers who showed up on my doorstep after the episode with my daughter…these people had badges. And when I tried to speak, I swallowed my defense whole. I was trying to help. To make things better. I never meant to hurt anyone.
  5. Prologue 13 Years Ago 7:08 PM Liz Liz hated sunsets. And the late September sky was already awash in bruised hues, outlining rows of gnarled apple trees against the slash of dark horizon. She knew most people enjoyed the colorful blurring of day into night, but those same people had clearly never hunted—or been hunted—by dragons before. They were deadliest at dusk, when mottled dragon scales became nearly invisible in the riot of color. Somehow, creatures with wingspans larger than most commercial aircrafts were rendered almost undetectable. Liz was hot beneath her fatigues; sweat pooling at the base of her spine as she lay flat, propped up on her elbows, rifle pressed into her left shoulder. She had orders, like the half dozen other strike teams peppering the ridge overlooking the valley on either side of her. Whatever they were looking for tonight was supposed to be big—big enough to warrant pulling most of her class out of training for a rare demonstration. She blew out a slow, measured breath. “We probably won’t see anything anyway,” Joseph grumbled. Her older brother sounded listless, agitated even. She settled deeper into the shadow of the nearest apple tree, peering through her scope, ignoring the sour smell from rotting apples strewn about her. “You ok?” she asked instead. He sat just a few feet from her, back pressed against some of the large rocks that formed their cover, rifle laying placidly in his lap. His gaze drifted down into the valley too, but he didn’t look happy about it—also unlike him. Joe loved the hunt, and he’d been waiting for an opportunity like this his whole life. But his hazel eyes were faintly glazed with ... boredom? Worry? She was used to him being assured—the oldest, the best of them. Her skin tingled, and she shifted her weight nervously, repositioning her sights. She concentrated on her elbows sinking into the damp earth, the sound of the wind rustling leaves around them, and the steadiness of her own breathing. The orchard trees were getting murkier by the second between the dark and fog that seemed to be drifting in. She frowned. The fog was moving in fast. Too fast. Something snapped to their left, and their bodies simultaneously sharpened with motion. Liz swung her legs around and focused her rifle, wincing as her headset crackled to life in a too-loud gurgle of static. Her hand flew up to her ear to silence the garbled commands struggling to coming through. Static flared painfully, and then the line went dead. “What the—“ She looked back, and paused. Her brother’s face had formed a sort of wordless question, eyes wide and mouth parted slightly. “Joe?” He launched to his feet without a word—and without his gun—bolting through the tangle of branches behind them in a frenzied burst of motion. She didn’t wait. She should have waited. He’d always been faster than her—damn him—but she ran anyway, ducking fruit laden branches and slipping on slick, smushed apple beneath her boots. He wasn’t even trying to be quiet. They were trained to cover ground quickly and quietly, but Joe was crashing through branches and trees. They might as well have been shining a spotlight on their location. It didn’t make any sense, and the full realization of what that meant slammed into her as she rounded the trunk of a particularly large tree and barreled right into Joe’s broad back. Siren Song. Her brother was standing in the middle of a small clearing, face turned skyward, gaze cloudy. They’d always been decently matched for height and strength, but even as she threw both arms around him and shoved him towards the treeline, he scrambled away from her. “I’m here,” Joe shouted upward, the fog curling around them. “I’m sorry,” he said, but not to her. She tried to wrestle him towards cover, ignoring panic sluicing through her at the noise, at Joe’s Siren-addled brain, at the way the orchard seemed to writhe and breathe around them with every sound they made. “Don’t listen to them—Joe, it’s a Siren Song.” Only one kind of creature sent out a Siren Song, robbing you of reason right before the kill. She raised the butt of her rifle, prepared to knock him out if it meant saving him—but then he was looking at her, eyes clear and confused. “Liz?” he asked hoarsely. She opened her mouth to respond, but never got the chance. Pain exploded above her knee as something big and sharp pierced her leg. Her vision went white – shit, shit, SHIT as she hit the ground hard and felt a sudden warmth saturating her pant leg. And she was bleeding …. dragging … dying … against pebbles and something was pulling her towards the trees. She writhed and clawed at exposed roots but she couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t catch hold of anything as her nails split and fingertips muddled, couldn’t wriggle around to see what had a hold of her, even though she knew—she knew. Blood streamed down her thigh and pooled at her stomach, fire streaking through her veins, as she managed to finally stare into the face of a dragon too large to have crept up silently behind her. But there he was, his dark snout streaked with her blood and his toothy grin clamped firmly around her thigh. Green eyes the size of saucers gleamed in the coming dark. He hoisted her up several feet into the air before she even had a moment to draw a dizzy breath, acid burning in her throat. She’d dropped her gun. She reached weakly for the Dragonsbreath grenade attached to her belt. She looked down the nose of a grinning marbled grey and black dragon, whose pointed snout and hand-sized teeth were sunk firmly into her leg as he beat his powerful wings and rose into the air. Class 3. Young Male. He rumbled in his throat, but he hadn’t roasted her, which either meant he couldn’t manage a strong enough flame to reignite his sparks so quickly, or he didn’t want her dead … yet. She groaned as she tried to reach up and beat at his nose, gasping as his bite tightened, blurring her vision. She was going to throw up. This was all wrong. Her brain still rattled off the stats anyway: Wingspan 30 feet. Controls weather patterns. And, in a moment of blinding clarity, she realized: you’re too small. You’re not the dragon we’re looking for. The dragon rumbled again, in a gurgle that almost sounded like laughter. She hung five feet off the ground—ten—as her reaching fingers finally closing around the Dragonsbreath. Her hands shook as she met the Class 3’s glare—her fingers slick with her own blood as she yanked it free and pulled the pin. Green eyes narrowed. “Boom.” she hissed. All of her was screaming—burning—as she wrenched her arm back and hurled it towards his stupid grinning face. B O O M. She hit the ground hard, gasping. She could hear the furious roar of the Class 3 overhead, watched as the Dragonsbreath’s green fire climbed up the side of his maw, the acid burning through scale and bone as it raced up snout to spine. She watched until he drifted out of focus, the glow of the green fire illuminating the frantic beating of his wings as he tried to escape the flames. Breathtaking. She just watched the dragon burn, his agonized screeching splitting the night. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see straight. She lay gasping, aching everywhere—her ears ringing. She blinked once, twice, trying to clear her head as the Class 3 drifted hazily out of focus. Her limbs were leaden, and her hazy vision was abruptly replaced by the alarmed face of her brother. “Liz? Liz?” His dark hair was askew, eyes wet and wide. She’d never seen him cry. His hand was heavy on her thigh, pinching and tearing; his face tightened in horror, “Your leg—” She didn’t know specifics: specifically where she was hurt, specifically where fire coursed through her, specifically where residual Dragonsbreath acid was eating through her own clothing. Everywhere was pain and fire—acid and burning nausea building in her chest, and she would be sick ... she would be sick and— He pressed a finger to his mic, calling for help that roared to dullness in her ears. She wouldn’t be conscious for long. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, to her this time, yes. She tried to grasp the hand that had wrapped around her own, his fingers tightening. Joseph was screaming again for help, for backup, for anybody, and then there was another shattering roar, one she felt as much as heard through her entire body. But it didn’t matter. Joseph never even saw it coming. In one snap of too-large teeth, his entire torso disappeared in a maw that emerged from the fog and engulfed. Dragon saliva hissed as it sprayed the ground. Teeth the length of her forearm, three times bigger than the Class 3’s, missing her by inches. Its immeasurable form darkened the too-bright sky—incomprehensible. Impossible. No matter how much she tried after, she couldn’t recall what happened after. Did she reach for him? For her gun? Her radio? Did she scream? She must have screamed. Did she just lay there and wait to die? She wished she knew. Would it make a difference if she knew? All she could recall was how her brother’s legs had dangled as they drifted, almost lazily, before disappearing into a muddied swirl of a sherbet-colored sky. She didn’t remember the moment when he ceased to be. She couldn’t seem to forget when she realized he was gone.
  6. Opening Scene: Introduces protagonist, setting (flip-flops between two setting: past and present), tone and foreshadows the primary conflict. 1 Mesa, AZ (ten years ago) Corey laid lifeless. Her eyes had yet to open and she was already resentful of the day before her. Her cheek clung to her pillowcase, still damp with tears from the night before. And then, like clockwork, came the weight, rich with pain, nuzzling into its usual spot within her sternum. She opened her eyes and slowly, a blurry room began to merge into focus. Corey’s eyes fixed upon the metal object atop her nightstand. Beams of light slipping through the window promoted it with a brilliant glare. Her switchblade. It taunted her, as it did every morning these days. Corey gazed at it longingly and, had she perhaps one more ounce of strength within her, just a flicker of energy, she might have reached for it and finally put an end to all this misery. It was hers for the taking. She just wondered when the morning would come when she would finally find the strength to do so. Corey let out a wretched cough, shuffling her vocal chords like a deck of cards. Her throat was raw. The single last noise it had produced were the screams a a nightmare, at least three days old by now. Mornings were the hardest for eighteen-year-old Corey Collins. Nevertheless, she wrestled herself out of bed, clamored into her ancient truck and begin driving. Aimlessly, mindlessly, Corey drove. Success—another morning she’d avoided killing herself. Three hours had passed, without trace, meaning, nor purpose, when Corey suddenly found herself bouncing along a desolate dirt road, snaking her way through the most curious of rock formations. “Where the hell am I?” Corey thought, glancing in all directions. She thrust her truck into park and stepped out, a billow of maroon dirt kicked up under her Converse One Stars. Not another living soul in sight. These rock formations, with their smooth facades and curling angles, seemed to be prompting her in. Corey had lived in the Southwest all her life, but never had she encountered terrain like this before. The land, the air, it all felt different here. For the first time in a long time, Corey could breathe. A ragged “For Sale by Owner” sign along the side of the road had caught her eye while driving in. Corey called the number listed and, when an old, brittle voice answered, she was caught off guard. Two months later, the land was hers. When Corey relocated to Sedona, Arizona, at the tender age of eighteen, she knew nothing about managing twenty-seven acres of wild, high-desert land, but that was exactly the point. She wasn’t looking for something easy. Corey was looking for something new that she could wrangle and pour herself into. Something to occupy her mind and distract her. This property at 22 Carriage Way had become a fresh start for Corey. It was the beginning of a new life, allowing her to start over and forget all that had been. 2 Sedona, AZ This was the sweet spot of her day. The Arizona sun surrendered its feverish grip, making way for some much needed relief. Corey squinted as she scanned her land from her disintegrating Adirondack chair, perched west to regard the sunset. Her land was quiet and tucked away on the remote outskirts of Sedona, miles away from any traces of the touristy parts. Ten laborious years of molding and pruning this property to her liking had left it a sight to behold. Rolling hills ablaze with wildflowers, a bustling chicken coop, a handcrafted greenhouse overflowing with bounty and, of course, the many trails weaving their way across her acres like a primitive cross stitch pattern. But perhaps most spectacular of all were the bordering red rocks, with their erosive past hidden deep within their iron sediment — this was the aspect of the land that Corey loved most. There was a kinship of sorts, an understanding that the past had not always been kind. Corey took a sip from her glass, the cool water quenching her throat like a tidal wave. She stretched her long, sun drenched legs out in front of her as the final beads of sweat evaporated from her brow. When the sun had disappeared behind the mountain tops, Corey headed inside to began her nightly routine. She threw a couple of logs into her cast iron wood burning stove, placed a large kettle filled with water on top, then meandered into her bedroom where she stood weary in front of the mirror, loosening her braid and rustling her fingers through her long, golden brown strands. Corey retrieved her kettle and carefully poured the lukewarm water into her antique claw bathtub then grabbed her book and a fresh bar of soap. She pushed open the old French style windows and let the late day breeze, along with the last notes of light, spill in. She stepped into the bath and, as the warm water engulfed her, Corey eased her tired body in. The day’s work was complete, her body could rest, and her mind could get lost in the latest book she was reading. These fantastic stories about others and the lives they lived, surely far different from her own, kept her entertained, but perhaps more importantly than that, these books occupied her so that in the still, quiet moments, her mind couldn’t wander into the past. ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— 3 Mesa, AZ (ten years ago) Corey leaned back on the blanket as she watched her little brother standing next to her boyfriend on the riverbed in front of her. Mason’s young legs, squat and strong, launched his body into the air as he laughed watching the stone skip over the water’s surface. “Again!” he cried, clapping his hands. “Alright, look for another stone,” said Jack. “Here’s one!” Mason ran the stone over to be inspected by Jack. “Let’s see,” said Jack in a serious tone, as he turned the rock over in his hand. “Not too small, not too big, and look, flat as a pancake. Perfect.” Mason jumped again. “Five this time! Try to get five, because I will be five soon.” “Five skips for the almost-five year-old Mason!” Jack shouted as he sent the stone sailing. Corey smiled, her eyes fixated on Jack now. His back glistened as the sun shone off the thin layer of sweat that coated his skin. Ravines and ridges decorated his torso, leaving it no mystery that Jack was an athlete. “One, two, three, four….aww, only four.” said Mason. Jack lunged towards Mason and threw him up in the air, “Well then I guess that means you can’t turn five!” Mason howled with delight as he landed safely back into Jack’s arms. Later, as the three walked back to Jack’s car, Mason turned to his big sister, “I will still turn five, right Corey?” “Of course you will still turn five. Jack was just teasing,” Corey jostled his mop of blonde hair, blissfully unaware of the lie that had just sauntered from her lips. 4 Sedona, AZ The following afternoon was quite peaceful until his thunderous voice burst through the air. Corey was so startled, she nearly sawed her finger clean off. She had been working on her fence in the far west corner of her property, lost deep in the rhythmic hum of her sawing. There was no reason why a man’s voice should be nearing - not now, not ever. Corey lowered her saw, scanning in the direction of the voice. And there it was, a bobbing cowboy hat in the not too far distance, rising in and out of view between the sunflower stalks, and it was coming closer. Corey crouched low, concealing herself behind one of the many piñon trees inhabiting this section of her land. She positioned her lean frame behind the trunk and carefully peered around. “This way,” sounded the voice. Corey strained to make out a second, smaller figure, dutifully trailing alongside the taller man with the cowboy hat. “What if we can’t find her?” said the younger figure, clearly a boy. “Then we retrace our steps and track the other direction.” said the man. They were getting closer now. Corey’s heart quickened. She clutched her chest, in fear it might gallop straight out of her chest. “I don’t see any tracks.” said the boy. “You’re right son, I think we lost her.” There was a pause. “Well, hold on now, wait a second…what do we have here? Looks like someone’s been working.” They had to be no more than fifteen feet away by now. Corey clenched her eyes and listened as the sounds of their footsteps approached closer. And then – silence. Still and baited silence. Corey pressed back against the tree trying to will the trunk to open up and swallow her whole. Her body trembled as the footsteps sounded again, but only this time, with a hurried frenzy. “There she is!” roared the man. Corey’s head went light and her gut churned so deeply she was certain it had irreparably knotted itself, never to be the same again. She remained bound tight against her tree, eyes closed, breath held, waiting for whatever was to happen next. Boom – the gunshot echoed over Corey’s fields and off the nearby canyon walls. “I think I got her!” hollered that man, and off they ran. Corey listened intently as their footfalls grew farther away. Only then, when the sounds had all but disappeared, did she realize the tears that had been streaming down her face. She lifted her trembling fingers to her cheeks, brushing them away, and rose to her feet. Corey peered out from behind her tree just as the father and son had reached their fallen elk in the distance. Utterly drained, Corey remained perched against that piñon tree for the next two hours, until the duo had long since dragged their kill away, and the sun had called it a day. Only after the darkness emerged did Corey feel safe enough to move. For in the dark, Corey was invisible…the way she liked it.
  7. Hello everyone. This is the first chapter of my manuscript, women's fiction with speculative elements. This story began life in the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. I had to write a 2500 word story with the prompts, ghost story, butler, and paralysis. The characters wouldn't leave me alone, so I turned it into a 4000-word short story that won first place in Writers Digest's Popular Fiction Awards, in the romance category. And they still wouldn't leave me alone, so now I am writing their entire story. lol Another attempt at a Pitch Three years after the car crash that killed her husband, 32-year-old photojournalist Emma Hill is floundering. She's lost her passion for her work—for her life. No one knows what really happened the night Danny died, and Emma plans to keep it this way. If Jane, her best friend and late husband's sister, ever found out, it would destroy their friendship, and Emma couldn't survive without Jane's support. But hiding the truth is wearing Emma down. On the anniversary of Danny's death, a very drunk Jane tells Emma it's time to stop wallowing and orders her to make a wish on the first star of the night. The word Nantucket randomly pops into Emma's mind. What follows is a string of impossible coincidences involving Nantucket that convince Emma something important is waiting for her there. She travels to the island, unsure of what to expect, and is thrilled when the island's haunted history rekindles her love for photojournalism. An old butler with mysterious ties to her past, and a young widowed author in a wheelchair with secrets of his own, help Emma realize she wants more from life to simply exist. But the only way to escape the ghosts in her past and have a chance for the happiness she longs for is to risk revealing her shameful secret. Chapter One Why is it that the best days burn by like the flash of a shooting star, but the ones you want so desperately to forget drag on for an eternity? I check my watch, heart sinking when it's only six o’clock. I swear, the more I will time to speed up, the slower it creeps by. I’m so done with this day, I'm ready to scream like a banshee. Somehow, espite the excessive amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, I manage to control this primal urge. Instead, I sink into the butter-soft embrace of my best friend Jane’s leather couch and blow out a long breath. Tugging at the edges of my navy-blue cardigan, I close my eyes and imagine being wrapped in Danny’s arms. Three years of almost constant wear have reduced my husband’s sweater to a tattered shell of its former self, and only the vaguest hint of his pine-scented aftershave lingers, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. A hiccuping breath escapes as I swallow a sob. I flutter my lashes to halt the tears I've been trying so hard to suppress, but they come anyway. I drag a fingertip under each eye to remove the moisture, hoping Jane doesn't see. I promised her I wouldn't cry today. Jane walks into the room, catching me. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare. If you start, I will too, and then there’ll be no stopping us.” She places the open bottle of wine she’s carrying beside the box of tissues placed strategically on her sleek glass coffee table. She plucks a tissue out and hands it to me. “I’m sorry. I really thought this year was going to be different.” “Did you, though?” She drops to the couch beside me and gives one of my unruly auburn curls a gentle tug. “Come on, Emma. You cry at dog food commercials.” I huff, indignant. “I do not. I cry at the SPCA commercials. The ones with the sad-eyed puppies and kittens. A completely understandable reaction.” Despite her teasing, I know Jane doesn’t begrudge my tears. Danny was her brother, after all. She introduced us back when we were roommates in university. She misses him too. Jane’s my life preserver, the one who has kept me afloat these past few years. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Guilt flares, sending an involuntary shudder rippling through my body. If she ever discovers what really happened the night Danny died, she’ll never forgive me. None of her family will. “Only a few more hours to go.” She slides closer and lays her arm across my shoulders. “You’ve got this.” “Thank you,” I whisper. Her eyebrows arch. "For what?" “For, you know.” I give a helpless shrug. “Everything.” She squeezes my hand. I douse the flames of my guilt with another sip of wine. Jane always takes the day off work on the anniversary of Danny’s death, to make sure I’m never alone. No easy feat, considering she’s an anesthesiologist in high demand. And I’m endlessly grateful for her sacrifice. The first year she showed up at my place with a case of wine and three boxes of tissues. Not the healthiest coping mechanism, but I craved the oblivion alcohol promised. Since that first year, our wine consumption has dropped off, and we’ve realized home is not the best place for me to be. Now, we spend the day here, in her apartment, watching sappy chick flicks. So far, we’ve watched Valentine’s Day, Leap Year, and Sleepless in Seattle. We’ve just finished Crazy Stupid Love, one of our favorites. I defy anyone to not fall in love with that movie. The scene where Steve Carrel is cutting the lawn in the dark, and Julianne Moore is watching him from the dining room window, talking to him on the phone and pretending to need his help with the furnace. God, that scene guts me every time. It’s such a perfect representation of love. The pure, understated kind of love you know with unwavering certainty will never end. The kind of love I had for Danny. After a few more minutes of sniffling and snuffling, Jane jumps to her feet. She wobbles, a little unsteady. Small wonder. At five foot two, she’s a good six inches shorter than me and lighter by at least thirty pounds, but she’s matched my wine consumption glass to glass. Her cheeks are bright pink like they are every time she drinks. She tells me it’s because of her Japanese heritage and a missing enzyme that metabolizes alcohol. Thankfully, she rarely consumes this much, only when the occasion warrants the consequences. Like today. She clears her throat and speaks, her words slurring a little. “Okay. Listen up, Emma Hill.” Blinking, she swallows audibly, and I wondered if she’s on the verge of vomiting. I shift away, hopefully out of range. “Give me a minute,” she adds and swallows again. Danny’s last name was Matakoro, but I didn’t change my name when we married. Lately, I find myself questioning my decision because if I had taken his name, it would be like keeping a little part of him alive. Jane clears her throat, and, apparently no longer in danger of spewing, announces, “I hereby proclaim today shall henceforth be known as the official End-of-Emma’s-Wallowing Day.” She raises her glass in a toast. “Time to make a fresh start, move on, begin a new chapter…take the first step in the journey of the rest of your life.” I blink, trying to focus on the two images of my best friend wavering back and forth in front of me. When they finally merge into a single shape, I say, “Going for the world record for the greatest number of clichés in a single sentence?” She tosses her head. A curtain of silky black hair swings across her face and she flips it away, glaring at me. “Laugh all you want, but I’m serious. I mean, just look at you. You’re a mess.” Her gaze travels up and down my body. “When was the last time you had your hair cut?” I tuck an errant curl behind my ear. “Long hair doesn’t need the same attention a short bob like yours does.” “Maybe not, but it needs to be trimmed once in a while. And washed and conditioned. Pretty sure neither of those happens on a regular basis.” She yanks on the sleeve of my cardigan. “And this. You’ve been wearing this piece of crap sweater long enough. Let it go.” I wrap my arms protectively across my chest. “It’s Danny’s. I can’t just throw it away.” “Yes, you can, Emma. It’s time. Time to move on.” Tears slide down my cheeks, because how can I? I close my eyes, trying not to think about the last conversation Danny and I had. Well, no. Not a conversation, a fight. Memories strain against the restraints I’ve carefully set into place. My chest contracts with a crushing pain. A band tightens around my lungs, turning the simple act of breathing into a battle. My pulse thumps in my temple. I force myself to take a slow breath in through my nose and out through pursed lips like my counselor taught me. I will my muscles to relax. Jane misinterprets my reaction as simple grief, and her gaze fills with commiseration. “I’m not telling you to forget Danny. He’ll always be your first love. But you’re only thirty-two. Your life is an open expanse of sparkling blue water, spreading out before you in a sea of endless possibilities.” I swipe at my eyes and let out a snort of laughter. “Seriously, did you just read a book on clichés for everyday life?” She drops back to the couch beside me, takes my wine glass and sets it on the table, then reaches for my hands. “I love you, Sissy, and it’s breaking my heart to see you like this. You’re not living, you’re existing. That’s no way for anyone, let alone someone as brilliant and beautiful as you, to spend their life. And you know Danny wouldn’t want this for you.” She leans closer and lowers her voice theatrically as if she’s imparting the secret of eternal life. “I read somewhere chronic sadness wreaks havoc with your immune system, but a healthy serving of nice robust sex has the exact opposite effect.” Her eyebrows wiggle up and down suggestively. I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing at her maniacal expression. “And what, pray tell, is nice robust sex?” “You know, vigorous, plentiful … satisfying.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m telling you. You need to get laid.” I burst out laughing. “Not everyone is as obsessed with sex as you are, Jane. Some of us do just fine without it.” She blows out a puff of air through compressed lips. “Yeah, right.” Ignoring her disbelief, I say, “And I’m not just existing. I have a job, and, friends, and I do…things.” "What friends? As far as I know, I’m it, and lately, you won’t answer my texts or phone calls unless I freak out and yell at you. I’d also like to point out that this is the first time in three months you’ve been over here, and we both know if this wasn’t the day, you wouldn’t be here now.” I don’t bother to argue, because she’s only speaking the truth. “And what things do you do?” she continues. “The only time you ever go out is when I drag you kicking and screaming.” She grins. “And considering my size, that is an extraordinary accomplishment.” “I do not scream, or kick.” I try to sound offended but fail miserably. Jane can always make me laugh. “Not much, anyway.” “Come on, Emma, help me out here. There must be something that brings you joy. Something you’ve always wanted to do but never found the time, or courage to try.” I purse my lips, giving her my best contemplative expression. “Well, I’ve always wanted to bake an angel food cake from scratch,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood, which has become far too intense for my liking. Jane swats my arm. “You are the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.” She laughs and pulls me to my feet. “Come on. I have an idea.” She drags me out through a pair of white-trimmed French doors to her balcony. Jane’s apartment is large for the west end of Vancouver where real estate is at a premium, but it’s pretty basic. Tiny kitchen, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a monochromatic color scheme in shades of gray. The stone-colored walls, weathered hardwood floors, and smoky gray furniture are not my taste at all. I prefer colorful surroundings. Her balcony, though, that’s what makes her place spectacular. It’s massive, running the entire length of the building, and overlooks English Bay. When Jane’s elderly aunt was ready to sell two years ago, I had a chance to buy the apartment. I could have afforded it, thanks to Danny’s substantial insurance settlement, but I refuse to touch a penny of that. It feels too much like blood money. Not to mention that selling the house Danny and I scrimped and saved to buy would have felt like a betrayal. Jane, however, had jumped on the chance. Now, as my house slowly falls to pieces around me, I suspect she might have been the smart one. The heavy perfume of night-blooming jasmine engulfs us, cloyingly sweet and intense enough to make me sneeze. “Ugh. I can’t fathom how you actually enjoy this smell.” Five terra cotta containers filled with the flowering plants rest against the far railing. I’m surprised the stupid things are still blooming this late into the fall. Jane arches a single, delicately shaped eyebrow in an effortless movement. “Do not insult my precious babies.” I feign a gag. “Why did you drag me out here? It’s certainly not for me to enjoy this repulsive stench.” I scan the sky. “Not that I don’t enjoy your view.” The night is clear, the sky deepened to cobalt. A deep, rich color, so saturated you can almost taste it at the back of your tongue. The crisp breeze holds only the vaguest hint of the coming winter. In the distance, I can just make out the lights of container ships waiting in the harbor. A perfect October evening. Or at least that’s what Danny would’ve called it. He was all about the atmosphere. Candle-lit dinners, moonlit walks by the ocean, a shared bottle of wine with soft jazz playing in the background. A pain stabs in the center of my chest, and I force my thoughts back to the present, a much safer place to be. Emotionally, at least. Jane points a scarlet-tipped finger at the single, white star shining beside the full moon. “There. The first star of the night. There’s magic in that Emma, mark my words. Enough to make your dreams come true.” “Magic?” “Yes, magic.” Jane turns to me, eyes wide. “Powerful magic.” “Good lord, Jane. You really need to cut back on the Hallmark movies.” She slaps my hand. “Repeat after me.” “What?” She ignores me and continues, “Star Light. Star Bright. First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might. Have the wish I wish tonight.” I burst out laughing. “A children’s nursery rhyme?” She frowns. “Humor me, okay?” Her expression is so serious I relent and repeat the words back to her. “Okay, now make a wish. But you can’t wish for Danny back. That’s not how this works.” “Oh, do tell,” I say with a chuckle. “How exactly does this work?” She’s being ridiculous, but she’s so adorably earnest my heart fills with love for her. “Think about something that would bring you joy,” Jane says, “then wish for that.” The excitement in her voice makes me wonder if she believes in this wishing business. Either that or she’s drunker than I thought. She gives me a little shove with her shoulder. “Just do it.” God, if only it was that simple. One wish, and poof, all the misery would just disappear forever. What I wouldn’t give for that to happen. Guilt is an exhausting burden. While I’m probably one of the last people on earth who deserves to have a wish come true, there’s not much I wouldn’t do for Jane. So I say, “Fine,” and blow out a long-suffering breath. Closing my eyes, I empty my mind. Waiting for an idea to drift into my consciousness. The distant cry of a gull drifts up from the water, a boat engine revs as it speeds past, and waves crash as the boat’s wake hits the shore. Time unspools so slowly it’s as if I’m lost inside a dream. Like maybe a little of that magic Jane believes in has surrounded us. A tiny flicker of hope warms my heart. The wrinkled face of my Nana Jo appears behind my closed lids. The corners of her mouth lift in an odd smile and her faded azure eyes sparkle like she’s about to share a secret. The balcony tilts beneath my feet, forcing me to take a step to stop from toppling over. I open my eyes and grab the railing, then I speak the random word which has inexplicably appeared in my mind. “Nantucket.”
  8. Pitch- This women's fiction novel, based in the south, is told through both Penny's and Janie's perspectives, with flashback chapters to Penny's youth. It's a story about love, family and learning how to trust your heart. Three generations of strong-headed Hale women: · Daughter, Janie must choose between a fiancé and an old boyfriend · Mother, Nancy has a terrible secret · Grandmother, Penny can’t stop thinking of an old love Now all three women must face the music Chapter One Penny Judgmental. Power-hungry. Manipulative. That’s my daughter-in-law in a nutshell. Yet she broadcasted to me and everyone within earshot at the airport terminal, “Whoever this mystery guest is that Janie is bringing home from Italy better not act like all the other phony-acting Italian men I know.” “Nancy.” My son, Mac, drew out his wife’s name like the stroke of a paintbrush, long and slow until it just faded out. “What does that even mean? Phony-acting Italian? Do you know a lot of phony-acting Italian men?” Nancy glared at Mac. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. And I’m not fooled by their fake charm.” Mac chuckled and wrapped his arms around his uptight bride, hugging her back to his chest. “Well, she didn’t say where he was from. She just said she was bringing home a guy she met in Italy. I’m sure he’s American. Otherwise, why would he be coming to Atlanta?” “The Atlanta airport is a hub,” I said. “He could be catching a connecting flight.” Nancy gave me a look that said, Duh––I’m not stupid, I know all about the Atlanta airport. Mac nodded agreeably. “He probably­­ just needs a place to stay for the night. You know how accommodating Janie’s always been. I’m sure she’s just helping a friend. I doubt it’s anything serious.” Mac hugged his wife tighter and kissed the side of her head. Her face softened slightly. “Besides,” he said. “Janie wouldn’t have had time to get serious with anyone in Italy. She’s been backpacking all over Europe for two months. Italy was just her starting and ending points.” “I don’t know,” I said. “Venice is one of the most romantic places on this Earth. It wouldn’t take long to fall in love there.” I snickered and Nancy glared at me, her jaw clenching tight. “Penny.” She barked out my name like she was about to bite my head off, but then swallowed and looked away. Uncomfortable silence hung in the air, as was often the case when Nancy and I were together. She typically glared at me like she on the verge of saying something rude, and I typically bit the side of my cheek around her, so I didn’t spill what I really knew. She was a not-so-secret cheater on her husband, who’d crushed her daughter’s faith in love. Instead, we both focused on Mac, directing our conversations through him instead of at each other. “Does Janie start her new job next week?” Mac looked at Nancy for clarification. “Yes, the Tuesday after Labor Day,” she said gruffly. “And if she even thinks about pushing her start date back again, I’ll wring her neck. It was hard enough for me to convince them to wait until after this little adventure she planned.” Nancy shrugged her shoulders and her eyes fluttered shut. She heaved a heavy, self-righteous breath. “PR jobs are hard to come by. A job at this firm is a dream for most new college graduates.” Mac sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “She’ll be there.” “I hope you’re right,” Nany quipped. “Because I sure can’t depend on her these days.” I rolled my eyes. “Here we go again.” I should have held my tongue. After seventy-seven years on this glorious planet, I should have learned how to be the bigger person and keep quiet when Nancy was in one of her moods. Lord knows, the last thing we needed was for Janie to arrive back home in Atlanta for the first time in months to find all of us fighting. That poor child deserved a happy homecoming for once, seeing as almost every visit home during her college years had ended in a knock-down-drag-out-mother-daughter brawl over the most innocuous events. Yet none of those fights ever addressed the true elephant in the room. The incident from Janie’s senior year of high school when she overheard her mother confessing to having an affair. She came to me instead of confronting her mother about it and we’ve all been dancing around this dirty secret ever since. Mac groaned audibly. “Mother, please,” he said through measured breaths. “Can we please just be nice to each other? At least for one day?” “I’m sorry, honey.” I said, patting Mac’s arm. “You’re right. Today is supposed to be a happy day.” A sad smile crossed his face springing instant tears to my eyes. I blinked them away and smiled. An unspoken pain passed between us. The fleeting reminder that in the six months since my husband had died, our grief had come to be measured by how many things we could look forward to instead of how many moments made us sad. Today was supposed to be one of those good days.
×
×
  • Create New...