My Novel: Chapter 3

Running:

I have never run fast. Not even back in high school, although once I kept up with the school's star female runner like I was tethered to her. It about killed me, and I'm sure it drove her nuts. She couldn't shake off scrawny me? Unreal! Back then I wouldn't dream of puking, but now it would be a natural result for a feat like that. It was nice knowing the rest of the crowd ate our dust by a considerable distance and I was someone to contend with. Wish I could not only run at that pace now--but simply run... Ahhh... dreams!

Writing:

Good news: I write faster than I run. 

Bad news: I'm a slow editor. 

Good news: I wrote the novel I'm now sharing a few years back and have edited it at least ten times, and probably 20 or 30. There are 65 chapters and here's 

More good news: I'm planning on publishing more than 1 chapter at a time some days, each in their own blog post. (I hope that's good news for you!) 

Even more Good news: You can skip the photos and comments below and head on down to chapter 3 if you'd like...

So, here's my photo thoughts for today: My book began like this dirty play set hidden in the trees. You can't see how mangy it really was--caked in mud, stained by rotting leaves, caught in the nearby park's sprinkler everyday and seldom used. It was held together by cobwebs guarded by GIANT spiders...

Me and my delete key and lots of brain-work and time took the novel apart and cleaned it up. For the play set I grabbed two of my adult kids and employed them (without pay) with rags, brooms, tools, buckets and a power hose. You should've heard us all screaming and seen us jumping around like maniacs in a spook alley when an unexpected monstrous spider crawled out. (That's me keeping a clean distance while dispensing soap... Smart, huh?)

And finally, I reassembled my novel like we joined all the pieces of the play set together. So fun now for my cute little Grands! (And safe, I might add.) Enjoy today's installment of Secrets at Midnight by Leona Palmer Haag. 

 

Secrets at Midnight

Leona Palmer Haag

Chapter 3

Matt Jensen leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. He focused on the words staring back from the glowing computer monitor. Nothing made sense—jumbled chaos resembling an exorbitant price for the office unless he figured something out fast. After two days with hardly a break, the feat appeared impossible.

Pulling away from work he headed to the kitchen and grabbed a polished apple. He leaned against the counter and devoured it before his eyes settled on the over-sized clock hanging above the sideboard. After eleven. Where was Monica? He pulled out his cell phone and punched the number reserved for his wife. Her upbeat voice message sang, “Sorry I missed you. Leave your….” When the phone beeped he said, “Where are you? Call me.” He’d give her ten minutes before searching her favorite haunts.

Nearly an hour elapsed before Matt checked the time at the bottom of the computer screen. He rocked back in his chair. It wasn’t like Monica to leave him clueless about her whereabouts. With fingers ticking across the keyboard, he brought up his calendar. Now he remembered—it was Monday and she taught kick boxing at the fitness center until ten. For the right tip she occasionally stayed late for a personal training session. Some testosterone-charged baboon probably forked over good cash tonight. He’d wait up. It was worth watching her dump the money into a vase on the dresser while saying, “France. Next summer. You’re coming with me, baby.”

A click of the mouse brought up a photo of Monica leaning against her sleek little car—long blond hair pulled forward, a wisp hiding one eye. He’d caught her with his camera phone an instant before she turned away claiming he acted like an infatuated teenager. He had shoved the phone back to his side and raced to catch the door for her as they headed into the courthouse to attend their wedding.

Incredibly beautiful described his prize. She loved standing out, showing off and being noticed, but that wasn’t why he’d married her. Her face and curves were only a pleasant bonus. Her passion for life captivated him. Clicking to another photo, Matt smiled. The past nine months had been great—filled with incredible experiences, love and passion—something he’d missed for many years. Life had become real again.

He pulled away from the computer and checked the house from one end to the other, but Monica hadn’t slipped in unnoticed while he ogled her, and her black Lexus was still missing. He tried her cell phone again. No answer. Was it time to call out the posse, or time to call Jenn? But what would he say to the little brunette he’d had a crush on since he was barely a teenager—hey, I lost my wife? Jenn would bounce something witty back like—she’s blond. It was only a matter of time before she did it herself.

Despite himself, Matt chuckled. The top two women in his life had met after his honeymoon. They’d been engaged in warfare ever since—not outright, but calculated and subversive.

Matt paced the hallway to the bedroom. The waiting bed called, but he only flipped his phone open and said, “Monica.” A photo of his wife filled the screen until her voice mail connected. “Call me,” he said. He shut the phone and tossed it onto the pillow.

Monica could be laughing and talking in the fitness center parking lot with friends or admirers, but that wouldn’t stop her from answering him, and neither would a flat tire or engine trouble. There was only one thing she kept private—needing a strong drink. And the only person capable of driving her to the edge was Jenn.

What had Jenn done now?

Sitting on the foot of the bed, Matt stared at the ceiling. He lay back and his arm reached out as his hand fumbled until he found his phone. His finger rested on Jenn’s number. If he pushed it, he’d briefly see her pretty hazel eyes and crescent lips. As always, her voice would ring innocently and sweetly when she answered.

Tossing the phone back to the pillow, Matt stood. Where should he hunt for Monica first? He had a list of clubs, but Jenn had only sent her drinking—well—never, although Monica had threatened plenty of times and almost followed through twice. The most memorable came after Monica blew through the door and plunked a photo album in his lap. “Look at this little number,” she’d said, placing her hands on her hips and glaring.

Matt opened to the center and found Monica wearing a bikini and tan. He whistled.

Monica frowned and held up one finger in warning. “Not one word Matt, so help me. I’m past kindergarten. I outgrew glue. I don’t crop and cut. That little practically-perfect girl and her paper punches had better be nice to me or I’ll dish out something worse than scuba diving with sharks after shaving her legs.”

He’d flipped through a few pages sporting his wife in full glitz. “Our honeymoon. It looks like Jenn just wants to—” He looked up to find Monica pointing a long finger at him. In a swift stroke he was clearly warned to zip it.

He’d laughed, but made no further comment as he’d thumbed through the photos. Jenn had won, but apparently he had too.

Now his steps led down the hallway and back into the kitchen, heading toward the garage and his car, but he stopped. Monica wouldn’t be nursing a scotch, but she might be pushing the speedometer on the outskirts of town if Jenn riled her up enough. How was he going to catch her with his Toyota? And was she heading out of Dallas on I-35 or I-45?

In his mind, Matt ran through the ongoing battle between the women. He thought Monica was ahead at the moment, but had Jenn pulled a fast one and taken the lead?

The clock read a quarter to one. Matt opened the cookie jar and retrieved an unopened package wedged inside—Monica’s way of filling it. As he ate cookies he remembered Monica describing Jenn gearing up to mountain climb, but only because Monica had tricked her into it. Best of all were details of the descent—Jenn screaming.

“I swear she’ll try to kill me now,” Monica had said between bursts of laughter after returning home. “I scared her to death—and loved every minute.”

“She’ll eventually make you pay.”

“Not this time. I’ll get her again before she thinks of something. And me, being bullet proof….”

A few days later the leather-bound honeymoon landed in his lap. Monica had paid. The women unleashed all kinds of unpleasant torment on each other. Their relationship was ridiculous, but at least they had one.

Matt checked the clock. One. Straight up plus ten seconds. He ought to rescue Monica from Jenn’s clutches, but it wasn’t right to toss Jenn a juicy bone if Monica wasn’t with her. He set his cell phone aside.

Monica and Jenn both would have bailed on their relationship if possible. They were oil and water—an impossible mix. “More like gasoline and a match,” Monica had complained. But the way it was, death was probably the only opportunity for either to escape. That, or his friendship with Jenn and Nick blowing to high heaven, which wasn’t likely. So in the meantime the women tortured each other in the pretense of pleasing their husbands. It was a twisted relationship.

Matt flipped his phone open and said, “Phone Monica.” Her pretty face lit up the screen until her voice mail took over. He said, “Hey, it’s late. Call me,” and shut the phone. His eyes riveted on the clock. One-ten and thirty three seconds. He had two choices: call Jenn or call for help. He couldn’t justify calling anyone until after he talked to Jenn, but that felt wrong.

In his mind, Jenn hovered one inch from center court in his life, and always had. He’d known her since the day she’d shown up in his best friend’s trailer home. Shawn had proudly pointed at his baby sister. “You can hold her.” His friend lifted the bundle from the cardboard box doubling as a crib and held her out.

Matt had stepped back, nearly falling over. “I don’t know how.”

“’Course you do. You’ve got little brothers and sisters. You know better ‘n me how to do this.” Seconds later Jenn landed in his arms feeling as heavy as a sack of rocks and as soft as a bag of marshmallows.

“I gotta take care of her—you know—bring her up,” Shawn had said. His hand waved back and forth. “Me and you. We’re gonna do a good job. Mom said so. She's ours now.”

“Huh?” Five-year olds took care of puppies and potato bugs, not babies.

Not a day afterward excluded Jenn until he left for college. Except for the times when she was madder than a swarm of killer bees and after him, he’d liked them all. But a gap had happened, piling into years. It wasn’t until Matt stopped in town to visit Shawn, dragging his college roommate and business partner Nick Washington along, that he encountered Jenn again. He hadn’t intended to introduce Nick, and never imagined it would result in a diamond ring and marriage. The kid he’d towed around in a wagon returned to his life as a Mrs.

Washington wasn’t a bad second choice for the spit-fire girl he and Shawn raised—the kid he had kissed a few times and thought he’d marry, and probably would have if they hadn't been sidetracked. He still thought of her as only a thin slice this side of perfect, although Monica had other opinions.

The cell phone vibrated and Jenn’s coy smile lit the screen. Like a ton of bricks hitting him, Matt instantly knew everything—Monica was with Jenn. Both women had been known to set aside war occasionally to appease their husbands. And Monica, understanding Jenn’s loneliness when Nick left town would drop by to help Jenn jump the isolation hurdle. Monica had left him a voice mail earlier saying she planned to catch up with Jenn for a few minutes after work. Maybe she’d been running late and stopped by after kick-boxing instead.

Usually when Monica returned after a house call she’d say either, “Jenn’s got it tough. Her whatcahmacallit’s broken. Be a honey and drop by tomorrow to fix it,” or “I’m done. No more. I’m washing my hands. She’s all yours. Leave me out of this whole friendship thing.”

What was it tonight between the women, he wondered—getting along or getting on nerves? He fixed a lot of things for Jenn Washington. Apparently tomorrow would be another day of digging through his toolbox for a screwdriver—or possibly mending fences between the women.

Flipping open his cell phone, Matt lost sight of Jenn’s smile but put on a broad one of his own—Monica would walk through the door soon either feeling great about her perfect life, or cursing Jenn for some infraction that disrupted paradise. It was time to find out what the women were up to—and pull a hint from Jenn about Monica’s mood.

  

End Chapter 3

Please tune in again soon for chapter 4. Remember, I'd like comments (I think...). Be honest, but also be polite. Keep them brief. Thanks tons!

To read chapters 1 - 3 you'll need to go to older posts. Sorry about the inconvenience.  :)

 

My Novel: Chapter 2

Running:

I skipped running (I mean walking) today. I believe in days of rest. But I did run a few days ago. A kind of glide/run/slide sort of movement from one end of the house to the other to try to catch my ringing phone before the caller hung up. It's so annoying to set my phone down and get clear across the house only to hear it ring. About face! Run! Or glide/shuffle/slide without jarring anything.

Writing:

I can't believe I'm actually reading one of my novels again, and tweaking it here and there, and posting it on my blog. Strange times ten! But I'm happy to share. Nearly three years ago I experienced several hard hits at nearly the same time. The final blows knocked out much of my writing desires. But true loves seldom die. They eventually resurface. I've had many more blows since then, but I've survived. And with it, I've chosen to share one of my novels just because. Because I enjoyed writing it--creating characters and a plot, and because I simply want to.

I've chosen this photo today because of the story of  survival of this sunny little wildflower. I found it huddled against a huge granite boulder in my backyard--a rock that sucked in warmth each day and dispensed what it stored during bitter cold nights. What isn't shown is the evidence of death and decay surrounding the bloom--withered grass waiting for deep snow, weary leaves piled and ready to burn, a murky sky threatening to drizzle. During the depths of late fall, in one little nook, summer still bloomed. 

* I've grown to love the characters in my book as I've come to know them. That being said, none of them, along with their names, descriptions, characteristics, etc. in any way are related to real live human beings that I know or have known or who I know to have breathed on this earth. People, places, events, conversations, etc. in this novel are all a work of fiction formed in my mind and in no way resemble anyone I know, or situations in my or your life, so please don't misconstrue them as such. (That covers that little piece of disclaimer info 100% accurately!)

Secrets at Midnight

Chapter 2           

Leaning back on her heels, Jenn surveyed the disaster she’d created in the name of order. Usually putting things in certain places worked, but tonight screamed backfired! In all the hurry to sort and stash she’d ended up with three piles of chaos, each sanely labeled, but also each out of control as they cascaded excess around them. The task had appeared easier in her mind before she started and she hadn’t even tackled her bedroom yet. One more day of this craziness might get her committed. She had to pause and recoup before someone fetched her in a padded wagon.

There were no empty boxes to grab from the garage or the basement to easily stack things in, so Jenn scouted for huge trash bags with draw strings to manage the disaster. One bag she crammed with outgrown and outdated shoes and clothing, useful but less than perfect bedding, and assorted toys with marks that wouldn’t wash off or missing parts. She cinched the top shut and dragged it out the front door to her waiting car trunk. She popped it open and wedged the load destined to good will inside and shoved the trunk closed. Someone would benefit from her donation—things nicer than most people gave away.

Next came sorting the pile destined for proper storage—first off the missing Christmas stocking that no one found before St. Nick—she chuckled, that was her husband’s real name—arrived. Little Katie was barely a year old then and had no idea she had to live with a make-do stocking too small to hold the booty bestowed upon her. It was crazy what Jenn had found out of place in her always more than tidy house. Hair bows under sofa cushions, a baby bib, snow pants Katie never wore and outgrew because the Colorado ski vacation she didn’t really want to take was cancelled (much to her delight). Hey, there was her missing scarf with tasseled fringe! Now she remembered Katie dancing with it wrapped around her chubby waist. Sometimes a toddler proved basically unmanageable, and always found the cleverest hiding spots.

With Katie tucked in bed for the night and ten thousand steps later after many back and forth, and up and down, and into and out of the garage, Jenn deposited the last lost, misplaced item she’d uncovered. Now onto the last and most dreaded pile: trash. This bag was the only one properly under control. She peeked inside. Yep, she still wanted to toss out the stupid toy that bit her baby’s finger and required five minutes of compression and a bandaid. And she’d given up hope on the quilt her friend made her when Katie was born that met with a freak accident with chocolate and a cleaning solution.

With room to load in a little more, Jenn dragged the black bag into the hallway and emptied the wastebasket from the bathroom into it—a sure sign she’d never dream of sorting through what lay beneath. The wastebasket hidden behind her bedskirt in the master bedroom was dumped next, depositing a few stained tissues from late night tears when she missed Nick.

With one hand balancing a vase of wilted flowers ready to drop faded petals, Jenn grabbed the trash bag and hauled it into the kitchen. She added deceased roses from Nick before scanning the countertop. Intent on ridding her home of the three piles of sort, keep and toss littering her living room for two days now, Jenn had done something very un-Jenn-like in her kitchen: skipped cleaning up after super. Apparently pushing midnight  wasn’t too late to remedy the situation.

Dishes flew into the sink with lightning speed, a milk carton crumpled in her hands and was shoved into the bag, and so were a couple paper towels that wiped up the splatters of milk that hit the floor during crushing. The empty cardboard roll was next. She ran scalding hot water and suds rose in the sink. She washed the countertops so clean Katie could lick them during breakfast if she chose, which occasionally she did.

Last, an empty baked bean can sailed across the kitchen and thunked into the discarded paper towel roll reigning as king at the top of the trash. Momentarily it paused before tumbling to the floor and spewing crimson splatters in a wide arc. It rolled under the kitchen table to die.

Jenn Washington had never been able to hit her mark. Tonight proved what she’d known her whole life. She crossed the room and picked up the can and shoved it into the bulging trash bag. Tossing the wet dishcloth toward the sticky mess and seeing it land in the general vicinity, she gave herself two points for getting it simi-close. She’d clean the floor after visiting the garbage container outside, but first she opened the fridge and collected everything approaching an expiration date. She found a bottle of spaghetti sauce that would be perfect for dipping sauce for bread sticks if she had made them three days ago, a bag of salad greens browning around the edges and threatening to juice themselves if forgotten, a donut Katie had shoved in the back for later and a half eaten sandwich crusting around the edges. Not much really, but a little more than the full bag could easily hold.

If Nick were home he’d muscle the last items in and cinch it closed, but tonight Jenn was alone and Mr. Washington was in the heart of Chicago wheeling and dealing and accruing accounts that kept the power on, the water running and the garbage truck stopping at the end of her driveway every week. Which was good, she decided.

Half open, half shut, Jenn dragged the bag packed with disgusting things toward the back door where her innocent bare foot encountered the bean mess she’d postponed cleaning up. Sticky red goo oozed between her toes, bubbling like something from an old horror flick.

“This can’t be happening to me. All I want is a clean house tonight before I go to bed! I don’t want to get up and see or smell yesterday. Am I asking too much?” No one heard, of course. She released a frustrated sigh and awkwardly hobbled—heels down, toes up—toward the door.

The lock wouldn’t budge. The metal contraption, grinding in agony for weeks now, had frozen —seized up solid in a mean-spirited keep-really-bad-guys-out-and-disgusting-trash-inside mode. Balancing the bag with her thigh, Jenn fought the stubborn lock, wiggling, twisting and banging. Nothing helped. As usual, without her husband in town she’d deliver the fix-it list to Matt. He’d grin like a movie star posing with a shiny new tool for some commercial that made women drool and hand over money, and hardly break a sweat as he replaced the lock. Dear, sweet Matt who always flew to her rescue (minus a cape) would save the world and earn the badge of honor Nick should claim.

Another bang on the lock hurt her palm. Ten more wouldn’t demolish the contraption, but the alternate route to the trash can—through the living room and across the front yard—wasn’t an option. Because it seemed luck wasn’t on her side at the moment, something horrid would spill out and she’d spot-clean carpet or de-litter the yard by moonlight.

Nick—always MIA when needed, Jenn thought. After more banging mixed with death threats the lock released and Jenn triumphantly yanked the door open. She danced victory steps for accomplishing something amazing without calling Matt. The trash wiggled in rhythm and nearly toppled, but once more, Jenn saved the day. All alone. And that hurt.

Always after Nick kissed her good-bye and left with his duffle in his hand, emptiness crept into her soul. Tonight she’d stuffed a thousand items into one bag or another, all encased in some kind of memory that included or excluded him, and the ache had plunged deeper. The moment he left normal living occurred strictly on the surface: get up, go to work, take care of Katie, tell everyone life was perfect if asked, go to bed, start over the next morning with an overly-rehearsed picture-perfect smile.

Jenn’s world revolved around Nick—along with Katie—and she hated envisioning him returning only to find her angry because he hadn’t fixed a stupid lock he hadn’t realized was going rogue.

For better and for worse, she reminded herself as she reached to flip on the porch light. This moment wasn’t honeymoon-happy, but it couldn’t possibly get worse.

Pop.

Light blazed ten shades brighter for a split second before the backyard plunged into utter darkness. The light bulb had given up the ghost. Just one more thing on her growing “Rotten Day” list. Nearly every hour had been stacked with witnesses to disprove her charmed existence. Disasters at work, in her kitchen, in her bank account, and then her computer went haywire. Along came Monica—Matt’s beautiful and beyond perfect wife—the only person on earth who couldn’t possibly figure out anything electronic, but somehow did. Monica probably skipped all the way home to inform Matt she’d delivered a miracle. That alone made Jenn seethe.

Through it all, Nick hadn’t been around to save the day. And where would he be when she crashed in bed tonight?—not within kissing distance.

In the blackness Jenn summoned her favorite vision of her marriage—two lovebirds cooing beak to beak. Along with Katie, her husband was the best thing she’d ever experienced, but tonight nudged the limits of dream world, and introduced discontent.

Fighting resentment, Jenn cheerfully called over her shoulder, “Hey babe, be a sweetheart and bring me a sixty-watter,” as if Nick would magically appear. No one responded. Pretending sometimes carried enough momentum to push her over dismal mountains, but tonight is wasn’t more than a nudge that might—just might if her luck improved—keep her from falling over the cliff of loneliness.

On tippy-toes Jenn stretched to unscrew the lifeless bulb. Tiny wires tinkled inside, confirming its death. She added it to the bag and stepped into darkness.

Crash.

The light bulb shattered on the back step. Hopping like she’d stepped into a bed of fire ants, Jenn snatched the toppling trash bag, preventing another crisis. In the dim moonlight tiny glass shards sparkled like stardust, but no fairy godmother appeared to magically swish the danger away. Faking wouldn’t help—she’d already used up a week’s quota that evening. She needed a broom and dustpan and a truckload of optimism. 

Wishing she could fast-forward her life past this moment, Jenn ventured off the porch dragging unwanted garbage. Destination: the giant container crouching in shadows beyond the gate. She’d literally and mentally dump everything undesirable—oh, yes she would, she vowed—before racing back inside to indulge in a triple-dose of healing chocolate ice cream drenched in enough hot fudge to fill a bathtub.

 End Chapter 2

Once again, I'm requesting that you please leave a tiny note in the comments for me. If you hate a character's name, go ahead and tell me. If you want to know what they look like, say so! If you think I should add the season or temperature, let me know. (By the way, it's early June, Texas, and warm, but you'll figure that out soon enough. Remember, Jenn is barefoot and you might have discovered she's not exactly fond of snow--remember her comment about a ski trip?) Not knowing right away is part of reading and writing.

 Can't wait for chapter 3? Well, you'll have to. Hurry on back, ya'll.

If you missed the first chapter, please go to the next older post. I hope to eventually get this whole blog thing figured out so you can go from chapter to chapter easily, but until then, hang in there with me and enjoy the story!

Please be considerate and law abiding and realize that this story is copyrighted. I own the copy write. No part may be copied (hand, electronic, or in any other way) without my written consent. If you need to contact me, please comment.

 

My Novel: Chapter 1

RUNNING:

I love walking. If I say this enough it may become true. Forbidden to run until the day I die, I'm honestly trying. And what if I do break the rule and run? I could easily spontaneously break my neck. No pleasantness there, so I'm walking. And I'm trying to figure out how to get my playlist to sync with my walking pace and keep my pace from syncing with my music. That's hard stuff, you know.

WRITING:

My most memorable rejection letter for one of my manuscripts arrived bearing 4 words:

not for us. thanks

I loved the caps and punctuation from a professional. I basically replied to my office walls, "Yikes! If this signifies their competency, they're not for me. I'm running away, and fast!"

As a result, and because so much down time has passed since that amusing day, I've decided to publish one of my novels in my blog. Yes, here! For free! As I do, I hope to learn a few things to make reading it here easier for you. Since I don't know those things yet, bear with me, and if you know something that might help me out (and you), let me know. I'm all up for learning and trying. But first just a little info. (Skip this if you can't wait to read chapter 1...)

To date I've written about 10 novels. Yes, 10 real, true, full length novels. I've taken literature, communication, English, physics, chemistry, creative writing and other classes, and even graduated from Weber State University in the meantime. Some classes related to writing, and some not. Afterward I've taken writing workshops, attended conferences and taken specific writing courses. I've been published twice: once in The Ensign magazine (prior to any writing classes), and in a literary annual (see previous post). I felt pretty honored to get both of my submitted stories published because only two submissions per author were allowed. I've considered expanding both of those short stories into full novels, and would have fun doing it. That's enough blah, blah, blah on that!

I've also submitted several manuscripts for publication, and to date have received nearly 100 rejections. Some agents and companies received a full manuscript, others a query letter, and some the first chapter. 

For the novel I'm sharing in this blog I received back a nice letter. The publisher stewed over my manuscript for 18 months before telling me they liked the ideas, but thought I should find a ghost writer and resubmit. What!?! A ghost writer! That guided me toward workshops and more classes and more query letters and additional rejections. During the whole process I discovered I was truly a bad writer, but good news: I could become better(if I plunked down my class fee...). Nearly 5000 reams of paper (three dozen grown, mature  trees, I'd reckon) and 30 ink cartriges later, here is one of my volumes in cyberspace!

Why the picture of pizza you ask? I like pizza. So, curl up with your reader, pizza if you'd like, icy Dr. Pepper (to stay awake--or because you like it), and a soft pillow. I hope you enjoy Secrets at Midnight by Leona Palmer Haag.

*I own the copyright. No copies of this material or the concepts and ideas may be used or made without written permission by the author. (That's me...)

Secrets at Midnight

Chapter 1

The barrel of a gun pressed against Natalie’s forehead and her captor’s voice echoed like thunder through the dim cellar. “You seem to want to die.” As the reverberations settled she held in laughter. Never had she considered death a viable option, and there was no need to start now.

The man leaned in, his nose resting inches from hers. His free hand grabbed her chin and thrust it upward. Her eyes focused on the moldy ceiling laced with rotting timbers and unkempt silver threads abandoned by spiders. His voice sank to a whisper. “Just like Mr. Williams.” His fingers dug into her skin as he shook her head, making webs and mold meld into a menacing mass. He released his grip and straightened, exuding confidence and exposing darkness where teeth once resided. Kicked out by someone who had the power to do it? she wondered. But that thought fled as the man’s words sunk in like a hot knife piercing her chest.

Pete dead? Every smile and interaction shared between them flashed through her thoughts in one mixed conglomeration of light and dark mingled with every conceivable color in between, combining with heights of joy, depths of fear and overwhelming moments of trust. The flash of life gained and lost faded until it became a tight core of aching. Losing Pete meant all they’d shared was gone except disjointed sketches of memory. The bitter core pulsed and surged until it shattered deep in her heart. It simmered and spread, moving toward the surface.

The man sneered. “Mr. Washington did it himself—neatly and quickly—more humanely than necessary.” He paused, and she clenched her fingers into her palms until they screamed in reply. “But he saved you for me.” His head shook and he clucked his tongue. “And to think you trusted that man. Now, I understand Washington is considered a good man—when he’s on your side.” He chuckled. “But sides are so hard to distinguish sometimes, and lines are easily crossed as alliances change.”

Fury sputtered before it changed directions as it raged through Natalie’s blood. She’d trusted Washington from the moment they’d met—but he’d betrayed her to the stinky slime seated in front of her—and killed Pete?

“I presume you’re willing to bargain now, my dear? Talk and you’ll earn freedom.” The man leaned forward and grinned, presenting himself as patient.

Freed, Natalie would track down Washington and eliminate him. But with men such as her captor, promises were hallow and talking would earn her nothing. She shook her head. “I, I’m sorry, but I have nothing to say,” she whispered.

“Ah, but you do.” The man tapped the gun against her forehead, a horrid thump, thump thump. “It’s in here, ready to come out,” he coaxed. “A few names? A few places? All for freedom. And maybe a new alliance, my dear?”

With her wrists secured in her lap by multiple layers of duct tape and her feet strapped in the same manner, Natalie could do nothing. Nothing, but use her tongue, her voice, and share secrets. And she had her brain. Her mind. Her essence. More tape circled her waist securing her to a flimsy wooden interrogation chair facing evil personified.

“Usually I’m not messy,” the man, who had identified himself as Mr. R, said. “But today I’ll make an exception—I’ll leave evidence.” He leaned closer. “DNA. You know what that is, don’t you? Proof you were here and I finished my job.” His fingertips whisked together indicating the hefty sum he’d receive, and revealing his deception. He pushed the gun barrel down the bridge of her nose and lowered it to her lips, collecting a scarlet smudge in the process.

Natalie contemplated the man’s possible favorite forms of violence and matched her abilities to avoid them. Her hands rebelled against the tape, but wrenching failed to provide freedom. The man laughed at her efforts and slammed his weapon upward, jerking Natalie’s chin backward. Her eyes shut and she caught her breath before it could escape in a scream. “One bullet from this angle—” The man snapped his fingers and her eyes jerked open. “That quick and it’s over, pretty lady. Over forever.”

Pulling her emotions tightly together—rage, betrayal, revenge—Natalie focused, forcing her mind to slow down. To pick and pry apart everything. Analyze and reanalyze her situation, each word, each nuance, each breath. Her perception heightened, overlooking nothing. Nothing. Not the sheen on the man’s forehead. Not even the pink scar running from his right ear to beneath his collar.

“You’re not the jumpy type, not even a twitch,” Mr. R said while his fingers pestered the gun handle. Puffy skin surrounding his eyes buried them deep in his face. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, then wiped that dry on his thigh. “You’re looking the Red Devil in the face, sweetheart. Consider yourself honored.”

Natalie knew no one faced the Red Devil and lived to tell, let alone describe him. But she doubted this man was the infamous Mr. R as he claimed, or the Red Devil, although a new idea formed. Could the two drug lords actually be one? She had many names herself, interchanging them as necessary or to suite her purposes.

“Torture,” the impostor said. Pulling her thoughts back to her situation. His jowls flopped as he pushed his nicotine-stained smirk closer. “I have favorite techniques.” He inspected his gun, pulling the clip out and shoving it back into place with a solid click. He laughed. “There’s a bullet calling for you, but first, let’s play. Before the game ends you’ll tell me exactly what I must know, Miss Holtz.”

Over-confident and over-bearing—traits Natalie detested—joined the list she’d begun mentally compiling the moment she’d found herself detained. She added overly-careless. If given an opportunity she’d capitalize on the faulty mix and flip things around. The gun moved again, inching downward, a sure sign the cat and mouse game had begun—and would soon reverse. Distractions always changed destiny.

“I have the power to set you free. Start begging whenever you’d like,” he sing-songed.

Sure his confidence was peaking, Natalie released her first assault—one simple whimpered word, “P—please….”

He snickered horse-like and tumbled toward stupidity. “You don’t want to play?” She made no response as his gun continued marching, reaching the edge of her blouse and working on the top button.

“N—no,” she whispered. 

The demon before her chuckled, his ample stomach quivering. “Now we’re getting somewhere, sweetheart. I love fear. When it takes over I smell it. You reek.” He placed the gun on the rough cement at his feet and sanded his palms together.

Bracing herself, Natalie wished she knew when—

His massive body slammed forward and the chair shuddered. Flabby hands circled her neck, wrenching her upward as the edges of his ruby ring dug into the base of her scalp. “Too bad you’re tied up,” he growled.

Natalie found flesh between her teeth and clamped her jaw. The man howled and whipped, trying to release himself, but she had transformed into a wild cat intent on her prey. They spun a dizzying arc before smashing in a brutal tangle of man, woman and chair, with her shoulders, elbows and knees smashing and writhing on the hard cement. Banning reactions to the assault, Natalie’s mind pushed toward the weapon inches from her fingertips. She lunged to close the gap, but the man’s fingers clasped it first. True thunder rang through the cellar. Echoes reverberated into silence. Natalie grabbed a jagged breath and the man moaned.

Using her fingernails like dull razors, Natalie worked on the sticky tape surrounding her wrists. One acrylic tip snapped off, exposing a rough edge—a perfect tool. Moments later her hands broke free. She clawed at Mr. R—his hulking body beyond flinching now—and found a pocket. Her fingers flew through fabric folds before finding a treasure. She yanked out a loaded key ring, something only slightly inferior to a knife. Shoving aside the oppressive weight pinning her legs, she sliced multiple layers of tape. Freed, she grabbed the loose gun and sprang up only to falter in pain. She grabbed her side, her fingers pausing when they struck raw wood. She gasped and held the fibers in her fist for a moment before yanking loose a wooden chair rail. It clattered from her slippery grip and fell to the floor. Pressing her hand to her side, she took a steadying breath and hobbled to the door. Resting her ear on the wood, she listened.

Silence.

Natalie released her side and watched a single red drop fall from her fingertips to the cement. She wiped her hand clean on her linen skirt and shaking, she grasped the bolt. “Please. Please open,” she thought more than whispered. She slowly pulled, one millimeter as a time, with her side screaming under the strain. Her touch felt metal silently grating against metal until the door hung free.

Free!

Natalie sucked in a deep breath, raised the gun, and slowly exhaled. Freedom existed beyond the door, but not immediately behind it. She stooped and picked up the bloody chair rail before her fingers tightened on the latch and she tugged. The door burst inward sending Natalie spiraling to the hard cement and launching the gun across the cellar along with her makeshift club. They clattered to a stop against Mr. R’s feet. Semi-automatic weapons wielded by masked gunmen poured through the narrow opening like swarming wasps. Encircled three and four people deep, their cold barrels sought her, pressing her shoulders and ribs, and pinning her heart to the floor.

Shrugging a wisp of dark auburn hair from her eyes, Natalie hung her head, witnessing blood streaming from her knees. Her blouse was ruined and her skirt could never be clean again. Like a clumsy school girl skipping too carelessly down the sidewalk, she’d fallen. Fallen. She’d become a shadow of glory that might never rise again.

End Chapter 1

Please watch for chapter 2 in the next few days. Email, call, text, comment and bug me if the next installment doesn't come soon enough for you... I'm editing once again as I'm installing, so bug me so I keep it up. Believe me, after the 100th edit, I do get a little bored at times and want to create a new character and write something new.

Please do me a favor. Comment after each chapter with one word or one sentence. Keep it simple. Example:" Bored to tears," or "huh?" or "Who is this Washington guy? Do I need to remember him?" or "Suspense is great, but your punctuation stinks." Skip praising me, and comment on the book or theme or whatever, or needle me to reform myself and take another writing class. Thanks! Thanks! Thanks!

Quick Update:

Running has cratered for the time being, which I hope isn't long. Since January I've had serious hip pain. Good news, the Dr. says it's not R.A. My hip x-ray shows a "young" hip with no wear or tear. It should feel fine, but it's not cooperating.

Writing has hit a snag. It's called being busy, not writer's block. I've been so busy the past 8-9 months that hardly a word has traveled from my thoughts down my fingers and out onto a computer monitor. What's keeping me busy? I've been traveling to a quaint (Okay, that's stretching it a bit) little shop to play secret elf upholstery guru once, twice and sometimes 3 times weekly. The good thing is I've learned how to do decorative nails quite well. (No, don't ask me to do them on your furniture because you're sure to have one of those knotty, hardwood things needing 2000 x 10 nails!) The bad thing is I still dislike leather. Probably always will. And after doing my fun fabric, furniture, creative thing, I've got more than a dozen cute little grandkid elves dancing around my knees. Yep, call me busy.

But...

I promise I'll blog my 3 favorite rejections soon. They are memorable.
As for Monica, she's still breathing in my manuscripts, but that could end after a quick stroke of the editing blade.
My historical fiction has received a few rejections, but it hasn't given up hope yet.
As for my most crazy WIP, I'm contemplating a good tsunami or other event to wake it up.

You'll find my 2 published short stories in Utah Voices: A Literary Annual for 2011.

Murder: Guilty Plea

Today could turn out strange based on the dream that awoke me. Who knows now what I'll accomplish today. Looks like I need to change a few goals on my always-present check-off list. You see, my last conscious dream thought at 4:00 am was: I need to kill Monica.

Yes, that kind of thought is bound to wake up anyone, especially harmless me who has never killed anyone before--and no, I haven't taken up naming spiders, slugs of houseplants.

I know Monica--her name, face, her husband, where she works, where she banks, etc. I actually admire her. I know her background, and her future--or so I thought. Now she's on the endangered list? Okay, so I might need (odd word, need) to killer her? How? More importantly, why does she deserve death?

Okay, I admit, I've thought about killing her before. In fact, I've considered a few ways. Each time I've decided I haven't got the guts. Or a powerful enough motive. Now to wake up thinking I should follow through?!

Scary!

Confession time: I've killed people before. No shock there, actually. But in the past I've always been subtle and orchestrated events so death seemed natural. A heartbreaking loss, yes, but I've done it in ways that keep my hands and conscience clean. With Monica, that approach won't work. I'll wind up guilty as sin and regret it. Miss her, even. Natalie's a different story. Actually, she's in the same story. I'll kill her instead.

Maybe.

Oh, I forgot one important detail: If I can't find an agent who falls in love with the first volume, who successfully sells it to a publisher, then why bother killing Natalie in volume 3?

Great! Problem solved. I can stop plotting murder and go running!