Songbirds.

Tags

Fate, Fight, Heartbreak, Loss, Love, Philosophy., Romance

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m a terrible blogger. For the past few months I have struggled, opening a new document to compose a post and then staring at the blank screen with nothing coming to me. With each passing day, the time I had spent away only added to my writer’s block.

I suppose I can also blame my lack of blogging on a busy, busy summer, but that’s kind of a lousy excuse. I’ve had the blessing of watching my nephew while his mother works, and so when I could have been blogging, I many times chose to spend time with him. I’ve also been editing my book, reading over it and tweaking things to make sure that the story makes sense -I’ve got to say, it’s been exhausting. But that’s no excuse for letting my blogging lag. A new season is upon me, and I am vowing to get back into the game! When I first started writing on my blog, I remember experiencing the most acute writer’s block, and the only thing that could break it was to simply write in character. So here’s my attempt at getting back into character. 

She glared at the back of his head for the first time in months and felt the sun beat down on her bare back, taunting her. From this day forward, she would hate all sunny days, she was sure of it. 

She wished she could wipe his image from her mind, disassociate her very being from him, but she knew that it wouldn’t do. All it would take was a breath of a salty breeze or a moment when her ear caught that light clear chirping of the songbirds that she always seemed to hear when he was present. The world was full of signs of him, and they would forever be pointing her back to him. 

That she was in love with him was as clear to her as anything she had ever known. But people fell in love all the time, didn’t they? That didn’t mean that she needed to follow her ridiculous emotions -and emotion was all that it really was. They weren’t meant to be, that was clear. He was none of the things she had always hoped for, and he had known from childhood that he would never be tricked into love’s mirage, he was too intelligent for that. 

It was all so laughably impossible, the idea that they could ever be together. She had reminded herself that, and it was really all that had kept her away from him. She had erased him from her life, told him never to come to her again, all the while secretly wishing that he would follow her. She had refused to let him see her tears and had left with the vision of his eyes looking into hers lingering in her mind. 

But she now saw how foolish she was to think that love could be so simple. He had perennially stained her life with his presence, and no longer could she live without seeing tints of him everywhere she looked. She couldn’t stand the sight of the changing colors in autumn, so aware was she that he must be going on with his life along with the rest of nature. Like the leaves that had begun to die, surely his memories of her were prone to dwindling. She remained unchanged, her memories as clear as the day she had left. 

She had fought longer than she believed she was capable, but now the time had come when no more fight was left in her. She now admitted it wholeheartedly, he meant more to her than life itself, because whatever life was, he had come to define it. All that remained in her was the slightest resolve not to run to him outright. She prayed that she wouldn’t chance to see him, because she feared that then any slight resistance would disappear completely. 

Her prayers were in vain, however, because she did see him. He didn’t see her, which she was thankful for, but the experience was terrible nonetheless. The warmth of the day turned immediately to an inferno in the shock of his sudden presence. She couldn’t have prepared herself for the pain she felt seeing him there, the sunlight glinting off his hair, his eyes full of that smug laughter she knew so well. He looked untouchable, unscathed. It made her angry.

She sat watching him for a while, wondering how he could smile when he heart was so severed. He just sat there, reading one of his idiotic books on philosophy, enjoying his freedom. Suddenly, she didn’t know what was happening. It felt as if her body was out of her control, carrying her on feet that were not her own. She found herself walking straight toward him, propelled by an insane need to make herself known. She knew the exact moment when he became aware of her presence, because at that moment, every emotion melted from his face, leaving behind only a tortured vulnerability that made her draw back slightly. Gone was the self-satisfied, proud expression his face usually held. His hands clenched into fists, his breathing quickened.

She worked to ignore the change in him. Months of pent up heartbreak melted together in her brain and transformed into a rage she had never before felt. “I hate you.” She said, her voice uneven, her outstretched finger pointing at him in accusation. “I hate every last fiber of you. I could’ve shown you something that you could never learned of or read about. I could’ve given you something you have never dreamed of: love. You can’t philosophize love, Alexander. You have these lofty ideas that you’re somehow better than the rest of the world because you’re above experiencing feelings. You think that it’ll free you to go out and see all that the world has to offer, but you’re wrong.” She wiped a tear from her eye and cleared her throat. “You can see everything in the world, but if you don’t experience love, I pity you.” She turned to go and was stopped when she felt his hand reach out and touch her fingers. She jerked them away savagely and looked down on his where he sat. She was taken aback when she saw a small tear puddling in the corner of his eye.

The Book.

Tags

& Write, Aspis, book., ermilia, Ink, Mystery, Petals, Peter, Picture it, Pond, Water.

Wow, it’s been two weeks since I’ve posted -my apologies! I know I am very behind in replying to comments, and I hope to catch up on that very soon… But I’m leaving soon for a family reunion deep in the mountains, far away from internet connection, so it might be next week before you head from me again. Try not to miss me too much.

Before I leave I wanted to leave you with something to remember my by, so I tried my hand at this week’s Picture It & Write! I LOVE this picture, it got the creative juices flowing right away. Feel free to join the challenge over at Ermilia’s Blog!

I strongly suggest you listen to this song:  or any song from the movie’s score, that’s what I listened to while writing this. (And if you’re a Snow White fan like me, go see the movie!)

I hope you enjoy it, and have a wonderful weekend!

“Well, we may as well forget about it,” Aspis said, reclining against the bridge’s railing and gazing up at the sky, a hand dangling over the grey water. “Though what he kept these flower petals for, I can’t figure out,” his thumb passed absently over one of the petals. I couldn’t remember a time that I had ever seen Peter without his precious petals. I had always figured that they were fake, because they never wilted or showed any signs of aging. But watching Aspis hold them, a thought occurred to me. It was something that Peter was always repeating, one of his favorite old refrains, and when I looked at them, it hit me. How could I have never understood what it meant?

Aspis glanced at me, studying my face. His long, cold fingers were loosely wrapped around my book, ready to toss it into the pond. I itched to lunge at him and retrieve my dearest possession before he released his hold and the book dropped into the icy water. That book contained endless value. If used correctly, it could tell its reader the piece of information that they most needed in any situation. Aspis didn’t know that; if he had he wouldn’t have been dangling it over sure destruction.

He must have noticed the urgency in my eyes, because he smiled slightly and nodded. “Ah, so you care more about it than you let on.”

I frantically looked away, out at the far shoreline. I needed to know what was inside of those pages, but if I let him see that, he’d throw it over the edge in a second. “You know that’s a lie,” I said. “When have I ever led you to believe you couldn’t trust me?”

“Virginia, Virginia,” he said, leaning forward and pressing an icy finger to my lips. “Please, stop. Lying doesn’t suit you. I’ve known for a long time of your allegiance to Peter. Don’t worry, you’ll get what is coming…” And then he took the book between his thumb and index fingers and sent it sailing through the air. I watched it fly away from me and prayed that my new discovery was correct. The book twirled through the air, its pages catching in the wind and throwing the petals out in every direction before it came to land in the water with a stomach-churning thud.

“That’s what becomes of liars, Virginia,” he said, strolling over to me and looking down into my eyes. I could feel his damp breath on my face and I tried not to flinch. “Get out.”

He pivoted on his heels and started to make the hike back up to the compound. I watched him go, working to steady my breathing. I couldn’t rid my mind of the image of my book’s pages filling with water, the bold printing disintegrating into a blur of ink.

When he was out of sight, I grasped at the railing and pulled myself over the side. I attempted to lower myself into the water, but the water was low and I had to jump a few feet to make it down. I was able to wade my way to the book with little trouble, but its contents had scattered everywhere. I desperately pawed through the water, pulling the flower petals toward me and checking them for damage. I couldn’t believe my eyes; not a single petal had been harmed. Letting out a relieved breath, I plodded through the water toward the book.

“Please, please, please…” I whispered, opening the cover and glancing at the murky ink. I turned to the first page and, taking one of the petals in my hand, gently rubbed it across the page. Immediately, the ink started to move, rearranging itself into words, as if by magic. I could almost hear Peter’s gruff voice in my ear, “what we have been given can be destroyed by nature, but only nature can reinstate it.” I had never known what he meant, but now I did. Before my eyes, I had seen it happen.

Peter would’ve been proud. If only he had lived to see this. I smiled down at the pages as they cleared themselves, one by one. I couldn’t believe that after all these years, the answer had been so simple. I didn’t have time to read everything, though I yearned to. Instead I had to content myself with reading just the first page. As I read, a smile spread across my face. The one page held everything I would ever need to know if I was going to kill Aspis.

If you decide to join the challenge, send me a link! I’d love to read your stories too! 

M.I.A. Excerpt 3

Tags

book., Chapter 1, CIA, Death, Escape., Excerpt, Fiction, Fun, George Byrne, Hope, Imagination, Mia, Reading., Regret, Sad, Story, Storyline, Tom Selfriege, Writer, Writing

This is another part of Chapter 1. I skipped over some parts, so it wouldn’t end up being too long, but I wanted to give a glimpse at some other characters besides Mia. Enjoy! And if you find any typos, please let me know, because I have read over it countless times, but I’m finding that I’m not very perceptive when it comes to typos.

M.I.A.

Chapter 1: Part 2

As I sprinted through the front door at five minutes past the hour, I ran through the options in my head. But somehow I couldn’t figure out how I was going to talk my way out of the verbal assault I knew I would receive as soon as I crossed the threshold to George Byrne’s office, late.

Before I could even knock on the door, Byrne’s loud voice commanded me into the room. “Come in, Yardley.”

I nudged open the door and there he sat, completely still, watching me. “Sit.”

The room, which was tucked deep within the recesses of CIA Headquarters, was as cold as the man himself. Nothing was out of line and though every furnishing was massive, they were plain and unembellished.

I put on my brave face and did as I was told, sliding into a stern chair across his desk from him. I sat up straight and worked to appear calm. I had learned over the past two years that with George Byrne, if you didn’t at least try to appear confident, he would eat you alive.

“Alright Mia, debrief.” He said, and reclined back in his chair, studying me with one eyebrow raised. I took a moment to look at him and noticed how weary he looked, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was ruffled and a small piece of it was hanging onto his forehead. But despite his appearance, the fire in his eyes was unwavering. Never had I found him so terrifying.

I resisted the urge to fuss with my skirt and met his intense stare. Ignoring my nerves, I told him everything that had transpired during my visit to Italy. I didn’t flower up any of it; I knew he’d see through it. He had a knack for knowing the truth whether I said it or not.

When I had finished, he said nothing. He sat with his hands folded on his desk like he had all day for this. I wished he would get on with it -I was getting more and more nervous by the second. I wasn’t a nervous person, but I had an intense fear of displeasing him.

He sat looking at me for about sixty seconds before he stood up and went to the window. “I’m not often proved wrong, Yardley. For some reason, when I gave you this mission, I honestly thought perhaps you would impress me for once. I was sorely disappointed.” He turned to look at me. “You disappointed me.”

I reminded myself to keep eye contact. “I’m sorry to hear that sir.”

“I’m not finished.” He interrupted me sharply.

I nodded, trying to appear penitent.

He didn’t speak for what felt like ages. He was circling me, like a shark wanting to devour its prey. My eyes followed him, waiting for him to shatter the silence.

When he spoke again, it was with a raised voice. I grimaced; I knew that when he wanted to be, his voice could be plainly heard all the way in Washington DC, or at the very least by everyone in headquarters. “What you did was stupid. Plain stupid. Honestly, that brace on your neck tells me you don’t deserve to be here. There are plenty of other agents who would die for an assignment like this.” He stopped and pinned me with a glare to make sure I hadn’t miss his word choice; I hadn’t. “Except with them,” He went on, “they wouldn’t pay that price because they didn’t happen to like some comment made by their target. They wouldn’t have allowed it to set them off.”

I again nodded. Of course he was right, but it stung to hear my stupidity spoken aloud, as if the neck brace wasn’t enough punishment.

When finally he had finished, he didn’t wait for me to answer. He simply marched out of the room, refusing to look at me. Then, when he was almost out the door, he turned to me and said “Option Room. Ten minutes. Don’t be late this time.”

——-

Hours later, after he had given the two of them their assignment, George Byrne was beginning to second guess his judgement. He rested his head in his hands and sighed. Sometimes he wished he could just fire the girl; it would certainly relieve some of the pressure he’d been feeling.

He glanced through his papers, fingering them in indecision and muttered to himself. If anything happened to her, he would blame himself. She had no idea the firestorm she was walking into.

Over the past few years he had lagged in his professionalism, come to see her as more than just an agent, he cared for her like a father would for a daughter, and it killed him what he was doing to her right now. He just wanted to be honest with her, but that wasn’t a liberty he had while with the CIA. He knew he couldn’t try to reason with her anyway, she was too stubborn for that. He knew she has shrugged off his warning that she was to trust no one but her partner. She would go on as she always had, trusting no one but herself.

He straightened his tie, attempting to smooth down his thoughts. His office, a space that usually comforted him, made him feel boxed in. He stood up and strode to the door, feeling an intense craving for fresh air. Once he got it, he was sure he would feel better about all of this. This was for her own good. He knew she would thank him later. In the end, it would all be worth it. It would.

————————————————————————————–

The airport was unexpectedly busy the day of our departure. Because of the crush of people surrounding us as we checked our bags, neither of us spoke more than a word or two.

I didn’t know much about Tom Selfriege other than that he was a smug, self-absorbed jerk who only cared about his own accomplishments. This was fully displayed after our first meeting when he leaned over to Byrne, thinking I was out of hearing distance and muttered, “So, if she breaks my neck during all of this, I’m not taking the mark on my record for it.”

Even still, I had tried to lighten things up. When I was a kid, my dad and I had always had a safe word. It was a secret word that we could always say to the other person to let them know something was wrong, without curious bystanders knowing.

“We need an alert word.” I declared, trying to warm him up. He was busy directing his attention toward the crowds of travelers rushing past us. I sat forward in my seat and leaned into his line of vision. “Something we can say when there’s something wrong, but other people are listening.”

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“You choose.” I remarked, working to sound chipper.

He sighed stoicly, “Sprain.”

I immediately  away, ignoring the first grin he had given me.

What do you think? I would love comments! And if anyone feels like giving a good (respectful and constructive) critique, I am always open to advice!

Blog Awards!

Tags

about yourself, Awards, flower, liebster, Tell me

Hello readers! It’s a great day because tomorrow is Friday, and I will have two whole days to do nothing but write. I’ve been given a few awards, so I figured I’d knock them all out in one post!

I didn’t want to bombard everyone with awards they have already received since everyone I wanted to give an award to already had one. I decided to combine them all into one post and thank the people who gave them to me!

First off,  I was given Tell Me About Yourself Award by Subhan Zein. Thank you so much! Everyone visit his blog! Who wouldn’t love someone whose headline is, “I sculpt the light and slap the thunder. I cuddle the moon and kiss the sun”?? It was also given to me by Postcard Fiction. Don’t think, just click the link. You will be met with astonishingly beautiful photographs.

Secondly, I got the Flower Award from Annie at AnneSchilde. Thank you, Annie! She is the sweetest, please read her blog.

Lastly, I was given the Liebster Blog Award by Michael Tyler and Brian at Pinionpost. Many, many thanks to both of you, I appreciate it! Michael’s blog is no longer available, but I really enjoy Brian’s. Check him out, he’s in the editing stage of a young adult novel!

Since these awards all had roughly the same idea behind them, I’ll follow the most structured one: the Liebster! According to the award rules, receiving the Liebster Award means your blog reaches out and touches the heart and souls of others. The 5 blogs you nominate should meet the same criteria. The rules of the Liebster Award are as follows:

 Thank and link back to the giver of the award.
 List 5 blogs who you believe deserve the Liebster Award and have 200 or less followers. And let them know on their respective blogs.

My nominations:

1. Avra at Red Twilight. I wish that she would post more often, because even though her posts are short, I always enjoy them. She was one of my first readers, and for that, she is my favorite!

2. Bethie at Hear A Snippet Here. She is in Europe at the moment, I’m eternally jealous. I’ve read her blog for a long time, because she is hilarious and I love her.

3. Annie at Anne Schilde. I’m sure she has more than 200 followers, but I couldn’t find her number of followers, so technically I’m not breaking any rules. I can’t say enough how much I enjoy her writing. She’s so witty and she really builds up my self esteem with all her sweet comments!

4. Duane at The Readery. Head on over and read his writings. He has an original story that is in the midst of being posted.

5. Matty at The Un-Abridge Works of Matty Millard. His blog is similar to mine in that he is posting his own original story. Check it out!

 Copy and paste the award on your blog and share 7 random things about yourself.

1. It’s been my lifelong dream to be an actress. Unfortunately, I can’t even lie without being obvious so I don’t think acting is a viable option.

2. I love people; watching interviews of people, reading about people… I like to delve into the entire life of one historical figure at a time. Consequently, I know everything there is to know about CS Lewis.

3. I was once in a Russian newspaper, but I have (sadly) never stepped foot in Russia.

4. I wrote my very first completed story when I was in high school, but I have only ever allowed one person to read it.

5. My sisters and I once slept in a park in Italy because our train was delayed late into the night and we didn’t arrive at our destination until hours after every hostel was closed. It was very, very cold.

6. I love keeping secrets. Secrets are power.

7. There’s this one character in M.I.A. who I really wish was real. It’s a sad day when you really realize that the people you’ve written don’t exist.

 Hope that the people you’ve sent the award to forward it to their five favorite up-and-coming bloggers and keep it going. Enjoy the Love!

Hope you’re all having a great week! Do any of your have any plans for the weekend that are more fun than mine?

M.I.A. Chapter One Excerpt.

Tags

Adventure, book., Cecilia, Chapter, Chapter 1, CIA, Death, Excerpt, Mia, roderick, Roger, Share, Snippet, Story

Well, it’s Wednesday, and I promised a new excerpt from MIA! If you haven’t already read the prologue, you can read it here. But, since I am exceedingly generous, I am giving you not one, but two! So without further ado:

M.I.A.

Chapter 1

A cocktail bar was probably the most stereotypical place to be meeting a woman like Cecilia Vedenaux. On first glance, one was sure that she was the definition of feminine mystique. She wore an elegant white dress, and not a strand of her icy black hair dared fall out of place. But there was something more; it was something that her young male companion couldn’t quite put his finger on. He watched her as she downed a scotch, wondering what it was. She felt his eyes and turned to him, grasping his hand in her own cold hands. “You stare.” She stated.

“You don’t want to be stared at?” He asked. “A woman of your looks must be used to admiring gazes.”

Cecilia rolled her eyes, taking up the next scotch the bartender offered her. She didn’t know why she bothered going out; all that she got was flirting attempts from blathering dummies like this one.

The young man didn’t seem to notice her irritation. “Surely an angel such as you…” 

Cecilia slammed her glass on the counter, cutting off his sentence. “What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness.” She said, standing up so she towered over him, slouched over his gin. She left without even glancing at his dumbstruck face. She knew it was pointless, he wouldn’t understand; that was her curse. He would never know the power she held; he saw only her beauty. And those who saw her beauty never believed that she could be capable of anything but that.

—-

Alistair stepped out of his car and buttoned his overcoat. The park was empty, that was why Roderick had chosen it. Alistair couldn’t figure why Roderick was acting so paranoid lately; it wasn’t like him. Where Alistair had always been aware, careful to follow protocol to the letter, Roderick had possessed an intuition that no amount of circumspection would make up for. Clandestine operations came naturally to him, he had no reason to be paranoid. 

Alistair was still reeling from the death of his closest friend. In the previous weeks he had found himself rethinking everything he knew. Was he truly meant for this? It was as if his job was not truly to achieve justice, it was to witness death. Over the years he had grown accustomed to death. It was an acquaintance; not a fond one, but inescapable nonetheless.

And yet nothing, not even watching hundreds of deaths could have prepared him to see Roger die. They had protected one another so many times, he had brought Roger back from the brink of death before, why not this time? It seemed impossible that this should be his calling in life. Was anyone meant to see their loved ones killed in front of their eyes?

And now Alistair didn’t even have a body or a grave to visit to say goodbye to his dear friend, the man he would’ve gladly given his life for. All that was left was the single yellow tulip that Roger had dropped on his way down. Alistair wasn’t a sentimental man, but he had kept that tulip, pressed and dried it, the one thing he had to remember his friend by.

Roderick had been just as stricken as Alistair by the news of Roger’s death. He had become increasingly distracted and devoted to his work, though he refused to share exactly what that was. “You find the mole and leave the rest to me.” He had said.

Though they had secrets between the two of them, Alistair trusted him with his life -a trust that had been tested on many operations. Only lately had Alistair noticed the edgy demeanor, the holes in Roderick’s logic, the way Roderick itched to break eye contact. The others in their division had overlooked it, but they didn’t know Roderick like Alistair did. 

Alistair had to stroll the shadowed park for nearly an hour before he spotted Roderick stepping out from behind an alder tree. He moved closer and Roderick let out a heavy breath that formed into a cloud of mist before him. 

“You weren’t followed.” He stated. 

“What’s this about?” Alistair asked. “You know Minerva and the boys are waiting for me.” 

Roderick did know. Tonight was Tom’s induction into MI6. But that was precisely why he wanted to speak to Alistair. 

“What have you found out?” He asked. At a wary glance from Alistair he spouted, “The mole! What have you found out about the mole? You’ve taken a bloody long time watching, you must know something.” 

Alistair didn’t know what to make of his agitation. “The operation in Cairo. The agent who was killed three weeks ago. I’ve looked into it.”

“Why?” Roderick asked, they had debriefed hundreds of times before, but this time Alistair got the feeling that Roderick was quizzing him.

“The agent, he was ambushed. It had to have been an ambush.” He said. “Isn’t it the least bit strange that one day after he asks permission to look into the russian natural gas traders, he’s shot down by an unidentified Arab man? The very next morning, in fact? While he was on his way to meet a contact? Come… Even if it is true, it raises a lot of new questions.”

“Like what?” Roderick said, retrieving a cigar and offering it to his brother-in-law. Roderick watched Alistair closely. “The arabs are known to attack without probable cause.”

“Perhaps, but the Russians aren’t.” Alistair said, not missing the slight flinch Roderick gave at the voicing of his suspicions. 

“So what are you saying, then? What do you think has happened?”

“I don’t quite know yet… But there’s one thing I know, Roderick.” He said. Roderick tilted his head to the side and leaned against a tree, lighting his own cigar. It was as if he was waiting for Alistair to give him a particular answer. He spoke haltingly, “It’s got to have been an inside job.” When Roderick raised his eyebrow questioningly, Alistair blazed forward. “Roderick, there are only three people who had clearance to that information! It has to be someone from our division!” 

Alistair was tiring of this back and forth volley. If Roderick know something, why didn’t he just get on with it? “There were only three people who knew about the operation, Fritz, myself, and…” Alistair stopped abruptly, a unanticipated memory pushing suddenly to the forefront of his mind. The final piece of the puzzle unexpectedly clicked into place and Alistair knew. The papers that Roderick had refused to show him, the suspicious questionings, the uneasy behavior. It all made sense. 

“You’re?” He gasped.

He watched comprehension, then a resigned look cross Roderick’s face. “As I suspected.” Roderick said sadly. “I’m sorry, my brother.” He said, stepping toward him and snuffing out his cigar prematurely. “Now don’t look so wounded. You know how it is. This world is no place for a friend.” 

Alistair stared at him. He was trained to suspect everything, everyone. But nothing in the world, nothing could have shocked him more than the realization that his very best friend was the traitor he had been hunting. He couldn’t even grasp the concept. “Rod… Roderick?” He said, looking at Roderick’s face for a sign of emotion, relief, anger, anxiety, regret; but Roderick was gazing at him with an unnerving look of brotherly tenderness. He was so matter of fact, almost surprised that Alistair hadn’t seen it coming. It was more than he could even comprehend. 

“She is quite convincing, you know. I never would’ve thought that killing Roger could’ve been a good idea, but now, with him gone… It’s going better than ever. Things in the Middle East are in a frenzy. Alistair, there’s a war coming, and I’m going to be responsible for it!” Alistair was unnerved by the frenzied joy in his brother-in-law’s voice. “I warned you to buy stocks in Russian gas. But did you? No. Perhaps if you had, I would’ve let you in on it, but then…” 

Alistair rubbed his temples in frustration and spoke more to himself than to Roderick. “So, you plan to create a war to stop gas production? And create a demand for Russian gas… And you killed my best friend, for gas?”

He felt as if everything that had ever brought him joy now meant nothing. If the person he had based so much trust on was a dirty turncoat, what in life could he believe to be true?

That’s why when Roderick pulled a knife out of his overcoat, Alistair could do nothing but stare at it. He continued to stare at it as Roderick placed his hand on Alistair’s shoulder and bowed his head, “I am sorry.” He said, stabbing Alistair just under the ribs. “You know too much for your own good. And with Tom gaining clearance tonight, it just wouldn’t…”

Alistair gasped but didn’t look down.  His pain was strong, but the feelings of shock and betrayal were far worse. He was going to die here, and no one would ever know the truth.

But Roderick wasn’t content to leave things as they were. To add insult to injury, he pulled a small vial of whiskey from the same pocket where he had hidden his knife. “Sit down, man.” He said, his voice absurdly affectionate. He helped Alistair to the ground, leaned him against a tree. “Open your mouth.” He ordered. Alistair was so used to taking orders from him and so blinded by agony that he obeyed. Roderick poured the flask down Alistair’s throat and then stood, rubbing his leather gloves together judiciously. He was already back to business. “Well, I really must go.” He said. “You understand.”

And with that, Alistair was alone. Left alone to face his death, and the knowledge of all the terrible things that would now come to fruition because of it.

Inspired Again.

Tags

Einadi, Fried Green Tomatoes, Gustav Holst, Inspired, Jupiter, Ludovico, Memorial Day, Oltremare, Portman, Rachel, Secret Fan, Thanks, thomas newman

Seeing as today’s a national holiday, I decided to take a break from writing. Don’t worry, I’ll be back tomorrow, just try not to miss me too much.

I’m thinking that I’ve now that whetted enough appetites, I will possibly post another snippet from MIA on Wednesday afternoon. It won’t be a full chapter, because that would be really long, but it’ll be a bit more substantial than the prologue, so get excited!

Also, since a few people were asking, I should also clear up that my last post The Tango is part of MIA, though the draft that I posted was written years ago and had nothing to do with Mia. I actually stumbled upon it in my old documents while I was writing MIA and I knew I had to use it somehow. So I changed a few important details, adding in some character development, and the scene came out of it (hopefully) without any damage. I posted the old draft because the scene is rather late in the book and I didn’t want to ruin any of the plot.

Now, on to today’s post, especially for Carmelle, because you enjoyed the last post so much. I’ve built up another list of songs that I could listen to 1,000,000 times without getting tired of them, and I just need to share them.

1. The Secret Fan by Rachel Portman

If you haven’t seen this movie, I recommend it. It’s a really honest and heartbreaking take on friendship. It made me smile, made me laugh, made me cry. The score perfectly portrays the heartbreak that Snow Flower and Lily go through. I go back to this song every few months and play the living daylights out of it. It’s perfect for writing to.

2. Fried Green Tomatoes Score by Thomas Newman

Thomas Newman can do no wrong. This song can only be listened to on a hazy summer day, when you can imagine that you’re sitting on the veranda in Georgia, sipping on sweet tea. Like most good songs, this one makes me tear up a bit, and picture all the beautiful stories that have yet to be told.

3. Oltremare by Ludovico Einadi

I actually used this to write Maps, among many other snippets I’ve got saved from over the years. This, friends, is the song that just keeps on giving. It’s so long that I always feel like I’m listening to it the first time, and every time I listen I get an idea for a new story. This song is magical.

4. Jupiter by Gustav Holst

I wish I could compose something this great. But at least if I can’t write something like this, I can write a story while listening to it!

That’s it for today, I hope all my American readers are having a wonderful Memorial Day, and to my non-American readers, a wonderful Monday!

PS: I want to mention how thankful I am to celebrate Memorial Day. In honor and memory of my grandfather, who served in WWII, my great uncle John, who survived through WWII and was killed a week after the war ended when he drove over a land mine. And to my dear dad, who is still here, but whose service is still greatly appreciated.

The Tango.

Tags

Anger, CIA, Covert, Covert Operations, Dancing, Love, Mia, Secret Agent

Someone once told me that love is like the tango; once you learn the steps, it’s a pattern that’s simple to maneuver. I hate dancing.

I didn’t always hate dancing. I believe it all began the evening I first tangoed with him. The occasion doesn’t matter. It was all diamonds and glitter, but I couldn’t enjoy it because across the room, there he was watching me. I knew why, but couldn’t he be a little more blasé about it? He could, of course, but he knew I hated when he stared. I couldn’t contain myself, I shot him one of my iciest glares. His stone-faced stare cracked and his face broke into a wide smile, which he covered with a hand, a horrible attempt at composure since anyone could tell he was laughing from the glint in his eye.

He stood and made his way toward me, weaving through the labyrinth of tables and waiters, never breaking eye contact with me. While his eyes were on me, every female eye in the room was on him, and he knew it. If he wanted attention, he got it.

He was terrible at covert operations, and I told him so as soon as he was sitting next to me. He laughed, a merry, deep chuckle, and took my hand.

“Sometimes,” he began, raising an eyebrow and leading me to the center of the ballroom floor, leading me into the end of a waltz, “being covert doesn’t mean blending in. Sometimes it’s more of a thrill to pull everything off with every eye in the room glued to you.”

“Ha!” I pointed a finger at him as the orchestra began to play a tango. “You’re not in this for the better good of anyone but yourself.” His lighthearted expression turned dark, and his steps quickened and intensified. I went on, “You’re just here for the thrill of it, not to help anyone! You’re just-”

I stopped because the look on his face had turned from dark to grave and somehow, I didn’t really dare to speak. “Who said I was here to help anyone?” he said, and then he released my hands, turned and calmly walked back to his seat.

The Box.

Tags

Box, Candle, ermilia, House, Island, Marcus

Ermilia’s Picture It & Write again! This picture is so beautiful, it seems really dark to me, and as we know, dark comes easily to me. Join in here!

He hated taking chances. Why on earth did it have to be him going? He peeked around a tree, down at the shoreline. The house had been placed on a small mound of land that would’ve been a peninsula had the tide been a few feet lower. But at this hour, it was an island and could only be reached by crossing a precarious pile of planks that could hardly be called a bridge.

His father had been so foolish. Here he had spent the majority of Marcus’s life drilling into his head the importance of what he was about to do. If he didn’t break into the house and steal back that box, well… His father had always glazed over when he came to that part of the story. “Well, you needn’t know what’ll happen. Because you’ll do it.”

This night would change his life, he said. And yet, dear old dad was back at the inn, drunker than he’d ever been, even in his sailor days. And Marcus was left to retrieve the box himself. It would’ve been helpful to have a helper -someone to keep watch, at least – but as always, he was alone. If only his mother were still alive, she would surely help him. But that too was a story that caused his father to go mute. “She’s dead, alright?” He’d insist. “Ye don’t need to know what happened.” But Marcus wanted to know. He cared about what’d happened to his mother far more than he cared about getting that stupid box. He didn’t even know what was inside it.

His thoughts returned to his mother, as they often did during times of fear. When he was a child she would always rock him and say, “Fear is nothing more than distrust of the one who’s in control”. Marcus was quite sure, however, that even his mother wouldn’t fault him for the trepidation he felt. Here he was, entering an unfamiliar house, filled with any number of unfamiliar occupants, to retrieve a box of ‘untold worth’, for a purpose that he wasn’t allowed to know. He considered leaving, but as he had nowhere else to go other than back to his father, who would give him a firm whipping, he set his sights on the house.

The light in the attic flickered out abruptly, this was his chance. It was nearly sunrise and the light had been glowing all night. He needed to act before morning dawned. The boards of the bridge hardly held his weight and he tiptoed haphazardly across them, gritting his teeth with every crack and squeak he caused. The pathway up to the front of the house was made of beaten down dirt, and was just wide enough for one person to walk on. It was really a haunting little island, dabbed with nothing but a tree or two and endless tufts of dying grass.

An unexpected light flared up in a front window that was almost level with his face. He fell to the ground, wriggling out of the beam of light pouring out of the window. He heard a voice speaking inside, the tone muffled and delicate through the thin, wavy glass of the window, and he paused. It couldn’t be. “No,” he thought, “No, it’s can’t be.” Though Marcus was a good boy, he was not entirely smart. His stomach pressed to the ground, he crawled toward to house, and his fears dampened by curiosity, his raised his face to the window. There, sitting inside of the house in an old rocking chair, and looking more serene than he had ever seen her, it was his mother.

Electric.

Tags

Electricity, First Kiss, Hope, Kiss, Love, Nervous, Plunge, Shaking., Soul, Soulmate

I’ve noticed that I naturally gravitate toward writing depressing, death related stories, and if they have anything to do with love, it’s a lost love. But today the sun is shining and I’ve got my family around me for the holiday weekend, and I’m not feeling like writing about death. So I gave myself a challenge: to write a short prompt that includes love and no death, sadness, or overall depressing content. Let me tell you, it was hard. Writing happy stories is to me something akin to pulling teeth with no Novacaine. But I’m all for challenging myself, so here it is:

He leaned in, looking her in the eye, and she felt her hands begin to shake. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to him to kiss her, but it also scared her out of her skin. She averted her eyes, hoping he would be deterred if she acted uninterested, but deterred, he was not. In fact, it only served to draw more of his attention, if that was possible. He chuckled quietly and placed his hand on her shoulder, drawing her toward him slightly. He could sense her nervousness as distinctly as if it were a physical object sitting next to him.

He didn’t understand how someone could be so anxious. He had kissed enough girls to know that it wasn’t something to get so worked up about. But here she was, fidgeting as if she was about to jump off a bridge. He didn’t expect this kiss to be any different than any other.

“Well,” he thought to himself. “She’s got to make the jump someday.” And so, as gently as he could, he took her face in his hands, and he kissed her with all of the lightness he possessed.

He felt a change going through her and he wished more than anything that he could know what she was thinking. He wanted to know what she felt.

—————————

Electricity. That’s what she felt. It was like the air was full of little beams of light and she was breathing it in. Her lungs soaked it up and it was entering her bloodstream, both numbing her and bringing life.

She had heard what a first kiss was like; tense, nerve wracking, terrifying, but after the initial plunge, it hadn’t been any of those things. She couldn’t put her finger on the change that had occurred in her, it was so intangible. Her soul was no longer the same, she felt it. She could’ve sworn she’d felt the earth shift on its axis and she could think of only one word to put on it: euphoria. No longer was her soul alone in the world, she had found its match and with it had come a new sense of vision.

How could she have lived all this time, seeing the world how she did? She looked around her; the trees had never looked so alive, the sky so vast. She looked over at him, wondering how one person could have such power over her senses.

But he wasn’t looking at her. He was in a trance, because just as her world had begun with that first kiss, his every view of love, life, emotion –everything had abruptly changed. His life as he knew it would never be the same. Just as she was transformed, her view of love blossoming, he felt his convictions conversely melting. He had thought himself so world-worn, but everything he thought he knew had suddenly crashed to the ground. As her life had begun, his had ended.

The 5 Best Movie Lines I Wish I Had Written.

Tags

Bella, Best, Great Gatsby, Had, Harvey, Jimmy Stewart, Line, Love, Movie, Movie Line, Movies, Mr Smith Goes To Washington, Peony in love, Quote, Wish, Written

Am I the only person who will suddenly get a rush of jealousy while reading a book or watching a movie because it just has so many good lines? I always find myself thinking, “Ah, that is gold, why didn’t I think of that?”

Ergo, this list. I’ve compiled the top 5 quotes that I heard and thought, “You really missed your chance on that one, Margaret”.

1. “Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be’ – she always called me Elwood – ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’ Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me. ” -Jimmy Stewart as Elwood P. Dowd in Harvey

I may as well just get this out there; I adore Jimmy Stewart. I think he could’ve sat there staring at the camera and I would call it a moving theatrical experience. That proclamation aside, I have to say even without his performance the script from this movie is one of my favorites. If I had heard just this one line, I would’ve understood the character to a tee, and that, to me is a sign of perfected writing. As a side note, I’ve repeated this line so many times my family and friends probably wish it hadn’t ever been written.

2. ”I used to worry.Then I did a little research and found out that ten out of ten people die.” -Tammy Blanchard as Nina in Bella

I am a worrier. I’ve heard all the tried and true cliché lines, “Worrying is like a rocking chair…” “Worry won’t change tomorrow” “Worrying gives you wrinkles”, but frankly, no matter what you tell me, worry is not an on-off switch that I can manually control. So when you tell me to simply “stop worrying”, I will not listen. I’ll get annoyed instead. All of this has come together and create a kind of anti-worrying block in my brain. So when I was watching Bella for the first time and this line came up, it caught me completely off guard. It was something I had never thought of before, and -though slightly morbid -for once in my life, an anti-worrying line actually made sense to me!

3. ”She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool -that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’ You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so -even the most advanced people. And I know.” -Daisy in The Great Gatsby

Alright, so this is a quote from the book, but I’m just so excited for the new movie that I couldn’t leave it out! I didn’t necessarily enjoy the plot of the book, but the writing and the imagery is so spot-on. There’s just something about this scene that makes me tear up a bit every time I read it. You can sense so much desperation behind her words, so much poignancy that I just want to reach out and hug her. No matter how long it’s been since I’ve read the book, one time reading that excerpt and I’m right back there.

By the way, was I the only one who pictured Tom Buchanan being much better looking than that?

4. “In that moment I understood that the cruelest words in the universe are if only.” -Lisa See, Peony in Love

Maybe you’ve noticed a trend? I don’t follow rules well, even rules that I myself have made. This is not a movie, but it’s going to be, so I suppose it fits. I love this line so much because you’d think that the cruelest words in the universe would be something vile, a curse or an unkind word at least. ‘If only’. It seems so harmless, full of promise. But when it’s ‘if only she hadn’t died’, ‘if only I hadn’t failed’, ‘if only I had one more chance’, it takes on a whole new light.

5. You see, boys forget what their country means by just reading The Land of the Free in history books. Then they get to be men, they forget even more. Liberty’s too precious a thing to be buried in books, Miss Saunders. Men should hold it up in front of them every single day of their lives and say: I’m free to think and to speak. My ancestors couldn’t, I can, and my children will. Boys ought to grow up remembering that. ” -Jimmy Stewart as Jefferson Smith in Mr. Smith Goes To Washington

That Jimmy Stewart just keeps popping up everywhere, doesn’t he? I did warn you though, right?

This quote is just perfect. I think it speaks for itself, and I wish I had written it because it’s so easy to forget that the things in history books are real. Sometimes I forget that, hundreds and hundreds of years ago there really were Vikings and Gladiators and Crusades. It’s so important to remember the past, because ‘those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it’, another quote that George Santayana beat me to.