Flashback Blog Hop

So, my good friend Fel is hosting the Flashback Blog Hop to celebrate the one year anniversary of her blog. She's asked us to repost things from 2012 that we are proud of, love, had a good response to, etc. I really wanted to post a piece of poetry from December 2011, but that would be cheating.

I decided to blog about one of my more popular posts from 2012, a piece of flash fiction I wrote for The Writers' Collection, a group I need to get back into because they really helped with my creative juices.

This piece is titled Once Upon a Time (and was written in a very short period, so forgive me).

Enjoy!

~ My grandmother lies in her hospital bed, machines and wires hooked in places that make me cringe, fighting for her life. Watching her struggle for each breath, wheezing and gasping even with the aid of oxygen, makes me burn inside.

I reach for her hand then squeeze her cold fingers between mine, rubbing skin so thin with my thumb I’m afraid I’ll hurt her. Grandma’s eyes flutter open, and she smiles. My mother and father jump out of their chairs and stand behind me, each placing a sweaty palm on my shoulder.

“Mom?” Dad asks, voice shaking in a way no daughter should ever hear from her father.

But Grandma doesn’t look away from me; she holds my gaze, her eyes pale blue and determined. 

“Do you . . . .” With her free hand, she slowly reaches for the mask covering her mouth, but doesn’t have the strength to remove the elastic bands.

“Here, let me help you,” Mom says, stepping beside me.

“I’ve got it, Mom.” I stand and help Grandma take off her mask. Mom shouldn’t have to do any more; Dad’s been a wreck, and she needs to worry about him.

“Tha—” Grandma coughs, chest rattling with whatever fluid is invading her lungs. “Thank you.”

Tears roll down my cheeks and drip from my chin as I return to my uncomfortable blue chair next to her bed. Grandma’s the strongest, most caring woman I know, and the doctors said she’d be lucky to survive the night.

Cancer is a bitch.

“Do you need a drink, Grandma?” I ask.

Dad sits on the foot of the bed and drops his bright-red face into his hands. Mom rolls Grandma’s hospital tray toward her then stares at my father, her face as white as Grandma’s bed sheets.

Dad has always been so strong, just like Grandma, always taken care of us, told us everything will be okay, we’d always be together, we’d always have our family. Now part of his family is dying, part of his foundation, his root, his childhood.

Grandma tugs at my arm with the strength of a young child. “Do you remember that story I liked to tell you when you were little?”

Turning back toward her, I nod.

“Will you tell it to me now?”

I stare out the window, out toward the shining sun, the cars driving eighty-miles per hour on the highway, watch a flock of black birds soar through the deep-blue sky, then take a shallow breath. “Once upon a time, there was a young girl who loved a young man—”

My father chokes and runs out the door, releasing a howl of agony once he’s in the hall. Whispers drift into the room. Mom tells Dad to be strong for me, for Grandma, but all I hear from him in response are wails.

Words catch in my throat, my face burns, and my hands sweat. My father hates this story, but to see him react that way . . . .

“Be more courageous than your father, Helen. My life has been fulfilling, and I do not fear death.” Grandma closes her eyes and wheezes. If it weren’t for the sounds she’s making, I’d swear she’s already dead and in her coffin.

Grandma’s white hair is messed up around her face, and her deep-set wrinkles do little to hide the dark blue veins under her thin veil of skin. “You don’t have to tell me the rest; the fact you remember means everything to me. You see, this is my story, Helen. I’ve been sharing it with you all these years so you would know a thing or two about your family’s history, so when you have children of your own you can share it with them, or share your own story with them.”

I gasp. “You’re the girl who fell in love with the young man in the farm field? You stole clothes and bandages from your parents to give to him? You’re the one who broke your foot chasing a chicken and was helped by the same young man five years later?”

Grandma smiles again, keeping her eyes closed. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Your father didn’t want me to fill your head with love stories, but he’ll have a few things to tell his grandchildren someday, and so will you. I love you, Helen—”

The machines beep, a speaker announces code blue, echoing all around the sterile room.

I look at Grandma, her mouth open and eyes wide, then burst into tears. “Grandma! Someone help. Please, help her.”

A crowd of nurses rush into the room and push me toward the door. My mother and father appear beside me and wrap their arms around my shoulders. Grandma’s gone and she’s not coming back. I don’t need a team of doctors and nurses to tell me that.

Rushing from the room, I bolt for the exit. I don’t know where I’m going or how I’ll get there, but there’s one thing I’ll always remember: Grandma’s story. One day whether I’m telling my children or grandchildren, the story will always start: Once Upon A Time.~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wilde's Fire            -           Wilde's Army              -            Wilde's Meadow

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Shadows #TWC1

I want to thank Ziva D'Arcy from Coach O's class at North Stafford High School for writing this post. I may have come up with the idea, but Ziva, a future author, wrote the short story, and I think she did quite well.

I looked through my window to the west as the sun cast shadows behind North Stafford High School.  The dark areas usually only scare little kids, but most little kids can’t claim to be burned by the dark.  I can though.  My long withheld phobia of the gloom all began when I was ten.  My parents always told me there was no such thing as monsters, but they were wrong.  When the moon arose, a creaking sound always heralded the coming of HIM… That despicable being with hands of burnt charcoal and eyes of bloody crimson stared me down from the corner of my room, hiding in the shadows until the sun awoke.  Sleeping at night was impossible because of that thing.

But tonight was different.  I waited for him to appear out of the shadows and show himself.  I rested in my bed and waited anxiously with fool’s courage for him to emerge.  His eyes that stared me down from sundown to sun up finally appeared.  I gracefully walked to the closed lavender curtains gracing my windows.  Each step I took caused him to step toward me.  As I grabbed the curtains, he forcefully pulled at my upper arm, a small ray of light peering in through the windows.  In the dim light, I made out his coarse black hands. Smoke trickled out of his hand resting on my upper arm.

I yanked hard to get away, but he grabbed me tighter. Heat burned my arm.  I screamed and used the other hand to rip those curtains open.

The individual desperately covered his eyes from the light, letting my arm go, and revealed himself.  He was a kid about my age with charcoal skin and crimson eyes, but he also had a devil’s tail and horns.  The smoke that came from his hand consumed his dark body.  In a matter of moments and many wails of pain, his body disintegrated to dust, leaving behind a black hoodie, a black choker necklace, and a pair of stone washed distressed jeans.  I picked up the hoodie and held it close.  Even though he scared me, I never meant to hurt him.  He was there all the time for me, and when I was sad, he looked sad, too.

A brisk nighttime breeze filled the air, and I slipped on the hoodie.  I'm still haunted by the shadows, the burn from that mischievous sprite is still on my upper arm, but I'm not afraid.  I am stronger now, more than ever, to face the shadows like all the other children before me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To see other author's take on the subject "Shadows", please visit The Writers Collection.

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If you still haven't purchased a copy of Wilde's Fire, you can get yours today: B&N, Amazon, Kobo, & iTunes.

And there's a new Who Said It contest going on. Check it out!

Wilde's Army is now on Goodreads! Make sure you add it to your TBR list!

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The Stamp #TWC

I want to thank Coach O's class at North Stafford High School for their participation in writing this short story. This isn't a typical piece for me, and was difficult to continue, but I hope you enjoy!

Thank you to the kid in the back of the room for the wonderful suggestion of the last line.

* * *

Abandoning hope, I stared at the river a good hundred feet below. One step and it would all be over. One step and I'd never have to worry about this again. One step . . . .

* * *

Carl walked up the drive, carrying the mail the way he always has, shoved into his gray shoulder bag. He looked especially unnerved today, his forehead sweatier than usual, his gaze directed at his feet—or whatever not ahead of him.

He muttered, shaking his head, then turned around and stomped toward the street.

“Hey, Carl. What’s wrong?” My mail carrier and I weren't friends, but no one wants to see important papers run away from them, right?

Unfortunately, my words did nothing to calm him. He took off running.

Odd.

Chasing after him wasn't in the cards, so I went back to watching the game on ESPN. Good friends, potato chips, and beer—what could be better?

"Who was that? Not Claire, I assume." Jeff handed me the remote . . . not that I had any intention of changing the channel.

"Strange. That's what that was." I took a swig of my drink. "Definitely not Claire, and I guess I won't see the mail until Monday."

I'm not sure why Jeff asked me anything; he was completely engrossed in football. Can't say I blamed him.

A few minutes later, someone knocked.

Jeff grinned at me like a psychopath. "Bet that's your girl now."

Jumping over the back of the sofa, I made a beeline for the door, then took a deep breath and ran my fingers through my hair.

"Dude. You have it bad."

Bryan and Jeff snickered like schoolgirls, but the jokes on them. At least I had a girl!

I turned the handle, excited, but Claire's beautiful smile didn't greet me. In fact, no one was there.

Just before I slammed my recently replaced, nine-hundred dollar door, I glanced down and noticed mail on the rug. I collected the letters, ready to mark off Carl from my 'nice list', then turned to go back inside and noticed yet another present. “What the . . . ? Jeff, Bryan, come look at this.”

How did someone paint a Chinese symbol on my door so fast? Better yet—why? The paint was thick and oozed down the solid oak panes, reminding me of a letter seal from times long ago.

The more I stared, the faster my anger faded, and the shakier I became.

"I've seen this before." Bryan leaned in close. "Remember on the news last week? They found the guy dead in his house, this exact symbol on his door, no explainable cause of death."

Jeff made ghostly noises, earning him an evil glare from my always paranoid buddy, Bryan.

I hated to give in to fear, but the very sight of this thing on my door made me queasy. Never mind it pissed me off. "I have to get rid of this."

A quick trip to the garage and I was back, scrubbing like no man should. Red streaks stained my wrists and burned my skin. Whatever this paint was made of, it wasn't hypoallergenic. I tossed the bucket and cleaning brushes into the trash, just to be safe, then scoured my skin in the kitchen sink.

My tendons tightened; my veins bulged and pulsed with red, not blue. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I swear my beer was about to come back up. “What’s wrong with me?”

"I have to go," Bryan said, taking the side exit rather than going out the front.

Jeff scurried after him.

I shook my head and stared at my arm again, but it looked normal. Game ruined, friends gone, and absolutely no hope of seeing Claire, I decided to read my mail.

Bills. Ads. Coupons. Huh? A letter sealed with the same symbol.

I tore open the envelope, then unfolded the yellowed parchment.

"Due to your unique genetic makeup, you have been chosen to participate in a test of strength, of courage, and of will. The next ten days will be painful. The next ten days may be the last days of your life. By now, you have surely touched the Stamp of Death. By now, an alien form is taking place inside your soul. Live through the pain and you will have all the things you have ever desired, especially power. Decide to take your life, as every candidate before you has, and you may save this world from a massive war it could never possibly win, but then, will you have your Claire? Will you have your friends? Maybe. Because if you decide to take your life, we will also take theirs. Choose well. Good luck."

My stomach roiled. Bile climbed up my throat, burning. Just my imagination. Just my imagination. The letter fell from my hands and landed by my feet. No way this psycho has my friends. No way cramps are crippling me at the knees. No way . . . .

I ran to the garage, sweating worse than working in hundred-degree heat. I had to see if Bryan and Jeff left in their car, but when I opened the door, I didn't need any more proof. My two best friends and the only girl I'd ever even remotely thought the word 'marriage' about were bound and gagged, faces pale, eyes wild, arms held by a couple thugs dressed in all black.

"Let them g—" I doubled over, vision blurring, stomach losing its contents all over the concrete. Hot, searing pain tore through me like something was taking me over, moving in, pushing me aside. Falling to my hands and knees, I gasped for breath, gasped because all I wanted to do was die, and something in my mind, some strange voice, told me that death was a good choice, that if I allowed this thing inside me to live, all life would cease to exist and I would never truly get everything I desired. This alien didn't want to live, and I didn't want to let it, but what did that mean for my friends?

Claire screamed through her gag, and one of the thugs punched her. I tried to get up, I tried to save her, but the toxin rushing through me, singeing every hair on my arms, squeezing through every vein in my body, prevented me from moving. Blackness crept into my vision, and I passed out.

* * *

Ten Days Later: Abandoning hope, I stared at the river a good hundred feet below. One step and it will all be over. One step and I'll never have to worry about this again. One step . . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To read other author's take on the subject "The Stamp", visit The Writers Collection.

Don't forget, Wilde's Fire is available on B&N, Amazon, Kobo, & iTunes. Get your copy today!

Want to win Wilde's Fire gear? Check out the Who Said It contest!

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Lost #twc1

Living on the boundary of what used to be civilization isn't easy. We play games with our lives every day. Hunger and thirst are the least of our concerns, though we do suffer through famine. No, our struggles with the wild cats, if you can truly call these beasts cats, are our biggest problems.

Their size rivals that of an extinct bear, and that only adds to our enemies' strength. The cats make no sounds as they slink through the waters surrounding our small village. They fear nothing, and they stop at nothing to steal our last breaths.

And they've stolen so very many over the last three years.

Every night I stand guard over my brother and two sisters. All three are too young to fight. They are even too young to leave our hut. In a few years, I will teach them how to watch, how to protect what's important, but for now, they must survive. Only.

My parents protected me, and now I am the second eldest remaining human known to mankind.

Or at least known to our village, the longest surviving since the animal outbreak.

Click, click, thump, thump.

That sound is never good, always a warning, and comes from the only person older than me: Graham. My heart hammers against my chest. No matter how long I've fought, no matter how many battles I've won, the cats always scare me.

Fear keeps me alive.

I turn around and close the hut's door. So flimsy, made of twigs and scrap branches tied together with whatever twine we could salvage from abandoned home improvement stores, before they burned to the ground—people do crazy things when the world as they know it ends. The other building materials were too heavy; they would have gotten us killed had we tried to take them, but they would have protected us a lot better. Our version of a door doesn't even cover the hole in our mud huts.

"Matt," I whisper, stirring my little brother. He needs to learn to be more alert. "Matt," I whisper significantly louder, significantly more dangerous.

Rubbing his eyes, he sits up.

So slow. If the cats don't kill him, I will. "Hurry up."

Matt throws his blanket from his legs, then puts his face up to the top of the door. "What's wrong?"

"What isn't wrong? Watch your sisters. Do not open the door. Block it with anything you can find. They're here."

He nods then takes off toward our pile of logs in the back of the hut. I keep my eye on him to make sure he does what he has to, but then he rushes right back up to me.

"Clarissa?"

I growl. "If we all die tonight, it's your fault."

My brother slinks back. I'm too hard on him. He's only seven. I'm twice his age, plus two years.

"Stay safe."

"I'm sorry, Matt. I will. I love you." I run away before the tears come. Crying will get me killed for sure. Mom was crying the night she died, and Dad died crying over her.

"Rissa," Graham calls. He's crouched behind a tree, spear in hand, blond hair glistening in the moonlight.

This is not how we typically prepare for a fight. I jog over to him then kneel beside him, glancing every which way to make sure nothing is about to attack.

Graham points across our moat, pathetically dugout moat at that. "I saw light, behind those two trees over there."

"Light?" We ran out of batteries months ago. Hell we ran out of everything months ago. After the last of the adults died, Graham and I were left in charge of two-hundred middle-school aged children. We aren't exactly parental material . . . yet. Though given our two-year age difference, he may be my only option in life. Not that he's a bad option.

"Yes. Like flashlights. The cats are smart, but not that smart. I don't know where the stupid things came from, but aside from their strange golden collars, I've never seen them have things like light." He stands, stretching out his long, muscular legs. Thank God for him. He's brave and willing to protect his people, and Graham has the strength to back up his best qualities. "I'm going to check it out."

"What?" I scramble to my feet and grab hold of his arm before he can walk away. "You can't. No one has ever come back. Ever, Graham. You can't. You can't go away and die and leave me with all these kids. I need you."

The muscles in his face tighten. He knows I need him. He knows everyone has died. Graham can't be stupid enough to make this mistake. Not him. Anyone but him.

"Three years we've lived like prisoners because of these cats. We've lost our friends, our families, our childhood." He turns his face away from me, clenching his teeth and fists. "I can't deal with it. I can't deal with looking at you every day and knowing if I fail, this day could be your last."

I touch his cheek, trying to get him to look at me again, but he refuses to budge, refuses to meet my eyes. His skin is so warm, so dry and rough against my blistered hands. My breaths quicken, and I back away. I've never touched him like this. Ever. "Why are you worried about me?" I whisper, staring at my feet.

Graham storms toward the water, but I'm not stupid enough to follow him into the open. "Stop. Where are you going?"

"To figure out what I saw and to find a way to get us out of this. I'll be back."

No he won't. He won't ever be back. No one has ever returned. But trying to stop him would be suicide.

Those tears finally fall. I know I shouldn't let them, but I'm tired of losing people I know and love. I'm tired of staying up all night and sleeping all day. I'm tired of being in charge, of burying people I know—or what's left of them.

I stomp back to our hut, sobbing like a little baby, then cross my arms over my chest to stand watch. Like usual.

"You shouldn't cry, girl. Crying will get you killed," someone with a smooth, deep, sadistic voice says.

What the . . . ? I spin around, but no one is here. Nothing.

"Look lower. Look where you like to stab my creations in the eyes."

Emerging from the darkness, a big, black cat with green, glowing eyes walks up to me.

"I-I don't understand. Why are you speaking to me?" Why is this thing speaking at all?

He lowers his head, bringing it too close to his front paws. The beast plans to pounce me. Maybe I should have gone with Graham. Maybe we all should have.

"I am not like the others." The thing shakes—violently—then transforms into a man. A tall, dark-skinned man with bright cat-like, green eyes. Naked. Completely and utterly naked.

I'm trapped. I won't open the hut door. My brother and sisters are in there. Safe. For now, but I wish I could run away.

"I created them to be like me. Man who can turn into beast, be free, experience a carefree life, but they did not inherit the man in me. Only the cat."

I shake my head, clutching the weapon in my hand tighter and tighter. "Don't come any closer. I will kill you."

The maniac grins, revealing his brilliant white teeth. "And not figure out where your precious Graham went? He followed the same light as all the others. Don't you want to know the secrets to this new world you live in?"

Not another word. I lift my spear then thrust it into his heart, but my efforts were for nothing.

Transforming back into the cat, he laughs then lopes off toward the water. "Sooner or later, he'll come for you. Maybe he'll even eat you."

"Maybe he'll eat you first," I scream, slumping against the hut.

Everything just changed. Everything.

~~~~

To read other writer's take on the subject Lost, visit http://www.thewriterscollection.com/.

Today's entry is from one of my novels in progress.

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Death #TWC1

I had a dream. A nightmare really. I did something terrible, awful. My crimes were unspeakable. Unfortunately, whatever heinous act I participated in, I couldn't remember.

I turned a corner, in a room full of corners. White walls were everywhere, taking shape in front of me before I reached my destination. I was close. Really, really close. But to what, I had no idea.

Nerves grated me, striking me with understanding of what a terrible person I was. How could I? Whatever I did, it was bad, and I knew it. Crying seemed like a good idea, but there were more turns, more hallways, more corners.

White, all this endless, useless white. I hated it. I hated me. What did I do?

"Krystal . . . ."

My name floated in the air, drifted around me, riddled my skin with goose bumps. Heat flooded my cheeks, and tears pooled in my eyes.

One last corner and I'd meet the end. My punishment. Whips and chains would not suffice for what I'd done. Nothing would.

I slowed my steps, suddenly afraid of what I'd meet. Whips? Chains? Fire?

Torture was certainly in my future. But I wanted to remember the crime. I wanted to know what I'd done.

Closing my eyes, I tried to force my memory to work. Think. Think. Think.

Nothing.

"Krystal . . . ."

No more time for remembrance. I stepped around that last corner, and Death stood before me. Black cloak and all. He held his staff, lifted his head, and we met eyes. Mine blurry with tears. His flashing a brilliant-white.

What did I do? Why was Death before me?

Wind swirled through the white room, and everything turned black.

He stared at me, unblinking. "I do not know how you did it, and I know you do not either. But thank you. You have freed me from this job of damnation."

A white, cloaked figure, with shockingly blank, black eyes replaced Death, then he dematerialized and floated toward the ceiling.

He was right; I didn't know how I did it, but somehow I freed the world of Death.

To see other writer's take on the topic of Death, visit TheWritersCollection.com

~ Wilde's Fire | Wilde's Army *Coming Soon*

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Time #TWC1

Time. Time. Everyone's got time. Playing at the beach, and sipping on some wine. Time to do this and do that. Can't you find some time?

Okay, I admit, I took the lyrics from "Signs" by the Five Man Electrical Band and turned them around for this post.

But this week's TWC blog topic couldn't be more appropriate. With the release of Wilde's Fire right around the corner, I don't have time for much more than edits and self-promotion.

I'm tired. I'm hungry. I need a shower (please, don't tell anyone).

Friends are helping me out, taking over my blog and responding to comments on my behalf. My family misses me. My bed calls to me. My eyes are puffy.

BUT . . . .

My book is out, or should be out within this week (depending on when you read this).

The moment most writers dream of is mine. I will cherish all the hard work, the blood, sweat, and tears I've put into this. Most importantly, I will remember all the time it took to create.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have two more books to release into the world . . . .

To read other author's take on the topic "Time", please visit The Writers Collection.

Want to *grab* a copy of my book? Check out my publisher's website: www.nobleyoungadult.com

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The Hill #TWC1

"Will you take my hand?"

I don't know why Sean asks. My hand has been his for a year, and I've never refused him, but our relationship should be at the point where he just reaches for me.

I certainly won't mind; his warmth is something I crave, something I can't live without.

Smiling, I extend my hand toward his open palm and slide my fingers between his. He tugs me closer and we walk down the white-sand beach, united.

A warm, ocean breeze blows in my face, making my skin sticky and my hair a matted mess, but I’m not complaining. Sean never has either. We live for the salt life.

He laughs. "Ah, lunch hasn't blown away."

"Lunch?" I ask, leaning back.

Sean points ahead, squinting his eyes against the midday sun. I follow his finger. A red and white checkered blanket is staked to the ground, accompanied by a light tan picnic basket with a rainbow colored umbrella towering above what he calls 'lunch'.

"This is different." I'm not sure what else to say. We've taken this walk every day since we met at work a couple years ago, but he's never done lunch before.

"I can't surprise you once in awhile?" A big, Cheshire grin spreads across his beautiful tan face, lighting up his eyes. He looks like a little boy. "Race ya."

I drop his hand and run off, looking over my shoulder. "Go!"

"You big cheat."

It takes him all of two strides to catch up to me. He slides his arms around my waist and spins me to face him, but we lose our balance and tumble into the sand a good twenty feet from our meal.

"I would have beat you," I say, stifling my laughter.

We lock eyes. His are so big and beautiful, golden brown with flecks of green. Sean clasps his hands around me. "I love you, Maggie."

I could spend eternity in his arms, living moments like these over and over again. And I'd never tire of hearing those words come from his mouth. "I love you, too."

He cranes his neck, surely checking on the status of our lunch. The winds on the beach are unforgiving. Give them enough time and they'll blow anything away.

"How did you arrange all this?" I ask, getting to my feet and offering him a hand.

"I have my ways," Sean says, grabbing hold of me, then he sprints toward the picnic.

"Who's the big cheat now?" I trot after him anyway.

Placing one hand in front of him and the other behind, Sean bows. "My lady. Please, have a seat."

"You're a dork." But I love every ounce of you. "I'll take the shade." I plop down on the cheap, plastic tablecloth he must have picked up at the Dollar store and scoot back. I prefer the sand. "So what's this about?"

He roots through the basket, crinkling bags, clinking bottles, and eyeing everything like he's impressed by the contents. "Turkey sandwiches and Doritos."

"Sean?"

Tossing a bag of chips my way, he laughs. "Tom Myers died."

"Oh my God, Sean. Why are you laughing?"

"Guess what was in his will?"

My appetite is gone. Too concerned for my future to think about anything else, I leave the bag by my feet. "I don't want to play games, Sean. What are we going to do?"

Sitting next to me, Sean crosses his legs at his ankles and rests on his palms. He's way too relaxed about this. Our boss died. How did I not know this? No one said anything at work.

"Maggie, he left The Hill and all his bank accounts to us—"

"Didn't he have a kids?"

"Estranged. You know that. When's the last time any one of them came to help him out when the radiation treatments got too tough?"

Never. That's why Sean and I are always so tired. Our routine has been to work at the surf shop, then home, then shifts with old Tom. Maybe that's why I haven't heard about his passing yet . . . last week when I got a cold, Tom insisted on hiring a caretaker. "So . . . it's ours?"

The boyish look reappears on Sean's face. "On one condition . . . ."

"And . . . ?"

"I already asked you. I've been asking you every day for the last year. Will you take my hand?"

My heart stammers against my ribs, threatening to make me faint. "You want me to marry you?"

"Never any doubt in my mind. I've known since the first day you walked into The Hill looking for a job renting boards. I think it was your cute little southern drawl that did it."

I glare at him. "I did not have an accent."

"You did, and everyone noticed." Sean tips his head back, blinking his sun-kissed lashes at me. "You're kind of leaving me hanging here . . . ."

"I can't believe you felt the need to ask. Of course I will."

To read other author's take on the subject "The Hill", please visit www.thewriterscollection.com

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Valentine #TWC

It's Valentine's Day,

a time for people to show their love in creative ways.

Some sends cards and flowers,

an act flexing their romantic powers.

But I don't care about any of that,

love should be celebrated daily, every moment, at the drop of a hat.

A smile, a touch, these mean so much.

A hug, a kiss, without these our relationship would be amiss.

Don't spend money to prove you care, I'd prefer you run your fingers through my hair.

But if you do insist, there's only one thing I cannot resist:

Chocolate!

To see other author's work on the subject Valentine, visit www.thewriterscollection.com

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LIES #TheWritersCollection

*Disclaimer: This post is full of lies.*

I look forward to waking up every morning before the sun rises. Parting ways with my bed is potentially the best thing I'll do all day. I don't need sleep. I don't like sleep. Once I shower and say goodbye to the family I don't love, I know my day is destined to get better. Sitting in my car for over an hour with perfect strangers, while commuting fifty-miles to Washington, DC, brings me joy. I cannot deny it.

Once I walk into my office and see hundreds of papers stacked on my desk, I smile. Ahh. This is the life. Seven hour days should be increased to ten. I'd be more productive, and then I wouldn't be forced to go home where I do nothing but play stupid games with my family. And don't even get me started on cooking and cleaning for the heathens. Why did I have kids again? I should have just purchased a small apartment in the city so I could be at my employer's beckon call.

Last year I wrote a novel or two. What the hell was I thinking? I hate writing. Then I made the mistake of submitting it to a publisher . . . and they accepted my crappy work! Maybe they're insane too? An enemy of mine suggested I become involved in social media to help promote my worthless second career. My dismal success with Twitter, Facebook, and Blogger further explain why I hate her.

Pushing paper is what I love. Not my family. Not writing. Not the sunshine or the birds soaring through the blue sky on warm summer days. I want to be chained to my desk the rest of my life, slave to other people's hopes and dreams. That life keeps me grounded, prevents me from allowing my imagination to run wild.

Who needs creativity? Who needs freedom? Who needs time with their family and friends, time to get lost in books, time to fall asleep on white sandy beaches?

Not me, folks, and I bet not you either.

To read other author's personal take on the topic LIES, go to www.thewriterscollection.com

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Frog #TheWritersCollection

Little green frog never bothered anyone

Resting on the side of the house to avoid the midday sun

My children spotted you and squealed in delight

They must have given you quite a fright

Jumping from child to child, you tried to get away

But the tiny hands grabbed you, persistent to play

I warned them to let you go, your capture was unfair

And what do you know, you wound up hiding in my daughter’s hair

Snapping a picture was the only way

To ensure we never forget that day.

To read other author's take on the same subject Frog, go to www.thewriterscollection.com

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Heaven and Hell #TheWritersCollection

My parents said Heaven could be found on Earth, but they were wrong. Earth is Hell with only occasional glimpses of Heaven. Every day people suffer. Homelessness, murder, starvation—these are some of this world’s problems, and there is no end in sight. Yet when my family travels to the tops of the mountains, hikes through the lush forests, and swims in the beautiful creeks and streams, a little piece of Heaven seems to slice through all the bad.

But I still miss Elysia.

We moved here because our planet could no longer sustain life. The war between Darkness and Light poisoned our waters, stole our sunshine, and killed our food sources. Our god told our people to pray to him, to beg him to stay in control of our world, but the people were afraid. Dughbal was the only god who’d ever tried to remain in control of a world longer than his term.

Mom and Dad didn’t want to stay to see the other gods’ reactions. My parents are familiar with magic, and they knew exactly what to do to open a portal into another land.

Now here we are, and I’m bored.

Sometimes I think we should have remained in Elysia. Sometimes I swear I’m going back. I want to swim with the sprites in waters so blue people here would probably think we’d colored them. I want the pink and white meadow flowers to make me laugh with their silly songs. I want the tall Oaks to hold me in their branches and tell me stories of generations from long ago.

My favorite story was of the god Griandor and how his light shined brighter than all others, and when he’d visit Elysia, every living creature would turn to him, almost reach for him. The trees described Griandor as life embodied.

Earth doesn’t have any of my favorite things. There are trees and meadows and fish and birds, but they aren’t intelligent, and they aren’t friendly. I’m not even sure which god controls this place.

I plan to find my way back to Elysia, but if I fail, I’ll find a way to wake up nature here on Earth, then I can tell my parents they were right after all.

To read other author's take on the subject Heaven and Hell, go to www.thewriterscollection.com

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Once Upon A Time #TheWritersCollection

I've been invited to be a part of The Writer's Collection. Each week they suggest a theme and then authors of different genres put their spin on it. This is the first week I've been involved. I wrote this up as a flash fiction piece (something I put together rather quickly). If you'd like to check out how the other authors spun "Once Upon A Time", please head on over to The Writers Collection website and check them out.

~

My grandmother lies in her hospital bed, machines and wires hooked in places that make me cringe, fighting for her life. Watching her struggle for each breath, wheezing and gasping even with the aid of oxygen, makes me burn inside.

I reach for her hand then squeeze her cold fingers between mine, rubbing skin so thin with my thumb I’m afraid I’ll hurt her.

Grandma’s eyes flutter open and she smiles.

My mother and father jump out of their chairs and stand behind me, each placing a sweaty palm on my shoulder.

“Mom?” Dad asks, voice shaking in a way no daughter should ever hear from her father.

But Grandma doesn’t look away from me; she holds my gaze, her eyes pale blue and determined. “Do you . . . .” With her free hand, she slowly reaches for the mask covering her mouth, but doesn’t have the strength to remove the elastic bands.

“Here, let me help you,” Mom says, stepping beside me.

“I’ve got it, Mom.” I stand and help Grandma take off her mask.

Mom shouldn’t have to do any more; Dad’s been a wreck and she needs to worry about him.

“Tha—” Grandma coughs, chest rattling with whatever fluid is invading her lungs. “Thank you.”

Tears roll down my cheeks and drip from my chin as I return to my uncomfortable blue chair next to her bed. Grandma’s the strongest, most caring woman I know, and the doctors said she’d be lucky to survive the night.

Cancer is a bitch.

“Do you need a drink, Grandma?” I ask.

Dad sits on the foot of the bed and drops his bright-red face into his hands.

Mom rolls Grandma’s hospital tray toward her then stares at my father, her face as white as Grandma’s bed sheets. Dad has always been so strong, just like Grandma, always taken care of us, told us everything will be okay, we’d always be together, we’d always have our family. Now part of his family is dying, part of his foundation, his root, his childhood.

Grandma tugs at my arm with the strength of a young child. “Do you remember that story I liked to tell you when you were little?”

Turning back toward her, I nod.

“Will you tell it to me now?”

I stare out the window, out toward the shining sun, the cars driving eighty-miles per hour on the highway, watch a flock of black birds soar through the deep-blue sky, then take a shallow breath. “Once upon a time there was a young girl who loved a young man—”

My father chokes and runs out the door, releasing a howl of agony once he’s in the hall. Whispers drift into the room. Mom tells Dad to be strong for me, for Grandma, but all I hear from him in response are wails.

Words catch in my throat, my face burns, and my hands sweat. My father hates this story, but to see him react that way . . . .

“Be more courageous than your father, Helen. My life has been fulfilling, and I do not fear death.” Grandma closes her eyes and wheezes.

If it weren’t for the sounds she’s making I’d swear she’s already dead and in her coffin. Grandma’s white hair is messed up around her face, and her deep-set wrinkles do little to hide the dark blue veins under her thin veil of skin. “You don’t have to tell me the rest; the fact you remember means everything to me. You see, this is my story, Helen. I’ve been sharing it with you all these years so you would know a thing or two about your family’s history, so when you have children of your own you can share it with them, or share your own story with them.”

I gasp. “You’re the girl who fell in love with the young man in the farm field? You stole clothes and bandages from your parents to give to him? You’re the one who broke your foot chasing a chicken and was helped by the same young man five years later?”

Grandma smiles again, keeping her eyes closed. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Your father didn’t want me to fill your head with love stories, but he’ll have a few things to tell his grandchildren someday, and so will you. I love you, Helen—”

The machines beep, a speaker announces code blue, echoing all around the sterile room. I look at Grandma, her mouth open and eyes wide, then burst into tears.

“Grandma! Someone help. Please, help her.”

A crowd of nurses rush into the room and push me toward the door. My mother and father appear beside me and wrap their arms around my shoulders.

Grandma’s gone and she’s not coming back. I don’t need a team of doctors and nurses to tell me that. Rushing from the room, I bolt for the exit. I don’t know where I’m going or how I’ll get there, but there’s one thing I’ll always remember: Grandma’s story. One day whether I’m telling my children or grandchildren, the story will always start: Once Upon A Time.

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