Inkarna! Author Nerine Dorman Guest Blogs

The End is the Beginning

Inkarna came into being through death. 2010 was not a good year for me. Not only did a musician whose work meant a lot to me pass away, but a close friend and mentor passed a few months later. The first death was more symbolic—part of my past turned to dust. I never knew the man but during the months after his passing, I grieved for an aspect of my young adulthood that was gone. The second death hit me hard. I carried residual guilt for not having had the courage to go see my friend in hospital when he was ill. I felt like I was the one who had been the bad friend. I’d been editing a book of his, about mapping out parts of the psyche. This will now never see print.

I had two dreams that year. Both were vivid, lucid. Both were assurances from these men that I don’t feel regret; that I approach life on my own terms and frame my experiences in my own words. The words of another are anathema. Dreams are open to subjective interpretation, but I still drew comfort from the experiences.

I wrote Inkarna in a fugue state over a period of two months. After that I still had to pass through my own Black Gate as I battled depression, but I pulled through. It’s not always easy seeing the forest for the trees but being able to put words down helped… and still helps. I can’t afford the psychiatrist bills, so writing steps into the breach.

What you see when you hold Inkarna in your hands is the result of my grieving process, of finding that kernel of hope within the emotional devastation. We will all die one day. Death is inescapable. But it’s what we do with our time here and now that matters. Every day might be our last, and that is how I try to live each day: as if it were my last.

In setting down Ash’s story in Inkarna, I wanted to illustrate a theme that had been haunting me for a while. What if death is not the end? What if the Egyptians had the right of it? What if there was a race of beings that were functionally immortal—body snatchers who hand-picked which bodies they would return in?

The idea of possession has always frightened me, and I wanted to break away from the standard tropes of vampires, angels and werewolves that are so popular in the media at present. This is how the Inkarna as a type of supernatural being coalesced. I’ll admit to being influenced in part by the Highlander mythos, as well as the old White Wolf Mummy gaming supplement, which went with Vampire: The Masquerade. I’d always thought that a character that kept returning—albeit in a different body each time—was a very cool concept to run with. This was especially since killing the physical body wouldn’t work in the long run—and a problem for a vampire faced with an eternal and implacable enemy.

I’m well pleased with my Inkarna. They’ve got their own magical system and the milieu as a whole dovetails nicely with my existing stories concerning my black magician and other supernaturals—so there is a fairly good chance I might write a crossover at some point. In fact, there’s already a crossover out there for those who’re interested, written in collaboration with Carrie Clevenger (http://www.amazon.com/Blood-and-Fire-ebook/dp/B006SD3F2S/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1333356333&sr=1-3). It was a bit of a challenge to write so that I didn’t give any spoilers, but Blood and Fire has been well received.

So, the question is, will there be more of the same? Definitely. There’s more than enough scope for intrigue at the end of Inkarna to suggest follow-ups. I’m tickled enough with the milieu to consider setting several novels in the world of my ancient Egyptian reincarnation cult!

Follow me on Twitter @nerinedorman or see my website at http://www.nerinedorman.weebly.com

Buy Inkarna in print here: http://www.amazon.com/Inkarna-Nerine-Dorman/dp/0983160392/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1340049918&sr=8-1&keywords=inkarna

Author Interview - DC Petterson

Today I welcome fellow Lyrical Press author, DC Petterson.  He very graciously granted me an interview about writing and his latest novel, A Melancholy Humour.  A book about werewolves, it had me up late one night frantically turning the pages.

Q. How long have you been writing?

I started writing soon after I learned to read.  I think it’s a genetic disorder. I’m one of those pitiable souls who can’t not-write. It’s rather like trying not to blink your eyes -- the effort can only last so long.

I tried getting a few short stories published when I was a teenager. Once out of high school, I got a good job, and started making decent money. That’s a bit of a trap -- it removed any economic incentive to publish. I couldn’t stop writing, though, so I wound up with stacks of unseen manuscripts. The more recent ones are all on computer, with hard disks stuffed so full that bytes keep falling out the side. But I do still have an amazing amount of ancient and yellowing paper in various closets.

Q.  Who are some authors who have influenced your writing and why?

As a kid, my favorite authors were Arthur Conan Doyle and a handful of Golden-Age SF writers -- Clarke, Asimov, Bradbury, Wells, Verne. I discovered Tolkien while in the sixth grade. This was back when it was still hard to find his books. I also read a lot of Lovecraft and Edgar Rice Burroughs. These guys all taught me that the world is far bigger and stranger than anyone can imagine, and if you can imagine it, a story can be woven out of it.

All that is old stuff. More recently, I caught on to Anne Rice with her very first books. I loved Randall Garrett’s “Lord Darcy” series. From them, I learned how to integrate fantasy into a modern setting, though I confess some of my writing still bears a Lovecraftian darkness.

A nonfiction writer who had a profound influence on me is Joseph Campbell. No one is better at explaining the meaning and uses of myth. Creating fiction is an act of mythmaking. I urge all aspiring writers to read everything of his you can get your hands on.

Q. Do you have any authorly quirks you’d like to share? (Like you only write by candlelight or something unusual like that?)

Candlelight? What a great idea! I love writing at night. I’ll turn off the lights and work by the glow of the computer screen and my backlit keyboard. A handy glass of good scotch is always a plus. Finding music that evokes the mood of what I’m writing is almost essential. (Try reading “A Melancholy Humour” with Linkin Park’s “Somewhere I Belong” in your headphones.)

But I suppose my most useful quirk is that I find myself having long conversations with the people I’m writing about. Stories are about people, and it’s my job as a writer to act as a go-between. My readers can’t possibly get to meet these folks if I don’t know them well.

Q. In your novel, Melancholy Humour, you have a man in his late 40s falling in love with a girl of 18. Can you explain your choice to make the age difference so vast?

Well, first, the plot demanded it. A great deal of the story deals with Vincent’s struggles in handling issues of childhood abuse. He has to separate his own past from the realities in front of him. Stories about ethical and moral dilemmas are far more interesting than clear black and white choices.

It’s also about renewal and a recovery of youthful enthusiasm. Vincent has given up on life. Celia offers a kind of rescue. There’s a contrast too of time and eternity -- the ancient and preternatural realities they both have to deal with stand in stark silhouette against her youth. It gives me a chance to explore the interplay of violent death and vibrant life, truly ancient fears and springtime vigor. I like extremes.

Q. You have one of the best werewolf “hooks” I’ve ever read. Can you explain the legare in more detail without giving spoilers to those who haven’t read the novel yet?

“Legare” is the Italian for a tie or a knot. In the Middle Ages, “legare” was a word for a love spell.

I use it to describe a link between a human and a wolf.

Even between a dog and a human, a very special bond can form, something deeper than friendship but very different from romantic love. As one of the people in my story says, “a dog is just a wolf you feed.” Wolves were domesticated tens of thousands of years go. The legare between humans and wolves has been around a very long time. We have hunted together for as long as we’ve been human.

In the world of my stories, wolves were bred to form these ties, to need them almost like food. Some humans are particularly open to them. It makes for a symbiotic relationship, one that neither can deny, a loyalty that transcends death, but something that has been ignored and pushed aside for so long that none now clearly remember.

There are dark aspects of it too, things that can be misused. It’s something I’m going to explore many different ways in future stories.

  

Q. Was your journey to publication an easy or difficult one? How did you find Lyrical Press?

As I said, I started submitting stories as a teenager in high school. I’ve got a collection of professional rejections slips of which I’m very proud. A few years back, I stumbled upon a publisher who was just starting out, and was looking for new talent. I submitted a short science fiction novel I’d been particularly pleased with (“Still Life”). They bought it, giving me bragging rights to being a published novelist.

As for Lyrical, I met my editor, Nerine Dorman, though an email list we both had joined. She announced that Lyrical was looking into publishing some darker fantasy. I had just completed “A Melancholy Humour,” so I sent it her way. It apparently fit with what they wanted to do.

I guess the moral of that story is twofold. First, never stop trying. Second, keep your eyes and ears open, and actively look for openings in the areas you want to write.

Q. Any advice to aspiring writers out there? What are a few tips and tools you use in your writing?

There’s the usual advice -- learn how to spell, use proper grammar, learn punctuation. Boring but necessary. Beyond that, here’s what I have to say to beginning writers. Once you’re established, you’re on your own.

Know your audience, which is only secondarily the readers. When you’re just starting out, your audience is the publishers whom you want to buy your stories. Get familiar with what they like to see, in subject matter, tone, and style. If you don’t like the kinds of things they publish, don’t submit your stuff to them -- they won’t like your books any more than you like theirs.

Be unique. Follow a publisher’s offerings as a guideline, but do something original and remarkable with the plot or the characters or the situations. Do something that stands out.

Write what you love. That’s different from the usual advice to write what you know. Writing what you love means writing with passion and conviction. Readers love passion. Besides, if you love it, you’ll have learned about it, and writing what you know will come as a natural side-effect.

  

Q. Where can we find your book to buy it?

You can get it from the publisher, Lyrical Press

http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=81&products_id=502

Or from Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/A-Melancholy-Humour-ebook/dp/B007VQQSJ8

or Barnes & Nobel

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-melancholy-humor-d-c-petterson/1107971632?ean=9781616503536

9.) Where can we contact you?

I can be emailed at dcpetterson@rocketmail.com

I occasionally tweet @dcpetterson but my life is boring enough that I seldom have anything interesting to say. I play guitar and keyboards -- but doesn’t everyone? I’m deeply in love, but being incredibly happy doesn’t make good publicity copy. No one wants to hear about my kids or my dogs or my day job writing software or the gnomes and faeries who live in my basement.

Hidden in Plain Sight Cover Art

I'm fantastically excited to share the cover art for the third The Wolf Within series novel, Hidden in Plain Sight. 

The series takes a darker turn in this one - Stanzie and Murphy are sent to Maplefair, a Vermont pack, to help them discover what has happened to one of their own - a missing teen named Bethany. Was she secretly pregnant? Did she run away? What does her boyfriend, Cody, know? Does Bethany's disappearance tie in with a series of Other missing teen girls?  Has she become a victim of a serial killer?

These are just some of the questions the Advisors have to answer.  As usual, Stanzie's knack for uncovering the truth leads her into very dangerous waters. 

You can read more here:  http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=97_139&products_id=532

Let me know what you think!  This title releases July 9, 2012.

Review of Nerine Dorman's Inkarna

What if you belonged to a secret cult that knew how to transfer the soul from one body to another?

This is the fascinating premise upon which Nerine Dorman’s Inkarna is based.  Who hasn’t wondered what happens after death and if it’s possible to come back?

For Lizzie Perry, a member of House Adamastor of the Inkarna, eternal life in a succession of different bodies is all but assured. If her heart is pure enough and if she has attained the necessary power while an initiate on earth, she will cross over to Per Ankh where she shall await her time on earth again. She will be reunited with her husband, also a member of Inkarna, and others of her particular house.

The problem is – one day she opens her eyes and finds herself in the body of Ashton Kennedy, a young man who has been in a coma.  This is wrong on many levels. For one thing, Inkarna come back in the bodies of children so as to grow into their powers and because it is easier to integrate.  For another, Ash is very definitely a man and Lizzie has always envisioned herself as being eternally female.

The biggest problem is that she cannot remember why she was sent into Ash’s body and it becomes very clear in no time that there was a reason.  Places and people she needs are no longer there. She can’t seem to control the powers she’d developed as Lizzie – they are erratic and scary in the Ash body.  And why is there a plot to destroy her? Is it Inkarna-related or is it the fact that before the coma Ash Kennedy was a real bastard?

As if Lizzie hasn’t got enough to do to figure out why she’s been abruptly stuffed into Ash’s body, she has to relearn the geography and culture of Cape Town – it’s changed quite a bit in the fifty years she’s spent in Per Ankh. There’s also Ash’s clingy girlfriend, Marlise.  And Ash’s ghost – who very much wants his damn body back. Yesterday.

I loved this story for many reasons. First and foremost, Ms. Dorman has written a novel based on Egyptian magic that is both credible and impeccably researched.  Her love for the Red Land is very apparent. I have a passion for Egyptology too and found myself in awe of her grasp of both the metaphysical and mythological aspects.

The juxtaposition of a female soul in a male body was another of my favorite things. Lizzie as Ash is both humorous and moving. As she navigates deeper into the psyche of Ash and becomes more at ease, the reader is taken on a fascinating psychological ride.

For most of the book I thought of Lizzie trapped in Ash’s body, but slowly, believably, I began to think of her as Ash.  Lizzie become more male, but never lost her essential self. 

The more Lizzie discovers about Ash Kennedy and his life before the accident that put him a coma, the more she despises him. The bar scene when Ash is confronted by an ex-lover is especially well done and memorable. I found myself sympathizing with Lizzie as more and more of Ash’s despicable character was revealed. Could she take over and change the world’s perceptions of this flawed man?  Well, possibly, if she didn’t get killed by the rival House Montu of the Inkarna or Ash’s own enemies first.

Ms. Dorman has a wonderful hand with description.  I felt as if I were familiar with Cape Town when, in actuality, I’ve never set foot there. Ms. Dorman’s love of South Africa is evident on each page.

At just under 300 pages, this novel is rich and complex, dark and intriguing and well worth the time it takes to read it. It is not a fast read because attention must be paid to the details, the Egyptian terms and concepts and all the twists and turns of the never predictable plot.

I eagerly look forward to devouring each of Ms. Dorman’s novels as they are bound to appear.

Here is a handy link where you can find the book:  http://www.amazon.com/Inkarna-Nerine-Dorman/dp/0983160392/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1336767973&sr=1-1-catcorr

Friday Flash - Staring Out To Sea - A Story About A Guy, A Girl and Possibly a Timewarp, But Maybe It Was Really a Ghost After All

I wrote this six years ago for a ghost story weekend with my friends.  I wrote two that year, and this is the one I didn't read aloud .

STARING OUT TO SEA

A Story about A Guy, A Girl and Possibly a Time Warp, but Maybe it Was Really a Ghost After All

I've never been a particularly lucky person - unless you count bad luck which I don't because it makes me feel shitty about myself and who needs that, right?

Anyway, the reason I'm telling you this is because for the first time in my life I've had some good luck. I didn't know it at the time, but I know now.

Here’s the story. I was sitting on the beach staring out to sea attempting to look manly and commanding. You know like a ship's captain gauging the tide before setting sail for the Great Unknown or maybe a pirate surveying the white capped waves looking for my shipmates to show up with the treasure we would bury.

I don't think I looked particularly manly or commanding. Mainly because it was a cold, grey day and my butt felt like a block of ice sitting on the grainy, uncomfortable sand and my nose was running a little. It's hard to look manly with a runny nose.

I was wondering whether or not it would be too gross to wipe my nose on my sleeve, because of course I didn't have a tissue, when I saw a girl's head bobbing in the waves close to shore.

Well, I say a girl's head, but I do want to assure you that there was a body attached to the head and that the head (and the body) were very animate. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. She probably had been for quite some time only I thought it was the seagulls that always swooped around and sometimes  looked ready to attack me because I never have any bread to feed them.

 Heck, I hardly have any bread to feed me. Stupid birds.

A real manly and commanding sort of guy would have rushed straight into the ocean to save the damsel in distress, but I have to admit I hesitated because, well, it was cold out and also? I can 't swim.

So she sort of just washed ashore in a soggy heap.

Casting me a baleful look not unlike the glares I got from the sea gulls, she fumbled to her feet. This was hard for her to do because she was tricked out in some sort of old fashioned long gown, complete with a really deep neckline.

Her hair was waist long and it looked like it might be red, but it was plastered to her skull and face and it dripped sea water .

"My hero," she sputtered

I sincerely wanted to help her, but I was just the tiniest bit afraid she might disembowel me with her fingernails. I thought damsels in distress were shy and swooning creatures; this girl was more like a Mack truck in overdrive. Well, a four foot seven, 90 pound Mack truck. Okay, I know, I'm not good at metaphors. Or is it analogies? Whatever, you know what I mean - the girl was pretty pissed off.

"Uh, do you want to wear my jacket?" I sort of hoped she would decline. It was, as I told you before, cold.

"That is an excellent idea. Give it here!" She held out a peremptory hand. Her long sleeve dripped a steady stream of water to the damp sand.

I divested myself of my jacket. Okay, I took off my jacket and handed it to her. I know, I can't use words like "divested" and get away with it. Flashback to my college writing class and the professor actually spitting coffee all over his desk laughing at me. I didn't think teachers were allowed to be so cruel. Students, sure, but not the teachers.

"Are you going to stand there shivering like a dolt or are you going to take me someplace warm?" She struggled to put on my jacket. I guess her fingers were too cold to manipulate the zipper because she gave up after a few tries.

"Uh," I said. I'm so witty and clever it kills me. "My house is just down the beach a little way. You could go there with me."

"Wonderful. Is it warm?"

"Well, sort of There's no heat actually because I kind of lost my job and didn't pay my gas bill, but ... "

"What? What are you babbling on about? How about a fire, man! A nice roaring fire! Could you perhaps accomplish at least that much for me?" She sounded really mad.

Almost as mad as my mother sounded when I told her my gas was shut off.

"Zachary," she had shouted through the phone in a towering rage. She was always shouting at me in a towering rage. She'd been in a towering rage since I was like seven years old and the time I tried to cook mud pies in the oven and the smell didn't go away until she had professional carpet and drape cleaners in.

"I cannot believe how irresponsible you are. Just like your father! Don't expect me to send you money to pay the bill. You need to learn how to take care of yourself. I won't always be here to do that you know!"

I very nearly said, "Thank God" out loud but managed to disguise it with a coughing fit.

'”And you can stop pretending you are sick to play upon my heartstrings. No money!" She hung up in my ear.

"What are you doing?" I jumped in shock. The girl’s face flushed dark red. "I am soaked to the bone and you stand there with your eyes glazed and mouth hanging open.  Are you mad? Are you simple?"

''No, I was thinking about my mother. Sorry," I muttered. I led the way to my little house. Okay, my little shack.

Back in the summer when I'd rented it from some old guy who said he was sick of nature and the seagulls and wanted some action with the ladies and the dice and moved to Las Vegas, I thought the shack was perfect. It had an ocean view - well, sort of if you craned your neck just the right way while peering out the tiny bathroom window, you could catch a glimpse of the ocean. Otherwise it was sand dune and giant rocks on one side and two lane highway on the other.

In the summer it was cool. Literally because the air conditioning was on full blast. In the winter, because I couldn't pay my gas bill,  it was not so great really.

I fumbled with the key in the lock and I could feel the girl's gaze penetrating my back like icy little daggers. The more she glared, the more I fumbled until finally she shoved me out of the way and did it herself.

She stopped dead just inside the door and stood there staring around like she'd never seen a living room before.

Well, okay, my living room was pretty awful. A ratty old couch I picked up on the side of the road, and ripped old recliner that one of my college roommates gave me when I flunked out . It was sort of a memento of the keg parties we used to have. The makeout sessions we'd had on that recliner were always a highlight of those parties.

When I say makeout sessions, I don't mean with each other. I mean with girls that came to our parties. Or, okay, this one girl that came to our parties. She was sort of weird and she smelled kinda funky, but she really knew how make out in a recliner and once you drank six or seven beers, she was pretty cute.

Anyway, so I had this horrible furniture and I suppose the girl was used to nicer stuff because she looked absolutely shocked.

"What, what, what is that?" She pointed a cold finger directly at my battered old television set. Some really dumb car commercial was playing.

"Yeah, I know. I hate that guy too. Galveston Stan let me sell you a sedan – how stupid. And they play it like a million times a day."

"How does he move within the frame? Is it witchcraft?" The girl’s lips were icy blue.

"Huh?" I said,

"And what sort of iron monster is he petting?"

"You mean the Honda?" I was totally lost. "It's not really an iron monster. My uncle drives one. It's kinda mainstream if you ask me. Not that I have one. I should talk, huh?"

"Where on earth am I?" The girl asked. “'This is not the same as it was."

"As what was?" Again with the witty remarks, I kill myself.

Her gaze strayed to the calendar I had tacked to the wall. Harry Potter was riding his broom with a big dragon in pursuit.

"Is is witchcraft!" she howled. "But why doesn't he move within the frame?"

''That's only in the movies. I don't know how they do that. Special effects are awesome. But he's not a witch, he's a wizard."

''This does not bode well for my soul." She moved closer to the calendar but slowly, as if she wasn't sure whether or not it might bite her.

"February 2006?" Her voice was a whisper. "The year 2006?"

"Ever since midnight on New Year's Eve," I said, trying to sound cool, but really coming off sounding stupid.

"But when I went overboard, it was February 1846. I don't understand."

I goggled at her. Your eyes feel funny when you goggle, you know that?

"You can't be serious. 1846. That's like a hundred years ago. Okay, that's like almost two hundred years ago. Okay, that was like a hundred fifty .. anyway. that's a long time ago. You can't be here. You'd be dead by now."

"Maybe I am. Maybe I drowned. Maybe I'm a ghost!" The girl sounded ready to scream again, only this time not at me in a rage, but in a panic. I'm not good around panicky girls.

"If you're a ghost, you shouldn't be freezing cold or solid." I said.

"You know the truth of ghosts? You're an expert?" Now she sounded like her normal self

"Well, I never heard of a ghost like you. You seem pretty substantial to me. Maybe you hit a time warp or something."

"A what?" Her lower lip started to tremble and I have to say even soaking wet and her hair all stringy, she looked really cute. Certainly way better than the girl from the recliner. Even after six or seven beers.

"Like you went through a thin space in the fabric of time and ended up ahead in the future."

"We're back to witchcraft again. I knew there was something strange about Captain da Silva beside the fact that first he proposed marriage to me and then he threw me overboard the minute I said yes. He's a witch. He threw me into the future. I don't understand because I agreed to be his wife. Would a man do that to his betrothed? Even a man who practiced the Black Arts?" She paced as she spoke, dripping water over the dirty hardwood floor.

''This Captain da Silva proposed to you on the deck of a ship? Wow. That's seriously romantic. Guys in the olden days really knew how to do things right.

"Of course he proposed to me on the deck of a ship. It was his ship and when my father died of influenza, I had no chaperone aboard. It was the only thing a chivalrous man of honor could do."

"Well, maybe he was a chivalrous man, but sounds to me like he didn't want to get married. So when you said yes, he freaked out and threw you overboard." I said.

"The impertinence!" screamed the girl, stomping her foot.

"He threw you overboard awfully close to shore. Was it really necessary to propose? You would have been unchaparoned for about five minutes before docking. That 's not so bad, is it?"

"I would have been ruined," spat the girl. "Five minutes, five hours, five days, it is all the same in the eyes of society."

"Say, you're unchaparoned right now. I mean I like you and all that, but do I have to propose to save your honor? That might be cool. None of my friends had to get married to save a girl's honor. None of my friends are actually married. Or have girlfriends even."

"I would rather die than marry an oaf like you." Her eyes flashed and I thought she might hit me. "Don't you dare insult me."

"Fine. The thing is, you're here in 2006 and everyone you know is in 1846 and you don't want to marry me because I'm oaf but I'm also the only person you know in 2006. So you're screwed basically."

"What is this 'screwed’?" She asked. "Is it some sort of dark magic?"She dripped more water on the floor.

"I want to go back." Her voice was decisive.

"Well, I guess you need to find the time warp,” I said"

"I know nothing of this time warp. You are a babbling idiot, but it appears you know more than me about this subject. Take me to the time warp."

"We haven't even established that there was a time warp. How do you know that you' re not a ghost, cursed to haunt Galveston after drowning in the ocean a hundred years ago?"

"I refuse to be a ghost. I have my whole life ahead of me. Even married to that odious lout Captain da Silva, I would still be able to go to dances and suppers and wear beautiful clothes and have my maid pile my hair upon my head and slip expensive jewels on my fingers and around my throat. Especially married to him. He's extremely well off. One of the richest man in Texas. I swear Papa died on purpose in order to see me well matched in matrimony."

"Do people get to refuse to be ghosts?" I asked. "I mean that's fucking with fate and destiny. Can we do that sort of thing?"

"I can do anything I set my mind to do. You, on the other hand, seem imminently suited to be a puppet dancing on the strings of fate." She smiled as if this actually amused her.

"No sir!" I yelped, stung to the core. "I can do things too. I didn't want to work so I sort of just slacked off until they fired me. I got what I wanted - free time to sit on the beach and stare out to sea."

"I refuse to be trapped here in this pestilential time with this ridiculous little boy." She stomped her foot again. "Perhaps if I return to the ocean I could swim out to sea and be returned to my own time. It's worth a try!" She took off running for the beach.

"You'll kill yourself!" I ran after her. She could really run fast for a girl in a long, wet dress.

"I thought I was already dead!"

She had too big a head start and I was too heavy of a smoker. I didn’t catch her before she threw herself into the cold ocean and swam, her long red hair floating out like strange seaweed behind her.

''This is what you get for skipping swimming lessons to go read comic books in the park," I told myself as she got smaller and smaller.

One minute her head was there, bobbing on the waves. The next it just wasn't.

I waited a long time for her body to wash ashore, but it never did.

I never told anybody about her. Well, nobody until you today.

I know I was slacking off and not cleaning the men's room like you told me to, but you see, on the way to the men's room I had to walk past the new display here at the museum. The Girls of Galveston , that's the one. All those old fashioned photographs and old jewelry and tiny tiny shoes. Why were people so little  in the olden days? Nobody's ever been able to explain that to me.

Anyway, there's this one photo of this girl wearing a long gown with her hair piled up on her head and lots of jewels on her fingers and everything. It's black and white so you can't tell the color of her hair, but I bet you it's red. It’s her, the girl from the beach.

The weird thing is, the picture's dated 1852. And the caption under her name is "Mrs.Juan da Silva at her beach estate". Da Silva is the name of that captain who threw her overboard. She did it. She made it back. She married that guy. which I can't understand because I don't think I would marry anybody who tried to kill me, but the thing is - she did it. She said you could do anything you wanted if you wanted to bad enough and she was right.

I wasn't even going to tell you this story, but you looked upset when you were yelling at me and I think you must be a nice guy deep down. So, don't feel bad about firing me. I’m a slacker, I know.

But the thing is, I'm not going to be a slacker anymore. That girl said she would get back to her time and she did it. So why can't I do what I want? I don't want to live in a shack with no heat and work cleaning out restrooms at a museum. I don't want my mom bossing me around for the rest of my life. I don't want to be a loser staring out to sea.

What do I want to be? Well, that's the hard part. But at least I know what I don’t want. It’s a start anyway.

I'm gonna leave now. When I walk out that museum door, my life starts over and is going the way I want it. What? Yeah, I’ll take the back entrance to the employee parking lot, that's cool.

Friday Flash - A Lonely Woman on a Friday Night

The man in the long tan trench coat seemed oblivious he was about to step in front of the 5:40 commuter bus to East Hartford.  Everyone at the bus stop was doing their own thing – reading books, texting, staring into space. If I hadn’t looked up from my Kindle just as he was about to step off the curb, he would have been roadkill.

I grabbed his arm and jerked him back. His head swiveled around in shock. Idiot. Lost in his own little world. I guess I couldn’t blame him. It was Friday night and everyone was tired from the work week grind and looking forward to the weekend.  But still, was he really that introspective he hadn’t noticed the bus?

“You should wait until it stops before you try to get on,” I said.  He was absolutely gorgeous.  Eyes so dark they were nearly black and a sensuous mouth that on a woman would be called pouty but on a guy it was just pure lust. 

“I’ll remember that,” he said gravely. I smiled and let go of his arm.  Beneath the trench coat, he had muscles. Did he work out in a gym nearby?  I’d been meaning to get a membership, he could be just the incentive I’d been waiting for.

The bus chuffed to a stop and the doors squeaked open.  I waited for him to get in line behind the rest of the tired commuters, but he simply stood there and stared at me.  As if he waited for something.

“Well, here’s the bus.”  Real smooth, Miranda, next you can point out it’s grey with blue stripes.

“Can you tell me something?” The man asked as I turned. I cast a look at the shuffling line.  Six people to go, I had time for a quick question.  Maybe he was going to ask me to Happy Hour.  It was Friday night and I had saved his life.

“Sure.”

“Where am I?”

For a moment I could only stand there.  Then I thought, Great. The most gorgeous guy I’ve seen in ten years and he’s fucked in the head.  So typical.

“You all right?” Maybe he’d hit his head or something and that’s why he’d nearly blundered into traffic. Maybe he wasn’t crazy, but concussed. 

“What language are we speaking? If I knew that, I would know what planet this is.” He spoke so rationally as if he made perfect sense.  Probably he did. To himself.

“Listen, is there someone I can call to help you?” Two people left to get on the bus, but I’d pretty much resigned myself to waiting for the 6:03.  People like him shouldn’t be out wandering alone. Maybe he’d escaped from a halfway house or something.  Or a psychiatric ward.  The hospital was just two blocks over, that probably was it.

“You’re the only one who can help me,” he said and if this had been a romance book, the look he gave me would have been termed “smoldering” or maybe “intense”.   If I’d been the heroine in a book I would have understood, possibly been flattered, but all I felt was resentment. I would miss my bus so I could get some crazy guy back to his bed on the psych ward.  By the time I got home, Friday night would half over. 

But what the hell was I doing with it anyway?  It’s not like I had a husband or even a boyfriend. Hell, not even a date.  At my age pickings were slim to none even if I was still pretty with a decent figure and had no kids.  That just made the married men who wanted something on the side more disgustingly determined. All the great guys were taken.

“Okay,” I said as the last commuter hauled himself onto the bus.  “You were in the hospital, weren’t you?  I know where it is.  I’ll show you.” I took his arm to guide him and he looked at my hand on his sleeve, his brow furrowed.

“I wasn’t in this hospital. I am not ill. I am here because I displeased my superiors. If I wish to go home, you are the only one who can assist me.  Will you?” Another one of those stares.  God, why did the crazy guys have to be so compelling?

“How am I supposed to do that?” I asked.  Humor him until I got him to the hospital.  It seemed the best route.  I walked away from him, and, sure enough, he followed.  He fell into step beside me.

“I don’t know,” he said and gave the sidewalk, or maybe his shoes, one of his heart flipping stares. He looked back up at me. “I thought you might.”

Well, you’re shit out of luck, buddy. I don’t even know what the hell you are talking about.

“Where are you from? And no bullshit, okay?  I mean here on Earth.  Where are you from?  Manchester? Glastonbury? Vernon?”

“Earth.” He sounded shocked and his already pale cheeks went two shades whiter. “This is worse than I thought. Humans are among the most close minded, ignorant and shallow beings in the universe.”

“Way to get me to help you, dude,” I said.  My damn bus drove by and splashed up a wave of dirty rain water from a curbside puddle.  I danced out of the way, but the jerk beside me didn’t falter.  His trench coat must have been really waterproofed because the water slid off like magic.

“You’re my only resource,” he said.

“Help me Obi wan Kenobi,” I teased, but I was a little pissed too. Where did he get off calling me close minded, ignorant and shallow?  He didn’t know me.

“What?” He looked so pathetically confused I rolled my eyes.  He was my age or maybe a couple years younger, there’s no way he wouldn’t get the reference.  Unless he really was a frigging alien which was about as likely as Obi wan himself materializing and saving the day through the Force. 

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It’s unpronounceable in English,” he said.

“What are you? French? Polish?” I guessed.

“I am not of this planet. I thought I had established that but perhaps you need further explanation. Humans are not known for their intelligence either.”

“Okay, buddy. These are the rules. You shut up and follow me.  Conversation over. I’m not about to spend my Friday night being insulted by a psycho.” I snapped.  Immediate remorse swept over me. Miranda, he’s sick. Have some compassion.

“I’m not a psycho I’m an Andoruvian,” he said.

Oh, Jesus. “How come you can pronounce your planet’s name in English but not your damn name?” I bit my tongue again. Miranda.

A thoughtful expression crossed his gorgeous face. “I never thought about that before. It does seem contradictory, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all right.  Not a hell of a lot makes sense here anyway,” I said.  Half a block and we’d reach the hospital. “At least you can take meds and make it better. I’ve got half a bottle of red wine and four episodes of Supernatural on Netflix.”

“You speak English words, but I don’t understand half of them,” he said.  He was adorable when confused.  Hell, he’d be adorable no matter what.  Why did everyone I meet have to be damaged in some crucial way?  It wasn’t fair.

“The meds will help that too,” I assured him.  I slowed my steps as we approached the brick walkway that led to the hospital’s door.

He looked at the hospital and then at me.  An errant lock of black hair fell across one of his eyes and I wanted to brush it back in the worst way. “I told you I didn’t come from the hospital. Why are we here?” 

“Look, you need help and I’m not the one who can give it to you. I’m an admin not a psychiatrist, okay? Let’s go.” I took three steps up the pathway, but he didn’t follow.

“You’ll leave me here?” His eyes were nearly black as he stared at me. His trench coat billowed around his ankles and the wind brushed the hair back from his face. For a moment he looked otherworldly and not quite real, but of course that was bullshit.  I was tired, my boss had been a pig all week long and all I wanted was to go home.  I didn’t need this crap.

“Yes,” I said.

“I wish you wouldn’t. I really want to go home.”

“Don’t we all,” I muttered. “Come on, Andy.”

“Andy?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“You’re Andoruvian, right? And I can’t pronounce your real name, so Andy it is.”  It was a mistake to name him. Now he meant something.  He wasn’t just that crazy guy who needed his meds.  I’m so stupid sometimes.

“Andy,” he repeated. He followed me up the pathway into the antiseptic desolation of the emergency room waiting area.  The nurse behind the desk looked mean and tired.

“This is a mistake,” he told me, his breath a gentle warning in my ear as I approached the desk.

“What’s the problem?” The nurse barked.  God, why did people have to be so frigging awful?  Always with the goddamn attitudes.  Couldn’t anyone be nice just for the hell of it?

“I think this guy got out of the psych ward somehow.  Anyway, he needs help,” I said.  The nurse screwed up her face and gave me a death glare.  What the hell had I done?

“Lady, either you’re drunk or you need the psych ward.  You got ten seconds to disappear or I’ll call the orderlies. Your choice.”

“Wait a minute?  What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I tried not to shout, but goddamn, people were so rude.

“She can’t see me,” Andy said.

“What?” I swung around to confront him and his expression was so sad and patient it tore at my heart.  “What are you talking about?”

“I told you. You’re the only one who can help me because you’re the only one who can see me.”

“Oh, God.”  I staggered to one of the puke green waiting room chairs and sank into it.  The bitch nurse’s phone rang and she answered it, thankfully sidetracked for the moment. I had to get out of the hospital before I was strapped down in the rubber room, but I couldn’t make my stupid legs support me. 

Was I crazy?  Was I the one? 

Andy took the snot yellow chair beside me. “Will you help me?”

“How?” His face blurred because of the tears in my eyes.  I was losing it. I was losing my shit.  Maybe I’d already lost it. Goddamn.

“I don’t know. I’ve told you that before. You really need to sharpen your listening skills. I don’t think I should have to repeat myself more than once.”

“Fuck you. You’re not even real and you tell me you don’t want to repeat yourself?  You shut the hell up.” 

The nurse banged the phone down and lumbered to her feet, gesturing to two tall, brutish looking orderlies and I bolted for the exit.  I’d figure this shit out myself.  If I ended up in a psych ward, my boss would kill me.  Fire my ass.  I needed my job.  It was all I had between me and the street.  I didn’t want to be a homeless person digging food out of the garbage and washing myself in public restroom sinks for the rest of my life.  I was only 40, I had years left before I died.

Andy dogged my footsteps.  Three blocks later when I was sure no one from the hospital was after me, I clenched my fists and snarled, “Stop following me. I’m not insane. If no one else can see you, you aren’t really there.”

“Well, that’s actually not true because I am. Simply because you are the only one who can see me, doesn’t invalidate the fact I’m here.”

“On what planet?”  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh, yeah, right. On Andoruvia.”

“Andoruvi,” he corrected.

“Shut up!” I yelled.  “I don’t care if it’s Andoruvia or Andoruvi.  The point is, it doesn’t exist and neither do you. I want to go home. I want to go home and watch Supernatural. I’m gonna pour the wine down the sink and take four Advil and pretend this shit never happened.”

I glanced at my watch. The 6:03 was due in ten minutes.  I could wait ten minutes. Sure.

“I can see this is going to take a while,” Andy remarked grimly. He sat next to me on the bus stop bench.

When the 6:03 arrived, I made Andy go to the inside seat.  Just before the bus door pulled closed, I made a mad dash and jumped out onto the sidewalk.  The door shut in Andy’s face and I saw him press his hands to the clear panes in the door panel.  Shock and fear made his eyes wide.

I turned and ran as fast as my heels would allow me.  The bus driver couldn't see Andy, so he wouldn't open the doors. He'd have to wait until the next stop to get off.  I’d have at least a block’s head start. I knew the city. Andy didn’t.  If I could ditch the bastard, I would be okay.  I wouldn’t be insane, I’d just be a lonely woman on a Friday night again.

I ran until the stitch in my side forced me to stop.  Sweat trickled down my face as I leaned against a building and caught my breath.  No sign of Andy. 

As I walked in search of another bus stop, I was surprised to feel a pang of regret. When a person outran her fears and outfoxed her problems, shouldn’t she feel victorious?

But what if his story was true?  I’d ditched a man who had no clue and who was more alone than me.  At least I had friends and belonged here. He had no one. 

“Oh, hell.” I took a deep breath and began to retrace my steps.  He couldn’t be far behind me.  He’d be searching. 

But I looked for three hours until well after dark and I never found him. 

I went home and drank the wine and watched Supernatural.  I tried to push away the thought I’d been given a chance and blown it.  No.  This was just another Friday night.

Some Excerpt Fun From My Current WIP - The Circle

 I was tagged for a lucky seven blog post.  The rules are:

1.) Go to page 77 of your latest transcript

2.) Go to line 7

3.) Copy down the next 7 lines

4.) Tag 7 other authors (done through Facebook) - Here's the part where I don't know 7 other authors with manuscripts in progress, but I know 2 and I will tag them!

“What did I do?” He whispered.  He knelt on the grass, his face paper pale with confusion and hurt.

“I can’t.  I’ve got to go. I’ll see you Thursday,” I promised recklessly and when I ran, he didn’t follow. He knew me better than to do that.

***

I stayed far away from the Goats and Compasses on Thursday.  The following Monday I stayed in bed with wine and my Kindle until Parker got home and we spent the rest of the night thrashing out our frustrations between very bloody sheets. 

That Thursday I had to hunt, I was starving.