A Late Night Arrival, Write...Edit...Publish

Halloween already. One of my favorite times of the year. Write...Edit...Publish has a great blog hop and it's not too late for you to work some magic and whip up a tale inspired by childhood fears, real or imagined. I'm posting a day early, so hop over to Write...Edit...Publish and add your name to the linky or at the least visit the other writers who are participating. Here's the link.

Thank you, Denise Covey, for creating this fun blog hop.

Before you read my story, I'm being interviewed by Crystal Collier today, here's the link.

A Late Night Arrival

Linda finished washing her face in the master bathroom sink. The kids were asleep and Bill was driving their oldest, Mary, back to her college dorm room. Slipping into her pajamas, Linda turned off the lights and snuggled down under the covers, 4 a.m. would come soon. Tomorrow would bring another eleven-hour shift at the hospital.

            Money was tight. Too tight. If only Bill would get a job. He was a great salesman. But instead of finding work he’d come up with another business idea and had rented a table at the mall, for too much money, to sell stock in his new company. The thought turned Linda’s stomach. She knew the company would never be realized and the company stock was just a scam. Bill would rather lie and steal than work for an honest company.

            How did her marriage come to this impasse?

            She sighed and hit her pillow, rolling over, trying to get comfortable, trying to go to sleep. A moment later Linda heard the car pull into the driveway. Bill was home. When the front door shut she heard the unmistakable sound of his limp as he walked down the hall toward their room.

            Exhaustion dulled her dread. She didn’t want to talk to him. He’d changed from the loving husband she’d married into an alcohol driven abuser who took out his frustrations on Linda and the kids. Should she divorce him? After 24 years of marriage, she hated giving up but none of them deserved Bill’s rage.

            The bedroom door opened. Linda didn’t move. She’d avoid his confrontation by pretending to be asleep.

            Bill sat on the foot of the bed removing his shoes and socks. Linda could tell by the way the bed wobbled along with old experience that he was taking them off. When he finished he went to the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the light. A faint glow illumed the room from around the edges of the door. A moment later Bill turned on the faucet, Linda heard the water running. She lifted her head slightly to peer at the bathroom door just past the foot of the bed.

            As she waited, unable to sleep, Linda wondered what was taking Bill so long. From where she lay, she could see the alarm clock. Five, then ten minutes and the water still ran. Was he sick? As a nurse, her thinking always hovered close to imagining an illness or accident. Concern began to replace her misgivings. Bill might start in on something, but she had to make sure he was okay.

            Pulling back the covers Linda went to the bathroom door and knocked. “Bill.”

            No answer.

            She knocked again. “Honey, are you alright?”

            No answer. The water was still running. Linda opened the door a crack, then wider. Bill wasn’t in the bathroom. No one was and…the water was still running.

            Fear shivered along Linda’s spine and she was suddenly cold. She turned off the water, left the light on and the door open before going toward the hall and turning on the overhead light. The hall light was next and then the living room light. At the picture window, Linda drew back the drapes. No car in the drive. Bill wasn’t home.

            Who walked down the hall and came into her bedroom? Who sat on the bed? Who…who went into the bathroom, shut the door and turned on the light and water? Who?

Word Count: 579

Did this story creep you out? What if I tell you it is absolutely true. When I was twelve we lived in a haunted house in Arvada, Colorado. A little boy died of leukemia in this house and my mother used to see him propped up in a chair looking out the front window. I personally saw a grown man walk through the hall bathroom door and then through my brother’s bedroom door. I marched down the hall, opened the door and told it to leave my baby brother alone. Of course, I couldn’t see it anymore but I still ordered it out as if it were there.

            The story I told you happened to my mother. I changed the names of my parents. Not only did this happen, but while we lived in this house, my father tried to kill my mother with arsenic poisoning. She almost died, and yet, the doctors didn’t call the police. Times have changed since the sixties.

            So, if I ever sense a ghost lingering around me I tell them to get lost. And they do.

Nancy

Once again, Crystal is interviewing me about my new e-book, Halloween Collection 1. Here's the link

Halloween Collection 1,  is FREE on Amazon IF you are a member. Or you can read for Free as a member. I had intended to offer it free to all but Amazon won't let me. 99 cents to buy. If you do, please leave a review.

Click here to order.

Have a spooky day.
Nancy

Halloween is Coming.

Write...Edit...Publish is back! We are challenged to write about something spooky. The things that scared us as a child. The monster under the bed or the ghost sending shivers down your spine. Be it true or imagined, get your writing pen ready and join this blog hop. Sign up via the linky on the Write...Edit...Publish page and post Oct. 21. I'm excited to read your chilling tale.

Nancy

To sign up go here.

Write...Edit...Publish, Mirror, mirror.

Time to indulge in a short flash fiction story in the blog hop with Write…Edit…Publish, a fabulous once monthly challenge created by my wonderful Aussie friend, Denise Covey. To participate or to read other wonderful stories go here.

The challenge this month is to write a story in 1,000 words or less. The topic is Changing Faces.  

Mirror, mirror.

Still half asleep I rinsed off the scrub I’d used to wash my face and reached for the towel. Once dry I blinked at my reflection and turned to see if someone was behind me. No one. I gazed with disbelief at the woman staring back at me. Unbelievable.  My red hair was gone and in its place were black locks.  In fact, nothing about me was the same. Instead, I looked like that bimbo on that reality T.V. show. You know the one. Gorgeous, yes, but she had a trashy mouth and boobs the size of watermelons. Ugh!

Staring down at my enormous chest I knew none of my bras would fit. Could I even get my clothes on?

I crept out of the bathroom to my bedroom and shut the door. How did this happen? Okay, I had a wart on my chin. Mom believed in holistic medicine and herbal remedies. This wasn’t the first time she’d gone to the Wiccan at the end of the block for a remedy. The instructions said I should take one teaspoon before bed. But I figured, if one teaspoon would remove the wart, the whole bottle should get rid of all my imperfections, not turn me into a reality T.V. look-a-like. What was I going to do now?

I peeled my legs into my blue jeans and grabbed my brown hoodie. The zipper wouldn’t go over my gigantic breast. I reached for my pull over navy hoodie and struggled until I managed to get it to my midriff. I thought I was going to rip my pants when I leaned over to tie my shoe laces. The waist was too small and the hips too tight. Done, I tiptoed from my room and exited the back door. Running around the house I made the mall that was three blocks away. Not my favorite shopping destination but hay, I had to get something fast.

Fortunately, despite my new body my personal taste in clothes hadn’t changed. Within half an hour I had new blue jeans, undies, bra and a red hoodie. Yeah, I’m a little obsessed with hoodies but I needed to pull up a hood and hide my newly dark hair.

I knew my next destination, the neighborhood Wiccan. Her house was five houses from mine and painted forest green. She grew herbs in a raised bed by the front door. The scent was sweet and spicy all at the same time. I rang her bell and it tolled the notes of ‘Monster Bash’. Clever.

Ms. Frederick opened the door. “Oh my,” she said. “I never miss a single show.”

“It’s me, Penelope Sanders,” I said. “My mom got the wart remedy from you yesterday and I woke up like this.”

Disbelief colored Ms. Frederick’s green eyes amber. Her mouth opened, then shut and she bit her lips before at last speaking. “Come in Penelope.”

Her house smelled of sandalwood incense and chocolate chip cookies. I wrinkled my nose and followed her to the dining room table.

“Please sit,” she said and waddled off to the kitchen. When she returned she had a plate of cookies and put them down along with a glass of milk in front of me. How old did she think I was? I indulged anyway since I hadn’t eaten yet.

“Did you follow my instructions?” Ms. Frederick asked.

“Well,” I said, swallowing my half eaten bite quickly. “Not exactly.”

“Tell me.”

“I just figured that if one teaspoon could get rid of a wart, the whole bottle would clear up my acne and maybe even get rid of the scar where they removed my appendix. You see, I have a bikini I can’t wear because of it and---“

“The whole bottle! Oh my, oh dear.” Ms. Frederick stood and paced on the other side of the table. “Oh dear.” She wrung her hands and glanced in my direction several times. “Oh no.”

“You can fix this, right?”

She stopped, stared at me for a moment and then sat. “I have no idea, this has never happened before. It might be permanent.”

“But why do I look like this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I was watching the show, ‘Late Night with the Marshalls' when I made the potion.’”

“Great.” My turn to pace. The sandalwood incense had deposited so much smoke in the house that I coughed.

“I don’t like that chick and I don’t want to look like her.” I put my hands on my trim waist, another side effect that I had to admit was pretty awesome.

“I’m sorry Penelope, I’ll try to come up with a remedy but in the meantime, perhaps you could earn some money impersonating Ms. Marshall.”

“You can’t be serious.” I marched from the room and slammed the front door shut. What would mom do when she saw me? I hesitated before opening the front door.

“Who are you?” Mom asked.

At that moment I was really glad my voice hadn’t changed. “It’s me Mom, the wart stuff had a side effect.”

Her mouth opened before she sat down and cried. I joined her.

*

High School was hard after my change, but I survived and now I’d come to terms with my new appearance. One thing Ms. Frederick was right about was the money I could make impersonating Ms. Bimbo Neurotic Marshall. After five years, no remedy in sight, I owned my own home and drove a great little sports car. Life is good.

Word count: 920

I hope you enjoyed my little story. Please head over and read the other fabulous tales of Changing Faces at Write…Edit…Publish.

Next month is….spooky Halloween. Time for a ghost story. I encourage you to join us.

Nancy








Coming Soon

Insecure Writers Support Group, Plot

Greetings everyone. It's time for the ISWG post, created by Alex J. Cavanauh. Great idea don't you think? If you would like to read what others have written in this insecure bloghop click here.

For my submission I'm going to talk about plot.

Oh yeah, plot.

I have never liked the word 'plot.' Sorry but it sounds too much like plop.  So what do you do? Do you plop down a plot? I mean, really. Couldn't we find a more descriptive word to discuss and use to replace the word plot?

What about the word structure? Doesn't a good story have structure? Every detail in it's place. Mapped out to perfection, or at least an attempt at perfection?

Or how about the word framework? When you build a house it must have the frame in place before you can put up the walls, paint it, clean it and arrange furniture.

I recently received a critique about a story I wrote that said I didn't have a plot. It's a romance. You know, boy meets girl, love and marriage. Isn't that the plot of a romance? I don't know. I don't usually write romance. 

I had a book on plot and I wanted to re-read it, but we have moved so many times in the last four years that I fear it has been lost or packed away in a mysterious box. So for now I will just ask the questions above.

Advice is welcome. What do you think?
Nancy

I am looking for experienced critique partners. I have more than 25 years of experience to offer you. Let me know in the comments if you're interested.

If you would like to read my epic fantasy, 'The Treasure of Carmelidrium,' click the link on the right hand side below the book cover. A reveiw is appreciated.

Haunting and Trick or Treat Hallowe'en blog hops.

Woo hoo...two blog fest in one. Write...Edit...Publish, Denise Covey's Haunting blog fest is scheduled for Oct 30, 2013 and Francine Howarth's Trick or Treat Hallowe'en blog hop is scheduled for Oct. 31, 2013. I'm taking the grandkid's outon Halloween so I'll be around during the day for awhile. Once you've read mine, ring the bell at the other blogs and give them a few tricks or a treat in the form of a comment.

I hope you have a wonderful and safe Halloween.



Lizzie, Damp and Wet:

Lizzie pulled herself from the pond that occupied a section of her farm not far from the house. Jack climbed out as well and shook all over splattering water from his fury body. Lizzie laughed, grabbed her clothes, and glanced about the trees to be sure she was alone before putting on her dress. It clung to her damp body. She ran barefoot in the cool autumn sun toward the house, her hair dripping. At the door she grabbed the handle and had to twist hard since it stuck. Inside she paused. Jacob, her husband, must have left the basement door open. The coal shaft allowed cold air to flow from outside into the dark basement and made the entire house frozen. She shivered, went to the door and shut it.

In the kitchen she started a fire in her cast iron stove with some wood and once it was engulfed she added coal which would burn longer. At last heat warmed her.

An odd bell rang three times. Lizzie had never before heard it. She turned, alarmed by the noise and peered at her kitchen. Everything seemed the same. The bell rang again, only once this time and seemed to come from the far corner where only her cabinets were. That was followed the distinct sound of a door opening and shutting. Fear gripped her. Lizzie ran from the kitchen, up the stairs to her bedroom that she shared with her beloved Jacob.

Glancing about as if some specter would present itself Lizzie felt nothing untoward. She tiptoed across the wood plank floor. Her hair dripped a trail as she went. At the wardrobe she pulled out a clean dress along with under garments and changed quickly. Glancing at the window she estimated by the light of the sun that it would be a good hour before Jacob returned. He’d loaded the wagon earlier and taken the wheat into town to sell to the miller and bring back enough for them to last the winter. However, their cow needed to be milked so she returned to the main floor and glanced down the hall. The basement door was still closed and the kitchen was quiet.

She blinked and entered the barn. That was odd; she couldn’t remember her walk along the path. Lizzie often day dreamed and found that time slipped away for her too often so she dismissed the strange thing that had just happened. They’d recently purchased a white mare and the horse became wild in its stall upon seeing her. Lizzie went toward it. If she could just reassure the animal, but when she put her hand threw to pass it an apple from a nearby barrel the horse reared and let out a frantic scream. Lizzie pulled in her hand, troubled by the mare’s reaction.

The cow beckoned. She sat on the stool and began to milk it. Sally, their cat, came sidling up to her and Lizzie giggled as she let some of the milk squirt Sally in her mouth. The cat jerked about in an attempt to catch every bit.

“No more for now Sally,” Lizzie said after a moment. “I need to make butter and Jacob will want a glass of it too.”

Jack whimpered at her side. “You’ll get yours in the house,” she told the dog.

When she said house she quite suddenly found herself in the kitchen again with a bowl of milk in hand for Jack. This day was altogether strange. She wanted Jacob to stride through the front door and hold her.
She put Jack’s milk on the floor and turned to grab a bowl to start supper. When she did she had a flash of an entirely different room. It was still a kitchen. It was still her kitchen. But someone had changed everything about it. Gone where her stove, table and cabinets. In its place was a silver colored stove with odd round things on top. A sink had shiny spouts attached to it. The cabinets were more elaborate than any she had seen before and made of oak wood. But the oddest thing was a rectangular silver colored object at the far end. As she watched the door opened and a light emanated from within. Food in odd containers rested on the shelves. She peered at it and jumped when the door closed and her own kitchen returned.

Lizzie screamed and ran from the room. Jack followed her barking. She slammed the door to her bedroom shut and shivered in a corner staring at the door, afraid.

Lizzie longed for Jacob. She found herself before the bedroom window staring down into the farm yard, her wet clothes back on and her hair dripping. An odd wagon pulled into the drive, no horse was attached to it, the side door opened and a woman wearing jeans and an orange sweater climbed out. Her hair was cut short. She grabbed some bags from the back and walked toward the front door. Who was that? Lizzie wondered. Where is Jacob?

As she searched for him the forest changed and only a few trees remained around her pond. The road became covered in gray with yellow lines in the middle and houses appeared out of nowhere all around her farm.

The bedroom door opened. Lizzie turned. A flash nearly blinded her. A different woman entered with a red coat on. She held a thick weed that was smoldering gray spoke. The day had given way to night.

“What is your name?” the strange woman asked.

She felt compelled to answer, “Lizzie.”

 “Lizzie, I thought so, you drowned in the pond in 1897. You’re dead. Jacob waits for you on the other side. Go into the light.”

No, that can’t be true, Lizzie thought. Didn’t I just milk the cow? A bright light appeared.  Jacob beckoned. Lizzie stepped through to her man.

Word count: 987

I hoped you enjoyed this. I just couldn’t leave Lizzie trapped in her home forever. Can you guess what appliance was beeping in the first part of the story?



Don't forget to check out the others at ...Haunting and then at Trick or Treat Hallowe'en.


Nancy

Oh How I Miss You Blogfest

Hello everyone:
Today is Alex J. Cavanuagh's 'Oh How I Miss You,' Blogfest. I signed up because I really miss a blogger buddy.

Jules, at Trying To Get Over The Rainbow. Jules and I used to exchange e-mails so you can understand that we formed a great friendship over the miles. A little over a year ago, Jules started work again and had to put blogging aside. I really miss her sense of humor and fantastic insight.

The great thing is I can highlight blogger friends that are current as well.

I love Denise Covey of L'Aussie Writer. She is such an encouragement and fast friend. Denise came up with Romantic Friday Writer's which is currently postponed until after the madness of NaNoWrMo. Which is National Novel Writing Month and we are in the middle of it. I appreciate Denise for her great critique, her insights into more than just writing and her Aussie friendship. When she posted last month that she could watch the whales from her balcony, I wanted to go for a visit. Watch out Australia, this crazy American just may show up one day.

A new friend who I met while visiting all the excellent Romantic Friday Writer's post is Yolanda Renee at Defending the Pen. Yolanda has also become a critique partner and together we are writing ourselves into a frenzy. Well, maybe not a frenzy. LOL

So who would I miss? Well, of course I'd miss everyone. I can't imagine life without you. But in addition to Denise and Yolanda I'd really miss Alex. I mean, wouldn't you? I don't know how the man does it. He writes and blogs and works to boot. Good thing he takes a break to watch movies. So here's to Alex J. Cavanaugh, the master mind behind this blogfest.

It is so wonderful to become friends with those who share little snippets on their blogs. I never would have met any of these wonderful ladies if not for blogging.

When December rolls into our lives there will be another blogfest at Romantic Friday Writer's called, Holiday Spirit Blogfest, Dec. 12 - 21. This is a two part blogfest, one with recipe's the other a Christmas memory written either as an 800 word story or a special memory that you'd like to share. I suspect, I may have to write a story. One of the wonderful things that I have brought away by participating in Romantic Friday Writer's is that, yes I can write short stories and flash fiction. I never before believed I could and now I'm winning awards. So I hope some of you will join us.

Thanks for stopping by.
Nancy