put on your war paint.

My mother taught me about red lipstick.

Not in a tutorial type way, but strictly observational.

No matter what our house or family was going through, the mornings were always the same – my mother, sitting at the kitchen table with her coffee and toast and an open, blue glitter Caboodles make-up case in front of her. Specks of foundation and powder caked the corners of her mirror, framing her face in a thin halo of ivory-beige dust.

Some days she looked tired than others, thoughts weighing heavy on her mind, decisions on her shoulders. I would watch, either through my periphery when reading a book or from the brim of my own morning mug. There was calculation behind the art form, care put into every crease. When the blue case closed, she’d walk back into her room and come out moments later wearing a powerful suit – she was the boss and she knew it but she never flaunted. It exuded from her, an aura of subtle confidence sharpened by years of struggle.

The last thing she did was apply her lipstick. It was her way of kissing the morning and wishing it well. There were shades of blue-reds, brick reds, crimsons, and coral reds, some bright as a rose, others subdued even on her alabaster skin. In comparison, I never thought my olive pallor would work, even if I had tried. I couldn’t get away with something that fierce. My Cherry LipSmacker was the closest I came to daring. I tucked my books away into my bag and hung my head low, eyes quickly darting to the sidewalk, wondering if I could ever be that strong. It wasn’t until a couple a few years ago that I braved my first shade.

My mother suffered and overcame many things in life, all while working a demanding job with three kids, one of which had a learning disability. For the majority of our childhoods, she did this alone. We suffered too, but always had her to lean on. It wasn’t until I recently became a parent myself that I truly understand the weight of that. But everyday, without fail, she put on that red lipstick and strived to be the best that she could, not only for us, but for herself. In a way, we were her shoulders too. And in the close of the first Act of our lives, she sees our success as hers. She left everything behind – her home, her family, her friends – to start a life here, and while it wasn’t necessarily the life she expected, it was the one that she herself built.

There are many things that stand to her character – no small, pocket size object could every truly symbolize all that she is worth, but to me, that tube of crimson or coral or brick red always reminds me of strength, power, respect, kindness, laughter, confidence and overwhelming love. And so, I break out my small drawer of reds and long for the day that my daughter will watch me while I tell her stories – of what life and dreams can be like and the strength she holds to pursue them.

 

“If you’re sad, add more lipstick and attack.” – Coco Chanel

 

 

 

one foot in front of the other – news on the publishing front

Like everything else, this post – as rambling as this one is – has its own soundtrack. 

“We’ll have the days we break,
And we’ll have the scars to prove it,
We’ll have the bonds that we save,
But we’ll have the heart not to lose it.”

-/-

I’ve been twiddling my fingers for weeks now, trying to come to terms with all that has happened, to tell you all without shame or embarrassment, bracing myself for the judgments and silent “I told you so’s.” A large part of me knows I will never get to that point, not until I have closure which may or may not come. I have been going back and forth about how to approach this and move on but if I don’t do it now, I don’t think I ever will.

Long story short: The publishing company that I had signed with is no more. Due to creative differences, the owner decided to dissolve the entire company, leaving myself and many other talented writers in the lurch. A Deathly Compromise is now, once again, without a home.

I’m profoundly heartbroken about this. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything. I go through cycles of depression, anticipation, hopelessness, confidence in the future, hiding under a blanket. Rinse and repeat. So what needs to happen when you’re stuck in a loop? You need a direction to get out. I haven’t quite found my path yet but these are the answers I do have.

Will the current edition of ADC still be available to purchase?
-Yes. It is still available via E-book and I’m working out a solution to still have hard copies.

Will ADC be re-released if/when it finds a new home?
-Hopefully, yes. At this moment in time, it’s hard for me to stomach a third release of the same book. I don’t want to come across as a one-trick pony. I have a lot of ideas in the works that I want to put out in the world but at the same time, I believe that ADC should get the release and attention it rightfully deserves.

Is this the end of ADC forever? Don’t leave us hanging, you jerk.
-No way. Dee (and ADC) is as much a part of me as my heart or lungs. It’s my first baby and one that I never intend on giving up. I’m slowly, but surely, working on the sequel and hope to have it out in the near future. I’ve already started the playlist and once that happens, there’s no stopping it. 🙂

What’s next?
-Well, I’m taking a break to gather my wits and figure out how to move forward. I’m working on a collab project with a bomb ass talented friend of mine and I have an idea or two that I’m fleshing out for a next book, as well as ADC2. For right now, I’m just getting organized and enjoying time with my newborn daughter while trying not to drown in spit up.

What can I do to help?
– Spread the word! Get people to buy ADC – lend it out, listen to the soundtrack, make fanart, share my other stories/writings, help me schmooze agents and publishing houses, buy me a pizza, give or send a hug, take me to Europe! Well, maybe not the last one but you get it. Every little bit helps and is so incredibly appreciated.

Some people to thank that have helped make the last few weeks bearable:

Jaime Lynn Dill – you are a BEAST, truly one of the most hardworking women I know and have done so much to not only help me become a better author, but a better friend.

The Resistance – you know who you are. I love every single one of you. While we’re scattered about every which way, we have managed to find a little corner of the web and have made it a home, a family, a place where we are all safe and appreciated. [insert appropriate gif here]

The Spoobie Squad – Your endless confidence in me makes me cry. I love you three so much it hurts. Come April, *Liam Neeson voice* I will find you and I will hug you.

Lately, I have questioned my decisions and my talent as a writer. I have contemplated quitting a thousand times but I can’t. Even if it’s just for me, I can’t. There are too many worlds swimming around, unexplored. There are too many people wishing to be made real. I will soon rise up and get cracking on the keys again so please bear with me. This experience has left a bitter taste in my mouth but it’s been a learning experience and one that I will keep with me. It will make an eventual win that much sweeter. I will keep moving forward.

This is me, marching on.

xoxo
C

I’d like to clip your wings so you can’t fly.

A little short story about love – because I have a thing for turning mythos on its head 😉

-/-

The tales, the paintings, the bullshit Valentine’s Day cards we got in grade school – they were wrong, so they told me.

My hands trembled with the box, its contents heavy and unsteady. The voice inside of it haunted me and would continue to do so. I walked into the dock house, the sunlight streaming in through the dilapidated roof. Cobwebs and old bird nests decorated the rafters, the smell of seawater and old oil permeated through the space. Boxes and furniture tarps protected whatever contents remained hidden away, the curse of being unwanted.

Certainly no place for someone of her stature.

“Hello?” I managed to ask, the timbre sounding more shaky than I had meant it to. Confusion and shame started settling in. I looked down as I walked my way across the creaky floorboards. Feathers littered the floor, the familiar tufts of gulls and pigeons. In the space between boxes, a large feather lingered. I paused in my trek, bending down to inspect. It was larger than any eagle’s I had seen, thicker and whiter than any vulture’s. 

A loud creaking from across the room caused my hand to retract. I clutched the box to my chest, a thrumming heartbeat accompanying it.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had visitors,” her voice loose and curious in the strangled space.

I looked up to find another place entirely. Where boxes had been were now pillars of marble and quartz. Where the sun had trickled in now streamed ribbons of dusk light. And in the place of back of the dock house stood a throne of cushions – square, round, and oval shaped – made of silk in different shades of red, rose and gold.

She sat on a large white cushion wearing a floor length gossamer gown to match, strings of pearls adorning her shoulders as cap sleeves. Her hair was pulled back, two curled strands framing her face. Her eyes were honey, welcoming, but in the way that predators fool their prey in making them comfortable before eating them whole.

“Are you–?”

“What gave it away, darling?”She gave me a pitying look. The box continued to beat against my chest – a constant reminder. “What? Were you expecting a little, fat cherub?”

“Maybe,” was all I could reply with. She stood up and walked towards me, her bare feet silent on the marble floor.

“All children grow up. Have a little imagination,” she cooed. Her eyes searched mine, her head angled to the side inspecting all of my insecurities. “It’s annoying, isn’t it?”

“Wh-what is?”

“The constant aching of love.” She smiled, snatching the box out of my hands. She turned around to walk back to her throne. “My payment, I’m assuming?” I heard her open the box, the squeaks of the hinges yelling loudly in the open room. She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Quite impressive.”

I nodded to her, unsure of where to go, what to do. “His name is Patrick.” 

“Of course it is,” she stated matter-of-factly, slamming the box shut. She set it down on a cushion, a blend of smoke and light now emanating from her hands. The wisps of cloud condensed and thickened, materializing into a long shape. When it settled, the smoke revealed a small arrow, the size of a bowie knife, covered in a layer of gold. She gripped it in her hand, light peeking through the spaces in between her fingers. She walked toward me, motioning for me to take it.

It was still warm, and even more surprising, contained my name  engraved along its shaft. “I thought this part was your job.”

She laughed, a tone of wickedness coming up from her throat. “Your desires, your actions, your consequences, love. I merely provide the tools.”

“What do I do?”

Her eyes flickered over to the box, licking her lips impatiently. She dusted off imaginary dirt from her dress. “How do you think it works?” When I didn’t answer, she rolled her eyes and gripped my hand in hers, the arrow now singing in the center of it all. “You find him, you look him in the eyes and you put it through his heart.”

A small gasp left my lips. I stumbled over my words.

“Love is nothing to be trifled with, darling. If his heart is open to your love, it will absorb the arrow. If not, well, I just recommend doing this in a private place.” She winked.

My body sagged. Tears rimmed my eyes at the prospect of Patrick on the ground, his heart lost to me in the way I didn’t want. “But what I’ve done already…I don’t think I can do this.”

She tsked me. “You knew the price when you decided you were desperate enough to seek me out. What’s done is done. Now, finish it.” She pushed my hands close to my chest, her own letting go. “You have 72 hours. If you don’t use it, it will disappear, along with your own heart.” I swallowed, the guilt settling into every muscle. “I suggest you use the time wisely.”

I clutched the arrow tightly, my name cutting into my palm. I looked up to find her sitting on the cushion again, the box given in her lap. She opened it, grasping the contents with one hand. Blood began seeping down her arm in dancing rivulets as her fingers clutched the dead heart, the tissue already tinged with gray. She smiled down at it, reveling in the scent and aura. My own ached in my chest. With every beat now, the room began disappearing, the mask of the dock house returning like water washing away paint. It crept closer to her throne, framing her in a halo of the ordinary. “72 hours, dear. Good luck.” She winked as the mask closed in, then took a deep bite into the heart, blood seeping into the fabric of her gown. For a moment, I could see her veins glow with a pulsing joy before disappearing in a swirl of marble and wood.

-/-

I looked over at Patrick as we walked down the street, the glow of the lampposts illuminating his smile. The arrow was a weight in my coat pocket, the gold burning a hole in the wool. The night was almost over, the end of the third day almost done. The rest of the evening was revolving around small talk and potential plans. We stopped in front of my brownstone, his fingertips lingering on mine. The minutes began to wind down, the voice of the rules, now a lament, still playing in my ears:

An eye for an eye,
A heart for a heart
For an arrow of love
For death ‘til you part.

I blinked away the memory of the heart I cut and gave away, fear and self-loathing making room for hope. “Hey, would you like to come up?”

Short Story: Shift

This tidbit started off as a response to a writing prompt, then turned into a possible idea for a novel or series. As most things go, nothing really came of it, but I’m still digging the possibility of continuing (after a much needed polish).

---

It had been a long afternoon but Bekka continued to wait. She enjoyed the shade of the forest, the sound of the other animals amongst her, the wet air threading through the canopy of the trees. Birds darted back and forth and immediately fleeted when they realized her presence. With the exception of her relaxed breathing, she was stone. When all was said and done, she loved the silent strength of the forest the most. She had missed it dearly. She was beginning to doze off when she had heard fast footsteps hitting hard in the sand.

Bekka squinted her eyes and watched as the bandit stopped his sprint right in front of the tree she was sitting in. A branch blocked her camouflaged appearance, the leaves brushing against her face in the shadows. She rose her head as the bandit caught his breath, a satchel of prizes clenched in his fist. Bekka smirked and relished in the surprise she was about to unleash upon him. Terrified blood always tasted the sweetest. She silently stepped from one branch to a lower one, quieter than the wind. The bandit was breathing heavily but his grip on the satchel did not loosen.

Bekka smiled and wet her lips, leaning forward to catch his scent. “Hello, darling,” she growled. The bandit whipped his head around and was met with the dangerous weapon that was Bekka Brax. Bekka jumped and slashed at him, his blood splattering like rain on the brush around them. His leg now immobile, he drug himself toward the brush looking for any possible means of escape. Bekka stood there, watching him closely, enjoying the foolishness of men. She raised her paw to her face and licked it clean. “Go on, leave then. If you think you can outrun me, I’d gladly accept the challenge.” She put her foot back down, the taste of metal fresh in her mouth.

“Please, have mercy on me, creature!” the bandit screamed, his face now covered with dirt and sand. His hand still gripped the satchel but it was weighing him down now and he needed any unnecessary pounds lifted from him.

“Mercy? I’m not one for merciful acts but I will arrange a trade.”

“Trade?”

“Your life…for those jewels you stole.”

The bandit looked at the bag and gulped down the stone in his throat. He closed his eyes and winced at the pain. There was more to these jewels than a thief’s agenda. “I…I can’t. I have to try, my family–”

Bekka rolled her eyes dramatically, her paws fidgeting with the anticipation. “Your life…for the jewels. I’m sure your family would rather appreciate you coming home alive and poor, then dead. Save your bravery for a different day.” She cocked her head at him and a low growl emanated from her chest. She watched as a thousand thoughts and coincidences flashed across his eyes before he resigned. His grip loosened from the satchel and he threw it across the ground toward Bekka. The bag opened just slightly, the sparkle of diamonds reflecting in her feline eyes. “Good boy,” she responded.

A moonstone ring hanging from a chain around her neck began to glimmer before a wisp of smoke surrounded her, transforming her from the panther in the clearing to a young woman. She cracked her neck and stretched her arms, her hair a bit disheveled from the fight. She picked up the bag on the ground, counted the jewels inside and stuck it in her own hanging off her hip. The bandit, now clutching his chest in shock, stammered in her presence. “W-witch!”

“Don’t call me that,” she replied between her teeth. “It’s unbecoming. And false.”

“You tricked me.”

“So I have.” Her eyes were the last to change, the slitted pupils becoming small circles, encompassing the gold of her irises. Her left eye had a large spot of blue on the outer rim. “What did you expect from a large, talking black cat?” The man began to stand, leaning his weight and good leg on the side of the tree. “Now, I would estimate that you have about a five minute head start if you want to beat the palace guards.”

“Hard to do that with a broken leg.”

“Easier than if you were dead…or would you rather me remedy that?”

The bandit shook his head and began moving, an awful limp slowing him down. Bekka watched as he hobbled away. The small part of human left inside her felt regretful for hurting him but sparing him was the easiest way. He would not be able to partake in a thief’s life with that injury but at the very least he had more time with his family. That was more than she could say for herself. A bandit had to appreciate another bandit for what they did have. Another growl from the animal started back up but she swallowed it down.

She heard yells and footfalls from horses in the distance. The palace guards had wasted only a little bit of time. She leaned against the tree waiting for their arrival, making sure that the bandit was a reasonable distance away. The lot of guards stopped suddenly at the sight of her, a sarcastic smile on her face. Her hand protected the bag at her side. “Hello, gentlemen. Such steadfast ambition. You nearly had him!”

The captain of the guard looked past her and the stains of blood clumping the wrestled sand in front of them. “Witch, what have you done with him?”

She was staring at her nails, flicking out dried blood from underneath the beds. If she had her cat tongue, it’d be a lot easier. It would be a lot easier to do a lot of things, like break the captain’s neck. “Can you blame me for getting a little hungry waiting for you lot to show up? Anyway, I got what you came for.” She tapped the bag at her side. “All missing jewels accounted for.” Murmurs threaded through the space from the other guards and Bekka listened intently. “Now, now boys, that’s no way to talk about a lady.”

“Lady?” the captain scoffed. “You are nothing but the King’s witch. Be grateful he has a need for you, otherwise I’d rip that blasphemous head from your body.”

Bekka raised a finger in the air. “Careful now, Captain. You wouldn’t want me to change into something a little bit more comfortable, now would you?”

The captain narrowed his gaze on her. “If you don’t report back to the palace by nightfall, I will be sure to find you. And you won’t like that.”

Bekka laughed under her breath, fidgeting with the moonstone around her neck. She rubbed the side of it. Warmth began seeping from underneath the metal and radiated back into her skin. She felt her organs tremble and her blood pump faster, stretching the tissue underneath her shell. Something fast, she ordered herself. She turned, facing her back to him, eyeing the path into the woods. “Please,” she dismissed loudly as she stepped a foot into the clearing. The smoke had already started to form around her. “As if you could catch me.”

Starlight – an Endever writing prompt challenge

Endever Writing Challenge

To me, “blue” has always been more of an emotion, a state of mind, than a color. I tried to convey that here, looking back to experiences and illnesses of my own. It’s a little bit of dark but (I hope) a lot of light. Enjoy!

————————————-

He was born under the stars.

When he closed his eyes he could still see them, circulating on the back of his lids from left to right, following the orbit of the Earth. They were seared there, imprinting a permanent calm. He never knew pure blackness, the pitch dark of nothing.

He ran a hand through his hair and settled it under his head as he opened his eyes. The morning was bright and unforgiving. It was an overwhelming peach, when he was a natural blue. His life was a constant wave of turquoise and cerulean. It weighed him down and brought him up like a current, the tide changing with the pull of the moon.

He took his time getting out of the bed, grabbing the pill vial on the way to the bathroom. He popped one out onto his palm and swallowed it dry. He turned the faucet on and splashed his face, cupping the water in his hand to take a drink. It would take a couple of hours before the currents subsided. A breath he had held onto throughout the night finally escaped his lips.

You are here, he spoke to his reflection. It wasn’t him, not really. Are mirror images ever really us to begin with? What stared back was a mashup of reversed angles, sharp points where he felt dull, jagged edges of false confidence. The reflection was probably born through the light, was blessed with darkness when it was appropriate, an easy flick of the switch when the time came to turn away.

You are special. He was a blue, how could he compare to the reds, the oranges, the greens and the yellows of this world? He was a dim speck of dusty cornflower, not as magical as the sunrise or dusk after a rainstorm. Too often, he was the storm.

You will be alright. This was the hardest part. His mother was rose, his father an emerald green (he assumed, he was never around for him to see). When he was born, under the sky and the constellations overhead, he didn’t think he could ever be alone if she was there with him.  But roses had a way of wilting away too quickly.

You woke up. You’ve already accomplished so much. This he heard in her voice. He rubbed his thumb along his opposite wrist in reaction and he stole a glance at the pill vial again, counting down the hours until he could open it back up. He nodded at himself in the mirror instead, that version of himself that was somehow better and worse, and walked away. The diffused light filled the room now, pushing out the dark from the corners.

Be brave. His body shook. He closed his eyes once more, letting the starlight comfort him. It was easier said than done most days but the darkness would never really encompass him.  He repeated the mantra in his mind, ready to walk into the shades of morning.

---

If you’re up for the challenge, write your take of this prompt on your own blog. Be sure to tag us by including the above picture and a link to this post so that we can find and read the creative interpretations you come up with! We will be re-posting our favorites for all to enjoy so give it your best!

(Specifics– Write using 500 words or less. There is no limit to the amount of stories you write per prompt. Copy and paste these writing challenge details when you share with friends so others can join.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An ADC snippet in the works for Endever’s launch week!

Avid readers, fans of A Deathly Compromise, and my fellow Endeverites – in celebration of Endever’s official launch week and to keep this momentum/motivation/inspiration going while I have it, I’ve decided to write up a passage from ADC, a “deleted scene” if you will, but told from another character’s perspective. My question to you is – WHO is telling this short story?

Which character do you want to hear from the most?

Some options are:

• Jones
• Aria
• Karma
• Lux
• The Duke
• Evelyn

Or anyone else that I may not have thought of! Give me a challenge. 😉 Most votes win!

Thirty One.

I don’t like odd numbers.

Something ticks in my brain with an unusual discomfort, an itch I can’t scratch. The OCD sneaks its hands on the reins and pulls every so often, reminding me that there are 364 days left of this feeling, 364 days until we’re back at something divisible.

It was my birthday last week. I’ve never been fond of it. Since the Dreaded 17th Year, I’m not one who’s particularly prone to celebrate it. I wake up in the morning, I kiss my husband, I put on the prettiest earrings I own at the time, I fake smile in the mirror. My nose twitches. My skin is usually picked over and scarred again at this point of the year – I’ve gotten the hang of finding better make-up that doesn’t look too caked when I try to hide the spots. However, the weather is dry and hormones are unforgiving.

This year, I’m 8 months pregnant and severely sleep deprived. The earrings went on but the smile did not. I take my morning medication medley, feel the push under my ribs and try not to trip over cats on the way to the kitchen. I make coffee like any other day when I commute. I work the day away trying not to think about getting older but reminiscing at the days when Facebook didn’t exist and your phone was actually ringing off the hook from family members calling you. All of the emojis in the world cannot replace their voice, let alone their physical presence.

I ate as much pizza and cookies as I – or the fetus rather – could fit, which still wasn’t enough. I keep imagining what it would be like to sleep for an entire night undisturbed. I know it’s just the beginning. I relish in the times that I can get more than 3 or 4 hours at a time.

Apparently, 31 is starting off on complaint mode.

There are good things, of course. I’m a published author and encouraging words from readers have helped keep me motivated when other situations, more so physical, have not done nearly as much. Renewed friendships and validations for actions in the past have brought me emotional closure when I needed it most. I’ve caught up with a lot of reading, while still drowning in the stack of books on my nightstand. I welcome the anticipatory stares of the hardcovers that have waited so patiently for me to get back to flipping pages. My mother visited me for the first time since I moved to Oklahoma City and, unbeknownst to me, was a huge conspirator in the planning of a surprise baby shower. It was one of the busiest, but best weekends of my life. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so much love in one room. It gave me a renewed vigor to see these last 6 weeks through.

Perhaps that renewed vigor will last through postpartum. I have ideas and plans, characters gestating in my head, excited to be brought into the world. In the meantime, I am working on Dee’s comeback, the second side of her mix tape starting to to bleed through the speakers. It will all come together. Perhaps maternity will be a motivator. Perhaps I will learn to work through the insomnia and exhaustion. Perhaps I will just cry it all out until the words find their way through my fingers. Either way, I’m reassuring myself that it won’t stop. The stories can’t stop – they are my children as well.

Perhaps the combined experiences will make this year less odd despite the number; you never know – it could be the best year yet.