searchterm challenge, round 2 – vote!

On October 25th, I set up a writing challenge inspired by the bizarre searchterms used to find the website Strange Little Band.

The challenge was to include at least three of the following searchterms in a 3-part short story:

• strange publicity
• latched on her nipple
• how to make a male body part cake
• repercussions band
• periwinkle peasant skirt
• inflicting pain to Jacob

[For full details of the writing challenge rules, see the original post.]

Who was daring enough to take the challenge? Well, I can’t tell you who, but I can point you to all the awesome entries.

I was going to write a short synopsis of each, but decided to just post a tantalizing teaser. They’re short stories. Stop being lazy and go read them!

******

#1 – Impossible Odds

“They… they wanted it…” he whimpered, then realized what he’d said, and smacked his head into the table.

#2 – Day Job

Glass crunched beneath my boot. I’d stepped on one of the pictures the old woman had dropped; a faded, sepia-toned shot of a fat kid on a rocking horse.

#3 – Wooing Zadie

That was enough to distract Jacob from her plans. He grinned as he swaggered off to the bedroom, with a look like he was half expecting her to follow.

#4 – Echoing Footsteps

The paintings don’t seem so interesting anymore, crumbling like the plaster they are made of in the face of this maleness.

#5 – An Unwelcome Intrusion

She moved into the lounge, following the sound of his voice and found him spread out on the couch, a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

******

Have you read all of the entries above?

Good. Now let us now what you think!

Vote for your favourite using the poll below. Voting will close November 15 at midnight GMT. The winner will receive eternal fame and glory.

[Update: I forgot to say, if you're one of the authors, please vote on a story other than your own. Voting for yourself is just silly.]

v.j. chambers: breathless

My rating:

Reading Round 12 at the e-Fiction Book Club intrigued me immensely, to the point that I decided to read the story myself.

It didn’t take long.

This is what I would call a popcorn read – the kind of light-hearted, fun writing that quickly becomes a guilty pleasure.

Breathless follows the typical YA fantasy plot: small town unremarkable do-gooder girl meets mysterious, haunted boy, they fall in love, face death and danger along the way, and end up happy.

What makes Breathless stand out is that it is not, in fact, fantasy. There are no moping werewolves or brooding, sparkly vampires; this is a story set very much in present times, where the forces of evil are religious fanatics rather than demons. To make a (cheesy) comparison, think of it as Twilight meets the Da Vinci Code.

Breathless definitely has a lot of suspense, which I love, and which helps offset the more clichéd aspects of all romance stories. The plot is addictive, the reveal is timed just right, and – I won’t give you any particular spoilers – the resolution is unexpected.

Several comments, however.

While the story is in first person, and thus we get to see inside Azazel (the main character)’s head, I felt the characterization was a little weak. Azazel is immediately bowled over when the mysterious Jason appears in her life, to the extent that her fascination with him his hard to believe, especially considering she isn’t starved for attention as she has a long-term boyfriend.

Of course, that could be explained by her just being easily emotional, but when other, more traumatic events occur, I got little sense of grief or emotion; everything was eclipsed by her love for Jason (and his love for her).

Also – perhaps this is a silly complaint – but as much as Azazel’s name fits in with the plot, I found it an awkward name, one that leapt out at me from the screen every time it appeared, jarring me from the narrative.

All other characters could have been fleshed out further. Even Jason, a secondary main character, is left incomplete; a detailed portrait of a boy, but without life or soul. There was little sense of people’s motivations, meaning that it seemed Azazel is in a world of aggressive cardboard cut-outs.

The tone itself is informal, as befits the genre and the main character, so no complaints there.

The writing is very dialogue-heavy; I think the story could benefit from more description. The writing also falls into the telling instead of showing pitfall, as well as that of superfluous dialogue tags (” ‘God!’ I exclaimed.”)

Stylistically, I wasn’t convinced by the email/chat excerpts at the beginning of each chapter – but that is more a personal dislike than anything else.

I’ve mentioned the plot before, and how much I enjoyed it, but I must say the resolution was rushed, which disappointed me; it felt a little like a deus ex with how easily things are resolved.

Lastly, the website itself is fine; it’s easy to navigate, and has a pretty, evocative banner along the top. The video trailer is intriguing, and is actually what got me reading in the first place!

In sum: if you like romance, YA lit, and suspense (and can turn off your inner editor), then this is the story for you. It is a quick, easy, entertaining read, and I am definitely thinking of purchasing the sequel.

Intrigued? Read it online here.

café wednesday: sharon t. rose

Last week’s #WebFicWed mentions:
Refuge of Delayed Souls, The Peacock King, Addergoole, Strange Little Band, It’s All Relative, Breathless, and Space & Time.

It is sometimes said that every person has at least one book in them. Some people also have a book in outer space.

Last week, we interviewed Miladysa, and discovered the facts behind her haunting serial Refuge of Delayed Souls.

This week it’s the turn of author Sharon T. Rose, whose online work is showcased over at LilyFields Entertaintment.

Tea? Yes. Interview time!

******

AMH: You have two ongoing serials: Space & Time, and Swords and Sigils. Which of the two are you currently more passionate about, and why?

STR: I would have to say that Space & Time takes up the most room in my head and heart. I’ve had this story for many years, and the upcoming page 100 introduces some characters near and dear to my heart. They’re some of the first characters I ever created, so I’ve been working on them for over 15 years.

Swords and Sigils is far newer, so I’ve had less time to build up the excitement for it.

AMH: Alright then. Give us the elevator speech for Space & Time. Why should people read it?

STR: Space & Time has a lot of relevant things in it. The main character is struggling to not merely stay alive, but to live her life. We all have to figure out who we are and who we want to be, and we all have to fit within our social context.

Life is a big, intricate, messy, glorious thing, with lots of adventures in every day. Space & Time gives us the chance to see that in a different context than what we’re used to, and perhaps we will find some things in it that will help us in our situations. Plus, there are lots of fun characters, some exciting (forthcoming!) events, and very different cultures. Not to mention unpronounceable names.

AMH: Speaking of unusual contexts and unpronounceable names, I’m curious to learn more about your alien character Jregli. How do Yerbrans compare to humans?

STR: Both are bipedal with two arms, and that’s about all the similarity. The short version is that Yerbrans are reptilian, average about 12′ in height, have long tails, and are strict herbivores. The full description is in the bonus materials section of Space & Time.

Socially, they are very Machiavellian; they look after themselves first and always. Other people are tools to be used to further one’s own power and prominence. The exception to that generalization is the group called the Children of the Wind. They reject traditional Yerbran culture and live both outside it and alongside it, espousing the ideals of freedom, equality, and unconditional love & acceptance.

Jregli, from Space & Time

AMH: Writing about alien worlds must require a lot of imagination. Where do you draw your ideas from? Is anything based on real people or settings?

STR: I get ideas from everywhere and everything; the world is my inspiration! I try to not base my characters on any real people other than myself, but sometimes minor characters will be loosely based on someone I know. One of the waiters in the Pub, for example, is based on my brother, who is a waiter in real life.

I do draw characteristics, situations, and responses from reality, though, and occasionally physical aspects. I work very hard to create unique characters, so anything I do take from RL gets changed up a lot. I will say that I usually start a story from a book, show, or movie I came across, but then I make it my own.

AMH: What about Space & Time specifically – how did you come up with the idea for the story?

STR: Haha! I do have to confess that the setting is pulled almost entirely from a popular TV show. Originally, Jregli was one of a Race found on that space station, but I came up with a different physique and tweaked the culture just a bit. The plot for Space & Time ORIGINALLY revolved around the characters coming up on page 100 (have I pimped this enough yet?) and the situation they’re involved in.

Jregli was supposed to be a supporting character, not the main one. But how can you resist such a cute kid? I can’t say too much here, since that would be a spoiler, but there’s a big problem that the people in Jregli’s space are only vaguely aware of, and the people about to crash the party are going to fix it their way, with no regard for what the Mutuality wants.

AMH: While we’re on topic, this week’s reader-submitted question, from Lyn Thorne-Alder, is: “When world (and race-)-building, is there a process you use, or is it organic/random?”

STR: It’s really a combination of the two. Nearly all of my MCs are organically inspired; I suddenly get s brilliant idea (I say). The MC goes on adventures in my head for a while until I decide that I want to make a real story out of it.

Then comes the process: what is this story about? What is the outcome, and how do we get there? If this event is going to happen, what has to precede it? If the MC is going to do this, then what has to happen in the world (or Race) in order for that to work? What particulars of the Race (or world) will impact how the MC operates?

These are the types of questions I ask myself in the process, and I let the answers flow organically from the events. I’ve learned that I can’t take too strong a hand in the flow; I have to let the worlds and Races (and especially characters!) develop themselves to a large degree. Once they’re born, so to speak, I can train them in the way they should go. And train myself to not get too exasperated when they do their own thing.

AMH: Backing up a bit, why did you chose the webfiction route, rather than aiming for traditional publication?

STR: Many reasons, the primary of which I think is that it forces me to write consistently. I tried writing my novels before and would always give up before I got very far into it. This forces me to discipline myself, knowing that there are people counting on being able to read updates (even if they refuse to show themselves).

Another is because seeing my work online makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something; I can track my progress over the weeks and months and see it happening. Traditional publishing requires newbies to have a completed work before anyone will look at it, and that really discouraged me. I still want to be published on paper, though.

AMH: All your online work is published under the umbrella brand of LilyFields Entertainment. Why?

STR: I wanted to create a brand that didn’t limit the scope of my offerings. At the moment, I write fiction. Occasionally, I draw some pictures to support those stories. In the future, however, there will hopefully be many more types of entertainment for audiences.

I’d love to do a comic someday, and I’m open to partnering with others to create art in many forms. Perhaps someday there will be music, or podcasts, or, or, or. Naming my site after just one story or one type of entertainment would not have allowed me to grow over time.

It also makes it easier to manage income tax reporting in that far-future day when I actually make a living off of this.

AMH: Onto your website itself. You’re the second author on Digital Novelists to be interviewed here on the caf. Can you give me one strength and one weakness of DN as a platform?

STR: Only one? Wow; that will be a challenge. I’d say the biggest strength of using digitalnovelists.com is how easy it is. The basics of the Drupal interface aren’t too hard to figure out, so we get to focus on creating our worlds, not fiddling with obscure technology.

On the other hand, Drupal isn’t 100% customizable, so no one theme is perfect. I would love to keep the overall colors and design of my current theme, just change some of the column arrangement and fonts. But I can’t do that without a lot more techie know-how than I care to acquire. You’re at the mercy of others to design your themes, most of whom have no idea what you want or need. So, you get a ready-made theme that you can fiddle with a little bit, but you can’t have both cake and eating.

AMH: Great – that’s it from me. Any last words?

STR:I write because I love telling stories. I’ve been creating stories since I was a small child, and I’ve never been able to stop.

While being able to make a living from telling stories or having a large, devoted fanbase is appealing, I would write whether or not anyone read it. I’ve been accused of preferring fantasy over reality before, and it’s true… to an extent. I find that seeing things, people, and situations in a fictional setting actually helps me understand reality better. I live in reality, not any fantasy world. Yet I think that the ability to dream, to step outside of the ordinary, is integral to life.

Everyone needs to get away for a little while, and I want LilyFields Entertainment to be a place you enjoy visiting.

******

Intrigued? Follow Sharon on twitter, and go check out her writing on LilyFields Entertainment.

And don’t forget to come back next week for an awesome interview with a mystery guest (yes, I’m not telling you).

If you have any questions of your own for Sharon, leave them in a comment below.

searchterm entry #5: an unwelcome intrusion

The fifth entry to the second round of the already infamous search term challenge!

For other searchterm entries, just look at the sidebar.

If you are the author – or know or guess who the author is – hold your tongue; this post will be updated with author details after the challenge is over. If you want to enter, remember that submissions are due Sunday!

******

An Unwelcome Intrusion

Jessica Sloan sat on the sofa, swaying gently back and forth while Talia fed. The firm suckling of the baby lulled her otherwise tumultuous thoughts and she found herself relaxing without intending to.

Until there was a knock.

Pushing herself up carefully without detaching the baby she made her way to the door and opened it one handed, letting it swing back against the wall and exposing herself to whoever the unwelcome guest was. Let them see Talia latched on her nipple, it was a sure fire way to get people to bugger off.

‘Oh,’ was all she said as her eyes raised from the child. A heavy weight bloomed in her still swollen stomach and she took a step backwards. Three men stood before her, blocking the entrance to her apartment. ‘What are you doing here?’ Their black suits and frowns were a dead giveaway but she would make them go through the formalities. They could at least have called first.

‘We’ve got a job for you,’ one of the stiff men said, his lips the only thing on his face that moved. Jessica thought it was Marco, but they all began to look the same after awhile.

‘You know I’m on maternity leave, and besides, you’re not meant to come to my home,’ she hissed the words, quietly though so as not to disturb Talia. She glanced down again and noted that the baby’s eyes were closed, though her suckling was no less urgent. ‘Get inside, before you start any rumours.’ Jessica stepped back from the entrance, letting the men pass and taking a quick look up and down the corridor to see if anyone was watching. It seemed clear, but still…she could only hope that nothing would get back to her husband.

Turning back to the men she shook her head. ‘I’m on maternity leave,’ she repeated, forcing herself to remain calm, strong.

‘It’s Jacob,’ Marco said, pulling dark glasses from his eyes and giving her a heavy look.

‘Oh.’ Jessica grimaced, closing her eyes with a sigh. Of course it was Jacob. She opened her eyes again and looked back to Marco. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s here.’ He held a slip of paper out towards her but she just looked at it, biting her lip.

‘I can’t. I’ve got a baby.’

‘We’ll take care of her,’ Marco said plainly. Jessica couldn’t hold back the laughter that bubbled in her throat, she could think of nothing more ridiculous than the three of them taking care of a newborn, changing a diaper, trying to comfort her…that final thought chilled her and she narrowed her eyes at him.

‘No, no way.’ She shook her head, clutching the baby tighter than before.

‘You don’t have a choice. You can either put her to bed and go, or we will take her off you.’ The threat in his words was obvious.

Jessica searched his eyes for a glint of humanity but found nothing, found even less in the eyes of the other two. ‘Fine. But you’ll have to wait until she’s settled, and I want you to page me if she wakes up.’

‘We can do that,’ Marco said with a nod. ‘Now go gear up.’

***

Her clothes were too tight, but she had managed to force herself into them anyway. Her belt was on its last notch and she couldn’t help but think that it was just as well she’d been trying to eat right – not so that she could fit into her gear again, but so she could try to reignite the spark with Matthew, her husband. Ever since the birth he’d been a little distant, as though he was afraid to touch her.

Jessica glanced back down at the piece of paper in her hand, confirming that she was at the right address, and then took stock of the setting. It was a single story house, placed well off the road. Jessica exhaled deeply, trying not to think back to her last encounter with Jacob. She didn’t have time to waste, so she walked up the path to the front door, making sure that her taser was loose, then slipped on her knuckle dusters, tightening her fingers into fists around the grips.

She didn’t bother to knock, instead pushing down the handle, kicking it open and entering the building with her back to the wall. The syrupy scent of booze hung in the air and she sent a quiet prayer heavenwards, hoping that Jacob was drunk and perhaps that would mean they were on even footing. Ever since the birth she’d been exhausted, and unwilling to flood her body, her milk, with energy boosters she’d opted to go in without the regular dose.

‘Jacob?’ she called out, edging her way down the foyer to the main door. Her heart thumped in her chest so hard that she thought it might break through her skin, but she tried to keep her breathing steady.

‘Ah Jessie, Jessie, Jessie,’ he called back, his voice slightly slurred but jovial. ‘I was sure with you having just spawned a brat I’d manage a few weeks of freedom, but I see they sprung you early – not cut out for motherhood huh?’

She moved into the lounge, following the sound of his voice and found him spread out on the couch, a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. ‘Motherhood suits me just fine,’ Jessica said, her voice tense enough to slice cake. ‘Unfortunately for you, it hasn’t put me totally out of action.’

‘I’m not sure it suits you as well as you think, dear.’ He smirked and nodded to her attire. She refused to look down, instead scowling at him and forcing herself not to buy into his jibes. She’d just had a baby; of course she looked worse for wear. A few more months and she’d be back to her old self. Surely.

‘So, are you going to come easy? Or am I going to have to make you?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘I don’t have time for this so let’s cut the crap.’

‘Got a hot date?’ he asked with a sneer which pushed Jessica over the edge. She launched herself forward, landing a blow on his face before he had time to react. Crimson flowers bloomed under his skin where her duster had made contact and Jessica smiled. Inflicting pain to Jacob was certainly going to improve her mood.

He pushed himself off the couch and smashed his bottle against the coffee table, taking a wild swing when she approached again. Jessica wasn’t fast enough and he caught her across an already tender breast. Incensed, she drove onwards, ignoring his blows, pummelling him again and again with her knuckles until he collapsed on the ground.

Confident that he was unconscious, Jessica breathed heavily and sank to the floor beside him, tears welling up in her eyes as her weary arms dropped to the floor. She looked down at her hands, hands she comforted her baby with and sobbed harder.

When Jacob stirred, she pulled her taser out and zapped him without even thinking about it, then wondered if maybe she really wasn’t cut out for motherhood.

***

She quietly closed the door behind her. All up she had only been gone an hour and a half, but Talia was already awake and being held by Marco. Soft whimpers wafted from her delicate mouth until Jessica snatched the baby from his arms and held her tightly, inhaling the warm soft scent of her child and allowing a wave of relief to crash over her. Finally, she turned to the men.

‘He’s in the boot of my car. You might want to take him before he comes around – take the car too. I’m reporting it stolen. Now get out.’ She turned away, not waiting to hear the sound of the door behind them, and headed directly to the bathroom.

Jessica placed Talia in her bouncer and when the baby was content she stripped her torn, bloody clothes off and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water rake her flesh. She carefully washed out her wounds, wincing at the pain, but coming to tears over the fact that she would be reminded of her violence for weeks to come. How on earth was she meant to explain this to Matthew?

Talia had fallen asleep to the sound of the water beating against the tub when she stepped out, so Jessica quietly dressed her wounds, bandaging them skilfully despite how exhausted she felt. Then, robed only in a towel, she picked up her babe and slipped into bed where Talia’s mouth opened and latched once more onto her breast, easing Jessica’s fears and the ache in her swollen chest.

Sated, the baby opened her eyes and looked up at her mother, a small smile gracing her lips. Jessica didn’t care if it was just wind; it was what she had needed. Leaving Talia on the bed, she slipped on the periwinkle peasant skirt that Matthew loved and a loose white top, picked up the baby and dialled his work number.

‘Matthew,’ she said, tears spilling out once again. ‘I got mugged, they took the car… I need you. Please?’

******

searchterm entry #4: echoing footsteps

The fourth entry to the second round of the already infamous search term challenge, following the life and death of a relationship.

For other searchterm entries, just look at the sidebar, under the ‘recent updates’ section.

Lastly, if you are the author – or know or guess who the author is – hold your tongue; this post will be updated with author details after the challenge is over. If you want to enter, remember that submissions are due Sunday!

******

Echoing Footsteps

Rich carpet underfoot.  A bed with a bright red duvet in the corner. The girl’s feet are eager, tapping impatiently as she stares into the mirror and applies one last lick of mascara.  She smoothes down her clothes, nods at her reflection.

Then she flings open her bedroom door and races down the corridor, the sound of music and laughter beckoning her forward.  The ballroom has just opened, but it is full—it is always full—and she joins the crowd eagerly.

She ignores the line of chairs against the wall and goes straight to the middle of the room, dancing and spinning, her periwinkle peasant skirt a floating halo around her body. All around her are other girls, dancing, laughing, and every now and then she exchanges secret smiles with them.

The boys soon notice her, as she knew they would.  She is wearing silver high heels, heels any other girl would have fallen in, and they click-click deliciously against the marble floor.  She struts around the room, making every step a challenge.

Catch me, she is saying. Catch me if you can.

Her red lips curve up into a smile and she keeps dancing alone, daring, tempting. Her long, silky hair brushes against her shoulders with every movement, sinfully decadent, and in that moment she feels that she can do anything, everything.

A crowd of boys grows around her. She ignores them purposefully, stares up at the arched ceilings, at the gold-edged frescoes, as if they hold the answer to some forgotten question. She pretends she is dancing with those painted figures, dancing in the clouds.

Finally, a boy dares to approach her.  He steps carefully past the wall between her and the rest of her admirers, and takes her unadorned hand with gentle fingers.

He bows low over her hand, and leaves a warm kiss on her skin that sends shivers down her spine.

The paintings don’t seem so interesting anymore, crumbling like the plaster they are made of in the face of this maleness.

***

They are alone together in this small, intimate parlour, as they have been many times before.  It is a room lit only by candles, all soft spaces and round corners. On one side is a small table for two, with a clutter of dirty plates and forks. A half-eaten strawberry lies forgotten in an empty bowl.

The young woman clings to her man tightly as they sway back and forth to the distant strains of music, which echo down the corridor from the open ballroom doors. They are a well-matched couple; he in his sharp dark suit, her in a flowing black dress that ends at her knees.

Her hair is pinned up, demure and womanly. Every now and then, the ring on her left finger catches the candlelight. She cannot help but look at it, smiling. Her lips are pale pink, her cheeks faintly flushed, and if there are small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, they are only of the laughing kind.

She looks into his eyes and finds a home.  She cannot help it when the words slip out.

He looks frightened. He pulls away, apologies. Senseless words come out of his mouth. The end? Farewell?

His eyes and ears turn to the ballroom, to the twirling skirts she once used to wear, and, mumbling, he walks out into the corridor.

Anger, sudden and severe.  She pulls at her ring.  It gets stuck on her knuckle.  She pulls again, hard, her finger aches, but she gets it off and launches it after him. It hits the back of his head with a disappointingly small sound, but at least he flinches.

He turns, and she can see his eyes are already having trouble focusing on her. It’s as if he can only see through her now, as if she doesn’t matter anymore. In this moment, she feels she can do nothing.

He picks up the ring and pockets it, then leaves without another word. He is swallowed from sight by the ever-spinning crowd in the ballroom.

He’s not coming back. The repercussions band around her heart, unforgiving and tight, and she falls to the floor, weeping.

She’s alone.

***

The woman is in the ballroom, sitting in a secluded corner, her chair pressed right up against the wall as if she wants to become part of it.  She watches the girls dance past with a world-weary look in her eyes, her fingers rubbing the bare patch of skin on her left ring finger.

She is fading, wilting in that shadowed corner; her thin hair is bleeding colour as the etches of time deepen on her face.

She looks at the dance floor, at the twirling skirts of red and blue, and realizes what strange publicity it is for love; these boys and girls, dancing alone. She smiles, and her sad eyes look even sadder.

A hand on her shoulder startles her out of her thoughts.  She looks up, sees a face that could be her mirror, and the reminder that she looks like this—wrinkled, used, forgotten—brings tears to her eyes.

“Come,” says her mirror, so she gets to her feet, clutching on to the back of the chair to belie the trembling in her legs.

They walk to the end of the hall together. With each step, the sound of laughter and merriment fades, until she turns to get one last glimpse of those smiling, young faces and realizes they’ve already gone. Her footsteps echo even louder after that, and her mirror takes the lead, slipper-soft feet barely whispering against the hardwood floor.

At the end of the corridor is a lonely door. It is stiff, difficult to open. The doorknob groans as she struggles with it. She puts her weight against it, has to stop for breath. Eventually the door opens.

Rich carpet underfoot.  A bed with a faded red duvet in the corner. Her feet are eager all of a sudden; she barely notices the shakiness of her legs as she moves into the room and closes the door.

She gets into the bed, hiding down deep under the duvet, and lies quiet next to her mirror.

******

searchterm entry #3: wooing zadie

The third entry to the second round of the already infamous search term challenge, following a media-hounded relationship.

(I assume you’ve also read the first and second entries, yes?)

If you are the author – or know or guess who the author is – hold your tongue; this post will be updated with author details after the challenge is over. If you want to enter, remember that submissions are due Sunday!

******

Wooing Zadie

“Girl, I can’t even believe you. I mean with all the shit you put up with from that man. If you can even call him a man.”

Zadie chuckled, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. The speaker-phone had given up the ghost months ago, and right now, she needed her hands for more important things. The kitchen was a carefully controlled tornado of ingredients, dishes and pots. About her was everything she needed to work her magic. That and her laptop, carefully poised between the mess.

“Ok, so maybe he’s not as much a man as Quentin,” Zadie remarked, mixing flour and milk. She tried to brush an errant hair out of her face, where it had escaped from being tied up in a topknot. “But I sort of like his style.”

“Oh, you just a freak.”

“Which one of us started off our music life as a groupie, Lah?” asked Zadie. She smiled, mixing quick and steady. She was all too ready to go there if she had to.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“And which of us always said that rule number one was never getting with a band member?”

Zadie smiled again, glancing over at the microwave as she heard it beeped to a stop. Bowl and wooden spoon down, she pulled out the gently melted chocolate, adding it to the mix. Across her sparce, but generously appointed apartment, she caught glance of herself. It took her a moment to recall the tight, red leather dress she was wearing there on the entertainment show, nothing like the sweats and game jersey she was wearing now.

“Well,” Zadie remarked, folding the chocolate into the mix. “Given what Jacob’s doing with the drummer half the time, I figure that rule number one has been broken a few times over already, Lah.”

“I just don’t want to see you getting hurt, girl.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she replied. Zadie watched herself on television a moment. She remembered now that they were showing an incident a week back or so. She gave a wicked grin when she caught herself swinging and decking the reporter who had got a little too close, a little too hands on. “It’s just a bit of harmless fun. I like him. But it’s nothing like that.”

“Uh huh. How many times have I heard that before, girl? And what is this now? Fourth new guitarist?”

Zadie was distracted a moment, as she mixed and watched television. She didn’t recognise what was coming up now. It looked serious. “Second guitarist, second trumpet player.”

“Well, way I hear it, Jacob sure likes blowing trumpet a lot for someone on lead guitar … oh, you watching Entertainment Now? What the hell?”

“Sure. I’ll get back to you, Lah.”

“Tell me how tomorrow goes.”

“Sure,” Zadie said. She fished up the remote and rung off, dropping the phone back into the cradle, while gunning up the volume on the television. She took the bowl with her as she mixed, her attention fixed on the TV.

“… next week. The Repocussions Band hasn’t yet replied to the incident, and band leader Zadie Delanski hasn’t yet been able to be reached for comment. Entertainment Now reporter Simon Jackson is said to be considering further legal action, despite initially having not pressed charges for the assualt …”

Zadie was distracted by the doorbell, dumping the remote finally on the vast leather couch. Jacob wasn’t due for another half hour, but there was always the chance that he might actually turn up early one day. She opened the door on the tall, powerfully built courier, blissfully distracted a moment, before she realized he was thrusting a package at her. The labels on it reported it cross-town, same hour. She smiled warmly, enjoying the guys chocolate grin as she signed for the box.

“From the band, right?”

“Yeah,” she replied, handing the board back. “But you might need to come up with something a little more original if that’s the start of you hitting on me.”

“Oh nah, I just know you from my girlfriend,” he said. Zadie didn’t mind that silky smooth voice. “She’s got all your guys CDs. Even the Japanese special releases.”

Zadie chuckled warmly. Maybe she’d misread him. She took the box from where she had tucked it under her arm, smiling passed the courier as she saw Jacob swaggering down the corridor. She’d learned quickly enough not to judge him on his short, scrawny appearance. It hadn’t taken much longer to find out what lay under those sagging, off-the-rack new urban clothes. Jacob shon one of those darling Asian smiles of his, watching after the courier as he left.

“Who was that?”

“No one you should be jumping,” Zadie warned, doing her best to tuck the box behind her. She headed back into the kitchen and put it down with the pots.

“You takin’ parcels? What you got for me?”

Zadie laughed, stepping back towards Jacob as he came into the kitchen. She took him in her arms and kissed him before he got a chance to look at the laptop. The website was still up; ‘How to make a male body part cake’, right down to the webpage she had just called in an order of the mold from. She guided him back a few steps.

“Why don’t you go get changed, and then we can go out. I’ve been waiting for this surprise all day.”

That was enough to distract Jacob from her plans. He grinned as he swaggered off to the bedroom, with a look like he was half expecting her to follow.

* * *

Zadie had thought about wearing the red leather dress that she had seen herself wearing on Entertainment Now, but had finally settled on something a little more lacey. She could afford to dress in Jacob’s old left overs at home, but outside, she had an image to maintain. Any sort of exposure was good exposure in the rock business, and exposure what was this particular outfit was all about.

Tonight was her and Jacob’s night, but no sense in not letting the media hounds get a little of what they wanted.

Jacob came about to her door, and opened it, just like the gentleman that only she knew. She’d already visited the parents that raised the kid that the music world didn’t get to see. Occasionally, he let his sensible side show, but only for a moment. He played as much the part of the out of control rock star for the cameras as well. When he wasn’t out here, or with Zadie, he was relaxing at home with the bands drummer.

The cameras flashed like explosions of light about them as they headed to the restaurant. Zadie tried to ignore them, tried not to let them get her in the same hard mood that they had that night. Tonight was all about fun. As much as she already knew what Jacob had in stall for her, she wanted to act like she had no clue.

“So, you just wait,” Jacob said. “I got us a place picked out. Your favourite place too.”

Zadie hadn’t the heart to correct him as they swept into Leguamo’s. Everyone was smiles and happy words, all slightly put on and faked expressions that Zadie was smart to, and knew that Jacob missed. The short Asian had a quiet word with the owner, as Zadie headed to ‘her favourite table’. She could still see the reporters outside, circling like vultures. She vaguely considered maybe this wasn’t such a cool idea, so close to the windows.

“So I got you a lil something,” remarked Jacob. He passed the small package across the table to her as he sat down.

“Isn’t this a little against tradition?” she asked, but Jacob just shook his head, interupted her before she had a chance to saw anything more.

“I saw it and wanted to get it for you. I mean, I know how much you like this sorta thing, girl.”

Zadie tore open the zebra striped paper, assualted by the bright color beneath, the strange sensation of the fabric. She let the paper fall aside as she held up the garment for closer inspection. Bless Jacob’s taste in all things related to girls. She considered that he really might be the boy that Lah always said he was. She wasn’t sure if it was a skirt or a rather wide belt.

“A skirt.”

“Yeah, it’s called a peasent skirt. Least that’s what the girl in the shop called it. Saw that color and figured that you would like it. I know how it’s your favourite color.”

“Blue, yeah,” she gave an honest smile. He didn’t have the same sharp sense of style as her, but it was a kind gesture. Zadie wasn’t going to let that go to waste.

“Periwinkle!” he replied. Zadie folded it and set it carefully aside. She’d certainly find some occasion to wear it. It was almost more revealing than her lacey outfit.

“A periwinkle peasent skirt. Thanks, Jacob. I mean it.”

“Ain’t nothin’, girl. Figured I’d give you a present to go with dinner.”

Zadie tried to relax, but couldn’t help but notice the flashes of the cameras outside. Jacob tapped her on the arm and pointed across the restuarant. She realized that the waiter was standing there patiently. Jacob stood up, pushing his chair out, grinning like a kid.

“Oh, no. You’re not serious,” Zadie said, when she worked out what he meant to do. Jacob was already gathering her, looping an arm through hers.

“Why not? I mean, how can you go to a seafood place without tryin’ the lobster.”

“I told you last time that I don’t like the idea of picking them out live though,” replied Zadie. She looked at the full tank, swimming with the poor little devils. As much as she liked lobster, this was enough to turn her off. “Don’t you think it’s a bit inhumane?”

“It’s only inhumane if they are humans, girl. I’ll pick out yours for you then.”

Zadie had to smile at his youthful enthusiasm. It had to be one of the things she liked about him so much, that and his almost endless stamina. She watched as he pushed up the sleeve of his puff-jacket and dunked his hand straight in.

“Use the tong at least!”

Jacob snagged one like a seasoned pro, and pulled it out, streaming water onto the carpet. He chuckled and wiggled the still writhing thing towards her face, laughing. She backed off a little, enjoying it all the same, forgetting about the fact that the thing was going to end up in the pot in a matter of moments. Zadie got her hand up to wave the damn thing off. Right about the time that it latched on her nipple, straight thought the lacey number. Zadie let out a shreak, batting the thing to the floor.

The camera’s were still flashing quick and fast, all the while.

* * *

“Well of course it ruined the night,” Zadie snorted. She was putting the final touches on her masterpiece, spreading the icing thick and even with a knife. She kept the phone cradled hard between her ear and shoulder as she worked. “What the fuck do you think?”

“Girl, you should have seen the coverage, it was all over the news. I know you say any publicity is good publicity, but damn if that ain’t some strange publicity.”

Zadie just let out a light grunt. She gathered up the last of the icing, and started to spread it out. She didn’t bother answering, but the silence was quickly too much for Lah.

“Did you even know there was a video camera out there?”

“At least it didn’t have Simon any where near by,” Zadie sighed. “Half expected him to come out for the evening. Might have even been a good thing. Maybe I could have given him something to really press charges over. I’m ignoring the fact he harrassed me!”

“Don’t even let that bother you, girl. All you should be worried about is Jacob. I saw how he was. The camera’s had some pretty full coverage of you shouting at him like that.”

Zadie moaned, putting the knife down. Her masterpiece was as good as finished. She hope it tasted half as good as it looked. She shook her head and took the phone in her hand, now she had the hand free.

“You know I don’t mean to inflict pain to Jacob.”

“Inflict pain on, you mean,” came the reply.  “And I think you probably hurt him well enough, the look on his face.”

“Ok, so maybe I shouldn’t have cussed him out. It’s just sometimes when you have the pressure of the cameras on you twenty four seven … I just got stressed out, that’s all.”

Zadie looked down at the cake for a moment. Sure, everything they did together was harmless fun, but then maybe if she was worried this much about things, it was a little more serious. She didn’t want to hear Lah start pulling her on her track record with band members. She checked the clock, and hoped that maybe Jacob might continue with his habit of turning up early, even after last night.

“Anyway, I’ve got a cake to finish.”

“Don’t run away from me, girl.”

“I’m not!” Zadie lied, making her excuses. “I’ve got a cake to finish, and Jacob’s going to be here soon anyway.”

“Sure. Well, call me back. I want photos of that damn thing. I can’t think of a more perverted thing anyway.”

Zadie smiled and hung up, as she heard the door open. Jacob was looking a little more somber, but soon cheered when she smiled good natured at him. No harm, no foul. This time, she didn’t bother hiding what she was doing in the kitchen. It only added to letting Jacob forget how she had acted last night. The whole thing seemed stupid enough.

“Holy fuckin’ hell, girl,” Jacob said, joining her in her arms. He was still staring at her creation on the kitchen bench. “That’s a cake shaped like a –”

“Uh huh,” replied Zadie, with a wry smile. “Now you get to have it and eat it too. Happy birthday, Jacob. Might have to give you a little something else to make up for last night, though.”

Jacob laughed, and kept looking at the cake. “Girl, you know me too well. Best of both worlds …”

******

searchterm entry #2: day job

Woop! The second entry to the second round of the search term challenge, a gritty tale of angels and demons.

(You have read the first entry, right?)

If you are the author – or know or guess who the author is – hold your tongue; this post will be updated with author details after the challenge is over. If you are not the author, you better get crackin’ on your own entry as the deadline’s this Sunday!

******

Day Job

***

Leave no trace

Do you know how hard it is to open a door when the handle is covered in blood?

Eventually I found a towel and wiped the doorknob clean.  But now I had a bloody towel, a wrecked flat and a looming disaster on my hands.  I opened the door to the living room.  There was blood on the walls.  Blood on the furniture.  Artistic red splatters on the cheap acrylic carpet.

Leave no trace, they said.  Make it a clean disappearance, they said.  Anything left behind is an anchor to this world that they can use to return.

Well they never said anything about skinny old paedophiles putting up a fight that would leave us both bleeding.  That was something you found out after you’d been on the job for a while; how strongly people cling to life.

But I had done my job and sent him down. I stepped back into a patch of sodden carpet that squelched under my boot.  There was no way I could clean up this mess.

I stripped, leaving my bloody clothes in a pile with the towel.  My boots I took into the kitchen and scrubbed and scrubbed.

In deference to the need to avoid strange publicity, I used matches and a candle, rather than holy fire.  The curtains blazed up, leaving a sooty patch on the wall.  The fire spread across the carpet slowly, inching forward until it reached the table, licking hungrily at the varnish and dashing up the legs to dance across the top.

The smoke alarms went off.  I walked out into the hall and stepped through the wall into the next flat.

An old woman in dressing gown and slippers was shoving things into a shopping bag; pictures, knick-knacks, a collection of spoons.  An old man hurried into the room, papers clutched to his chest.

“I’ve got the insurance, Faye, come on!”

“Wait, my mother’s music box!  It’s in the bedroom cupboard!”

“Leave it!”  He hauled her out, shedding paraphernalia and weeping like the world was ending.  Smoke rushed into the room when they opened the front door and I heard her wailing all the way down the steps.

I went to open the bedroom door to help the fire spread.  Glass crunched beneath my boot.  I’d stepped on one of the pictures the old woman had dropped; a faded, sepia-toned shot of a fat kid on a rocking horse.  A son, I guessed; the walls were covered in photos of him, chronicling the minutiae of his life. 

I followed the story; baby, toddler, fat kid on a trike, skinny kid in a lifesaver’s togs, pimply teenager.  The largest was hanging above a crowded shelf of shells; a young man in uniform.  Queensland Police Academy, Class of ‘84.  There were no more photos after that.

Something exploded, washing me with flames and curling the pictures in their frames.  Sirens wailed in the street outside.  I’d done enough.

I walked home through the suburbs, the afternoon air hot and sticky on my skin.  People would brush against me, turn and look, see for a moment something that they could never understand, never comprehend.  Beauty that was as far beyond them as the stars.  And then they would forget.

Back at my flat, I showered, pulled on jeans, shirt and humanity, and headed for work.  Bob the owner was downstairs, rewiring the light over the door, which blew every time it rained.

“Oh hey Sandy, I didn’t know you were in.  Off to work?”

“Yep.”  I pulled the gate closed behind me.

***

Anchored

I work night-shift at the post office, watching the big machines sort mail, catching the occasional letter that the machines can’t process. Making enough money to pay the
rent, because that’s what you do.

Everyone here is cut off from life; living in the dark, sleeping in the light. Some of us have wings.

Liz didn’t; she had two kids, a drinking problem and a black stain on her soul. I didn’t look closer. If Liz ended up on a work order, it wouldn’t be posted by me. I didn’t have any friends, but Liz was the closest non-friend I had. It’s hard to make friends when all you can see is imperfection.

Liz waved at me and pulled on her hygiene cap. “Hey kid, how’s the love life?”

“What love life?”

Same joke, every day. Liz thought I was twenty. I knew she was 32, single, living on the dole and lying about working at the post office.

The shift started and we settled to the routine. Liz talked non-stop; about her kids, her neighbours, her loser ex, her manipulative mother. I let the words wash over me.

Anchored to humanity was what they called it. It was supposed to remind us what humanity was. Because after a while, all you saw were the stains. You stopped seeing the faces they belonged to.

Liz paused in the middle of a rant about her social worker. “Can you smell smoke?”

I sniffed. “Yeah.” I shouldn’t be; clean clothes, shower. I stepped away from the machine and sniffed; still that faint tang.

Liz hit the emergency stop button. Fire in the sorting warehouse could very quickly turn into a big deal.

Dan the Supervisor lumbered over. “What’s up?”

“I can smell smoke,” said Liz. “Might be a letter caught.”

“Or another dead mouse.”

We circled the machine like a pack of dogs sniffing out a bitch, but couldn’t pinpoint the location.

“Sandy! Your shoe!”

I looked down. A wisp of smoke curled up from under the sole of my right boot. My workboots. I clawed frantically at the laces.

“Look out! Get back!” But like a flock of sheep they just stood and stared dumbly. Wes charged over and I caught the after-image flash of wings.

“Go!” He shoved his way through the human ring, pushing people away. “Sandy, get-”

A sound like rock tearing and white hot brightness that hurt like fuck. I saw Wes flying backwards, a black figure in roiling clouds of flame. I pushed myself up. Everything was on fire; the machines, the letters, the walls, the air. A pair of disembodied legs twisted in the heat; I only knew they were Liz’s because of the periwinkle peasant skirt.

Then the flames were gone. In the crackling silence, a crash as Wes pushed himself out from under a twisted pile of shelving. We were the only living things in the factory. Ash fell around us like rain.

Wes shouted and charged towards me. I felt a hand clamp around my throat from behind, fingers burning into my flesh.

I manifested; wings going from thought to reality and catapulting me into the ash-choked air. The burning fingers dug deeper but the demon weighed nothing at all. Then Wes slammed into me and the three of us tumbled to the ground.

I pushed up and came face to face with Lester Carmichael, convicted paedophile, lately sent to hell. By me.

The skinny old bastard looked the same; sagging skin, thinning hair. But the watery blue eyes now snapped with power and the wrinkled skin looked like rhino hide.

“Hello, Sandy,” he said.

I threw myself sideways and upwards, trying to get some distance, but he grabbed my ankle and slammed me back down again. Wes dived at him. Lester met him with a fist, sending him through a sorting machine like it was made of wood, not steel. It looked like Lester had spent some time beefing up in the evil gym before coming back.

“Go! Get help!” I shouted at Wes.

He leapt up, dove through the shattered remains of a window and I hoped the others hadn’t gone far.

“You botched the job, Sandy.”

I’d botched it all right. I edged around him. All my careful cleanup and, like a rookie, I’d scrubbed my boots instead of burning them.

“You’re not going to be popular with your manager.”

“He’s forgiving, didn’t you hear?”

I wasn’t even that fond of them; I just hated shopping for shoes. I could never find a comfortable pair in my size.

“Even so, this is a demotion for sure. Wouldn’t you rather have a new start? Easy hours, all the perks?”

So the rumours of poaching were true. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not keen on the contract.”

“But you’ve been noticed, Sandy. You’re making trouble for the boss. We’d much rather have you on our side.”

So it was our side now. I wondered what Lester had traded for his new position. Small-time paedophiles didn’t get a contract; they just got an eternity.

“I told you, no deal.” I heard the sound of wings. “Now get back where you belong before we send you there express.”

The remaining windows exploded inwards as Wes brought in the cavalry. I tried to leap upwards to join them, but Lester-returned was faster. Stronger. I slammed into the ground, felt the pressure in my head as a gate opened. Lester’s hand closed around my throat, and I smelled his burning breath as he leaned down. The mortal plane dissolved like sugar crystals in water.

“Do you know what they do to your kind in hell?”

***

First day

Turns out it wasn’t so bad. A few years of gratuitous torture, the loss of my wings of course, then a meeting with the big boss. Duties and responsibilities of my new position. Terms and conditions. One hundred year contract. I could live with that.

I took the bus to my first assignment. I don’t drive; too hard to remember there are people on the roads. I could zone out on the bus, think about things.

On a whim I got off three blocks early and walked. I passed the place where the sorting warehouse used to be; there was a park there now, the trees still only knee high. A memorial stone in the centre reminded people that 26 postal workers had died there in a fire. Every flat surface of the memorial was covered in graffiti.

I knocked on my client’s door. This was no dingy little flat, but a flashy McMansion up on the hill, looking over the river towards the city. I was shown to the lounge by a lackey and told to wait.

I glanced at the magazines on the table. Janus, Splosh, names I’d never heard of. “How to make a male body part cake, and what to do with it!” said one cover. I didn’t pick it up.

“You’re not what I was expecting.”

I turned; the man must walk like a cat. Pin-up body with a pretty-boy smile. Not at all like my usual assignments.

“What were you expecting?” Out of habit I looked for his soul, but I was blind now; I could only see the outside. Part of me relaxed.

“Someone stronger. Nowhere near as pretty.”

“I’ll surprise you.”

“I’d like that. I’m David, by the way.”

“I know.”

“Of course. But I don’t know your name.”

“No, you don’t.” I glared at him. “Give me your hand.”

He walked over to me and held out his hand, every move sensuous and inviting. I grabbed his hand, bit down, swallowed some blood. I didn’t need to look at his face to know he was enjoying it. “Now get.”

“For how long?” He cradled his hand, the blood pooling in his palm.

“Give it a week.” I doubted it would be more than a day, but I didn’t want to be here when he got back.

They left and I sank into the couch. There was a stone sculpture by the window, abstract. Water ran down the sides to tinkle into a bowl below. I found the switch and turned it off.

I was tempted to shut myself off, let time flash by, but I didn’t want to be caught unawares. So I sat in the flow of time and waited for the sound of wings.

I heard them, and knew there were two. That was different; we always used to work alone. Maybe they’d made some changes. Maybe I had been the cause.

They floated in through the wall, two young rookies sent to deal with an easy assignment. They stopped, confused; feeling David’s blood close by but not seeing him. They were dead before they even knew I was there.

I left them on the rug because it amused me. David would walk over them day after day and never see them. Maybe he would catch a glimpse of beauty, a flash of wings. Maybe he would feel a moment’s grief and wonder why. Maybe they would drive him crazy, eat at him until he took his own life to escape their presence.

I didn’t care.

I sat on the veranda and watched the sun go down behind the city.

******

café wednesday: miladysa

It is sometimes said that every person has at least one book in them. English people also have a lot of tea in them.

Last week we had the lovely Najela Cobb, whose serial, It’s All Relative, launched the first of this month.

This week we have another author who’s reposting her work. Please welcome Miladysa, author of Refuge of Delayed Souls, and – correct me if I’m wrong – the first fellow UK national to be hosted here on Café Wednesday!

Miladysa has been kind enough to give me here at the caf a couple exclusive photos. Yep, that’s her there, outed to the internet world. And, if Miladysa’s granddaughter is reading this – hi!

Now, let’s have a nice brew and a chat.

******

AMH: Let’s start with a tough one. Can you give me a one line plot summary of your serial in 25 words or less?

M: Very tough question and the honest answer (although not the one that you were looking for) is no. Refuge of Delayed Souls – or RoYds as is has become affectionately known by readers – is a combination of numerous interwoven stories which span four centuries and travel back and forth in time.

AMH: Your title, Refuge of Delayed Souls, refers to a place where ghosts (or ‘delayed souls’) gather. How would you explain this place to a new reader?

M: LOL. Again a tricky question without a straight forward answer. There is a RoYds building which houses the Agency where some of the main characters congregate – “a turreted grey building” with a “chink of light radiating from it” as depicted in the header illustration on the website. However, the Refuge of Delayed Souls is suggestive and open to the readers own interpretation.

The Old Lancashire and Yorkshire Bank,
inspiration for the RoYds building.

AMH: What’s striking about your serial is that it is based on real events within your family history. How much is fact, and how much is fiction?

M: Some of the story is based on real life events. My grandfather, like the character Billy Lawrence, was a survivor of the sinking of the RMS Lancastria which claimed more lives than the combined loses of both the Titantic and Lusitania. My grandfather shot his mother-in-law in the circumstances depicted in Part 2 of RoYds – Something Snapped. The events as described are a fictionalised version of the facts outlined in his trial papers.

There is supposed to be a curse in my own family and there is one in the story. I come from a long line of women who believed that they were cursed to die young and who have, as far as I can discover, died before their mid 40s. Apparently, one of my female Irish ancestors fell in love with a man who also had a gypsy lover. When my ancestors married the gypsy girl is supposed to have cursed the bride and all her “daughters’ daughters”. Luckily enough, my paternal Scottish ancestors are famed for their sheer bloody mindedness and I decided to buck the maternal curse. Throw this in with a Welsh witch of a great grandmother and a sprinkling of Lancastrian genes and you have a story which has its roots in both fact and fiction. I’ll leave it up to the readers to work out how much of each is in there. :)

AMH: Did you have any reservations about using your family history in a story? Did you or your family ever feel the story was too personal to share?

M: No, not at all. I believe all writers draw from the well of life in some way or another.

The only members of my family who have read RoYds are my husband and eldest daughter and I have their full blessing. I am sure that would be the case with all my family although my youngest daughter is too young to read RoYds at the moment and my sons (both in their late 20s) have shown no interest in doing so. My eldest granddaughter thinks it is really “neat” having a grandmother who writes fiction and loves to Google me. :)

AMH: But this is not the first time you’re posting RoYds; what you are posting now, in fact, is a revised version. Why did you decide to revise the story, and how much does it differ from the first draft?

M: I wrote a couple of short, fictional posts on my blog, Miladysa, after receiving encouragement from my fellow blogger, Melissa, who happens to be a writer. The comments I received from readers fuelled me to write more and more until there were so many posts that I moved, what had then become RoYds, to a blog of its own. A short while later I submitted the site to the Web Fiction Guide and Muses Success where I was lucky enough to receive a handful of reviews.

There were a number of lessons to be learned from the reviews, the main one being that the story needed a good edit. What happened next was that I edited, edited, edited and stopped writing. On the whole I did more harm than good and also extinguished the joy I had discovered in writing. My husband, seeing the negative effect all this was having on me, suggested I contact a copy editor and I got in touch with Jessica Augustsson, who I had seen advertising on a number of weblit sites.

The edit was not as drastic as I was expecting. On the contrary, it was painless and also a fabulous learning experience which helped to restore my confidence.

The RoYds I am posting now is darker than the first draft. I think it flows better too and is much tighter. It has yet to receive a review so I am waiting with baited breath to see what happens when/if it does.

AMH: Do you think other authors should follow in your footsteps and copy-edit their work, and if so, are there any reasons you would recommend Jessica Augustsson in particular?

M:I think it is important that people write and put their stories out there for people to read. This is what really excites me about weblit, there is far greater opportunity for people from all backgrounds to share with us the stories they want to tell – whether they are autobiographical, poetical or fiction – rather than stories that publishing houses are limited by overheads to sell.

Having said all that, I want to write the best I can. I have always liked to spin a good oral story but my creative writing prior to RoYds, had been limited to school, which I left when I was 16. Although an avid reader, I have always paid far more attention to the story than I ever did to the punctuation and structure employed in constructing it. Not always so lately!

Using the services of a copy-editor really works for me and it also helps to keep my blood pressure where it should be, otherwise the whole point of the exercise is defeated. I think I am becoming a better writer because of it, these days when I send Jessica something there is always the possibility that it may come back with only a couple of red commas and a few question marks or amendments. I would have no hesitation whatsoever in recommending Jessica; she has been friendly, professional and best of all honest!

AMH: Since you’ve been editing, maybe you’ll have a unique insight to this reader-submitted question. Isa asks: “Name one writing ‘rule’ meant to be broken.”

M: To break any rules you must know them in the first place and I confess to not knowing any – none that I consciously pay any heed to anyway. I don’t necessarily think that is a bad thing. I know some people will be *shocked* by my saying that. So my “one writing ‘rule’ meant to be broken” would be forget worrying about the ‘rules’ and concentrate on enjoying the thrill of writing!

Of course, if you do this, you should expect to get grief from some quarters. I’ll let you into a little secret though, whatever you do in life you are never going to please everyone – it is an impossible task. Once you accept this, and stop trying to please the world, you can start to own what you write, in my humble opinion that is the main thing.

AMH: Right. Is there anything else in particular you’d like to say?

M: Thank you for inviting me on Café Wednesday! Also, a big thank you to all the Refuge of Delayed Souls readers and my weblit/webfiction friends whose priceless encouragement, feedback and support is always very much appreciated.

******

Intrigued? Follow Miladysa on twitter, and swing round to check out Refuge of Delayed Souls – I’ll be writing up a review for it in the near future.

And don’t forget to come back next week – and I hereby break the trend by announcing the next guest – for an interview with Sharon T. Rose!

If you have any questions of your own for Miladysa, leave them in a comment below, but keep her spooky history in mind, and be careful what you ask for….

searchterm entry #1: impossible odds

What lies below is the first entry to the second round of the already infamous search term challenge, in which Jacob struggles with what is a quintessential female prerogative.

If you are the author – or know or guess who the author is – hold your tongue; this post will be updated with author details after the challenge is over. If you are not the author, you better get crackin’ on your own entry as the deadline’s November 8th!

******

Impossible Odds

Ten minutes into the meeting, Jacob finished with pleasantries and took to the whiteboards. With confident strokes, he sketched “PUBLICITY” across the entire length of the wall.

“So,” he said, clicking the pen closed with a smile. “Let’s break it down for you.”

Sara, Anna and Gretchen said nothing, just stared expectantly. Jacob winked at Sara, and she blushed, giving him the juice he needed to roll.

“Publicity is not as hard as you think,” he said, starting his trademark stroll across the room. “Publicity is about connecting with your customers, about—”

“Sorry, Jacob,” said Anna suddenly. “Can I interrupt you for a second?”

Jacob didn’t miss a beat. He nodded broadly and motioned as if he were indeed handing the meeting over to her.

“Absolutely!” he said jovially. “Let’s do it!”

She took a pocket projector from her bag and turned it on. Instantly, an image appeared on the wall beside them: a complex graph of detailed demographics, broken down by market segment and sexual preference.

“We want to take things in a new direction,” she said. “After internal discussion, we realized we need to be a little more cutting-edge with our plans.”

“Exactly where I want you to be,” he smiled. “You read my mind.”

“What we want to do is show how people relate to our product in an intimate way. We feel like we’re being too clinical.”

She clicked her laptop and the image changed to show a woman with an iPhone pressed up against her naked breast.

“Hold on,” said Jacob, trying not to laugh. “We’re still talking about accounting software, right?”

“Yes,” Anna said seriously.

“Okay,” said Jacob. “I… um… so we’re saying keeping track of cash flow is a lot like… um… a baby latched on to her nipple.”

“Yes.”

“I see,” said Jacob. “I see, and I like it! It’s unorthodox, and very cutting edge! ‘Strange Publicity’ is where it’s at. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

He winked at Sara again, and kept up the seamless, confident act for another fifty minutes, until the three women bustled off to their next appointment, leaving him in a room of what amounted to gadget porn. When Rick came in, he hadn’t moved an inch.

“Gavelston’s calling for you,” Rick said, staring at the glossy print-outs on the table. “She said you didn’t file proper expense reports for… uh… what’s all this?”

“Long story,” Jacob sighed. “Gonna be a long week, too.”

“Looks like it. Need any help?”

“Nah,” said Jacob, snapping back to attention. “I’ve got this under control.

* * *

Seven days and ten hours of sleep later, Jacob had the whiteboards covered with mock-ups. Women with iPhones on breasts, sleeping next to Blackberries, caressing a Palm Pre. It was intimate and sensual and he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said as they took their seats. “I think you’re going to like what I have to show you today.”

Anna leaned back in her chair, browsed the options, and glanced over at Gretchen, who nodded back.

“Actually,” she said, “we’ve done some internal testing.”

Jacob’s arms dropped to his sides.

“You have,” he said without knowing how he felt.

“Yes,” Anna continued, “and what we found is that the porn motif you seem to have embraced, it just doesn’t sit well with our customers. They feel exploited. Used. And it’s not the kind of image we’re trying to project.”

Jacob’s mouth was hanging open, but he closed it quickly, smiled, nodding.

“Absolutely,” he said. “You’re so right. Businesswomen hate being exploited, and what I’ve done here? That’s just salt on a wound. What you need is—”

“Social media,” said Anna. “Viral marketing.”

“Exactly!” laughed Jacob, snapping his fingers for effect. “Exactly! Viral marketing, like—”

“Something outrageous.”

“Yes, like—”

“How to make a male body part cake.”

Jacob’s smile barely faltered, but he had run out of things to say. He looked from Anna to Gretchen, and from Gretchen to Sara. Sara was blushing, but the other two were dead serious.

“Male… body part… cake.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. And by male body part, you mean…”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“It needs to be easy for people to make,” said Anna, “and be as accurate as possible, so that they feel a sense of accomplishment. You can handle the rest, yes?”

Jacob laughed, but caught himself, waved it off.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Excellent,” said Anna, at the door. “We’ll see you Friday, then? We’re really excited about this new direction, Jacob. We’re really looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”

They left him in silence, his eyes fixed on a blank paper on the table. It wasn’t blank in his mind. Rick popped his head in the door, grinning.

“How’d it go, porno-boy?”

Jacob said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“We need the room in ten. Can you clear out by then?”

Jacob nodded.

“And seriously, man. Keep those pics away from Gavelston. She’s on the rampage today, and this won’t help.”

Jacob ran each picture through the shredder, just to be sure.

* * *

Jacob almost spilled his coffee when they sat down across from him, polished and elegant, glaring at his dishevelled state. He shuffled his black-covered folders, trying to keep from crying. It had been a long few days.

Sara was the last to enter, her periwinkle peasant skirt drawing Jacob’s eyes like a moth to a flame. It was so hypnotic and yet off-putting all at the same time, and when she sat down to face him, he felt himself about to drool.

“I’m really excited about today’s meeting,” said Anna with a touch of compassion in her voice. “I hope you are, too.”

“I am,” said Jacob, snapping back to attention, trying to put on his best smile. “It took a lot of doing, but I think I found a really great recipe that will appeal to women of all ages.”

He handed the folders over, but before they could open them, the crept open and Gavelston entered, her greying hair pulled back tight in a bun, her face stretched wide and stern.

“Is this a good time?” she asked, and Jacob just about shrieked.

“Oh yes!” said Anna, standing. “Please come in. Jacob is just about to show us his grand creation.”

Gavelston looked at Jacob, looked him up and down with visible distaste, and then turned back to Anna with a smile.

“I’m as excited as you are,” she said.

The four women opened the folders at the same time, and Gretchen let out a gasp, dropped hers. Jacob avoided Gavelston’s furious stare, lowering his head into his hands.

“What is this?” said Anna, pushing her copy across the table so the cake design was directly under Jacob’s face. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Jacob looked up at her, trying to find the words.

“I’m so sorry,” said Gavelston, taking the other folders from Sara and Gretchen. “I’m so sorry this happened. Believe me when I say this will be taken care of most severely. Most severely.”

She sneered at Jacob, snatched his copy away and threw it in the trash.

“They… they wanted it…” he whimpered, then realized what he’d said, and smacked his head into the table.

“You are fired,” fumed Gavelston. She touched Gretchen lightly on the shoulder, and motioned to the door. “If you’ll come with me, we can find someone better suited to your needs.”

The two of them left as Anna and Sara stood, avoiding eye contact with Jacob as he disintegrated into tears and coffee stains.

“You… you asked for it, didn’t you?” he sobbed. “I heard you. You asked for it.”

“Oh, Jacob,” said Anna. “We didn’t ask for it. You asked for it, the second you broke Marie’s heart.”

Jacob looked up, eyes wide.

“M-M-Marie?”

“You think you can cheat and get away with it, Mr Big Shot? Think again. You may not care about anyone but yourself, but we do. We asked her what would help her, and you know what she said?”

Jacob shook his head slowly.

“Inflicting pain to Jacob,” Anna beamed. “How you feeling now, Mr Big Shot?”

Jacob sighed, rested his head against the table. Anna left the room with a bounce in her step, but Sara came around beside him, crouched down and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But I don’t date unemployed men. See you around!”

Jacob was removed by security ten minutes later.

******

[Update: The second entry is now up.]

a time for questions

Halloween is synonymous with a number of things, amongst which candy, dressing up, pumpkins, and, for the more evil amongst us, a time to play evil tricks on others.

But in ye olde days, Halloween was synonymous with fear. It was a time when demons and witches and ghouls and maybe even amphisbaenas came out to play.

Perhaps we should return to those roots, and do something that personally frightens us on this day.

Okay, okay, you’ve got me. All of this is just a fancy set-up for what is ultimately an open-ended interview with yours truly. Which, to be fair, is something I am a little frightened of, because I’ve decided to let you guys come up with the questions.

I was just going to do a self-interview, but that could get boring. A little predictable for me, no surprises as to what the questions are going to be, etc.

So, this is your chance. You ask the questions, and I promise to be my utmost honest self when answering.

What do you want to know?