Back into the Sand word count…

The outline is complete, several have even read it. I met my goal of having it done by the end of August for the most part though I did have a major idea this past week and decided to weave it in there. Goals are great, but they have to be flexible.

Finally, I am writing, from beginning to end (before I was just writing scenes so I wouldn’t lose them) Sergeant Christopher Scott DeHaven’s journey. So, not counting the other ten pages I wrote along with the scene where he sits with the Devil and has a smoke, I’ve got 290 words with the plot completely worked out.

Here’s a new excerpt…

An explosion, audible only to a small group of boys, rocked Martin Street. Three of them were hit with invisible shrapnel as the rest fought to keep the ground they had gained over the past hour.

Medic!

The small kid who wore the weird glasses ran to Frankie to give aid, but he was too late. Frankie was gone. Dead.

Christopher motioned to his front line to move in and take the left side of the barren lot. He should have taken a moment to mourn his best friend’s passing but war is hell and his country was counting on him. His losses were negligible, though Mrs. Allen would probably be devastated by the loss of her son. Mothers always are. But real soldiers understood that winning the battle was the only way to honor those who’d fallen in it.

“Christopher, come home for dinner!” His grandfather’s voice echoed through their ears like gunshots.

Kevin glanced over at him, his fancy plastic and metal gun gripped tight in his white knuckled hands. “You better go.”

Christopher shook his head and motioned again. He directed what was left of his rag-tag platoon to move along the blind side of the enemy and attack from a direction they did not expect.

“How long do I have to lay here?” Frankie was up on his elbows.

“You’re dead, stupid, it’s a forever thing or hasn’t church taught you anything?” Chris laughed and turned to meet the barrel of a gun pointed at his chest. Ronnie Wilson. Son of a bitch.

“Bam! You’re dead!”

I’ll edit in a new word count if I continue to write tonight… which is almost a given.

rejection at its worst…

To be rejected by a publisher or agent is difficult, but the rejection writers cause themselves is worse. The pre-rejection stage where we refuse to send things out because they need to be polished a little more. For crying out loud girl, you’re rubbing the paint off it.

I’m not done polishing, but it’s time to man up and submit. Hell, I got published late last year in Black Ink Horror. Why not get published again… and again. Time to dust off my submission armor and send out some stories.

I promise one submission a week and you can call me on it if I don’t. This week I will find a place to submit Forbidden Place, do a last polish, and submit by Friday.

Here is a excerpt…

The junkyard stood tucked away at the end of a road the group of old friends had not ventured down in years. Crows moved in circling black waves over the trash strewn yard, each one like a puncture in the grim sky. They settled in barren trees and on discarded objects before a sudden flap of wings or errant cry sent the entire lot of them skittering back into the air in a mad rush where they would start the process again. Levi regarded them as an omen. They should not be there, the three of them, but this was the only way.

Skeletal silhouettes of things long rendered useless by time filled the bleak stone landscape. A fence, the once locked chain broken but still woven through the gate, marked the end of where they were permitted to wander.

“Think it’s still in there?” Lilly’s voice trembled as she touched the fence with slender white fingers. Her face pinched as if in physical pain.

It was there. Each one of them could feel it. It’s presence hung in the air like smoke, choking them. Lilly seemed to feel it the most, her delicate spirit almost destroyed over the years listening to its whispers.

fall into shadow…

An excerpt from my dark fantasy novel Fall into Shadow which is currently in it’s third rewrite.

~

“You’re dead Berrid, and Cathryn’s waiting for you,” Devlyn said pointing off into the distance.

But instead of the light appearing far away, it was close. Devlyn felt whispers of hands caressing her arms as she held Berrid.

“Thank you,” he said kissing her.

And then, Devlyn was alone in the dark. The acrid rotting air was replaced by the smell of years damp stone. She wiped the blood from under her nose. Her stomach churned.

Devlyn climbed the rotten wooden stairs out of the sunken torture room and walked past the cells. The old man held his arms out the mostly fallen away bars, another man sat against the wall.

“You’re dead,” Devlyn said taking the one man’s hand, “You both are. Go that way.”

“He can’t hear you child, his ears,” he said pointing to the side of his head.

The old man helped his companion up.

“Death finally came, she says we can go.”

He smiled then waved to Devlyn and they walked off into the distance. Devlyn kneeled down nausea overtaking her. Dry heaves racked her body as blood, streaming from her nose, pooled on the floor.
It took several minutes before Devlyn was able to stand. She hurried to the exit leaning against whatever she could find to keep herself upright.

Climbing out of the dungeons proved to be a problem. Devlyn stood at the base of the crumbled staircase. She climbed as far as she could before it became impassable.

“Balien, Padric,” she yelled, “Help! Balien?”

“Devlyn?” Balien called, “Is that you?”

Padric peered over Balien’s shoulder down into the pit. He held a torch over him, lighting Devlyn’s face. Smeared blood marred her skin. She stood at least ten feet directly below the doorway.

“How did you-” Padric said.

“Wait there,” Balien said disappearing.

After a moment, Padric too disappeared leaving Devlyn in the dark. She peered into the inky black behind her but saw nothing.

She wondered how many people had died down here. Their screams permanently imbedded in the walls, blood and bones littering the floor. The hair raised on the back of her neck.

“Don’t leave me here! Balien…Padric!”

Balien appeared at the doorway again. With Padric holding the torch he lowered a rope. Devlyn snatched it before it reached the ground.

Behind her, a stone fell. She squinted and saw movement. Devlyn wrapped the rope around her wrist and held tight as Balien pulled her upward.

“Hurry,” she said.

Suddenly she felt cold fingers around her ankle. It pulled at her. She felt it cut through her boot and dig into her skin.

“Hurry, please,” her voice growing more frantic.

Devlyn struggled to free herself from its grip.

“Padric, grab the rope,” Balien yelled, “Stop swinging around, you’re not helping.”

Padric dropped the torch behind him and the pit went black. Devlyn looked down and saw the thing hanging on her leg. It sneered up at her. Black ran from its mouth, covering its chest. It was only human in the most basic form. Thin and lanky, it looked stretched.

“Come with me,” it whispered in a liquidy wet hiss, “help us too.”

“Get me out!”

“Pull!” Balien yelled feeling a strange deep cold rise from the pit, “Padric, pull.”

Devlyn hung heavy. The rope slipped through Balien’s fingers ripping the skin. He dug his heels into the threshold of the door and pulled but Devlyn didn’t move. All the while, Devlyn was in pitch-blackness, screaming and thrashing about.

“What’s going on?” Padric yelled pulling at the rope, “she’s not that heavy. Something’s got hold of her.”

“She’s caught. Nothing has her, pull the damned rope!” yelled Balien feeling the rope thrash around.
He leaned back and pulled with every bit of strength. Padric grabbed hold of Balien and pulled him backward.

The thing giggled and let go of Devlyn. Balien jerked her upward and through the door. She rolled from the dungeon onto Balien who fell backward. Snatching away from the doorway, Devlyn pulled her legs up to her chest.