Z is for Zones

As promised, here’s another excerpt.  It is a continuation of Q is for Quarantine.  These are all part of the new novella The Unanswerable.

Tim McGarth, the news anchor, shuffled through his papers.  “This just in, drop zones have been announced.  I repeat, drop zones have been announced.”  Everyone in the cellar cast brief glances around.  A map came on the screen.

The dead center of Manhattan was blood red.  It got lighter as it drifted out from the center.  The camera switched back to Tim.  He gulped audibly.  He was still in the city, just like us.  Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.  “Seems as if the only way to contain the virus is to eradicate it.  Everything, folks.”  He loosened his tie.  “I must say, it has been fun, New York.  You gave me the anchor position, and I tell you, if I didn’t have to step on a few toes to get here, it wouldn’t have been the same.”

He ruffled his hand through his hair, messing up the perfect part.  “I think everyone in the studio agrees with me.  It is now time to go and be with your loved ones.  By this time tomorrow, our fabulous city might not have any survivors.  It has been an honor-" he choked on his words, "and a privilege to work with all of you."  The camera zoomed in on his eyes, “I’ll be home soon, honey.”

Tim got up and walked offstage.  A few people that worked in the studio wandered aimlessly around set before a “technical difficulties” message popped up on the screen.

There was an audible groan inside the cellar.  “They can’t do this,” a man stood up.  “They can’t.  We aren’t sick, none of us are sick!”  He slammed his fist against the wall.

Diane held onto our son with both hands.  He tried to wiggle away, but she wouldn’t let him.  “We have to have some faith, Diane.”  I leaned my forehead against her wet cheek.  “I love you.”

I couldn’t keep my own tears from coming to the surface in my eyes.  I had seen too many people try to escape – too many people gunned down by the hazmat suits.  You would think that eminent doom would make someone risk it all, but I couldn’t.  I was too scared that I would lose them – or that they would lose me. 

She pulled me into her arms along with our son.  “I love you too, Matthew.  I always will.”  Her words escaped her mouth with heavy, thick breaths.  This was the beginning of the end.

Y is for Youth

I’ve always been vastly curious about how old people perceive themselves. My theory is: We all reach a certain age and don’t really “grow” more mentally. Maybe our thought processes change slightly, but there’s a point in time where we all stop aging.

My theory for myself? I think I was nineteen. At that point I had already experienced a lot in my life and no major changes happened. Sure, I’ve grown older and changed slowly over time, but I’m pretty sure that was the year where things really stopped surprising me. In fact, maybe I could push it to 21, but that’s as far as I could go.

I haven’t felt an internal shift really since then. No big “Ah ha!” moments or crazy realizations. It makes me wonder if that’s why everyone around me still seems like they are “my age” even if we are ten years apart? Has youth and age stopped mattering because I’ve reached the point of “no return” where your innocence is truly gone and you are solely responsible for yourself?

Yes, I think I have. And I have another question: Is youth really wasted on the young?

I don’t think so. When I was younger (and didn’t have to worry about pre-cancerous cells, spinal arthritis, or panic attacks), I did gymnastics, I danced my little heart out, and I ran circles around everyone. I pushed my body constantly to prove that I was better than the boys at my school. I was excited, innocent, and perfectly content.

I think I held up my youth pretty well. I think I still hang onto it most days. When someone asks about the scar on my shoulder, I can cheerily reply, “Oh, I totally beat pre-cancer.” I plaster a massive grin on my face. Was it scary? Sure! But no scarier than when I had meningitis in second grade. The difference? I was seven and had no idea what was happening. Now? I can say “I won. I’ve won multiple times.”

I don’t think you can really win life or youth or love. But I think a part of me did each of the times that I’ve come out okay. Who cares if I have spinal arthritis?! I’ll still do cartwheels around you (on my good days). On my bad days? Give me my awesome looking cane that scares the crap out of my cats. I’ll grin at anyone that looks at me funny.

Oh yeah, I have this one fatal flaw: I laugh hysterically when I’m in pain. Honest to goodness, most people don’t believe me when I say I’m in pain because I start laughing.

It’s pretty awesome.

In conclusion: I’m 21… or 19… whichever I feel like at the time. How youthful are you? What battles have you gone through that have tried to make you not youthful?

V is for Virus

This is actually the beginning of The Unanswerables.  The very first scene where Matthew finds out about the virus.

I loosened the tie around my neck when the newscaster was interrupted by that emergency broadcast noise. It immediately said, “This is not a test.” Diane glanced over at me from the kitchen and nodded towards the TV. She continued to cut up broccoli, and I flopped down in front of the television. My son immediately scooted across the floor with his train set in hand and rammed it into my polished shoes. I smiled, reached down, and patted his head. He turned four next week, and he was getting to be very precarious, though he still didn’t talk much.

The television flickered and the newscaster, Tim McGarth, was back on screen. He looked pale, as if during the interruption he had seen death itself. I leaned forward and tossed my tie onto the armrest. Diane hated when I did that, but I didn’t want to miss whatever he had to announce – it looked important.“Folks, I have just received news that there has been a deadly virus…” he paused to swallow. “That has broken out in all major cities across the globe.”

The room spun. I couldn’t have heard that right. The stifling air in my New York apartment was probably getting to my head. I glanced outside. The sun was nearly set over the horizon, casting long shadows from each of the buildings. The city looked fine.

“It is unknown exactly what the virus is, or how it is spreading, but it seems that only the major cities have been infected. As such, New York is now in a state of quarantine. As is Los Angeles –“ I stopped listening. I stared at the screen and watched his mouth move, but all sounds stopped. I looked down at my son, who grinned up at me. His white baby teeth reflected what was left of the natural light.

“Diane?” I said. I took off my polished shoes and tossed them aside on my way to our galley kitchen. She stood over the stove, her blonde hair getting caked across her forehead with the steam from the… whatever she was making. “Diane, I think something’s wrong.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, “Don’t tell me, you put your tie on the couch again and it slid into the seats.” Diane’s face lit up, grinning at the teasing joke.

I frowned. I opened my mouth to explain and a large rumble was heard overhead that shook the whole apartment. The china in our cabinets jingled as it vibrated against each other. Keegan came running in and wrapped his arms around his mother’s legs, almost toppling her over. His blonde hair almost disappeared inside the apron.

“Keegan, what have I told you about-“ Diane began after she steadied herself, but she glanced at my face and stopped. “What’s happening?” She put down the spatula and shut off the stove, picking up Keegan in one scoop. He nuzzled into her neck and mumbled something. “Now, now, it’s okay.”

We walked over to the television, where Tim McGarth was sweating profusely. I couldn’t tell if it was because of the hot lights, or because he was still in shock. I felt that way. “He said there was a virus.” My voice got small at the last word, almost unwilling to admit that it was real.

U is for Unfinished

I'm curious how many of you have unfinished projects?  I have a ton (as you can see from my not-so-up-to-date WIP bar).

If you had two days, where you were completely inspired and had all the time to write, what projects would you work on?  Heck, if you had two days to do anything what would you do?

I've been feeling a tad overwhelmed by how many projects I have, but I've decided to keep this post short and sweet.  Let me know what you are up to, what projects do you want to complete?

T is for Truth and Trust

I’m a pretty awful friend. Truth. But I’m a pretty awesome person. Truth.

My friendship is all based on two things: honesty and trust. Sure, sure, tell me I look good with green eyeliner on when I don’t – that’s fine. Stroke my ego, I don’t care. But I need to trust you when it is really important – I need someone to give me some cold-hard truth. If you can’t do it, then we’re not really friends – are we?

My friendships reach a point where either you are “in for life” or “please pack your knives and go.” (I love Top Chef – there’s another T – random true fact: I did a photo shoot for a free Los Angeles magazine of the executive producers of Top Chef – it was a w e s o m e).

I have a line drawn in the sand constantly with all of my relationships (truth). If you cross it, you will see a whirlwind storm of fury that only a few have witnessed in their life (all have lived to tell about it). But I am wary of people that test that line. They kick it, smudge it, try to cover it up with more sand and pretend it isn’t there. But rarely, very rarely, have people actually crossed it.

But something that will immediately put you on the wrong side? Lying to me. And lying to yourself. I don’t deal well with people that think, “I’m going to hurt Rachel’s feelings if I tell her the truth – so I’m not going to.” Wrong, wrong, wrong. I could explain numerous times where lies hurt ten times worse than the truth. I could explain the webs that people tried to spin and ultimately failed. I will always search for the truth – and I trust that people will hold me equally accountable.

This is not to say that you can’t tell a story. Story-telling and embellishing details is different and fun, but outright lies are not.  ;)

S is for Story Telling

Why story telling/writing is important to me:
I love and hate writing. I love writing because it entangles me into a new world. I get to explore the depths of someone else’s reality and escape from my own. I can dream, exist, float, and be anywhere in the whole world. This also applies to why I love reading so much.

I hate writing because it is hard. Sometimes I have grandiose ideas for scenes and descriptions, but somehow, between the synapses of my brain, they get lost on their way to my fingertips. They ball up underneath my veins and threaten to burst all my blood vessels. They tear at my body and clot my blood until I’m boiling alive. I hate writing because it, so far, has lead me to making a whole $10 (via advertisements on this blog – also, if you purchase through my amazon store, I make some commission fees. Wink, nudge).

Writing is very cathartic for me.  Words, phrases, stories had such an effect on me growing up. I realized a lot about myself, the world, and life. Honestly, some books led me back to the path of the living. There was a time in my life where I spent days on end staring endlessly into the darkness. It thrust out its fingers and caressed my skin, telling me it was okay to fall into the depths. But when I curled up with a few books, when I opened my eyes to a world full of ideas, it captivated me. Life didn’t have to be this bottomless pit, but it could have light. It could be both.  It didn’t matter if people made fun of me, because I could go home, curl up, and pretend to be somewhere else. I want to be able to do that for other people, teens especially – I want to be the person that inspires them..

Why only novels and flash fiction?
The only two successful short stories I have written is a D&D character background story (which really was just silliness to begin with), and I’ve written a small anthology of life lessons – a memoir of shorts. But those are just small, silly pieces. Every time I fall in love with a character, I end up making the story longer, thicker, juicier. Every time my characters fall flat, I end up cutting them off short, which usually leaves people liking the flash fiction. It has always been this way with me, though I can’t really explain why.

Why mostly Young Adult?
I’m attracted to the genre because I needed the most help when I was a YA. And I love writing it. The simplistic flow with endless amounts of action, dialogue, and description that tends to roll off my fingers. Reacting to life as an adult is hard - and I’m still a kid myself (okay, not really, but I still think I’m a kid, and that counts for something).

How often do you lie (aka "tell a story") in real life?
I’d like to think that I never lie, at least outright. I do find myself embellishing tales. My life isn’t extremely entertaining, but when I talk to other people, you might think that I slay dragons for a living (which I wouldn’t – if dragons existed, I would train them, not slay them - but you get the picture). My life is good, but it isn’t a blockbuster film. And sometimes, I feel like I make it sound like a blockbuster - or at least a lifetime movie.

R is for Routine, Repetition, and Rote Memorization

Routine and Repetition
When I was younger, I used to hate routine. I would say to myself, “Why don’t you just sentence me to death instead? That would probably be more fun.” Yeah, I was a morbid little kid. But regardless, how I feel now is vastly different. There is a part of me that appreciates the kind of routine that I’ve developed, mostly because I have a full time job. But I still don’t like repetition.

That’s why the full time job that I have currently is fantastic. While there is a routine, every project that I do brings about a new challenge. I have to challenge myself to write things differently and to present them in a new, unique way. Everything is slightly different, so it doesn’t have the repetition, just the routine.

Rote Memorization
I used to be amazing at this, honestly. I used to be able to ingrain things into my brain for hours, days, weeks, and then forget it all over the summer/winter break. I learned some things permanently, but most of it was lost along the way. I tested fantastically, that doesn’t mean that rote memorization actually taught me anything.

Though, because of some of my papers, I could discuss novel into film on a deep level. I could tell you the surrealism and post-modernity that Scrubs and Family Guy utilize to make their comedy funny. I could tell you how outdated the Copyright Laws are. I could tell you the premise behind The Taste of Cherries and why Iranian cinema relies on realistic filming to portray their stories. I could tell you how What Dreams May Come differs from the novel and the film and why certain artistic choices were made. Pretty much everything I learned was things that I was interested in – which, in the real world of things – isn’t entirely useful.

However, when was the last time that someone told me to solve for “x?” Or to calculate a chemistry equation? Or the composition of a plant versus an animal cell? The more I think about it, the more school seems pretty useless. I crammed all this stuff into my brain only to have it fall out in weird pieces and flakes, leaving gaps, holes, and strange nonsensical things.

That’s why I am much more for “exploring what you want to learn” instead of rote memorization. Nothing we do should be rote or repetitious. It should always be new and exciting. It should always be different – and it should always be something we like. Life is too short to study things that you don’t like and will probably never use again (Pre-calculus, *shakes fist*).

Q is for Quarantine

Another Excerpt from The Unanswerable.

“You can’t do this to us!”  Diane’s face got red.  The man was wearing a full hazmat suit and made no indication that he had heard her.  The rifle in his arms glared at us.  My son buried his face in the back of his mother’s knees.  I placed a hand on the back of his head.  He looked up at me and put on a smile, but then with the next shove of the crowd, buried his head again.

He was too young to even know that he was going to die here.  That this was the last attempt we were making to get out of the city.

Diane’s nostrils flared.  “I have a son, he’s three!  THREE!  And you are condemning all of us just because a few people are sick?”  Her voice pierced the air, but was drowned out quickly by the screams of all the other people in the crowd.

It wasn’t a few people.  A few people would indicate that it could be contained.  No, it was everyone.  And whatever it was had somehow only managed to manifest itself in the major cities.  Biological warfare, whatever you wanted to call it.  It didn’t matter what it was, or had been, what mattered now was the mass of people that were pushing against the two lines of soldiers.  If anyone got too riled up, a rifle would shoot them down.  So we stayed at the barrier, eyeing the men in the hazmat suits, wishing they would give us more hope than the blank stare.

It was three days ago.  The word quarantine sent the city into a panic.  My wife and I huddled on the couch with our son and flipped to another channel.  His eyes lit up as some Disney show came on the screen. 

“What are we going to do?”

They had already walled up the borders.  There was no way out.  “We wait a day, then go.  Too many people will be headed out tonight.”  As if on signal, screaming and horns sounded from the street below.  Our son was too zoned in on the television to realize what was happening.  It was just another day in New York City to him.

I grabbed Diane’s hand and heaved my son onto my shoulder.  We edged our way through the crowd, away from the hazmats, away from the border, away from hope. 

“What are we going to do?”  She asked me again after we had taken shelter in a basement.  People, women, children all huddled together like scared rats.  The condition for staying in his house:  If you sneezed, you were sent away.  That was the first sign.  Sneezing. 

We hadn’t met any more sick people after the first three days, but the media said it was spreading.  We watched the screen, it cast a dim glow around the room.  It was our only light source, and the only link we had to the outside world and mayhem.  And that’s when we heard the announcement.

Stayed tuned for “Zones” on Z is for Zones for the next installment!

P is for Peter Pan

I have read two versions of Peter Pan's story. It is interesting to me to see how much the same legends can be changed and twisted with a new set of hands writing them.

My favorite so far has been Brom's rendition of Peter Pan in The Child Thief, where Peter is a little bit of a menace and doesn't really consider the emotions of the children that he whisks away into Neverland. In fact, he takes them away from the real world and forces them into fighting the war with him. He has no emotional attachment to the people that he brings back, he only wants to win the war. Nick, the main character, goes through a lot of twists and turns during the length of the novel, which creates an interesting dynamic in its own way.

The other version was the classic children's tale. Most of us know how that goes. Peter does run away from responsibility, but it is his innocence that keeps him good. While he does encourage some kids to run away with them, it is always up to the kids whether or not they want to stay. There is nothing dark or sadistic with the classic tale.

I think it is interesting that artists can take the same concept and idea and completely reinvent it. I have a massive respect for people that can do this, and do it well. Brom's story is definitely worth the read. His writing style was paced so well and the description was spot on without being heavy-handed.

O is for Olives

This is an excerpt from my novel Kingdom of Obsession.  It is unfinished and is still a WIP.  But now that I've gotten a bit more patience with my writing, I might go back and start it again.  This is a memory that Olive is having:

Seven years ago, Eddie, Dennis, and Gloria and I were in Vegas doing a couple’s weekend. We mostly just went because I had never been. I wish I had more memories from that weekend, but you see, Gloria and I were still in our early twenties and got free drinks most everywhere we went. Her and I ditched the boys for a little bit and took a long walk down the strip. When we came back to the hotel later, they looked at us and wanted what we had.

But the one clear, distinct memory I had was when we were in a small club in the heart of downtown. The music was blaring, and we could barely hear each other. But we ordered martini after martini. Eddie and Gloria were happy then, hands all over each other. Such a different picture from today. Anyway, Dennis and I were making fun of them as usual.

But when Dennis got another martini in front of him, I plucked the olive from the bottom of his drink. Not very gracefully, I might add, as some of the martini sloshed out of the glass. “Hey, Olive, stop it!” I sucked the olive down and licked my fingers, arching one of my eyebrows. Dennis wasn’t really upset.

“Olivia’s an Olive now?” Eddie slurred.

“She will be!” Gloria asked.

I held my glass up in a toast, “You are what you eat, after all.”

“Olivia, you can eat anything from the bottom of my drink whenever you want.” I grinned at Dennis, but the grin faded as I saw the look on his face. It was a mixture of pure joy and panic. I couldn’t place that look. Then he knelt down on one knee, “But only if you, Olive, do me the honor of marrying me?” His voice shook as it got caught in his throat.

N is for No

This has been on my mind recently. I find myself wondering about the power of no – and also the power of negativity. I think “No” can mean a lot of things, but mostly, it is used for rejection.

However, sometimes it can be used to draw a line in the sand. “No, I can’t do that for you right now.” Some people take it so personally, while others brush it off and say “Okay, she’s busy, no big deal.”

So what makes someone take a “No” personally? When usually, when I use it, it is nothing against the other person and has everything to do with my own boundaries and capabilities. I cannot be this ultra-super-human-being, because I’m not. If I know that something isn’t healthy for me, or if I’m too stressed, you will probably get a no at some point.

And when I receive a “No” or a “No response” from an agent or writing contest? Sure, I spend a little time moping. But after a few minutes, I pull myself back together, stick my nose up, and march further down the road.

I have three novels. Just because someone says no to one doesn’t mean they will reject all of them. Just because someone says no doesn’t mean they are rejecting me or my writing. The last rejection from an agent I got was, “I love the premise, but it isn’t for me.” Now “it” leaves a lot to interpretation. “It” could be my writing style, “it” could be my characters, “it” could be my character’s voice, or “it” could be lack of (or too much) description.

But, it still gives me a thumbs-up on my premise. So now I just need to find someone that loves my style. And while that may take awhile, I certainly won’t let a “no” hold me back from trying.

M is for Music

I feel weird writing a story about music. I can never truly do it justice, since it creates an amazing atmosphere for me. When I’m writing, I always have some kind of music playing in the background. And it usually dedicates the mood of the piece that I’m working on.

My husband recently said in an interview on Adorning Schemes that music doesn’t really influence his music. My writing isn’t necessarily affected by other authors either, but I’d like to think that my writing is improved the more I read. I learn more words, I learn better ways to phrase things, and I learn good vs. bad pacing, which I can then emulate in my own style. Regardless of that, my writing is probably more affected by the music in my ears than by other writing. It’s amusing to me that my husband’s musical influences tend to be things he reads and sees, and my influence is the music that I write to.

Some frequent bands on my playlists: M83, Visitor Seven, IAMX, Mumford & Sons, Filter, Blue October, Rise Against, Senses Fail.

A lot of people tell me that they can’t write when they are listening to songs with lyrics – but I find myself in a complete, alternate reality. The story has a backdrop of sound, and my writing flows along to the words.

Music has always been visual to me. The lyrics wrap around my brain and seize my neurons, forcing me to think about distant, non-existent places. This works for music without lyrics too. But it doesn’t work for music with very straightforward lyrics.

Some people might hate me for saying this, but the particular song that comes to mind is “Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye. The line, “When I think of all the times you screwed me over/But had me believing it was always something that I’d done.” Where does that put me? Nowhere. I’ve already been there. If I want to listen to a song that could literally be about my life… well, I wouldn’t. I want to be transported somewhere new, not forced back into old thoughts.

I’m not sure if that makes sense or not, but I find myself drawn to lyrics that are very visual. I’m going to use Senses Fail’s "Yellow Angels" as an example: “I see the sky and then the ground / Kaleidoscope of light and sound / Catching flashes of my life / Just then the house lights all went out.” All of those lyrics have some visual element to them, and you can put your own meaning behind the lyrics. But for me, it brings a thousand different images and ideas into my head.  I'm flooded with "what ifs" and visual cues that I could based an entire novel just off of those lyrics.

Music has always been a large part of me and how I interpret my own internal thoughts. That’s why I'm drawn to most of music that I still listen to. I probably will continue to love weird floaty music (M83, Visitor Seven, Unkle, Sneaker Pimps, IAMX), my more mainstream somewhat indie stuff (Iron & Wine, Imogen Heap, Blue October) but also keep my punky/harder musical tastes (Rise Against, Against Me!, Bouncing Souls, Senses Fail, Thursday). They are complete opposite ends of the spectrum, but that’s the way I like it. Whatever my writing calls for, I can tune into one of my Pandora stations and find the mood that I’m looking for.

L is for London

I have had the very fortunate experience to travel to London twice in my lifetime, and I hope that I get to go at least one or two more times.

The first time that I went, I was a second-grader, still being totted around by my mother's hand.  Don't get me wrong, I still saw a lot of awesome stuff, but it was all focused on museums, castles, and torture devices (shudders).  And because the London Marathon was happening, all of the above ground stuff was kind of cut off, so we took to the subway.

But the second time I went, that was a life changer.  I remember London being beautiful.  I remember enjoying it, but not like I did the second time.

I was twenty-one, barely putting on my legally-able-to-drink-in-the-U.S. boots, and I headed off with my best friend (and cohort over at Adorning Schemes) to do a 30 day tour with EF College Break.  I think that trip solidified our already-epically-awesome friendship into the heterosexual-lifemates realm.  Even if I get annoyed with her, it is more like she is my sister.  She could almost literally do no wrong at this point (though, I don't encourage her to test this).

We arrived in London as our first stop and spent three marvelous days there.  We arrived drunk because no one warned us that "Hey, we have unlimited wine available on British Airways."  Then we spent the whole first morning hanging out in a park, trying not to fall asleep because we were already running on a whole day of no sleep.  But we made it!  Until the ridiculous early bedtime of 9pm.

We attended a Welcome Dinner at a real life English Pub, and boy... was it difficult to get vegan food, but they succeeded.  I actually never thought I would like eating a baked potato doused with beans, but somehow England made that work.  We went for our first night out on the town and had VIP access to a bar with the 90 other kids on our tour.  Our tour guide, Dave, took us on a walking tour of the city.

But I think one of the more fun aspects of London was when we got lost.  We were trying to find this old punk club, and finally found it after hours of walking.  Thing was, when we got there, we were so intimidated that we didn't even go inside!  Instead, we headed to the strip/flea market huge thing and shopped.  We swung by a vegan cafe, which you paid per pound of food, and ate to our heart's content.

At some point, we went into a museum and got completely separated from each other.  I ended up getting directions from some really nice guys who were drinking in public - what a concept!  They were actually so nice that I wanted to take them home with me (like you would bring home a cute puppy, don't think bad thoughts here).

London was ridiculously silly, and fun, to get lost in.  It was such a great experience, and such a beautiful city (as you can see from my photos).  There are so many more photos that I took (200 I think?) that just didn't make the "perfect shot" cut, but still, the city captivated me, and I sincerely hope I get to go back someday.

What about you?  Where is the one place that you hope to go back to again?  What prevents you from going back often?

K is for Kitten

My husband hates that I call my cat a kitten still.  But in a way, I don't think he will ever grow up.  I want to take the time to introduce you to my Munster cat.  Also known as "Kitten Face" and "Little Face."  He's my baby and I've had him since he was seven weeks old (tiny face!)

Someone rang the doorbell.  Was that the doorbell?  Mom?  Mom?  Mom?  Was that the doorbell?  Grrrrrlll...  Who is out there?  Why am I asking?  Why aren't I hiding under the bed?!  Run!  Run!! HIDE!  Oh my goodness, they are inside.  Mom, who is that?!  MOM!?  MOM!!!!  Phew... I made it.  Under the bed.  Just in time.  Who the heck is out there?

Bird.  There's a bird.  Bird.  Bird.  Look, look, it's a bird.  I can't reach it, so I'm going to chirp at it.  Eek ekekek.... ek.!  Do you think it knows that I'm hunting it?  Holy crap!  That bird is huge!!!  MOM!!! MOM!!! WHAT KIND OF MONSTROUS BIRD IS THAT?!  A CROW?!  IT'S BIGGER THAN I AM!!! MOM!!! MOM!!! MOMMY!!! MOM!!!  Ekekekekek!

Don't mind me... I'm just going to... purrrr.... stretch... purrr.... purrr... stretch... move slightly to the left... And yes!  I have taken the pillow again!  And Mom's still sleeping.  Sweet.  ZzzzZzzZzz... Oh, shoot, hi Mom!  No, I didn't steal the pillow...  purr?  Purrrrrr?  Purrrrr.....  She shifted me out of the warm spot.  No matter.  Stretch, purrr, move slightly to the left and ahhhh...zzz.....

My cat freaks out at the following:

• Large Men
• Crows
• Other cats (chase chase chase)
• The gate opening
• The doorbell (on tv or in real life)
• Knocking (on tv or in real life)
• Windbreaker or snow pants (the sound)
• Me not coming home at exactly 5:20PM
• Not being able to get grass
• Getting grass
• Rakes, brooms, shovels (he won't even be within INCHES of them!)

My cat has the following weird quirks:

• He drinks out of the sink and cries until you turn it on
• When he drinks "normally" out of cat dishes, he puts his paw in, then licks his paw
• He sleeps on the same spot on the couch, if you are sitting there, he just sleeps on you.  He will not sleep on  you if you are not in that exact spot.
• He sleeps on my head, on my pillow, or upside down next to my head with his head nuzzled into my shoulder when I'm sleeping.
• He knows how to wake me up and get me out of bed to do things that he wants.  Example:  I have a craft nook that he reaches his paw in and scrapes everything out of the nook.  When I tell him to stop, he looks at me and meows, with that look on his face that says "I will when you do this for me."  If I don't get up to appease him, he goes right back to it. 
• He really likes to get onto the top of the highest point in the room - include the door frame when possible.

J is for Jeep

Another Excerpt from The Unanswerable. 

We stretched in the morning summer air. It was sweltering, which was good and bad. While our water bottles were running dangerously low, everything else was in good condition. We had been traveling through ash and rubble for days. Every time we got to a new town, Alisha's eyes lit up. They sank just as quickly when we saw the abandoned houses, pilfered goods, and flattened stores. Every town had been the same thing, destruction. We needed transportation. We needed more water. We needed food.

So when we got into Fulton, I wasn't expecting anything to be different. She scraped the ash off of the road sign. "We might as well know where we are." Alisha dusted to soot off on her jeans, which didn't really help. We were covered. "I really want to find new clothes." She spat into her hand and tried to rub off some of the mess, it only made it bundle up into black chunks on her hand.

"I really want to get out of the north east. The last newscast I heard said that the virus had hit there the worst. That's why they bombed so far out... I guess."

"You're lucky you heard the news one last time." Alisha kicked a stone. It bounced in the ash like it was skipping on water, causing small wind ripples across the street. "I didn't even see any of this coming. I ran outside after the first explosion. The apartment complex across the street was engulfed in flames."

And that's what you get for being completely unaware of your surroundings... kids. We walked in silence until we got to the town. The buildings looked more windswept than destroyed. "Maybe this is the end of it." I walked to the first house. While the ash had smacked into the side, blacking out the windows, the inside looked like it was picked clean.

I kicked the door open, a sharp pain shot up my hip. I still wasn't used to all this physical activity. Living a cushy office job was probably the worst possible career for someone in this world. Other than some cushions left with the couches, there didn't seem to be anything else. Alisha crept in after me and marched around. She disappeared through a doorway and I heard cabinets open and shut.

"Nothing - no food... no anything. Oh! The tap still works!"

I heard the running water, "I don't know if I would-"

"Ew!!!" She came out, her hands blacker than they were before. "Is everything around here destroyed?"

I chuckled as she wiped her hands on the cushions, leaving deep stains on each. Then I saw it. A small metal object that reflected the light. "Hold on, Alisha. What's that?"

She looked down and smiled. Her hand curled around the object and tossed it towards me. The keys jingled in my hand as I caught them.

"Garage." We both said at the same time. We scrambled over the couches and busted the door down to the garage. There it was, the most magnificent thing I've seen in my whole life.

"Why does it have to be open?!" She whined.

I walked around it and kicked the tires. "Still good. I say we take it." I grinned and leaned myself against the jeep. It had no top on it, and the top wasn't anywhere to be seen. But it was a vehicle, a set of wheels, and something that could probably still get a grip on the mess that is outside.

"Ugh." She threw her pack in the back. "We are going to die from ash inhalation."

"Probably," I tossed my pack in and jumped into the driver's seat. I pushed the key into the ignition and cranked it. The engine roared to life. "At least now we can do it in style." I put on my best grin.

"You give a guy a nice car, and he reverts into a five-year-old." Alisha rolled her eyes.

I is for Introvert

The Myers-Briggs personality test and I have always hated each other. Why? It has always told me that I am directly in between being an introvert and an extrovert. One year, I got an 11E, 10I and the next, 11I and 10E. My college would put us together with other people with our same "personality" type. I was able to spent one year with Extroverts, and one year with Introverts.  While the Extroverts were more fun and loud (and I laughed a lot), I felt like the Introverts were easier for me to communicate with on a genuine level.

I used to date Extroverted guys. I found myself extremely drawn to people that were the center of attention. I wanted to be right there with them, in the middle of the action. But the relationships never lasted long. While being with an Extrovert is a fun "treat" for me, it's kind of like eating Girl Scout cookies. The pleasure only lasts halfway through the box, and then you started to get sick because you've over-indulged in the experience.

When my husband and I started dating, there was something immediately different with the relationship. There was mutual respect for space, mutual dependency and desire to spend one on one time with each other, and an immediate, incredible attraction that never faltered. And virtually no jealousy on my end - which is saying a lot because I used to be a highly jealous person.

That's when I realized that I actually am an introvert. While I love people and being in groups, while I love concerts and crowds and the energy that emanates from the throng of people, I still need time by myself. I need one on one time with my significant other, and I crave nights at home on the couch - alone.

The best thing I could have ever done for myself was to partner with an introvert. Extroverts are shiny, deadly boxes of cookies - the girl scout kind where you can never stop eating until you realize you are sick to your stomach on deadly sweetness.

But introverts? Mine has become a life partner who gives me one or two cookies a day and never lets me overeat and tells me how wonderful I am without spoiling my appetite with sweetness.

But that's me... and I really like cookies.

Tomorrow I will be posting another excerpt from The Unanswerable.

H is for Hawaiian Honeymoon

In less than two weeks time, I will be basking on the beach with my husband taking our very belated, but much deserved, honeymoon in Hawaii.

I want to post all about this trip when we get back, but here are some awesome things that we are planning on doing while we are down there:

·         Waikiki:

o   Visiting the Dole Plantation and getting lost in the pineapple maze

o   Submarine Tour

o   Sunset Boat Cruise Dinner

·         Maui

o   Road to Hana

o   Resort / Snorkeling / Beaching It!

·         Kauai

o   Waterfall/Kayak Adventure

o   Kauai Luau

o   Horseback Ride/Hike to another waterfall

o   Beaching it/Getting lost

I have never been to Hawaii before, so needless to say, I am very excited about it.  I will be sure to post a lot of awesome pictures and some ramblings when I get back!

F is for Fire

Somehow I manage to write in a scene with fire into everything that I’ve written.  Whether it be something like candles, or a fiery sensation running through my character’s body – there is always some kind of fire.

I attribute this to my fire sign.  I’m an Aries, and last month was my birthday month - woo!  I’m stubborn and tend to be really hot-headed.  I’ve leveled myself out over the years and have become more compassionate than I probably should be.  But if angered, I really am a fireball of fury.

The only tattoo that I have is of the Unitarian Universalist symbol – which is a chalice, and yeah, it has a flame on it.  I’m still considering finishing off the tattoo with a fiery anklet that wraps around the chalice and my ankle. 

And to wrap this whole nonsensical post up, for Christmas, I put a fire pit on my wish list.  That’s a weird thing, right?  Well, my mother-in-law still got me one, which is fantastic!  I don’t own a paper shredder, but I tell you, turning things into ash works just as well – and is much more satisfying.  For environmental reasons, I end up recycling most things… but those pesky credit card checks need to disappear... forever.  ^__^

E is for Escape

Here is another excerpt from The Unanswerable:

     "Take my hand!"  I narrowed my eyes as I stared into the darkened shaft.  I knew what she was clinging to, hope that we could somehow get our son out.  That he would somehow be okay if we could just stop and resuscitate him.  We couldn't wait any longer.  We had to get further away from the city.  Maybe the cellars had worked for a few days, but as the rubble started to shatter around us, I knew our situation was beyond desperate.  It was hopeless.

       And she didn't want to try without him.   She reached her right arm up, our fingers barely touched.  She coughed and held his body closer to her legs.  He was nuzzled there, like he always did when he was scared.  But he wasn't scared anymore.  He wasn't anything anymore.

        "Diane, you have to let go."

         Mist invaded her green eyes and she looked back down at our son.  "Matthew, I can't."  A loud creak came from inside the mound of rubble.  It was only a matter of time before the last beams gave in.  We were losing time.

         "Diane, please, I can't do this without you."

         "But we're so close... and he might."

         I grit my teeth, ready to cry, but more desperate to survive.  To get us out of there.  "Please, take my hand."

         She stroked her son's hair and sobbed.  She kissed his head and it seemed like she was finally ready to let go.  But then this girl scrambled her way out of a small opening in the rubble.  Her blonde hair was black with ash, and she gasped at the air.  She glanced from my wife, my son, and me in a second.  She grabbed my outstretched arm, and I hoisted her up.

         "Diane!"  I yelled.  The girl was already scurrying off to safety.

         Diane curled her hands around Keegan's head.  "Okay... I'll come up."  The ground rumbled and shook.  I lost my foothold and had to scramble backwards to avoid being sucked down the shaft.  The wood cracked and splintered.  It all happened so fast.  The small hole out of the cellar was there, and then in a moment's hesitation, everything collapsed.  The hole was gone.

         I screamed her name and buried my fingertips in the shards of glass, broken wood, nails, and ash that covered the whole mess.  "Diane!"  My hands bled and mixed with the soot that covered my fingers.  It was a blackened red mess.  She had to still be down there, she couldn't just be gone.  I was just talking to her.  I screamed and pounded my fists into the earth.

         A hand curled around my shoulder.  It was the girl, tears stained through the soot on her face revealing pasty skin.  Her eyes were the color of the sky before it had grown black with pollution.  Her lip trembled when she opened her mouth.  A high-pitched squeak escaped, and then she formed the words, "We still have to get out of the city."  She sounded so far off.  This girl wasn't real.  Everyone was dead.  My wife and I were the last survivors.  This must have been my mind playing tricks.

         But when she pulled on my arm and nearly yanked it out of socket, I snapped back into reality.  The hiss of a bomb sounded in the distance before it hit the earth.  And our feet pounded on the ground.  Away from the chaos, away from the bombs and destruction, away from my wife.  All my instincts kicked in, and they told me to survive.  I had to keep going.  I had to keep going for her.  If Diane couldn't live for us, I had to live for the both of us.  Something had to go right.

         When the bomb hit, the whole earth shook and flames licked towards the sky.  Debris pierced the air with a choking mushroom cloud.  Another building collapsed and more screams echoed in the night.  We might be the only people making it out alive.

         We scrambled over the road blockade that was upturned.  It was the government's last try to keep us inside.  We thought we would be safer towards the outskirts of the city... but they started bombing here first.  But we had no idea how far they were going to go out.  Everyone outside the city thought they were safe, but judging by the smoking ash that choked the air, no one was safe anymore.

G is for Giveaway Hop

A to Z Challenge:  I know, I'm early... but I wanted to submit this Giveaway into the Easter Eggstravaganza Giveaway Hop.

Giveaways are awesome, even if I'm cheating a little bit in the A to Z Challenge (though, can you blame me?  Those egg bunnies are adorable)  Starts April 6th at 12:00AM EST and ends April 12th.

I have tons of books (tons and tons of books) to giveaway.  So instead, here's my list of books that you can choose.  (U.S. participants only).

If you win, you can choose one title (click on the book title for more information from goodreads):

YA Books:
Deadline by Chris Crutcher
Saying it Out Loud by Joan Abelove (hardcover)

Other Books:
Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer
High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
About a Boy by Nick Hornby
Mystic Warrior by Tracy Hickman, Laura Hickman
Happiness Sold Separately by Libby Street
Wormwood by G.P.Taylor (hardcover)
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D.Salinger

Just enter the rafflecopter below!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Be sure to visit the other blogs in this awesome hop - and visit the hosts:  I am a Reader, Not a Writer and Once Upon a Twilight.