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I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, filled with good food, good friends, and memories. We certainly did, going over to two different Thanksgivings. At our second Thanksgiving dinner, everyone went around the tale and said one thing they were thankful for. That made me think, because this year I’m grateful for a lot.
I’m grateful for my husband and family who try to be supportive and understanding of my dreams
I’m grateful I have a job
I’m grateful I have a home, and a laptop, and a fridge full of food
I’m grateful for amazing friends who read my stuff, teach me treble jigs, encourage me, and put up with me when I’m on hyper-idea mode
I’m sure there’s more. Anyway, what are you thankful for?
Friday, November 28, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Flash Fiction Friday -- Karmen
I’m reworking the beginning of another project. This will be either the prologue, or chapter one. I don’t think the ending is strong enough. Suggestions and comments welcome.
Karmen
© 2008 Suzanne Lazear
“Moira?” Her voice had lost its honeyed texture, tiredness replaced the joy. Once the epitome of joie de vive, my Karmen had given up.
Putting down the medical journal I’d been reading while she slept, I cupped her thin and wan face with my hand. The past year and a half had been tough on us. Our life together was all planned out. And now…
Now I wasn’t sure how long she had left. We were counting moments now. This was why we were home, in our painted lady near Alamo Square, instead of the hospital she’d been in and out of since she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
“Yes, Karmen? Are you in pain?” I hadn’t been ready to give up. I wanted to keep trying – a new treatment, experimental drugs, anything. Not that we hadn’t tried every conventional and unconventional treatment I could come up with. And then some.
But she was tired. Tired of being poked and prodded. Tired of being in and out of the hospital. The drugs kept her comfortable, but that was it.
But I wasn’t ready for her to go. I needed her. She made my life worth living.
“I’m fine, mija.” She was hooked up to an IV and had a button to push to deliver more when she needed it, but sometimes it was too much for her to push it herself. “Promise me again that you won’t quit.”
This was a discussion we’d had before. “I don’t think I can do it without you.” Fifteen years ago, when I was a freshman at Berkley, I never imagined that I could be a doctor. A nurse. A midwife. But never a doctor.
“You only have a few months left. You’ve worked so hard and I don’t want you to give up. You do such amazing things.”
She was right. I was already a doctor. But I was in the last months of my fellowship. Once I finished and passed my boards, I would be Dr. Moira Dempsey, double-board certified pediatric surgeon. Every day in my work at UCSG Children’s Hospital I performed miracles. But I still couldn’t save the one I loved most.
That hurt.
“I...” I wasn’t very studious. Hard working, but not studious. I never would have even thought of medical school without her prodding. It had been difficult to care for her, and work the hours I did, but my chief of surgery understood. He even let me know of advances and studies he heard about.
“Promise. Really promise.” Large amber eyes stared back at me. She’d lost her beautiful corkscrew curls, which were the color of ice coffee when sun streamed though the glass. She’d lost her luscious curves. But she hadn’t lost her ability to guilt me into something with a single glance.
Mindful of the tubes, I pulled her into my arms. It was as if I could feel her slipping away as I held her. She probably knew it too. My Karmen was always so intuitive. Which was why we were having this conversation one last time.
“I promise, Karmen.” Then I added a soft stream of words that I hadn’t spoken in a long time.
She looked at me quizzically. “What language is that, mija.” Karmen was Mexican-Italian and spoke both. We often spoke them together. But that was not the limit of my linguistic abilities by any stretch of the imagination.
“Welsh.” Sort of. “It’s what Glyn and I speak at home.” Again, that was a small lie. I hated lying to her, but my life was built on a web of careful lies. Karmen thought Glyn was my father. He was, in many ways.
I relished the sensation of holding her in my arms again, as I curled my legs around her.
She tipped her head up. This conversation of ours was costing her. But I could tell it was important to her. “I also want you to promise me that you won’t jump off a bridge.”
Ow. The first time I met Karmen she literally talked me out of jumping off the golden gate bridge. I smiled, stroking her face. Dôn bless, I loved this woman. This woman who took a risk on a stranger because she saw herself in her. This woman who taught elementary school and loved to salsa dance. This woman who volunteered and gave to charity. This woman who dreamed of owning a horse, and raising a daughter. With me.
“No more jumping. I promise.” It didn’t work anyway.
That got me a smile. I loved that smile. It could light up the world. For a moment, we just laid there, in our bed, in our room. Home. It had been a long time since I had a real home. She was what made it a home -- painting the walls a silvery charcoal. Covering the walls of the room -- and the house -- in photos, posters, and other memories. Filling it with friends, music, and happiness.
“One more promise.” Her words, her breath were labored.
Please don’t let her die. But nothing worked. Not even magic. The fact that I had failed hurt almost as much as the thought that soon she’d be gone forever. And I’ll still be here.
“Promise me you’ll love again, mi corazon. You’re so young. I want you to continue living life.” She was the young one. Thirty-five. Me, well...my driver’s license said I was thirty-three.
Those words were like a dagger in the heart. “I love you, Karmen.” I loved her with my heart and soul. My very being. She made life worth living.
“I love you too, my Moira, but you have to promise me.” Even on her deathbed she was stubborn.
Tears streamed down my face. I didn’t want to love again. Actually, the thought of living without this amazing, vivacious woman made me want to curl up and die.
But, I knew that eventually I would love again. I always did. That was my fatal flaw. I loved too deeply, forgave too quickly, trusted too easily. It had led to heartbreak over and over again, for nearly four thousand years.
“I promise.” It would take a long time to get over her. Years. Decades. Centuries.
“Good.” Curling into me, she closed her eyes, spent. I sat up, still holding her, putting pillows behind my back. But I didn’t pick my journal back up. Instead, I spent those last hours holding her, loving her, memorizing her. I memorized her face. Her laugh. Her spirit. I hadn’t loved this deeply in over three centuries. That had ended badly.
It always did. Especially when I loved a mortal. Their lives were so fleeting.
But why now? I was months away from finishing my long and arduous education. We were going to go on a long vacation. Buy a horse. Start a family.
My thoughts went to the box in her nightstand. The one she didn’t think I knew about. The one she hadn’t given to me because she wanted me to move on and love again. And a secret. Never had I told any of my mortal lovers my secret.
But Karmen...
I regretted not telling her.
“Karmen?”
“Mmmm?” Her eyes fluttered open. I could hear her heart grow weaker. I cut it down to the wire. I should have told her days ago when I brought her home to die. I should have told her a year and a half ago when she was diagnosed. I should have told her a decade ago when I knew we were in this for the long haul.
“I love you.”
She smiled. “I love you too, mija.”
Taking a deep breath, I moved so my back was no longer against the pillows, still holding her.
“Karmen, I need to tell you something.” I moved her so she could see me. Then, I closed my eyes and shifted. As in shapeshifted. Returning to my true form. I form I hadn’t worn for fifteen years.
Those amber eyes widened. “You look like an angel.” The words were barely audible.
“I’m a fairy, Karmen.” I could barely choke out the words. “I’m sorry I kept it from you. I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes were on my lavender wings, which sparkled softly in the lamplight. She wasn’t listening to me. “You’ve come to take me to heaven?”
Her voice, her face, were so full of hope. My Karmen was good and kind, pure of heart. She would go to her mortal heaven. A place I could never go, being Fae.
“No, Karmen, I’m a fairy.”
But she was too far gone. “Please take me to heaven. I’m ready to go now.” She closed her eyes. “And watch over my Moira for me. It’s not time for her to go yet.”
I started to cry again. It would never be my time. Once again, I told a lie. “I’ll hold you until it’s time to go. Then I’ll take you to heaven.”
Nodding, I saw her reach out and try to push the button. I pushed it for her. Holding her tight, I covered her bald head, her face, with soft kisses. Then, I started to sing. She loved me to sing and play the harp for her. I sang, tears streaming down my face, until she breathed her last breath.
Then I cried some more. I cried for all the adventures we’d never have. The trips we wouldn’t take. The time we wouldn’t have together.
Why? It was not fair. She was so young.
Biting my lip, I reached for the phone on my nightstand to call her doctor. I tried my all. Granted her dying wishes. Held her in my arms until she passed into the next world.
But she had been safe, loved. Her expression was peaceful.
Next, I called our best friends, Jeff and Sam, who lived next door. Shifting back to my mortal form, I held her until I hear the downstairs door open.
I pressed my lips to her cooling forehead. “I love you, Karmen.”
Jeff and Sam came into the bedroom, silently they sat on each side of me, their arms around me and Karmen. “We’re so sorry, Mo.” Tears sparkled in Sam’s eyes. Jeff was crying. The four of us had been friends since our Berkley days.
Karmen had touched so many lives. Especially mine.
She made a bad century worth living. I had promised her that I’d go on, that I’d love again. But I wasn’t sure I could. She was my world, my everything, the glue that had held me together.
What was I going to do without her?
Karmen
© 2008 Suzanne Lazear
“Moira?” Her voice had lost its honeyed texture, tiredness replaced the joy. Once the epitome of joie de vive, my Karmen had given up.
Putting down the medical journal I’d been reading while she slept, I cupped her thin and wan face with my hand. The past year and a half had been tough on us. Our life together was all planned out. And now…
Now I wasn’t sure how long she had left. We were counting moments now. This was why we were home, in our painted lady near Alamo Square, instead of the hospital she’d been in and out of since she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
“Yes, Karmen? Are you in pain?” I hadn’t been ready to give up. I wanted to keep trying – a new treatment, experimental drugs, anything. Not that we hadn’t tried every conventional and unconventional treatment I could come up with. And then some.
But she was tired. Tired of being poked and prodded. Tired of being in and out of the hospital. The drugs kept her comfortable, but that was it.
But I wasn’t ready for her to go. I needed her. She made my life worth living.
“I’m fine, mija.” She was hooked up to an IV and had a button to push to deliver more when she needed it, but sometimes it was too much for her to push it herself. “Promise me again that you won’t quit.”
This was a discussion we’d had before. “I don’t think I can do it without you.” Fifteen years ago, when I was a freshman at Berkley, I never imagined that I could be a doctor. A nurse. A midwife. But never a doctor.
“You only have a few months left. You’ve worked so hard and I don’t want you to give up. You do such amazing things.”
She was right. I was already a doctor. But I was in the last months of my fellowship. Once I finished and passed my boards, I would be Dr. Moira Dempsey, double-board certified pediatric surgeon. Every day in my work at UCSG Children’s Hospital I performed miracles. But I still couldn’t save the one I loved most.
That hurt.
“I...” I wasn’t very studious. Hard working, but not studious. I never would have even thought of medical school without her prodding. It had been difficult to care for her, and work the hours I did, but my chief of surgery understood. He even let me know of advances and studies he heard about.
“Promise. Really promise.” Large amber eyes stared back at me. She’d lost her beautiful corkscrew curls, which were the color of ice coffee when sun streamed though the glass. She’d lost her luscious curves. But she hadn’t lost her ability to guilt me into something with a single glance.
Mindful of the tubes, I pulled her into my arms. It was as if I could feel her slipping away as I held her. She probably knew it too. My Karmen was always so intuitive. Which was why we were having this conversation one last time.
“I promise, Karmen.” Then I added a soft stream of words that I hadn’t spoken in a long time.
She looked at me quizzically. “What language is that, mija.” Karmen was Mexican-Italian and spoke both. We often spoke them together. But that was not the limit of my linguistic abilities by any stretch of the imagination.
“Welsh.” Sort of. “It’s what Glyn and I speak at home.” Again, that was a small lie. I hated lying to her, but my life was built on a web of careful lies. Karmen thought Glyn was my father. He was, in many ways.
I relished the sensation of holding her in my arms again, as I curled my legs around her.
She tipped her head up. This conversation of ours was costing her. But I could tell it was important to her. “I also want you to promise me that you won’t jump off a bridge.”
Ow. The first time I met Karmen she literally talked me out of jumping off the golden gate bridge. I smiled, stroking her face. Dôn bless, I loved this woman. This woman who took a risk on a stranger because she saw herself in her. This woman who taught elementary school and loved to salsa dance. This woman who volunteered and gave to charity. This woman who dreamed of owning a horse, and raising a daughter. With me.
“No more jumping. I promise.” It didn’t work anyway.
That got me a smile. I loved that smile. It could light up the world. For a moment, we just laid there, in our bed, in our room. Home. It had been a long time since I had a real home. She was what made it a home -- painting the walls a silvery charcoal. Covering the walls of the room -- and the house -- in photos, posters, and other memories. Filling it with friends, music, and happiness.
“One more promise.” Her words, her breath were labored.
Please don’t let her die. But nothing worked. Not even magic. The fact that I had failed hurt almost as much as the thought that soon she’d be gone forever. And I’ll still be here.
“Promise me you’ll love again, mi corazon. You’re so young. I want you to continue living life.” She was the young one. Thirty-five. Me, well...my driver’s license said I was thirty-three.
Those words were like a dagger in the heart. “I love you, Karmen.” I loved her with my heart and soul. My very being. She made life worth living.
“I love you too, my Moira, but you have to promise me.” Even on her deathbed she was stubborn.
Tears streamed down my face. I didn’t want to love again. Actually, the thought of living without this amazing, vivacious woman made me want to curl up and die.
But, I knew that eventually I would love again. I always did. That was my fatal flaw. I loved too deeply, forgave too quickly, trusted too easily. It had led to heartbreak over and over again, for nearly four thousand years.
“I promise.” It would take a long time to get over her. Years. Decades. Centuries.
“Good.” Curling into me, she closed her eyes, spent. I sat up, still holding her, putting pillows behind my back. But I didn’t pick my journal back up. Instead, I spent those last hours holding her, loving her, memorizing her. I memorized her face. Her laugh. Her spirit. I hadn’t loved this deeply in over three centuries. That had ended badly.
It always did. Especially when I loved a mortal. Their lives were so fleeting.
But why now? I was months away from finishing my long and arduous education. We were going to go on a long vacation. Buy a horse. Start a family.
My thoughts went to the box in her nightstand. The one she didn’t think I knew about. The one she hadn’t given to me because she wanted me to move on and love again. And a secret. Never had I told any of my mortal lovers my secret.
But Karmen...
I regretted not telling her.
“Karmen?”
“Mmmm?” Her eyes fluttered open. I could hear her heart grow weaker. I cut it down to the wire. I should have told her days ago when I brought her home to die. I should have told her a year and a half ago when she was diagnosed. I should have told her a decade ago when I knew we were in this for the long haul.
“I love you.”
She smiled. “I love you too, mija.”
Taking a deep breath, I moved so my back was no longer against the pillows, still holding her.
“Karmen, I need to tell you something.” I moved her so she could see me. Then, I closed my eyes and shifted. As in shapeshifted. Returning to my true form. I form I hadn’t worn for fifteen years.
Those amber eyes widened. “You look like an angel.” The words were barely audible.
“I’m a fairy, Karmen.” I could barely choke out the words. “I’m sorry I kept it from you. I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes were on my lavender wings, which sparkled softly in the lamplight. She wasn’t listening to me. “You’ve come to take me to heaven?”
Her voice, her face, were so full of hope. My Karmen was good and kind, pure of heart. She would go to her mortal heaven. A place I could never go, being Fae.
“No, Karmen, I’m a fairy.”
But she was too far gone. “Please take me to heaven. I’m ready to go now.” She closed her eyes. “And watch over my Moira for me. It’s not time for her to go yet.”
I started to cry again. It would never be my time. Once again, I told a lie. “I’ll hold you until it’s time to go. Then I’ll take you to heaven.”
Nodding, I saw her reach out and try to push the button. I pushed it for her. Holding her tight, I covered her bald head, her face, with soft kisses. Then, I started to sing. She loved me to sing and play the harp for her. I sang, tears streaming down my face, until she breathed her last breath.
Then I cried some more. I cried for all the adventures we’d never have. The trips we wouldn’t take. The time we wouldn’t have together.
Why? It was not fair. She was so young.
Biting my lip, I reached for the phone on my nightstand to call her doctor. I tried my all. Granted her dying wishes. Held her in my arms until she passed into the next world.
But she had been safe, loved. Her expression was peaceful.
Next, I called our best friends, Jeff and Sam, who lived next door. Shifting back to my mortal form, I held her until I hear the downstairs door open.
I pressed my lips to her cooling forehead. “I love you, Karmen.”
Jeff and Sam came into the bedroom, silently they sat on each side of me, their arms around me and Karmen. “We’re so sorry, Mo.” Tears sparkled in Sam’s eyes. Jeff was crying. The four of us had been friends since our Berkley days.
Karmen had touched so many lives. Especially mine.
She made a bad century worth living. I had promised her that I’d go on, that I’d love again. But I wasn’t sure I could. She was my world, my everything, the glue that had held me together.
What was I going to do without her?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Update and reasons why to read...
Whew. At the encouragement of the ladies in my crit group, I have spent the past two months editing Interfluit aka “Reina’s Book” for the RWA Golden Hearts. It has been polished, spit shined, boxed off, sent out, and received. I’ve sent out a few queries as well, and got my first reject today. I’m still running it through the SFFOWW. So, we’ll see how it all goes.
At work today, I got the neatest email from First Book. My work get's a lot of books from them and they're a great organization so you should check them out. Anyway, I thought I'd share their list with you.
Top 10 reasons to read this holiday season:
10. You need a backup in case the TV and Internet go out.
9. It's fuel efficient.
8. A flight attendant will never ask you to turn off your paperback.
7. It's fun.
6. If you like to read, you'll never be alone.
5. No commercials.
4. Reading makes school a lot easier.
3. It's less fattening than chocolate.
2. So you can say with authority: the book was better.
and our top reason to read:
1. (Almost) everybody’s doing it!
At work today, I got the neatest email from First Book. My work get's a lot of books from them and they're a great organization so you should check them out. Anyway, I thought I'd share their list with you.
Top 10 reasons to read this holiday season:
10. You need a backup in case the TV and Internet go out.
9. It's fuel efficient.
8. A flight attendant will never ask you to turn off your paperback.
7. It's fun.
6. If you like to read, you'll never be alone.
5. No commercials.
4. Reading makes school a lot easier.
3. It's less fattening than chocolate.
2. So you can say with authority: the book was better.
and our top reason to read:
1. (Almost) everybody’s doing it!
Friday, November 14, 2008
Flash Fiction Friday -- The Bank Robbery
So, I’ve decided to rework Stealing *again*. One day I’ll get it right, lol. This is the beginning of the latest version of chapter one. Feedback welcome.
The Bank Robbery
© 2008 Suzanne Lazear
The man in front of me in line kept fidgeting nervously, shifting from foot to foot, looking around, checking the time on his cell phone. Suspicious. Or, like me, he could just have a need to fidget, to move. The long bank line certainly wasn’t. It was a Wednesday for crying out loud. Whatever it was, I was losing my patience. With my luck they’d detain be because I had an out of state account.
My phone buzzed. It was my boss. Secure channel. It was not a social call. “I’m on vacation, Terry. Someone better be dead.”
“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine, sweet cheeks.”
I hated it when he called me that. “You have ten seconds.” After all, I was on vacation. But why I decided to go to Seattle, in November, to visit my friends Derrick and Alice instead of going to Hawaii like a sensible woman was beyond me.
“I need you to gather some Intel for me, Rory baby.”
I really hated it when he called be baby. “No.” I moved forward in line. Now the only person between me and a teller was Mr. Shifty. About damn time.
“Come on, you’ll be compensated for your time. Just like always.”
“Nope. I haven’t forgiven you for the last time I helped you while I was on vacay. Go bug someone else.” Now, I liked Terry, he was a decent boss, but I hadn’t gone on an interruption-free vacation of more than two days since Terry took over my department a few years back.
“Here me out Rory, you’ve got to be my go-to girl on this one. It’s local.”
“I’m always your go-to girl and I hate Intel.” Someone left and Mr. Shifty took his place at the empty window. Almost my turn.
I looked out the glass windows onto the bleak and dreary November afternoon. It rained too much in Seattle. I heard a familiar click. Immediately my attention shifted as my body went on alert. My left hand reached under my leather jacket for the gun I always wore. Even when off-duty. But I was never truly off-duty.
Oh, no he didn’t.
Someone screamed. Mr. Shifty had a gun. I sighed, hand curled around Bane, my trusty Glock. Out of all the banks in Downtown Seattle why did you have to hold up this one? It was a decision he’d always regret.
“Duty calls, Terry.” Give me ass kicking over Intel any day.
Mr. Shifty fired his gun into the air. More screams. Bodies hit the floor. Mine filled with adrenaline.
“Was that gunfire? Rory, you’re out of your jurisdiction. You know I hate it when you go ro—”
The phone was closed and in my pocket. My gun was out, and I was flying at Mr. Shifty. My curvy, muscular body hit his as I pummeled him to the ground. The gun flew out of his hand and skittered across the floor. Someone called 911. People were sobbing. Screaming. Cheering.
Mr. Shifty fought back. Kicking, swearing, trying to get the upper hand. He was taller and bigger than I was. But he wasn’t in as good shape. I was a highly trained FBI agent. I also wasn’t human. Poor sap never had a chance. Humans had no idea what lurked among them.
Bane was pointed squarely at his chest. The other held his hands above his body. My body straddled his, pinning him to the floor.
“You picked the wrong bank to rob.” He had the look of a haunted man. A desperate man.
But instead of pleading for me to not shoot, like so many, he spit in my face. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, bitch.”
And I cared because? I hit him across the face with the side of my gun. “Shut up, shithead.” I used the back of my hand to wipe the spit off my face. But I had seen worse, much worse. And that was before I joined the Bureau.
“Damn, she’s fast,” one of the security guards whispered. Some help they are. They were watching the show with the customers and the tellers.
Shit. Was I too fast? Sometimes I was. Even after eight years I still had trouble acting normal, blending in with the real world. Approaching sirens interrupted my musings. The cavalry was here. Would they appreciate my help? Probably not. I was a long way from DC. Whatever. Hopefully, I could just get my money so I could return to my regularly scheduled vacation.
The cops stormed in and surrounded us. Their guns pointed at both of us. I knew what they saw. I was a five foot six woman with DD boobs, short auburn hair with red streaks, and a long, black trench coat who was holding a gun. I looked like trouble.
“Drop the gun,” a blonde, beefy uniformed cop, just shy of husky told me. His nametag read Bourguignon and his gun was pointed at me.
“Sure.” I tossed them the gun, but kept pinning the guy down. I had another gun in my jacket. I liked things in pairs.
“She’s the good guy,” one of the security guards piped up.
About damn time they were useful.
“That guy tried to hold up the teller and she just…she just took him out.” Awe crossed his weathered face.
“We’ve got it,” Blondie told me. He had waved hair the color of newly minted gold, and big blue eyes. He looked like he should be surfing, or playing sand volleyball, or chasing girls or something. “But don’t go anywhere.”
And I have a choice? This wasn’t the first time I’d practiced random acts of crime-busting. I got up, and was immediately accosted Blondie while his team took down Mr. Shifty.
Those blue eyes narrowed as the cop looked me over. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
Did he really want to know?
The Bank Robbery
© 2008 Suzanne Lazear
The man in front of me in line kept fidgeting nervously, shifting from foot to foot, looking around, checking the time on his cell phone. Suspicious. Or, like me, he could just have a need to fidget, to move. The long bank line certainly wasn’t. It was a Wednesday for crying out loud. Whatever it was, I was losing my patience. With my luck they’d detain be because I had an out of state account.
My phone buzzed. It was my boss. Secure channel. It was not a social call. “I’m on vacation, Terry. Someone better be dead.”
“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine, sweet cheeks.”
I hated it when he called me that. “You have ten seconds.” After all, I was on vacation. But why I decided to go to Seattle, in November, to visit my friends Derrick and Alice instead of going to Hawaii like a sensible woman was beyond me.
“I need you to gather some Intel for me, Rory baby.”
I really hated it when he called be baby. “No.” I moved forward in line. Now the only person between me and a teller was Mr. Shifty. About damn time.
“Come on, you’ll be compensated for your time. Just like always.”
“Nope. I haven’t forgiven you for the last time I helped you while I was on vacay. Go bug someone else.” Now, I liked Terry, he was a decent boss, but I hadn’t gone on an interruption-free vacation of more than two days since Terry took over my department a few years back.
“Here me out Rory, you’ve got to be my go-to girl on this one. It’s local.”
“I’m always your go-to girl and I hate Intel.” Someone left and Mr. Shifty took his place at the empty window. Almost my turn.
I looked out the glass windows onto the bleak and dreary November afternoon. It rained too much in Seattle. I heard a familiar click. Immediately my attention shifted as my body went on alert. My left hand reached under my leather jacket for the gun I always wore. Even when off-duty. But I was never truly off-duty.
Oh, no he didn’t.
Someone screamed. Mr. Shifty had a gun. I sighed, hand curled around Bane, my trusty Glock. Out of all the banks in Downtown Seattle why did you have to hold up this one? It was a decision he’d always regret.
“Duty calls, Terry.” Give me ass kicking over Intel any day.
Mr. Shifty fired his gun into the air. More screams. Bodies hit the floor. Mine filled with adrenaline.
“Was that gunfire? Rory, you’re out of your jurisdiction. You know I hate it when you go ro—”
The phone was closed and in my pocket. My gun was out, and I was flying at Mr. Shifty. My curvy, muscular body hit his as I pummeled him to the ground. The gun flew out of his hand and skittered across the floor. Someone called 911. People were sobbing. Screaming. Cheering.
Mr. Shifty fought back. Kicking, swearing, trying to get the upper hand. He was taller and bigger than I was. But he wasn’t in as good shape. I was a highly trained FBI agent. I also wasn’t human. Poor sap never had a chance. Humans had no idea what lurked among them.
Bane was pointed squarely at his chest. The other held his hands above his body. My body straddled his, pinning him to the floor.
“You picked the wrong bank to rob.” He had the look of a haunted man. A desperate man.
But instead of pleading for me to not shoot, like so many, he spit in my face. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, bitch.”
And I cared because? I hit him across the face with the side of my gun. “Shut up, shithead.” I used the back of my hand to wipe the spit off my face. But I had seen worse, much worse. And that was before I joined the Bureau.
“Damn, she’s fast,” one of the security guards whispered. Some help they are. They were watching the show with the customers and the tellers.
Shit. Was I too fast? Sometimes I was. Even after eight years I still had trouble acting normal, blending in with the real world. Approaching sirens interrupted my musings. The cavalry was here. Would they appreciate my help? Probably not. I was a long way from DC. Whatever. Hopefully, I could just get my money so I could return to my regularly scheduled vacation.
The cops stormed in and surrounded us. Their guns pointed at both of us. I knew what they saw. I was a five foot six woman with DD boobs, short auburn hair with red streaks, and a long, black trench coat who was holding a gun. I looked like trouble.
“Drop the gun,” a blonde, beefy uniformed cop, just shy of husky told me. His nametag read Bourguignon and his gun was pointed at me.
“Sure.” I tossed them the gun, but kept pinning the guy down. I had another gun in my jacket. I liked things in pairs.
“She’s the good guy,” one of the security guards piped up.
About damn time they were useful.
“That guy tried to hold up the teller and she just…she just took him out.” Awe crossed his weathered face.
“We’ve got it,” Blondie told me. He had waved hair the color of newly minted gold, and big blue eyes. He looked like he should be surfing, or playing sand volleyball, or chasing girls or something. “But don’t go anywhere.”
And I have a choice? This wasn’t the first time I’d practiced random acts of crime-busting. I got up, and was immediately accosted Blondie while his team took down Mr. Shifty.
Those blue eyes narrowed as the cop looked me over. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
Did he really want to know?
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Happy NaNoWriMo!
Happy NaNoWriMo! That's Happy National Novel Writing Month for those of you who don't speak writing. This is the month where thousands of people make the effort to sit doen and write an entire novel in the month of November. Quite a feat, huh? So far, nearly 500,000,000 words have been collectivly written! Wow.
The folks over at NaNoWriMo.org have a great website where novelists can offically keep track of their word counts, network with other writers and recieve encouragement.
Trying to write a novel (which is defined by NaNoWriMo as 50,000 words) is quite the feat. I think it works out of a little over 1,600 words a day. I know of several writers from both LARA and SFFOWW who've taken this challange. My hat goes off to you.
Me?
Well, this year I'm not doing NaNo(as it's called for short). I've been too busy polishing Interfluit for the Golden Heart Awards. Which, oddly enough I tried to tackle during NaNoWriMo last year (and didn't finish, but that's another story, lol).
Anyway, good luck to you all! May you all meet your word counts.
The folks over at NaNoWriMo.org have a great website where novelists can offically keep track of their word counts, network with other writers and recieve encouragement.
Trying to write a novel (which is defined by NaNoWriMo as 50,000 words) is quite the feat. I think it works out of a little over 1,600 words a day. I know of several writers from both LARA and SFFOWW who've taken this challange. My hat goes off to you.
Me?
Well, this year I'm not doing NaNo(as it's called for short). I've been too busy polishing Interfluit for the Golden Heart Awards. Which, oddly enough I tried to tackle during NaNoWriMo last year (and didn't finish, but that's another story, lol).
Anyway, good luck to you all! May you all meet your word counts.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Flash Fiction Friday -- The Assignment
I decided to get a little creative and get out of my comfort zone and experiment. Here’s a little steampunk short for you. Meet Lila Miller. Corsets, bustles, and stakes, oh my! Enjoy!
The Assignment
© Suzanne Lazear 2008
The night was damp and cool as the thick fog rolled, covering the gas lamp lit streets like a blanket. It didn’t bother me in the slightest. Fog made my work easier, since tonight my prey was human. A troublemaker. A threat.
It was an easy assignment.
Too easy for the likes of me, Lila Miller, close-contact Hunter for the Supernatural Defense League. Vampires were my specialty.
Things did indeed go bump in the night. Us actually. We didn’t defend against those who were Supernatural. Rather the SDL protected our own kind, going to great lengths to keep our secrets.
Like killing humans who made trouble for us.
Or killing one of our own. Even if they were our partner, best friend, and lover.
Perhaps that’s why they’d been sending me on easy assignments. Usually ones that didn’t involve anything other than fact-finding and information gathering. It certainly wasn’t because I was a woman. Obadiah, my boss, knew better.
Once, back when Victor was still alive, Obie asked me how I managed to hunt Vampires in a corset and bustle.
Narrowing my eyes, I twirled my hand-carved stake as I met his gaze, then slid it back in its hiding place right between my breasts. “Very carefully, Obie. Very carefully.”
He never asked again.
Perched on top of a brick building, I only had my thoughts for company. There wasn’t even a gargoyle to talk to.
The cobblestone streets were empty and I heard no echoes of the clop of hooves, the rattle of carriages, or the soft chatter of pedestrians going home after an evening of carousing. Most respectable people were indoors on such an inhospitable evening. Those who were not respectable certainly wouldn’t be in this neighborhood.
But one Christopher Oswald certainly was out and about tonight. Which was why I was waiting in the shadows for his return.
This human had been leaking information about us. Far too accurate information was appearing in the pulps. Granted, the public was not the wiser. Yet. But we couldn’t be too careful.
I was to discover where he was getting this information from, and then deal with him. Next, I would deal with the source.
My skirts rustled as I shifted my weight. Why was I so fidgety this night? I’d had assignments like this many times in my tenure with the SDL. Target arrives at destination. Intercept target. Extract needed information. Kill target. Dispose of body. Report back to Obie, information in hand.
But Victor was always with me.
Victor.
Closing my eyes, I could imagine him beside me. His presence was always comforting. He was the brains, I was the brawn. I was the fire, he was the brimstone. Together we were the top close-contact hunting team in the entire SDL. Other districts called on us for our help. No one could stop us.
Until that night in Paris….
Suddenly a chill overtook me despite the fact that not only was I wearing the many layers fashion dictated for a lady of my station, but that I didn’t get cold.
Victor was my mentor. Protector.
And so much more.
I fumbled for my handkerchief; grateful Obie had yet to assign me a new partner. Lila Miller did not cry. Especially over someone the entire SDL deemed a traitor.
The sound of hooves against cobblestones woke me from my ruminations. My hand went to my bodice, where my stake hid nestled between my breasts. The wonderful thing about corsets was that they gave me enough cleavage to hide things in.
One hardly needed a stake for a mere human, but it was quite the convincing instrument. Not to mention my boots and skirts hid other instruments of convincement and defense.
Hopefully Christopher Oswald would be in that carriage. My belly rumbled with hunger and my back was starting to ache. You’re going soft Lila.
Perhaps I should listen to Obie and take a holiday. Lila Miller does not take holidays…
Now the fine carriage came into view as it gingerly crept through the dense fog and turned onto the street I was overlooking. It stopped in front of the building I perched on. A fine gentleman got out. Mr. Oswald, I presume.
For some reason he reminded me of Victor.
Lately, everyone reminded me of Victor.
The carriage left and I waited until he approached the door. Alone. The street empty.
In a billow of skirts and petticoats I leapt off the roof, landing quietly on the cobblestones directly behind him. The gas laps flickered sending a myriad of shadows across the stones. I was sure in this impenetrable fog he could not see me, even though I was quite close to him.
But he knew I was there.
“Mr. Oswald, I have a few questions for you.”
The fine gentleman had yet to turn around.
“I have been expecting you, Lila Miller.”
His voice was rich and thick, like treacle. It matched his fine tailored suit and dapper silver walking stick.
It also sent shivers down my spine.
“Who are you?” My voice did not quiver.
He did not answer. Instead, he withdrew a ring of keys from his coat pocket and went to unlock the door.
“Do not proceed, Mr. Oswald. I have a few questions for you first.”
I could not let him in the house. It would complicate things and I had no partner to help me.
He did not listen.
“Mr. Oswald, please turn around.”
Alas, he did not.
You have been duly warned.
In a flurry of taffeta I flew at him, tackling him to the cold, hard ground. Retrieving the stake from the warmth of my bosom, I held it to his throat. It could kill a human. Easily.
Then I got a good look at his face.
The stake fell from my gloved hand.
“Victor?”
The Assignment
© Suzanne Lazear 2008
The night was damp and cool as the thick fog rolled, covering the gas lamp lit streets like a blanket. It didn’t bother me in the slightest. Fog made my work easier, since tonight my prey was human. A troublemaker. A threat.
It was an easy assignment.
Too easy for the likes of me, Lila Miller, close-contact Hunter for the Supernatural Defense League. Vampires were my specialty.
Things did indeed go bump in the night. Us actually. We didn’t defend against those who were Supernatural. Rather the SDL protected our own kind, going to great lengths to keep our secrets.
Like killing humans who made trouble for us.
Or killing one of our own. Even if they were our partner, best friend, and lover.
Perhaps that’s why they’d been sending me on easy assignments. Usually ones that didn’t involve anything other than fact-finding and information gathering. It certainly wasn’t because I was a woman. Obadiah, my boss, knew better.
Once, back when Victor was still alive, Obie asked me how I managed to hunt Vampires in a corset and bustle.
Narrowing my eyes, I twirled my hand-carved stake as I met his gaze, then slid it back in its hiding place right between my breasts. “Very carefully, Obie. Very carefully.”
He never asked again.
Perched on top of a brick building, I only had my thoughts for company. There wasn’t even a gargoyle to talk to.
The cobblestone streets were empty and I heard no echoes of the clop of hooves, the rattle of carriages, or the soft chatter of pedestrians going home after an evening of carousing. Most respectable people were indoors on such an inhospitable evening. Those who were not respectable certainly wouldn’t be in this neighborhood.
But one Christopher Oswald certainly was out and about tonight. Which was why I was waiting in the shadows for his return.
This human had been leaking information about us. Far too accurate information was appearing in the pulps. Granted, the public was not the wiser. Yet. But we couldn’t be too careful.
I was to discover where he was getting this information from, and then deal with him. Next, I would deal with the source.
My skirts rustled as I shifted my weight. Why was I so fidgety this night? I’d had assignments like this many times in my tenure with the SDL. Target arrives at destination. Intercept target. Extract needed information. Kill target. Dispose of body. Report back to Obie, information in hand.
But Victor was always with me.
Victor.
Closing my eyes, I could imagine him beside me. His presence was always comforting. He was the brains, I was the brawn. I was the fire, he was the brimstone. Together we were the top close-contact hunting team in the entire SDL. Other districts called on us for our help. No one could stop us.
Until that night in Paris….
Suddenly a chill overtook me despite the fact that not only was I wearing the many layers fashion dictated for a lady of my station, but that I didn’t get cold.
Victor was my mentor. Protector.
And so much more.
I fumbled for my handkerchief; grateful Obie had yet to assign me a new partner. Lila Miller did not cry. Especially over someone the entire SDL deemed a traitor.
The sound of hooves against cobblestones woke me from my ruminations. My hand went to my bodice, where my stake hid nestled between my breasts. The wonderful thing about corsets was that they gave me enough cleavage to hide things in.
One hardly needed a stake for a mere human, but it was quite the convincing instrument. Not to mention my boots and skirts hid other instruments of convincement and defense.
Hopefully Christopher Oswald would be in that carriage. My belly rumbled with hunger and my back was starting to ache. You’re going soft Lila.
Perhaps I should listen to Obie and take a holiday. Lila Miller does not take holidays…
Now the fine carriage came into view as it gingerly crept through the dense fog and turned onto the street I was overlooking. It stopped in front of the building I perched on. A fine gentleman got out. Mr. Oswald, I presume.
For some reason he reminded me of Victor.
Lately, everyone reminded me of Victor.
The carriage left and I waited until he approached the door. Alone. The street empty.
In a billow of skirts and petticoats I leapt off the roof, landing quietly on the cobblestones directly behind him. The gas laps flickered sending a myriad of shadows across the stones. I was sure in this impenetrable fog he could not see me, even though I was quite close to him.
But he knew I was there.
“Mr. Oswald, I have a few questions for you.”
The fine gentleman had yet to turn around.
“I have been expecting you, Lila Miller.”
His voice was rich and thick, like treacle. It matched his fine tailored suit and dapper silver walking stick.
It also sent shivers down my spine.
“Who are you?” My voice did not quiver.
He did not answer. Instead, he withdrew a ring of keys from his coat pocket and went to unlock the door.
“Do not proceed, Mr. Oswald. I have a few questions for you first.”
I could not let him in the house. It would complicate things and I had no partner to help me.
He did not listen.
“Mr. Oswald, please turn around.”
Alas, he did not.
You have been duly warned.
In a flurry of taffeta I flew at him, tackling him to the cold, hard ground. Retrieving the stake from the warmth of my bosom, I held it to his throat. It could kill a human. Easily.
Then I got a good look at his face.
The stake fell from my gloved hand.
“Victor?”
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