Chapter 3, Unedited

Okay, the full version of this chapter brings us up to speed. As I noted before, the conversation between Mark and Lenara needs some work, but there are some things I like in this chapter. I am considering that this chapter might need to be become a flashback, which might be clear when you read the next chapter. I don't know. I like this chapter being the first glimpse of Mark as he's... not quite right... when next seen. Another problem I have is that Lenara mostly disappears for awhile after this chapter, only to come back strongly and in an important way later. Since she's featured so much early in the book, I think I need to work her in more throughout the book. Well, there's always the next draft, lol.

E4, Chapter 3

The tires of Mark’s rusty Karmann Ghia trundled down the gravel driveway beside the Montiero household. He had stopped to sleep and to grab a couple of meals along the way back to New Jersey but, once back in the slow-moving town of Tempest, he had appeared as a rusty, orange fireball soaring across the roads of his hometown. There were things he wanted to see again in Tempest, sure. But Mark’s heart had thumped anxiously the moment he got into town, scared of but excited about his approaching reunion. He imagined and dreaded the difficult, awkward conversation he was sure to have with Jeff. There was something else, though; the feeling of a mission.

Mark grinded the Ghia to a stop in front of the beat-up farmhouse, swung open the car door and flung himself at the rustic porch. There was no time to think, just knock, knock, knock. He did so. And waited. And waited a bit more.

Mark’s stomach fell as he realized no one was home…or answering the door, at least. He peered around the porch, past the uncut bush at its side, and saw that there were no other cars in the driveway besides his. No, no one was home.

Mark stepped back into the driveway and squinted helplessly at the roof of the house. “Now what?” he asked out loud. Now he was going to have to lose and re-find his resolve one again. Mark turned back to his car and paused. For the first time since getting back to Tempest, he noticed that it was getting cold.

***

Any den of ineptitude, any dive, Lenara Quesal was at home. Now, she wasn’t insulting her own character by admitting that. She was royal blood; there was no room for low self-image. Rather, she prided herself on being a chameleon. She could stride into a meeting place that appealed to commoners or even those of a haughty high station and converse with any chosen individual, even steal the party if she sought to. If they were exposed to only one side of her personality, even be it a side that left her with some form of personal disdain, she could live with it. As long as her job got done. There was usually money or other wealth involved in her work and tonight was no different. Of course, if the job she was there to do tonight was profitable, why was she feeling a prickly pang of guilt?

Lenara folded away her inner queries into the Sometime Quite Later File and pulled her face into a delightfully seductive stare. The one that came naturally to her when she let it. Cheshire smile, auburn hair teased over the edges of her tan cheeks and both her green eye and her blue eye aglow.

This was Mekong’s before her, a little bar on the fringe edge of a rural-ish town called Tempest, New Jersey. A dive. The walls were cracked stucco and illuminated beer signs beckoned from the cloudy windows. The wooden door muffled throbbing rock music. Quaint. Lenara straightened her white jacket, white like the rest of her outfit, and pushed open the door.

The smoke hit her like a brick. And though hazy, the situation inside became obvious. All men. All looking at her, gawking at her lithe assets. All but one. He was leaning on the bar, the tip of his forehead touching the bottle he hunched in his hands, as if willing the liquid directly into his brain. He was mid-20s, maybe a little younger than her although that admission would stay in her mouth. He had a farmer’s tan, the lighter sections of his football-like biceps visible under his rolled-up sleeves. His hair was black and spiked like a little porcupine. Lenara caught a giggle in her throat. His face was angular and severe but his expression was soft, something damaged. Cute, she assessed. Maybe the kind of guy who would lap up her advanced like a porcupine lapping up milk. Hmmm, she thought, do porcupines drink milk?

Lenara strutted past the other guys, most of them already starting their wicked glances and preparing their opening lines. She blatantly ignored them and took a barstool next to the guy not paying any attention to her.

His eyes were closed. She drew her hips across the stool and propped her forearms on the bar so she was in his sight. His personal space punctured, he sensed her and glanced up at her somewhat irritably but his expression switched to shock, his brown eyes blaring as if flicked on by a light switch. It was quick and he drew a hand across his face.

“Um, hello?” he greeted her.

Lenara looked him up and down and nodded. “Hey,” she said, seductively soft, “I give you a fright?”

He looked down at the drink cupped in his hands. “No. Just startled me. You reminded me of someone. For a second, anyway. Like there was something similar in spirit.”

“So,” Lenara said, changing the subject, “What’s your name?”

“Mark,” he offered, saluting her with his drink. He had gone from frustration with her presence to a sort of cautious fascination.

“Lenara,” she said. “Tempest here is kind of out of the way. You live here?”

“Yeah. No, not anymore,” he said. “I’ve been living in North Carolina. Came back to help a friend.”

“Help him move to a new house?”

Mark looked at the bar with nebulous guilt. “Not exactly.”

Lenara leaned into him and pressed his arm. “You’re built well. What do you do?” Mark didn’t respond to her touch but he didn’t move away, either. He clutched his drink tighter and shot her a pointed stare.

“What do you do?” he asked.

Lenara smiled and flipped a lock of hair that was hanging over her face. “Well…I’m in exports,” she said. “It’s not very exciting.” She looked up at him bashfully and they both chuckled.

“I’m a ballplayer,” Mark gently offered.

“Ahh,” she said impishly. “I was gonna guess that.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mark said.

“Really,” she said. “It’s the shirt.”

“My shirt?”

“Yeah,” she said, lightly tugging on his sleeve. “The kind with the white center and the blue sleeves. Don’t basesball players wear those?”

“Baseball, you mean?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I guess we do.”

“Do you like it?” she asked. “Not the shirt, the game.”

Mark halted and looked into his drink, his mouth stalling on an answer. He finally said, “Well, I’m good at it. I might get some time in the majors in a season or two.”

Lenara leaned back on the bar and looked at him with concern. “You don’t look happy about it. What you do for a living should make you happy,” she stated with an exaggerated nod.

Mark sheepishly grinned. “I play ball. Not to much to complain about when you’re talking to a guy who works in a factory, y’know?”

Lenara tapped her fingers on the bar and paused to make him a proposition. “Would you like a different job, Mark?”

Mark looked quizzically up at her. “What do you mean?”

“A new profession,” she said in a clipped, hushed voice and catching his eyes with an enticing stare. “Maybe something you’re more sure you’ll like. All I can tell you at this point, and, I quote my employer, is, ‘It’s a chance to make a difference.’”

Mark ran his knuckles over the bar’s smooth but cloudy wooden surface. “It would depend. I’m not even sure why you’re asking me this.”

It seemed, Lenara observed, that the matter of fulfillment had piqued his interest.

Lenara exhaled and stared absently at the far wall. “Who did I remind you of, Mark?”

Mark’s head sunk and Lenara thought that he had closed her out. Drat, she should have kept being sensitive. But then he talked.

“Her name was Sam,” he quietly explained, looking into the fluid before him. “A few years ago, she was murdered.”

Lenara looked over and saw that he was mentally somewhere else.

“I remember when we found out,” he continued. “My friend Jeff and I, we were at this bar, sitting right where the two of us are sitting now. Jeff was dating her at the time. When the television gave the news, he fell to the ground, crushed.” Mark took a long sip of his drink, then ran a hand along his face. “I just remember going numb, feeling all youth and passion bleed away.”

“Then what?” Lenara asked.

“Then, eventually,” Mark said, “I moved. Left everyone.” He went quiet and looked away.

“You would welcome an opportunity to alleviate past regrets?” she asked matter-of-factly.

Mark regarded her and she could see he was confused and suspicious. “What are you aiming at?” he said. “You didn’t hit a few bars before here, did you?”

“It’s tied into my offer,” she said sternly. “I will tell you more. But for right now, I need to know if you’re open to some adventure.”

“Mark rolled it around in his head for a few seconds and then shrugged, exasperated. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but why the hell not?”

“Very good,” Lenara commended, rubbing his arm. She stood up from her barstool and dropped money on the counter to pay for his drink. “I’ll be in touch, dear.” She saw he was perplexed. “Don’t look so down,” she said, “I think you’re going to like this. I do.”

Mark rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Well…ah…I’ll be at the motel on Davenport.”

“Are you headed there now?” she inquired. “Or perhaps you’ll see some of the old sites of town first?” The way she asked it was more of a strong suggestion.

Mark squinted at her, then shrugged. “I’ll take a drive by the site of the old Tempest Fair. It’s been awhile, though. Maybe once I’m okay to drive.”

Lenara raised an eyebrow and leaned over to get a better look at his drink. “Aren’t you drinking mineral water?” she asked.

Mark issued a dry laugh. “I’m not much of a drinker. I just need some time.”

“As you wish,” she said. Lenara touched his chin, feeling his short stubble. His look was questioning, curious. Perfect. He was intrigued but not too spooked. “I’ll be in touch,” she repeated, giving him a glimmering smile. The she turned and strode away, once again avoiding the come-ons of the other bar patrons. Well, half of them, anyway. The others were staring jealously at Mark.

***

Mark watched Lenara exit the bar and turned slowly back to his water. “This town gets weirder every day,” he mumbled. Mark didn’t know what kind of job she was offering but she knew how to press the right buttons, like she knew him and he had forgotten her. The notion of job fulfillment, though, was not going to whitewash the furor of the past that emanated from Tempest and that he carried everywhere with him inside his skull.

***

Lenara looked all around as she exited Mekong’s and was relieved to see that no prying eyes were prowling the parking lot. She dropped into the evening shadows behind the bar and the trees, looking once again behind her to make sure she hadn’t been followed by some relentless drunk. Satisfied, Lenara walked behind the large dumpster to where she had hidden the car. Even in low light, the car’s purple paint was glimmering. If the odd color didn’t attract attention, the fact that it was a classic Duesenberg touring car tended to. It was a mammoth of an automobile, long and elegant with curved rims and brass fittings galore. It’s orb-like headlights and nose poked out from behind the dumpster, as did it’s rear, giving the appearance of a lion naively thinking it had found a wonderful hiding place behind a toaster. It was beautiful, no doubt, but was also a natural draw to attention and Lenara needed to have a private conversation with someone.

He was standing on the Duesenberg’s roof, an apparition that was barely there besides a faint outline in the night air. Whatever kind of outfit he was wearing gave the appearance of some sort of armor. His head was helmeted as always and Lenara thought she could make out pointed teeth on it but it was like squinting under muddy water, trying to see. His arms, though, she could tell they were not like human arms. They looked more like tentacles, long and rippling as he stood there. This all put Lenara on edge but it was nothing compared to his voice, an echoing, sneering tone that seemed to come from behind you when he was right there in front of you. “Did you ask him?” he demanded.

“I did,” she said, “but how did you know he would be there? Or that he would be going down Mill Road to where the Tempest Fair used to be? How did you anticipate such detail?”

“Because I know him well,” he explained, not offering anymore. Lenara knew better than to press an employer too much. “What did he say?” the apparition’s disembodied voice asked.

“I think he’s interested,” Lenara said, grinning. “He wasn’t terribly enthusiastic and was confused but I could see in his eyes that the offer intrigued him.”

“Perfect,” the voice said. “Then we shall proceed.”

“But it’s not like he even knew what he was agreeing to,” Lenara interjected. “It was more tentative.”

“The details are unimportant. If you had said everything, he’d have written you off,” the voice said. “I needed to know that the desire was within him when presented with the possibility of change. He needed to have a choice. From what you’re saying, it was.”

“Yes, that could be said,” Lenara admitted, not completely satisfied. The vague trappings of this job were bothering her and she wasn’t used to second-guessing herself where work was involved. She knew the gist of what she was being paid to set up but she had not been told the reasons behind it.

“Excellent,” the voice said, the apparition on the car not budging at all. “Then we move forward. I hope you will continue to honor my wish to not tell your boss, Colonel Brixton, about our business.”

“I’ve got tight lips,” she assured him.

“I trust you do,” the voice said, sounding confident. Lenara saw the apparition fade from its place atop the car, leaving only the dark shadows of the trees above. Her neck bristled when the voice returned despite that.

“Now, go,” it said. “You have an accident to stage.”

Chapter 2, In Full

And here's the entirety of Chapter 2. There's one thing at the end of this chapter that bothers me because I've seen it too many times on TV, especially since I wrote this awhile back. See if you can guess what it is. I'm not sure how else to do it, though, and I like how it plays out. Maybe a little cliché is okay, now and then. Tell me if you disagree, but I'm very happy with this chapter.

E4, Chapter 2

Lenara clenched a fist as Zhuriosky hung over her, his beard dribbling with alcohol. His breath made her wince and she began to exit the table booth at which they sat. Zhuriosky snatched her parka’s hood and mumbled some Russian innuendo, to which Lenara replied by jabbing him in the ribs with a fork. As the drunken Russian wobbled back in irritation, Lenara stood and straightened her parka.

“You’re paying, then?” she asked in his native language. Zhuriosky absently waved a hand. “Good,” she replied. “The prices here for mediocre swill are outrageous.”

From the bar, Vlad watched as Lenara strode away into Zhuriosky’s office. He wasn’t sure what relations there were between her and his friend or if she had the privilege of entering the office. Zhuriosky, in any case, was too drunk to object.

The few observations Vlad had made of Lenara piqued his guard. She had appeared that afternoon (and for the past few days) on foot and with stupidly few supplies. He didn’t trust her bright eyes or the dark, somewhat reddish, color of her hair. She spoke fluent Russian, but with an odd accent he couldn’t place. At least it wasn’t American. Her body was lithe and muscular with enticing enough curves - still, it had nothing on the burlier, warmer women Vlad was used to. The golden tan of her skin was a grievous anomaly, being a stark contrast to the pale complexions of Vlad’s fellow ice dwellers.

What bothered Vlad the most was that she was a woman traveling alone. It was dangerous, something rarely seen, and Vlad didn’t trust her as far as he could spit. He’d give her a few minutes’ benefit of the doubt to gather what belongings she might have in the office. Any more and he was going in after her.

***

In Zhuriosky’s office, Lenara dropped into Zhuriosky’s plush chair and furiously began picking the lock on his bottom desk drawer. If she had interpreted Zhuriosky’s inebriated drivel correctly, the Anastar ruby was kept in that location.

Lenara issued a silent cheer as the lock popped and she pulled open the maple drawer. She leafed through a stack of files with her fingernails, hoping the jewel was hidden somewhere beneath them. Her thief’s mind flitted through the methods used to conceal objects from people like her. There could be a false-bottom drawer or a book with the center cut out. She might be rationalizing her growing fear of finding nothing, but didn’t Sherlock Holmes say that the improbable was the most possible or something?

She reached the last sheaf of paper and pulled the whole pile out in disgust. There was nothing there but imported wood. Authorities would be very interested in the incriminating files she held, but Lenara was looking for what glittered.

As she stared at the empty drawer, the intuitive part of her thieving mind churned, the part that says, “What the hell? Try that last place, the one no one would ever consider.” It tapped into what a person with something to hide thought.

Lenara wrenched the drawer off of its track and placed her face near the opening. Taped to the interior of the desk was a key. She grinned and removed the fresh tape, allowing the bronze key to drop into her palm. As the tape had nigh a tinge of yellow, Zhuriosky had obviously replaced it recently. He probably fondled the jewel daily, only peeking at the ruby after his patrons had trudged off for the night.

“Now, where?” she mused out loud, twisting the key around her finger. Lenara closed her eyes and retraced what she saw during the few times Zhuriosky had taken her in the office. Each time, he had bumped open the door with his shoulder and glanced... Every time, he had stolen a glance at the floor. It had been nearly imperceptible and probably unintentional, but he had glanced there each time as if to see that something was closed. She opened her eyes and they sparkled. Lord, she loved her job.

Lenara went to the right side of the office, as that was the general direction Zhuriosky had looked. She began toying with the floor tiles, running the key along their edges. Lenara had to give him credit for finding a good spot. After all, she had only figured it out because she was looking for it.

Beautifully, one of the stone tiles popped up. Lenara gingerly put it aside and found that there was a small lockbox set into the floor. Triumphant again, she pulled it out and clicked open its lock with the key.

The Anastar Ruby looked like an eye that had been plucked from a whale made of crystal. It seemed alive, not composed of stone but glistening, red blood. It connected with Lenara’s natural desire to possess beauty and, for a moment, she felt the drive to keep it for herself. She forced herself to pull away, to blink, to disconnect. This was a job. Her employer was awaiting her, one hand held aloft to examine the ruby and the other offering a very substantial paycheck. Without him, Lenara wouldn’t be able to go on such treasure hunts.

Lenara re-approached the jewel with an assessing eye.

The Anastar Ruby had been lost to the world in 1851. It was on display in London, for the Great International Exhibition at the Crystal Palace. Held in a graceful building made of glass and framed by steel, the largest of its kind at the time, the Exhibition featured inventions that boasted of the Industrial Age and international showrooms that glamorized Britain’s imperialism. Plundered from India, the Anastar Ruby was a perfect symbol of foreign wealth. Sometime during the exhibition, the ruby vanished into the ether and attendees were left to marvel at the marble post on which it had sat. It was never seen again. The facts of the heist were very familiar to Lenara, but she didn’t know what had become of the ruby in the intervening years. She had only become aware of it being in the grubby hands of Zhuriosky because he had a big mouth. Now, though, it rested softly in her gloved hands. She smiled, and could almost hear it purr.

Lenara reached into the right side of her parka and undid the zipper of a hidden pocket. It was cushioned and would well protect the ruby. She barely had the jewel inside when the door to the office swung open and Vlad stamped in. Lenara swiftly continued tucking the ruby into her pocket in the hope that he didn’t notice. No such luck. The walrus of a man leaned against the door as he closed it and waved a finger at her.

“Bad girl,” he reprimanded, “I knew Zhuriosky shouldn’t have trusted you.”

Lenara rested her arms at her side as she poised for action. It really aggravated her when people talked down to her, but Vlad’s tone had much more amusement in it than she expected from the otherwise silent and conniving man. Lenara didn’t respond, but regarded him with a sly grin.

Vlad grunted and walked over to where the tile and lockbox were still on the floor. “So that’s where he keeps it,” Vlad said, scratching his brown beard. He nonchalantly faced Lenara, careful not to get so close as to spook her, but crossed his arms and frowned down at her. “My friend prizes that ruby. I cannot allow you to leave here with it.”

Lenara readied her knee for his crotch.

“But,” Vlad said, putting his arms behind his back, “if you give it to me, I will find a buyer and we can split the profits.”

Lenara laughed and shook her head. “You’re my kind of scum, Vlad.” She tilted her head all sexy-like and Vlad realized that she had different-colored eyes, one blue and one green. “How do I know that I’ll get my half?” she asked softly.

“Hmm,” Vlad muttered, “I see why Zhuriosky prefers you. All the women here are pale and plain. They are voluptuous, surely, but they are workhorses. Charms aside, girl, I think you only have the option I’ve given you. It involves...trust.”

Lenara nodded. “All right, Vlad, sometimes thieves have to share.” She reached into her parka’s inside pocket and pulled out a handful of ruby. At least that’s what Vlad thought it was. Lenara tossed it up and Vlad went to catch it, only realizing as it neared his hands that it was a fuzzy, pink wallet.

Lenara made the most of the distraction and threw herself onto the stocky Russian. She got a grip on his neck and swung her body around and onto his back. Vlad gasped in surprise as she tightened her arms around his throat, cutting off his air with her tight, toned arms.

“You bertchhhh...,” he gargled, his face turning red. Vlad grabbed her arms to break the hold, but her grip was insistent. He tried to flip her forward, but Lenara squeezed her thighs into his sides and crossed her legs over his waist like a praying mantis snatching her prey. Vlad began to gag and panic. He ran backwards, slamming his back and the thief against the wall. Lenara yelped, but gritted her teeth and squeezed with her total might. Vlad stumbled forward and ran back again, hitting the wall. It knocked the breath from Lenara, but she forced herself to hold the grip just a bit longer. Vlad stepped forward again, arms slowly flailing, then fell to his knees. His head lolled forward and Lenara knew she could let go.

Vlad crumpled to the floor, passed out. Lenara quickly extracted her limbs and jogged to the door, still gasping and feeling the pain in her back. She doubted he would be out long and she needed to get as far as possible before he came to. Then she realized something, went back over to Vlad and yanked her wallet from his hand.

Back in the bar, Zhuriosky was still slumped over his drink. He saw Lenara come out of the office and waved her over, but she coldly ignored him. Lenara zipped up her parka and dashed for the exit. Her boots greeted the snow with a pounding as she barreled away from the bar and into the overcast air. If only she had time to hotwire one of the snowmobiles parked outside.

Lenara ran across the snowy ice, headed like a lemming for a cliff that was about a third of a mile ahead. She was in excellent shape but the cold air she inhaled while trudging forward did a job on her lungs. She was panting by the time she reached a large rock that jutted out near the edge of the cliff. Grasping the formation, she leaned forward to look over the precipice. There was a long drop below with only the tops of trees to break her fall. She reclined against the rock and pulled off her right glove. On her middle finger was a silver ring with a black dial on top. She clicked the dial around and pressed her hand against her mouth so the howling wind would not interfere.

“Come in,” she spoke into the dial. There was a pause, then another voice crackled through a tiny speaker on the ring.

“Lenara?” the gruff male voice said.

Lenara nodded. “Yeah. I need an immediate pick-up at my drop-off location.”

The voice crackled again. “I’m close, be there in a few.”

“Hurry it up,” she encouraged. Lenara slid her glove back on and absorbed the warmth that came with it. She hung back against the rock, trying to hide herself behind an angle in the formation. Knowing what must be coming, she peeked out. Moving forward across the ice were the headlights of two snowmobiles.

Lenara cursed in Russian as the snowmobiles came fully into view. They were moving fast and there appeared to be one rider on one snowmobile and two riders on the other. Lenara tried to hide, but remembered quickly that all they had to do was follow her footprints.

The snowmobiles slowed down and halted only feet from her. Vlad, looking pretty aggravated and red in the face, stepped off of his snowmobile. Lenara noted with delight the bruises on his neck. A young and slender man she recognized as one of Zhuriosky’s pipeline workers was driving the other snowmobile. He rose and helped up Zhuriosky, who was sitting rather wobbly on the back.

“Nice evening for a ride?” Lenara asked dryly. She could have passed for a snow angel, the lights capturing her dressed all in white against the ice with the exception of her tan skin. More like a snow devil, she thought slyly.

Zhuriosky leaned against the snowmobile’s handles and squinted his grey eyes at her. “I thought you liked me,” he slurred.

Lenara shrugged. “You’re okay,” she told him, “but I had work to do.” Zhuriosky shared a hurt look with the man who was making sure he didn’t stumble over.

Vlad ground a fist into his other hand. “She is vermin, Sebastian! I caught her in the act of stealing the ruby. When, as a gentleman, I gave her the opportunity to put it back and leave your office, she held me at knifepoint and ran.”

Zhuriosky shook his head, troubled. Some recently formed crows’ feet welled up along his eyes. “Lenara, that ruby means the world to me. I beg you to hand it back. If you do, then you may go without harm.”

Vlad looked at his friend with a sneer on his face.

“No,” said Lenara, “there’s no way you’ll take it from me.” She leaned back and took a glance over the precipice. Smiling, she stepped away from the rock and balanced herself on the very edge of the cliff.

Zhuriosky went wide-eyed as he saw her wobble and waved his hands. “Nuh, no, you won’t-”

“One last thing,” Lenara interjected. “Think about how much you trust Vlad. How do you think I knew the ruby was hidden in the floorboards? And ask him how he got those marks on his neck. It sure wasn’t from loving.”

Zhuriosky shot a worried glance at his friend. Vlad just gritted his teeth and glared at Lenara. She shrugged, realizing Zhuriosky was probably too drunk to remember any of his suspicions when he sobered up.

Lenara grinned, teeth chattering in the cold. “I told you there was no way you were getting back that ruby,” she said as a matter-of-fact. Lenara then leapt up backwards and sent herself over the cliff.

Zhuriosky exclaimed sorrow and fell to his knees.

Lenara fell only about six feet into a waiting hatch. She hit a carpeted floor with a hard thump and laid sprawled face-down, awash in her parka.

From up ahead, the gruff voice asked, “Tough job?”

Lenara peered up, a satisfied grin on her face. Without a word, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the Anastar Ruby.

“Beautiful,” said the man.

“Yes, I am,” said Lenara. “Now, let’s get out of here.” As they began to move, the walls echoed a vibrating, relaxing hum. Lenara put her head back on the floor, closed her eyes and gripped the ruby tight.

Up above, Vlad snickered. “What a waste of a beautiful woman,” he mused. He laid Zhuriosky’s arm on his shoulder and helped him approach the edge of the cliff. They ventured to look down, knowing the girl could not have survived the fall. Below, however, were only treetops and snow. Zhuriosky began to shout orders to find her body but was interrupted as an aircraft shot up across the mountain to their side. The shadowy form sped away into the falling snow, making an odd buzzing noise. Vlad realized that Zhuriosky’s blurry eyes couldn’t make out the vehicle, but the craft was unlike any Vlad had ever seen.

Chapter 1, Warts and All

Tim gave me many helpful comments on my last post, and there are quite a few things I need to rework in the novel. But that's good, because I've been clear from the start that this is a draft and I'm revealing it on this blog as I write it, complete with all the bad, good and mediocre parts. It will see a lot of changes by the time I'm even close to being done with it.

I have realized that in order to get the best feedback I can, I need to post the full chapters, not excerpts. So, I'm going to take a few steps back and post the first three chapters in full, even though I've posted excerpts from them previously. I agree that the first chapter is weak; it'll likely be reworked into a later chapter. I'm still going to post the chapters that I've written to this point just so you can see where I'm going with this, then I'm going to start reworking things and you'll see that. This is scary for me and my stomach always drops when I first read any negative feedback. I have an initial feeling that I should quit. But I take a breath, read the feedback again and start thinking about how I make changes that will make a better story.

So, here is the current Chapter 1 in full. You've seen most of it already, actually:

She was bathed in sunbeams and Mark couldn’t make out her features. It didn’t matter. She was radiant as always.

He was lying in that field of unnamed and exotic flowers, the one he often dropped softly into in his dreams. The air’s warmth plastered him back into the short grass, the blades massaging his tanned muscles.

Mark was naked from the waist up and his skin rippled when she laid a thin hand upon his chest from above. Mark inhaled a breath and pulled her down. She fell onto him with a laugh.

Even with her face in front of him, she was still a sunshine blur. Mark reached for her chin and felt it slim and warm against his hand. He bent up to meet her lips and she obliged. There was no sensation, though, as if he had just been shot through with Novocain. The sun’s hot glow began to subside into numbness and Mark fought to block out the thoughts that had reared up like a furor as he held onto what he wanted.

Mark knew the scenario wasn’t real; not in the way he wished. The colors and sensations were much too vivid to exist. He recognized that he was back in his bed in his North Carolina apartment. Mark was never suckered into his dreams. His consciousness always held anchor in reality; his sleeping mind no longer possessed the ability to sweep him away.

This dream, though, the one in which he saw her, was different than any of his other flat fantasies. Mark knew he wasn’t really in that endless field with her under a sky tinged purple. The girl he saw on top of him, her brown air hanging down on his cheeks; she could not cross that barrier in his mind. He was not able to believe that her physical presence was real. Her voice, however, transcended his reason. Mark couldn’t deny how full her voice was, how soothing it felt, or how he was unable to control what she was saying with his imagination.

“I wish you could stay,” she said.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Mark admitted, relaxing under her weight in the grass. “This field…endlessly,” he muttered, hugging her head to his chest. He still could not make out her features but her presence was enough.

“But you can’t,” she whispered with regret in her voice.

“And why not?” he asked, half-grinning. “I’ve got at least three more hours before the alarm goes off.”

Through the shadow that covered her, he could feel her maintain her seriousness. “You have to go help him,” she said.

“Help who?” Mark already sensed her response but wished to avoid it.

“Jeff,” she said, the word echoing through her cheeks to his bare chest.

Mark paused and sighed. “I know. I haven’t seen him in a long time. It’s…difficult.”

“You have to,” she commanded, in that way she had of being domineering but endearing all the same.

“What’s wrong?” Mark asked, pushing aside any hesitation out of concern.

“He’s in trouble. He’s in a bad place,” she cryptically stated. “But more than that, you have to help him move on.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Mark said, feeling his bottom eyelids puff out. “I would know.”

She moved up a bit, pressing her small, firm breasts into his chest, and once again hung over his face, her dark hair obscuring what he could make out of her features. “I know you can save him,” she said confidently. “Do it for me.”

“It’s not just him I want to save, Samantha,” Mark said, his voice choking up as painful memories gripped him.

She ran her fingers along his cheek. “I wish that were possible.”

Mark leaned his head up, defiantly looking into what he imagined he could see of her eyes. “Who says it isn’t?”

Her expression, he could feel, was a mixture of pride and sympathy. She kissed him again and it actually began to feel real this time. Then, the phone rang.

***

Mark jumped off of his bed and dropped to the floor where he hazily recalled leaving the cordless phone a few nights before, under a pile of CDs and clean clothes he hadn’t felt like putting away. Mark was still clothed in half of his baseball uniform, a reminder of a season that had just ended the day before.

Furiously, the phone rang again and Mark snatched the receiver just a ring before the answering machine sprang to action. He began to relax a bit as he sat in the nest of clothes and offered a tired hello but he stiffened up when he heard who was on the line.

Lisa Montiero hesitantly greeted him and immediately addressed what he had hoped she wouldn’t.

“Mark, I know you wouldn’t normally hear from me but I don’t know who else to call,” she said, practically whispering. It’s Jeff…You’re his oldest friend…”

Mark swallowed away the dryness in his throat and felt an eerie pang in his chest upon hearing that. It was a mother’s desperate concern for her son he was listening to but even through the quickly retreating memories of his dream he remembered a similar message.

“He’s hasn’t been himself ever since she died, Mark, you know that. But lately, oh, his breath always smells like alcohol and I found-” She stopped short and Mark her voice quiver out a sob. “I was in his room. I shouldn’t have been but I was concerned and when he wasn’t there I went in and, oh god, there was a note. It was half-written but it sounded like…It sounded like…”

“Ms. Montiero,” said Mark, his voice still gravelly from sleep. “What can I do?”

“I know you two haven’t talked much since you left town but if you could just, talk to him. You’re the only one he can relate to about this. I hope you can find something out. He won’t talk to me. If you could call him,” she pleaded.

“I’ll try,” Mark offered, not confident in his ability. He had already started planning his excuses when the words from his dream came back to him and punched him in the ribs, giving him a cold stop of breath and stunned conviction.

“I know you can save him. Do it for me.”

It hadn’t been Jeff’s mom saying that. She was still fumbling over her plea for Mark’s help. The words had felt like they were in the room, coming from somewhere eternally out of sight.

“I’ll do you one better than call,” Mark said to anyone listening. “I haven’t been home in a long while. It’s time.”

As Jeff’s mother thanked him, Mark said goodbye and gently laid the phone down, taking a breath. He didn’t know how to help Jeff, though he desperately wanted to. Where was in his friend’s head? Jeff could be a cipher, even when in a normal state of mind. Jeff’s Mom wasn’t one to over-worry, was she? Whatever the case, Mark had just agreed to go home. Home. What was he thinking? How would he… Mark shoved the questions aside, clenched his hands into fists and blasted himself up with a pushup, hurling away the last hesitance. No, he had promised. And he had to. He owed it to Jeff. To…her.

It was a whirlwind that followed. Mark gripped the walls of the shower as the hot water engulfed him. Once dry, he pulled on a tight, blue-sleeved raglan shirt and tossed what he would need in an old suitcase and a bookbag. He was at the door, taking one last glance at the mess be called an apartment and a life, before he locked it away and entered his rusty car. His steel bat, a sort of comfort item, stuck between the seats, he roared out of his complex’s parking lot. Mark’s eyes hypnotically watched the roadside sights as he sped homeward: an out-of-place windmill caught in the sunset, a pristine ice cream shop that had been abandoned for years, a lady in a purple flapper hat and matching dress standing motionless on the shoulder in the middle of the night. (A sleep-deprivation-caused phantom, perhaps?)

Mark’s lips sang unknowingly along with a song on the radio, mouthing, “I still love the way you feel.” His focus was on the road but his mind was elsewhere, replaying the good memories of the past like flickering film. Mark moved through all of it with the driving realization that, while his dreams might be composed of images beyond possible beauty, the message he had received was from a place other than his mind. Mark made the trip back to New Jersey in record time.

In the Rough

Back after a brief break. I figured no one was watching and didn't update while I was focusing a lot on this new creative outlet, but then a friend e-mailed me a reminder about this blog, and I decided I shouldn't be letting yet another project go for this long. If only one person besides myself reads this, that's okay. As I said from the outset, this blog is more about giving me focus on writing.

Chapter 3 of my novel is probably rougher than the others, mainly because it involves some plot details that I'm not satisfied with. I HAVE to do more research into baseball to involve that element, since it's so far out of my league. *heh* I don't follow the sport all that much, but I feel that Mark being a baseball player who fits more the old mold of player before the public became (rightfully) cynical is right for the story. But any details on his profession are more or less placeholders since I have to look more into it. Aside from the baseball references, I want to improve Lenara and Mark's first conversation, and I want to see how the plot develops through the rest of the book; then I want to come back and rework this chapter a bit.

E4 Chapter 3 excerpt

Any den of ineptitude, any dive, Lenara Quesal was at home. Now, she wasn’t insulting her own character by admitting that. She was royal blood; there was no room for low self-image. Rather, she prided herself on being a chameleon. She could stride into a meeting place that appealed to commoners or even those of a haughty high station and converse with any chosen individual, even steal the party if she sought to. If they were exposed to only one side of her personality, even be it a side that left her with some form of personal disdain, she could live with it. As long as her job got done. There was usually money or other wealth involved in her work and tonight was no different. Of course, if the job she was there to do tonight was profitable, why was she feeling a prickly pang of guilt?

Lenara folded away her inner queries into the Sometime Quite Later File and pulled her face into a delightfully seductive stare. The one that came naturally to her when she let it. Cheshire smile, auburn hair teased over the edges of her tan cheeks and both her green eye and her blue eye aglow.

This was Mekong’s before her, a little bar on the fringe edge of a rural-ish town called Tempest, New Jersey. A dive. The walls were cracked stucco and illuminated beer signs beckoned from the cloudy windows. The wooden door muffled throbbing rock music. Quaint. Lenara straightened her white jacket, white like the rest of her outfit, and pushed open the door.

The smoke hit her like a brick. And though hazy, the situation inside became obvious. All men. All looking at her, gawking at her lithe assets. All but one. He was leaning on the bar, the tip of his forehead touching the bottle he hunched in his hands, as if willing the liquid directly into his brain. He was mid-20s, maybe a little younger than her although that admission would stay in her mouth. He had a farmer’s tan, the lighter sections of his football-like biceps visible under his rolled-up sleeves. His hair was black and spiked like a little porcupine. Lenara caught a giggle in her throat. His face was angular and severe but his expression was soft, something damaged. Cute, she assessed. Maybe the kind of guy who would lap up her advanced like a porcupine lapping up milk. Hmmm, she thought, do porcupines drink milk?

Lenara strutted past the other guys, most of them already starting their wicked glances and preparing their opening lines. She blatantly ignored them and took a barstool next to the guy not paying any attention to her.

His eyes were closed. She drew her hips across the stool and propped her forearms on the bar so she was in his sight. His personal space punctured, he sensed her and glanced up at her somewhat irritably but his expression switched to shock, his brown eyes blaring as if flicked on by a light switch. It was quick and he drew a hand across his face.

“Um, hello?” he greeted her.

Lenara looked him up and down and nodded. “Hey,” she said, seductively soft, “I give you a fright?”

He looked down at the drink cupped in his hands. “No. Just startled me. You reminded me of someone. For a second, anyway. Like there was something similar in spirit.”

“So,” Lenara said, changing the subject, “What’s your name?”

“Mark,” he offered, saluting her with his drink. He had gone from frustration with her presence to a sort of cautious fascination.

“Lenara,” she said. “Tempest here is kind of out of the way. You live here?”

“Yeah. No, not anymore,” he said. “I’ve been living in North Carolina. Came back to help a friend.”

“Help him move to a new house?”

Mark looked at the bar with nebulous guilt. “Not exactly.”

Lenara leaned into him and pressed his arm. “You’re built well. What do you do?” Mark didn’t respond to her touch but he didn’t move away, either. He clutched his drink tighter and shot her a pointed stare.

“What do you do?” he asked.

Lenara smiled and flipped a lock of hair that was hanging over her face. “Well…I’m in exports,” she said. “It’s not very exciting.” She looked up at him bashfully and they both chuckled.

“I’m a ballplayer,” Mark gently offered.

“Ahh,” she said impishly. “I was gonna guess that.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mark said.

“Really,” she said. “It’s the shirt.”

“My shirt?”

“Yeah,” she said, lightly tugging on his sleeve. “The kind with the white center and the blue sleeves. Don’t basesball players wear those?”

“Baseball, you mean?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I guess we do.”

“Do you like it?” she asked. “Not the shirt, the game.”

Mark halted and looked into his drink, his mouth stalling on an answer. He finally said, “Well, I’m good at it. I might get some time in the majors in a season or two.”

Lenara leaned back on the bar and looked at him with concern. “You don’t look happy about it. What you do for a living should make you happy,” she stated with an exaggerated nod.

Mark sheepishly grinned. “I play ball. Not to much to complain about when you’re talking to a guy who works in a factory, y’know?”

Lenara tapped her fingers on the bar and paused to make him a proposition. “Would you like a different job, Mark?”

Mark looked quizzically up at her. “What do you mean?”

“A new profession,” she said in a clipped, hushed voice and catching his eyes with an enticing stare. “Maybe something you’re more sure you’ll like. All I can tell you at this point, and, I quote my employer, is, ‘It’s a chance to make a difference.’”

Mark ran his knuckles over the bar’s smooth but cloudy wooden surface. “It would depend. I’m not even sure why you’re asking me this.”

It seemed, Lenara observed, that the matter of fulfillment had piqued his interest.

Lenara exhaled and stared absently at the far wall. “Who did I remind you of, Mark?”

Mark’s head sunk and Lenara thought that he had closed her out. Drat, she should have kept being sensitive. But then he talked.

“Her name was Sam,” he quietly explained, looking into the fluid before him. “A few years ago, she was murdered.”

Lenara looked over and saw that he was mentally somewhere else.

“I remember when we found out,” he continued. “My friend Jeff and I, we were at this bar, sitting right where the two of us are sitting now. Jeff was dating her at the time. When the television gave the news, he fell to the ground, crushed.” Mark took a long sip of his drink, then ran a hand along his face. “I just remember going numb, feeling all youth and passion bleed away.”

“Then what?” Lenara asked.

“Then, eventually,” Mark said, “I moved. Left everyone.” He went quiet and looked away.

“You would welcome an opportunity to alleviate past regrets?” she asked matter-of-factly.

Mark regarded her and she could see he was confused and suspicious. “What are you aiming at?” he said. “You didn’t hit a few bars before here, did you?”

“It’s tied into my offer,” she said sternly. “I will tell you more. But for right now, I need to know if you’re open to some adventure.”

“Mark rolled it around in his head for a few seconds and then shrugged, exasperated. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but why the hell not?”

“Very good,” Lenara commended, rubbing his arm. She stood up from her barstool and dropped money on the counter to pay for his drink. “I’ll be in touch, dear.” She saw he was perplexed. “Don’t look so down,” she said, “I think you’re going to like this. I do.”

Mark rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Well…ah…I’ll be at the motel on Davenport.”

“Are you headed there now?” she inquired. “Or perhaps you’ll see some of the old sites of town first?” The way she asked it was more of a strong suggestion.

Mark squinted at her, then shrugged. “I’ll take a drive by the site of the old Tempest Fair. It’s been awhile, though. Maybe once I’m okay to drive.”

Lenara raised an eyebrow and leaned over to get a better look at his drink. “Aren’t you drinking mineral water?” she asked.

Mark issued a dry laugh. “I’m not much of a drinker. I just need some time.”

“As you wish,” she said. Lenara touched his chin, feeling his short stubble. His look was questioning, curious. Perfect. He was intrigued but not too spooked. “I’ll be in touch,” she repeated, giving him a glimmering smile. The she turned and strode away, once again avoiding the come-ons of the other bar patrons. Well, half of them, anyway. The others were staring jealously at Mark.

Mark watched Lenara exit the bar and turned slowly back to his water. “This town gets weirder every day,” he mumbled. Mark didn’t know what kind of job she was offering but she knew how to press the right buttons, like she knew him and he had forgotten her. The notion of job fulfillment, though, was not going to whitewash the furor of the past that emanated from Tempest and that he carried everywhere with him inside his skull.

Confessor: Credo, and E4: Chapter 2

I've never been terribly interested in writing poetry, but when that urge does show up, it comes out as prose written in a poetic style. I try to write a narrative with words chosen carefully to be very visually evocative. I often will use sentence fragments and leave the story that's being told somewhat murky, like someone's transmitting their thoughts to you instead of speaking them. What I'm trying to do is create the surreal yet vivid form that my dreams often take, more dynamic than life often is during waking hours. I can't say I always succeed 100%, but I have had some good reviews for my work in this style.

What I'm sharing today is the first prose poem like this that I wrote probably about 7 or 8 years ago. It was my attempt to create a mythological-type character, in this case The Confessor, a man who is granted immortality but doomed to never love. There's a series, or a cycle as I call it, about this character. I think the first three are good, especially the second, but the fourth one needs some work. (I'll still post it here.) I would like to continue with these, but I think I need to be in a certain place mentally to write them. Here's the first Confessor prose poem:

Confessor: Credo

They call me Confessor; Forever to listen but never be heard.

I wander among them in the surge of New York streets. I take the long road to the west. Rush through Vegas, breathe in Arizona and dry out in Utah sands. Wherever I go, I cannot flee the perceptions that repeat themselves through the eyes of all that I meet. The crack of my grin, the grate in my laugh; they are the hooks that tell them I’m open. It is not a device of attraction or friendship, but of comfort. People tell me things. So, I listen. I do not want to escape, for my chest pains along with them at their troubles and expands with the secrets and sins they so willingly confide. I will not misuse them. My credo is to listen, to dilute their worries.

I have much to gain. Each injured soul adds emotions to my once hollow heart. At a bar, the man who’s younger than he looks speaks of his descent into ruin. The pretty girl on the subway tells me of the eager suitors she has to choose from. A college student comes to me for advice on his future, but uncovers his own desired path by voicing the options. It is not my duty to advise, but to hear.

By the time it is my turn to pour out terrors and hopes, they have tired of conversation. My ear is so available that they forget I am more than a wall to cast their stories against. After years of this, they are right. I do not have anything personal to tell. I exist for them, a sum of their vices and loves.

How many ages have passed this way? I remember a time when the rivers ran backwards and the days spun forth at length. Then, did I dare not to listen. Then, did I bring about my curse. I was not unlike every man apart from my supernatural ambition.

My eyes spring open when upon my travels I encounter the one woman who is capable of completing myself. She feigns happiness, but is injured like all of the rest. How can I accurately describe my feelings for her or why I am so engrossed? Can we truly summarize our absolute passion for someone? You just know that it is right. I do not lose focus of my eternal task, for I desperately want to help her, care for her. She, however, is the one person through all of time who does not confide in me.

Of all the people that I have met, she is the one I want to listen to the most. Why am I destined to fail her confidence? It comes from my past, when I once dared to love a goddess at the expense of not being there for anyone else. Family fell apart, friends went astray and my kingdom fell. I gave up all in my attentions to her, but is that not the sign of total love? Fate must not agree, for she never returned my passion and I have ever since been drawn to wander. The spell I have to bleed confessions out of others, the compassion I have for them, can barely atone for my mistakes.

Once in a lifetime, I meet that goddess again and the dance repeats itself. No longer do I have anything to lose. I yearn for her, but she is not taken by any quality that I possess. To infinity I could strive to be more than mortal for her, but it will never be enough. She moves on to another, finds comfort in his arms and exists in happiness without me being a part of that life. I am left to sigh in the shadows and walk on, for this is my lot.

They call me Confessor; Forever to wander but never to love.

I'd also like to share with you an excerpt from Chapter 2 of my novel. The chapter introduce Lenara, who is probably my favorite of the various characters I've created. She's a thief and mercenary who's very self-assured, sexy, and a bit of a Robin (fem.) Hood, although she robs and extorts mostly from those who deserve it, and absolutely for her personal gain. She's an unashamed materialist, but loves to live an adventurous life. She can mold her personality into most anything she needs to be for her job, but in truth she's easy-going and a bit maternal, a tomboy but still girly. I'd like to think she's the character in this novel who's the most at ease with who she is and honest about it, at least when she can afford to be.

Lenara's one of the four main character in the book, yet she's taken on a different life outside of my writing, yet still steeped in my creative side. I play few video games, with wrestling games being the only reason I almost ever fire up the PS2. Fast-paced gameplay aside, I love the game mode (primarily in the Smackdown series) that allows you to create your own wrestlers. I have a field day with this, my own storylines running through my head as I play the game. Lenara is my favorite character to use. While it's not realistic to have her fighting all the guys in the game, to me she's the spunky underdog who rallies at the right moments and retains nobility in her losses, which ties right into the essence of the character as I see her in my novel. In fact, the wrestling games seem to have made their way into the novel in this passage... :) :

E4 Chapter 2 excerpt

Lenara went to the right side of the office, as that was the general direction Zhuriosky had looked. She began toying with the floor tiles, running the key along their edges. Lenara had to give him credit for finding a good spot. After all, she had only figured it out because she was looking for it.

Beautifully, one of the stone tiles popped up. Lenara gingerly put it aside and found that there was a small lockbox set into the floor. Triumphant again, she pulled it out and clicked open its lock with the key.

The Anastar Ruby looked like an eye that had been plucked from a whale made of crystal. It seemed alive, not composed of stone but glistening, red blood. It connected with Lenara’s natural desire to possess beauty and, for a moment, she felt the drive to keep it for herself. She forced herself to pull away, to blink, to disconnect. This was a job. Her employer was awaiting her, one hand held aloft to examine the ruby and the other offering a very substantial paycheck. Without him, Lenara wouldn’t be able to go on such treasure hunts.

Lenara re-approached the jewel with an assessing eye.

The Anastar Ruby had been lost to the world in 1851. It was on display in London, for the Great International Exhibition at the Crystal Palace. Held in a graceful building made of glass and framed by steel, the largest of its kind at the time, the Exhibition featured inventions that boasted of the Industrial Age and international showrooms that glamorized Britain’s imperialism. Plundered from India, the Anastar Ruby was a perfect symbol of foreign wealth. Sometime during the exhibition, the ruby vanished into the ether and attendees were left to marvel at the marble post on which it had sat. It was never seen again. The facts of the heist were very familiar to Lenara, but she didn’t know what had become of the ruby in the intervening years. She had only become aware of it being in the grubby hands of Zhuriosky because he had a big mouth. Now, though, it rested softly in her gloved hands. She smiled, and could almost hear it purr.

Lenara reached into the right side of her parka and undid the zipper of a hidden pocket. It was cushioned and would well protect the ruby. She barely had the jewel inside when the door to the office swung open and Vlad stamped in. Lenara swiftly continued tucking the ruby into her pocket in the hope that he didn’t notice. No such luck. The walrus of a man leaned against the door as he closed it and waved a finger at her.

“Bad girl,” he reprimanded, “I knew Zhuriosky shouldn’t have trusted you.”

Lenara rested her arms at her side as she poised for action. It really aggravated her when people talked down to her, but Vlad’s tone had much more amusement in it than she expected from the otherwise silent and conniving man. Lenara didn’t respond, but regarded him with a sly grin.

Vlad grunted and walked over to where the tile and lockbox were still on the floor.

“So that’s where he keeps it,” Vlad said, scratching his brown beard. He nonchalantly faced Lenara, careful not to get so close as to spook her, but crossed his arms and frowned down at her. “My friend prizes that ruby. I cannot allow you to leave here with it.”

Lenara readied her knee for his crotch.

“But,” Vlad said, putting his arms behind his back, “if you give it to me, I will find a buyer and we can split the profits.”

Lenara laughed and shook her head. “You’re my kind of scum, Vlad.” She tilted her head all sexy-like and Vlad realized that she had different-colored eyes, one blue and one green. “How do I know that I’ll get my half?” she asked softly.

“Hmm,” Vlad muttered, “I see why Zhuriosky prefers you. All the women here are pale and plain. They are voluptuous, surely, but they are workhorses. Charms aside, girl, I think you only have the option I’ve given you. It involves...trust.”

Lenara nodded. “All right, Vlad, sometimes thieves have to share.” She reached into her parka’s inside pocket and pulled out a handful of ruby. At least that’s what Vlad thought it was. Lenara tossed it up and Vlad went to catch it, only realizing as it neared his hands that it was a fuzzy, pink wallet.

Lenara made the most of the distraction and threw herself onto the stocky Russian. She got a grip on his neck and swung her body around and onto his back. Vlad gasped in surprise as she tightened her arms around his throat, cutting off his air with her tight, toned arms.

“You bertchhhh...,” he gargled, his face turning red. Vlad grabbed her arms to break the hold, but her grip was insistent. He tried to flip her forward, but Lenara squeezed her thighs into his sides and crossed her legs over his waist like a praying mantis snatching her prey. Vlad began to gag and panic. He ran backwards, slamming his back and the thief against the wall. Lenara yelped, but gritted her teeth and squeezed with her total might. Vlad stumbled forward and ran back again, hitting the wall. It knocked the breath from Lenara, but she forced herself to hold the grip just a bit longer. Vlad stepped forward again, arms slowly flailing, then fell to his knees. His head lolled forward and Lenara knew she could let go.

Vlad crumpled to the floor, passed out. Lenara quickly extracted her limbs and jogged to the door, still gasping and feeling the pain in her back. She doubted he would be out long and she needed to get as far as possible before he came to. Then she realized something, went back over to Vlad and yanked her wallet from his hand.

The First Chapter

How many of you are writing a novel? Let's see a raise of hands? Ah, good; plenty. A lot of people I've spoken with want to write a novel or have started one, but that's about the extent of it. Don't feel bad if that's you; I can't say I'm much better. I dart back and forth between different projects but rarely finish anything. It's a habit I'm looking to break. I write for a living as both a journalist and a copywriter, but it's just not the same. Seeing your name in print before the masses just isn't as satisfying when it's on an article about municipal sewers. At least for me.

For way too long a time I've had one particular novel hanging around my neck. It's hard to get too far with any other significant writing projects when I haven't finished the one that's bounced around in my brain for so long, changing form ever so often but never getting born. It's not the classic burdensome albatross; it's more like a bejeweled albatross. I love the story and want to tell it. I don't know if others will like it, but I'm entertained and intrigued by the tale, so out it must come. And I believe I'm a good writer, not a great writer, although I do have those moments where it really clicks. I hope you'll see some of those.

When you tell someone you're writing a book, the person will invariably ask what it's about. I don't like talking about an unfinished story, mainly because I fear it'll sound stupid and I'll feel ashamed to continue with it without major changes. I'd rather finish the first draft, then go back and fix it after it's critiqued. Kind of goes against the point of this blog, doesn't it, where my early drafts are exposed for comment and criticism? I'm willing to deal with that, because the reason I'm doing this is hopefully to give my creative process another dimension by just putting some of my writing out there instead of keeping it locked up on my laptop. I also find that, at times when I might lag, having eyes on what I'm doing lights a bit of a fire under my posterior.

So, what's the book about, right? I've always been told that the best books can have their plot summed up in one sentence. While I can see the rationale in that, I have a hard time adequately summing up my book in that fashion. There's a convergence of a lot of ideas that I think work well together and that I hope will work in the finished manuscript. The short line is that it's a "time travel murder mystery." Sci-Fi is my main squeeze and what I'm most interested in writing about, but I prefer to take elements of that genre and meld them into modern times. H. G. Wells is a favorite author of mine for doing just that; introducing fantastic elements into a familiar setting (of his time) and including a fair dose of rip-snorting action/adventure. The difference between his era and now is that it's hard to find new scientific ideas that really excite people. They're there, but popular fiction is a large and well-explored place. The kind of stuff that excites me are the mysteries lying under the surface of life that we don't always think about, and the heart-thumping thrill of going on new adventures. Yeah, so maybe I want to write Spielberg movies.

I spent many hours in the library as a kid looking at books on UFOs and the Loch Ness Monster, and I still do that online. I love the thought that you can be driving home from work one evening, the same tedious drive you make every weeknight, with that U2 CD playing for the third time in a row 'cos you couldn't be bothered to change it, and your headlights catch a glimpse of some bipedal creature unlike one you've even seen standing on the side of the road. Your brain jams for a split second and you double-take back, but whatever you saw is gone. In those couple of seconds, the routine, colorless world you've melted into has been shaken about, the mystery revived. Sounds like fiction, but the imagination is a fantastic place when given some exercise. So, "time travel murder mystery" is just a quick blurb for what I see as a fun, very quirky piece of fiction that focuses on damaged characters you can (hopefully) relate to, immersed in the pains and sheer disappointments that can come with life, and becoming part of a fantastic circumstance that none saw coming. It's not meant to be great literature; it's hoped by me to be an adventure story with intriguing character development, it's own voice, and hopefully be something not immediately disposable.

I don't plan to reveal everything here, because I don't want to just post the whole book online. While that might be a more helpful process, I'm not comfortable putting an entire unfinished manuscript on the Web. What I plan to do is post excerpts of passages that I think came off well and that give a taste of what I'm doing. After all, some mystery is good, right? ;-) I plan to post not just passages from the book, but a potpourri of other scribblings of mine.

I have a couple ideas for titles for the book and one I'm mostly certain on, but here, for now, it'll be know simply as E4. What I'm posting here today is part of the book's first chapter. There might be a prologue that comes before it, but I haven't leaned towards doing that yet. Anyway, this is where we (as of now) first meet Mark Vox, the protagonist. His last name is a little ostentatious, but I like the way it sounds, and I like that it fits him being the voice of the book and later a voice in a more heroic way. I might change his surname, but I'm rather used to it. He's a minor league baseball player who's not all that satisfied with his life, especially the mess he's been avoiding back in his home town. The ghosts won't leave him alone.

E4 Chapter 1 excerpt

She was bathed in sunbeams and Mark couldn't make out her features. It didn't matter. She was radiant as always.

He was lying in that field of unnamed and exotic flowers, the one he often dropped softly into in his dreams. The air's warmth plastered him back into the short grass, the blades massaging his tanned muscles.

Mark was naked from the waist up and his skin rippled when she laid a thin hand upon his chest from above. Mark inhaled a breath and pulled her down. She fell onto him with a laugh.

Even with her face in front of him, she was still a sunshine blur. Mark reached for her chin and felt it slim and warm against his hand. He bent up to meet her lips and she obliged. There was no sensation, though, as if he had just been shot through with Novocain. The sun's hot glow began to subside into numbness and Mark fought to block out the thoughts that had reared up like a furor as he held onto what he wanted.

Mark knew the scenario wasn't real; not in the way he wished. The colors and sensations were much too vivid to exist. He recognized that he was back in his bed in his North Carolina apartment. Mark was never suckered into his dreams. His consciousness always held anchor in reality; his sleeping mind no longer possessed the ability to sweep him away.

This dream, though, the one in which he saw her, was different than any of his other flat fantasies. Mark knew he wasn't really in that endless field with her under a sky tinged purple. The girl he saw on top of him, her brown air hanging down on his cheeks; she could not cross that barrier in his mind. He was not able to believe that her physical presence was real. Her voice, however, transcended his reason. Mark couldn't deny how full her voice was, how soothing it felt, or how he was unable to control what she was saying with his imagination.

"I wish you could stay," she said.

"I was thinking the same thing," Mark admitted, relaxing under her weight in the grass. "This field... endlessly," he muttered, hugging her head to his chest. He still could not make out her features but her presence was enough.

"But you can’t," she whispered with regret in her voice.

"And why not?" he asked, half-grinning. "I've got at least three more hours before the alarm goes off."

Through the shadow that covered her, he could feel her maintain her seriousness. "You have to go help him," she said.

"Help who?" Mark already sensed her response but wished to avoid it.

"Jeff," she said, the word echoing through her cheeks to his bare chest.

Mark paused and sighed. "I know. I haven’t seen him in a long time. It's... difficult."

"You have to," she commanded, in that way she had of being domineering but endearing all the same.

"What's wrong?" Mark asked, pushing aside any hesitation out of concern.

"He's in trouble. He's in a bad place," she cryptically stated. "But more than that, you have to help him move on."

"I'm not sure that's possible," Mark said, feeling his bottom eyelids puff out. "I would know."

She moved up a bit, pressing her small, firm breasts into his chest, and once again hung over his face, her dark hair obscuring what he could make out of her features.

"I know you can save him," she said confidently. "Do it for me."

"It's not just him I want to save, Samantha," Mark said, his voice choking up as painful memories gripped him.

She ran her fingers along his cheek. "I wish that were possible."

Mark leaned his head up, defiantly looking into what he imagined he could see of her eyes. "Who says it isn't?"

Her expression, he could feel, was a mixture of pride and sympathy. She kissed him again and it actually began to feel real this time. Then, the phone rang.

I hope that's a good beginning. I'll be back with more soon.