This Writing Life

I haven't talked much about fiction writing this year because I hadn't written any fiction this year. Between caring for my grandmother for most of December, then getting back into my routine back here, then writing freelance articles for MONEY (I already have thirty published articles!) then, uhh... deciding to move to Michigan, my creative juices have sort of been on hold.

I sent the second draft out to a handful of beta readers in December and I've read their comments as they've trickled in but had yet to do anything with them. I came up with an AWESOME young adult idea in December that I'm still really really excited about, but I haven't been able to come up with a storyline that really clicks for me, so it's just sitting there. I've done hours of research, just not plotting.

I've been thinking about my new idea and my current wip but just haven't had the urge to get to them. Well last week my friend Lurker Monkey posted a prompt for our monthly flash fiction group and I wrote half the story before I could even reply to the blog post.

Read my story here.

Then Monday I decided enough was enough and I began compiling my beta readers' notes into one document. Let's just say there are a looooooot of comments in that first chapter. Wow. By Tuesday night at 8:30 (just in time for the Lost premiere -- we're a week behind the US schedule) I had all my notes plugged in and I'm officially ready to begin draft #3.

I leave for Michigan in two weeks and I decided that if I don't start working on my wip before I go it'll be too easy to keep putting it off -- even though I LOVE my story. It means too much to me not to keep moving forward. And this will give me something to do on the plane other than worry about Owen.

Another Peek

I may be asking for trouble here, but while reading my wip last night I came across this passage and had to share. I think it may be my favorite.

Becca and Justin are seventeen-year old next-door neighbors and she's still freaking out from the attack that I posted on Monday. She has a hard time getting close to him and the past couple times he's tried to kiss her she panicked.

"It's okay," she whispered, and he kissed her. Heat flooded through her and she tightened her grip on his hand. He didn't put his arms around her like he normally did, so she rested her other hand in the crook of his arm and traced his bicep with her fingers. Their lips parted and he pressed harder. Justin's free hand found her thigh and she moved closer, her senses spinning out of control. Something in the back corner of her mind watched over her, waiting for the fear to come. She tried to lose herself in the softness of his lips, in the sigh that came from deep in his throat and mingled with her breath, but the fear wiggled in, a pinprick of light that grew brighter and brighter until her body tensed and sweat trickled down her back. The light blinded her, squeezing her lungs until she thought she might die right there in Justin's arms. But she refused to give in. She loved Justin and couldn't bear to hurt him, to make him feel like he had to pay for his father's sins. She broke away from the kiss and smiled, pretending her chest wasn't about to explode.

Hmm, that's a little steamier than I realized. I also just realized that I'm two for two with sweat trickling down the person's back. I swear this doesn't happen that often.

Again, feel free to leave comments. Now pardon me while I get all smooshy inside.

Shiny New First Page

Several writing friends have recently posted excerpts of their wips, and as I tweaked my first page all weekend, I thought I'd share. Please feel free to leave any criticisms -- they help me more than praise. Enjoy.

After the Fall -- Chapter 1

A thump from down the hall echoed into Greg's subconscious and forced his eyes open. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the hush that enveloped the house, and soon the familiar quiet lulled his eyes closed and he burrowed his head deeper into the pillow.

The distinct squeak of bedsprings made him lean up on one elbow. One of the girls must be awake.

A muffled cry made him sit upright.

"Dad—"

Becca! He fumbled for his glasses and scrambled out of bed.

"What's the matter?" Janet rolled towards him, her face buried in the blankets.

"I heard something." He glanced at her arm, draped casually across his pillow, then hurried from the room and rushed down the hall. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his upper lip. It was probably just a bad dream. But she stopped having nightmares years ago.

The nightlight in the bathroom shone onto the carpeted hallway and stopped at Becca's closed door.

Was he overreacting? He reached for the doorknob and stepped into the room.

Moonlight filtered through the curtains and bounced off the bare back of a man bent over his daughter. The man had her upper body pinned beneath him and her legs flailed as she bucked on the mattress.

Oh God!

"Daddy!" she screamed.

The man turned his masked head for a moment but didn't let go.

Greg's stomach rolled but adrenaline propelled him forward and he grabbed the man by the shoulders. With one pull Greg threw him to the ground and lashed out, striking his head, shoulders, neck, until his hands found his way around the man's throat. He turned his head to shield his face from the man's fists and pressed his neck into the carpet. "Becca, are you hurt?"

...

Flash Fiction Thursday

Here's the prompt at Lurker Monkey's blog this month. Spooky, eh?


My story was posted yesterday, but I want to share here since this is my very first scary (or creepy) story. Enjoy.


Entourage

The sludge oozed around my feet, a syrupy slime that congealed around my ankles, chilling me from the inside out. It was getting higher. Just moments before the tips of my toes were still dry, but I could no longer see them through the muddy goop that seeped beneath the door.

The door.

I rested my hand against the splintered wood, then traced my fingers along the rusted metal band that held the planks in place. How long would it hold? The others whispered that nothing could keep it out, that there was no use hoping for escape.

I stepped closer to the door and peered through a small hole near the top, fighting the sludge that clung to my feet and pulled me back down like it didn't want me to see what was coming. An ocean drowned the streets and anything unfortunate enough to be out there when the manhole covers first erupted like a rolling boil, spewing the thick black—what exactly was this? It looked like molasses—sludge into the air. Except it was ice cold.

"Is it bad?"

I turned my head at his raspy voice but ignored his question. He didn't want to know what was out there. Didn't believe it anyway.

A scream made me turn away from the door. The two women huddled against the far wall were scrambling over each other, reaching for the pipe that ran along the length of the ceiling. The younger woman grabbed her friend's shoulder and, with a quick yank to free her feet from the muck, leapt for the ceiling and grasped the pipe.

A deep groan echoed through the dank room.

He turned to face them. "It won't hold you."

The young woman's eyes darted his way, then back to the other woman. "Yes it will. Jump, Matusa."

Matusa swatted at her legs and a tremor ran through her corpulent frame. She looked up at the younger woman and slowly shook her head. Tears slid down her cheeks.

"You can."

It didn't make a difference to me. Dangling from a pipe would only delay the inevitable; fighting for five extra minutes wasn't how I planned to die.

Matusa tried to jump but the sludge had her by the knees.

It was rising faster.

Panic rocked through me and I was sure my heart would stop—it wasn't meant to beat this fast. I glared at him, still smug against the wall, and fought to control my breathing when my skin began to crawl.

I looked down at my own legs, but it wasn't my skin that was crawling.

Tiny white creatures swarmed over my pants, undulating upwards in an eerie dance that mesmerized me. Now I understood the women's screams. They wormed through the hole in the door and I snapped into action, beating my legs, my torso, my arms, desperate to get them off me.

I eyed the pipe. Maybe five extra minutes was worth it.

But it was too late. The powerful sludge pulled at my hips, trapping me next to the door. I cast a desperate glance at him, but it was too late for that, too.

The terrible moaning grew louder and the pipe shattered, sending slivers of metal raining into my flesh, into the sludge.

Unable to move—even my arms were trapped now—I watched the blood trickle down my chest as if it was someone else standing here, some other fool who didn't run when she had the chance. If only he had believed. The metallic odor reached the creatures and they moved faster, devouring the warm liquid that was so different from the muck that carried them here.

The screams began again but I couldn't tear my eyes away from what was happening to me. Was this how they died? I had assumed they drowned, smothered by the sludge—no one said anything about creatures feasting on their flesh. But how could they? There would be no way for that part of the story to pass on to the others.

An unnatural brightness filled the room, and the dark walls became white as the creatures searched for food.

I could hear him choking, gasping. Trying to speak. His voice came out a hiss. "S-s-s-s…sorry."

But it was too late.

Flash Fiction Wednesday

The Storytellers prompt (hosted by the always lovely Lurker Monkey) for this month is the following picture:



Change of Plans

Rusty wiped the scratchy washcloth over his eyes. Tepid water dribbled off his chin and soaked into the satin ruffle around his throat.

"Slow night, eh Rusty?" Winston, the horse man, leaned his head into the cramped space that served as a dressing room.

Rusty stiffened. Winston seemed relaxed—if he suspected anything he'd be acting tense, nervous. The way he was. He let out a breath. "Kids don't seem as excited to see us as they used to. These days they just wanna sit in front of the TV playing those video games."

"Ain't that the truth." Winston rubbed a hand through his hair, sending a halo of dust into the air around him. He sneezed, then dragged a dirty sleeve across his nose. "Boss says we're leaving in a half hour. Got a big set up on Friday and we gotta tear down by tomorrow morning."

"Why the rush?"

Winston shrugged. "Some new gig." He raised one eyebrow. "A big one." Then he shoved a finger into his ear to scratch God knows whatever lurked inside. Probably fleas.

Rusty waited. Winston hoarded information like a kid with all the marbles, and Rusty refused to play his games. He turned back to the cracked mirror and rubbed the washcloth over his mouth.

Winston shuffled his feet on the plank flooring, but didn't speak.

Rusty rolled his eyes. If he wanted some peace and quiet he needed to get Winston to hurry up and say whatever was on his mind. "So Rochester's out? Where we going that takes two days to set up?"

Winston whistled. "It's a big one." He'd already said that. Winston paused another beat, then spilled it. "We got New York."

"We're in New York."

"City. New York City."

Shit. New York frigging City?

A smile spread across Winston's normally surly face. "It gets better. We're gonna be in The Garden. Can you believe it?" He tilted his head towards the ceiling, no doubt imagining the basketball players he idolized hanging around the ring—even though it was off-season—to chat up a crusty old horse wrangler. Right.

"Huh."

Winston snapped out of his daydream. "You aren't excited? A week-long gig in New York is big time. Some other outfit was scheduled but a couple horses got colic, then one of your brothers caught a horn in the throat."

Rusty shuddered. Didn't matter how long he worked this job, the bull's horns still terrified him. If anyone asked he said he stayed on because protecting pansy-assed cowboys gave him a sense of purpose, but really he was just lazy. Finding another job was too much damn work.

Winston's eyes caught his in the mirror. He seemed uncertain, like he had something else to say. Did he know? "So… half an hour then." He turned and left.

Rusty slumped in his chair. New York? He'd been counting on Rochester and the farmers who take the day off for some wholesome family fun. He didn't know anything about people in New York City.

He leaned closer to the mirror. Black makeup stained his eyebrows and a garish red burrowed into the creases around his mouth. He was getting too old for this shit. He dipped the washcloth into the plastic bowl in front of him and wiped off what he could.

Half an hour. He needed to get moving.

His knees popped as he rose from his chair and he dug his gnarled fingers into his lower back. Definitely too old. But who else would hire a drunk? He forced his knees into a crouch and twirled the combination lock on his battered trunk, then pushed aside the shiny red satin and felt hats until he touched the dusty old ropes. Last time he counted there were almost two dozen—more than enough to keep him with a steady supply of gin for the next month. But only if they went to Rochester.

How the hell was he supposed to sell this crap in a big city?

He glanced over his shoulder, then covered the ropes before Winston came back. The old man had been with the show for over twenty years—five more than Rusty—and he liked to think he had some kind of power over Rusty, even though everyone knew the clowns were the stars of the show. Well, after the cowboys.

Winston's power trips were what first gave Rusty the idea. The ropes weren't hard to take. The wrangler drank almost as much as he did and they went through so much rope that two or three a week went unnoticed. True, the lasso rope was a little less common—that's why he was so on edge tonight—but over the past year he'd figured out that a genuine rodeo rope that was used to lasso a calf or goat or whatever scrawny animal they rustled up that week brought in the most cash. He'd lurk near the parking lot after the show, the ropes snaked around his waist, tucked under the folds of fabric. He hit up the families first. If the kids didn't bolt at the sight of him—he still didn't understand why more kids weren't afraid of clowns—he'd slip out a rope and within minutes little Johnny or Betsy had their father by the neck.

Hmm… that gave him an idea.

New Yorkers were a desperate lot. Money drove everything they did, and from what he'd been hearing, it wasn't flowing like in years past. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. He usually had some free time during the day—yet another benefit of being the entertainment—so maybe he could head down to where the suits worked. He'd bring along a sign, but he needed something better than rodeo lassoes. What else needed a rope with a loop at the end?

He chuckled.

Nooses.

Perfect.

He dropped back into the chair, a slow smile brightening his face. He'd get his gin after all.

Flash Fiction Friday

Yes, I have another another flash fiction piece to share, but this one is over at Lurker Monkey's blog.

The prompt this month is "Love Hesitates" and the entries are nothing like what I expected. I highly recommend you read through this week's posts. There will also be a final entry on Monday.

I'd love to hear what you think!

Flash Fiction Friday

My flash fiction group was MIA for awhile, but we have a new prompt for August. I've gone in a different direction from my normal stuff (if I even have a "normal") -- I hope you enjoy it!



Exculpation

The snack-sized bag of crackers has one hundred calories, so if I only have half an ounce of cheese, I'll stay with the recommended two hundred calories per snack.

Hmm.

Did Jeannie buy these crackers? They aren't the brand I normally get. What if the calorie to fat ratio is different from what I'm used to? This could screw up an entire week of planning.

I've already been to the gym three days this week. I was supposed to go this morning but last night's glass of wine turned into three and I slept through my alarm.

I definitely shouldn't eat these crackers.

Maybe there's something better in the fridge. Well, not better, but healthier. Celery, carrots, cucumber… ugh. What was I thinking? I've got the best intentions when I'm at the grocery store, but once it's in my fridge I realize how much I detest—

Stop it! Just eat the carrots and put the crackers back. One tablespoon of Ranch won't put me over the edge. (I mean, who eats carrots without Ranch?) I need to go to the gym tomorrow to work off last night's wine, I don't need to make it worse. Maybe if I did some squats. Yeah. I can do them while I decide what to eat.

… seven, eight, nine… I could have a yogurt. Ooh, Jeannie must have gone to a different store because I've never seen this flavor.

Caramel Raspberry Soufflé.

Mmm.

I cannot eat that. I don't care how scrumptiously decadent it is. I had wine. Three glasses. And I skipped the gym.

Unless… what does that say?

It's Light!


*****

The prompt was Light.

Flash Fiction Fri... er, Saturday

Here's my monthly flash fiction piece. I'd love to hear your feedback in the comments.

*****

Brainstorming

Frankie leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs. Crumpled balls of yellow paper littered the desk in front of him and spilled to the floor. "This isn't right. We need to capture the yearning that he feels, the ferocity, the desperation."

Jim's fingers twitched over his keyboard, his eyes closed. "But what is he even searching for?"

Frankie rubbed the stubble on his chin. "He failed at something and now he's trying to get back on top."

"A girl broke up with him?"

"No, that's so overdone. Do you really want to write another love song?"

"But that Springfield kid killed last summer with a song about his buddy's girlfriend. We can rip that off."

Frankie shook his head, pressed his fist against his chest. "I can feel it, right here." He looked at Jim. "He lost sight of his dreams, but now he knows he needs to fight to keep them alive. If we can get that urgency into a song, I'm telling you, it'll be gold."

Jim tapped the keys. Heart and Soul. "What have you got so far?"

Frankie twirled a pencil between his fingers. "The center of the storm. Everything's churning all around him but he's calm, in control." He slammed forward in his chair. "He's hungry for the challenge…"

"And he's dangerous!" Jim thrust his fist into the air, fighting a smile.

Frankie scowled, his eyes narrowed. The thread of a thought was dangling right… there… He stretched his mind, curled around the words, tugging, pulling until the string began to unfurl. He knew he was onto something. It was on the tip of his... Hunger. Strength. Like an animal on the prowl. He scribbled the words on a fresh sheet, then stabbed his pencil on the paper. Staccato. He hummed a few notes. Ten beats before the guitar came in.

Jim leaned closer. "Well?"

Frankie held up his hand and stared at spot on the far wall.

Jim moved around the table to read over his shoulder. "Oh, yeah. A cat on the prowl. Stalking in the night." He jumped around the table and gripped the back of his chair. "He's killed off the other predators – his rivals – so now it's just him and his will to survive."

"A cat?"

"Well, not a cat cat, but the spirit of the cat." He pointed at the page. "Can't you just picture it? A ravenous lion stalking through the jungle, so focused on his prey that nothing else matters."

Frankie's pencil skimmed over the page. The heart of a lion. Rising to the challenge of his rivals. He scribbled out what he'd written. Not the heart. What else…

Jim watched quietly. They'd worked together long enough to recognize when the other was on the verge of –

"Eyes!"

"Eyes?"

"The eyes of the lion." Frankie slapped his hands on the table, pounding out the ten beats in his head. "He's the hunter, fighting off his rivals. And what animal but the lion yearns for glory?"

"But a lion?"

Frankie waved his hand. "Or a tiger, whatever. The point is, his eyes hold all the passion. He won't quit until he wins the fight."

Jim tucked his hands on the back of his head. "I don't know. I still say a love song is the way to go."

Frankie threw one of the discarded pages at him. "The next song can be about searching for love, I promise."


*****

If you've made it to the end, please click for my inspiration. The theme was "Eyes", but I didn't want to say before you read it so I wouldn't give away the ending.

Flash Fiction Friday

Once again, I'm posting my piece for the Flash Fiction Carnival group I belong to. Our prompt this month is FOOL. Please leave any critiques or suggestions in the comments!

ETA: I modified the one line that several people mentioned in the comments.

This piece was accepted for publication in Flashquake. I will post a link once it's up.

Flash Fiction Friday

This is not a regular feature, I just thought that sounded appropriate since I'm posting a flash fiction piece for an online group I belong to. I'd appreciate your feedback!


The Red Ticket

"Twenty on red! Twenty on red!" The pale-faced man waved a note at the attendant. Kicking aside an empty beer bottle, he leaned over the men next to him and stretched his arm into the aisle, oblivious to the stares.

Arthritic fingers curled around the bill, then scribbled on a scrap of red paper and shoved it at the man. Others grabbed at his sleeve but he brushed them off. "Bettin's closed. Fight's about to start." Pushing through the crowd, he waved at the referee.

A bell sounded and the crowd erupted.

The contender in the red corner rushed to the center of the ring, nervous energy rolling down his back.

His opponent approached more slowly. He looked from side to side, then took a cautious step back, but his trainer picked him up and threw him into the center.

A man with a blue ticket leaned over the low wall. "Hurry up, Blondie! What you waiting for?" he yelled at the fair-colored opponent.

Red stepped closer, then leapt into the air. Light flashed off the knife strapped to his claw, and an arc of blood streamed across the ring.

Blondie stumbled, and Red jumped once more, landing on Blondie's back. The dirt beneath them pooled with blood, but Blondie tossed Red aside and scurried to the corner.

The crowd screamed.

The trainer stepped forward and nudged Blondie with a scuffed boot, while Red threw back his head and crowed, the clear sound echoing off the walls.

Blondie straightened, ready for more.

They faced each other, feinting from side to side. Forward and back. A moment's pause, and Red rushed forward, but this time Blondie dodged the attack. He jumped and swung, his blade connecting with the tough muscles shielding Red's back.

The crowd pressed closer, thirsty for more. Drops of blood splattered the dirt, but Red didn't pause. He lowered his head and dove at Blondie, claws flying.

A strangled cry rose over the cheers, and a cloud of dust lingered in the air when Blondie fell to his side.

The man with the red ticket held his breath. It wasn't a large bet – he'd certainly risked more on lesser fights – but his pulse quickened all the same. His gaze focused not on Red, whose chest puffed while his trainer checked his wraps, but at Blondie. Did he have the will to keep fighting?

A quiver of feathers and a cheer from the men gave him his answer. Blondie wobbled to his feet and called to the crowd. His crow wasn't as forceful as Red's, but it got his opponent's attention.

They returned to their dance, each moving in time with the other, their movements slowing as the minutes ticked by.

"Come on!"

"I paid to see a fight!"

The trainers inched into the ring, but didn't interfere. The fighters knew the signal. Each leapt towards the other, knives flashing.

They collided mid-air.

Their bodies fell as one, crashing to the dirt with a whoosh of air.

One moment passed, then two.

A steady crow broke the silence. Blond feathers rustled, then fell to the side as Red stood and paced the ring. Red's trainer rushed forward and held him aloft for a victory lap, indifferent to the drops of blood that stained his shirt.

While the crowd cheered, the attendant hustled through the bodies to collect the winning tickets.

The pale man wiped his brow and waved his scrap of paper. As the attendant moved closer, the losing trainer knelt beside Blondie and rested a hand on his chest. A shadow darkened his face, and he looked into the crowd. Several men laughed and blue tickets rained onto the dirt floor. He swatted them away, then jerked to his feet, pulling Blondie with him. The lifeless body dangled against his legs, leaving a trail of blood in his path.

The attendant pressed a bill in the pale man's hand. A hundred note.

"Congratulations." Someone clapped his shoulder.

He smiled, weak now that the rush had passed. "It's too bad about the blond one. I hate to see the animals die."

The men near him laughed. They came for the blood; death was inconsequential.

"Why you come if you don't like the blood?"

He paused, unsure if they'd understand. When he was a child his mother taught him that taking joy in another's misery was not a good way to live one's life. With gambling it was inevitable, and his mother disapproved of his diversion.

The trainer opened a gate and tossed Blondie into the tall grass.

The pale man looked at the men around him. "I enjoy the sport. It's the dying I could do without."

The man nearest him shrugged, then turned to his friends.

The pale man stuffed the bill into his coat pocket and took his seat to wait for the next fight.


*****

The prompt for this month's piece was Schadenfreude, which German for pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others. This story came to me while I was having a massage on the beach this past Tuesday. There I was, being pampered in a cabana 150 feet from the ocean, thinking about cockfights.

Well That's a Relief

(This is post #333! As three is my lucky number, I expect big things.)

Last night I finished Characters, Emotion & Viewpoint, and while it wasn't the most fascinating writing book I've read, it had some valuable insights. Most importantly, to me, it confirmed that the structure I'm using for my current novel is valid.

I writing with multiple POV (point of view) - the father, the daughter, and the widow - plus I'm including occasional articles from the local paper to provide facts about the case. Well, Ms. Kress includes this very structure as one way to do multiple POV.

*wipes forehead* Phew!

A couple friends who are participating in NaNo have included excerpts from their current projects, and while I've been tempted to share, I haven't been able to figure out which passage is best. It probably would've been easier if I selected one scene each day, but now I have 88 pages to choose from.

Let's see... *peruses Word document*

Here's something I wrote yesterday. It's a little long, but I hope you enjoy it.

*****

Music drifted through a door on the opposite wall. The lonesome notes wrapped around Becca's heart and squeezed. She wished more than anything that she could be out there, sitting next to Justin. Soon the music faded and Reverend Kelly's voice filtered into the room. His words were hard to understand, so Becca let the cadence carry her.

Janet reached for Becca's hand and laced her fingers through hers.

They sat in silence until the music began again.

"We should go," Janet whispered.

They crept out the door and checked to make sure no one was watching. People were still seated in the chapel, their backs to them. Becca spotted Justin's dark head in the front row, and assumed the other dark heads were his uncle and grandfather. There were only about thirty people, much fewer than she assumed would be there, and the heaviness in her chest returned.

Janet tugged her arm. "Let's go, Becca."

They tip-toed down the stairs and hurried through the wind to the car. The weather had turned in the past couple days and fallen leaves swirled on the sidewalk. Janet turned up the heat and they waited for the air to warm them.

"We can go ahead to the cemetery. When the hearse arrives, we can get close enough to watch from the car." Janet peered at Becca. "Do you want to get some hot chocolate on the way?"

Becca nodded. She didn't really want anything sweet, but something to occupy her hands would be good. She knew her mom was just trying to keep her busy, to keep her mind off the funeral and everything that went with it, and she appreciated the effort. She was still a little surprised her mom agreed to take her in the first place. "Thanks, Mom."

"It's no problem. That coffee shop just before the bridge isn't too far out of the way."

"No, I mean for this." Becca waved her hands at the church. "For bringing me, for coming with me. I know it's not easy for you either."

Janet's eyes softened and her lips trembled. "No, it's not easy." She studied Becca for a moment, then wiped at her eyes and put the car in gear. "Let's get going before the service ends."

Neither spoke as Janet drove the short blocks to the coffee shop. She pulled into the parking lot and parked near the front door. "I'll just run inside. Is hot chocolate okay?"

Becca nodded.

Janet returned a few minutes later, a paper cup in each hand. She set them on the roof to open the door, then handed them to Becca. "They've already got the Christmas flavors in there. Can you believe it? It's not even Halloween."

Becca mumured a non-answer then sipped her drink. It burned her tongue, scorched its way down her throat. She set it in the cupholder between their seats and stared out the window.

Janet turned onto the road and headed back the way they came.

They drove through town in silence. Becca stared at the familiar sights as if seeing them for the first time. When they passed the church, people were walking out the front doors and heading towards their cars. Becca scanned the faces for Justin but didn't see him. An involuntary shudder passed through her. She hadn't left the house since the attack and suddenly the town she'd known since she was a kid looked darker, more menacing. The store where she used to buy candy, the park where all the neighbor kids would play, all of it was changed. The violence she thought would never touch her had forced it's way into her life and now nothing seemed the same.

The cemetery gates were open and Janet turned the car onto the single lane road. Gravel crunched beneath the tires.

Becca rolled her window down a crack and breathed in the smell of freshly cut grass. The cool air chilled her nose but she left the window open. Nearby, someone was burning leaves, and the sharp pungent smoke mingled with the bits of nature fighting for life in the grips of fall. Soon the frost would come and everything would turn brown, but for now the cemetary still resembled a summer park.

"That tent is probably where they'll bury him." Janet pointed at a blue tent stretched above the earth along the southermost boundary. "Let's wait on the other end until they arrive." The car rolled along the path through gleaming headstones with recent dates, then passed those that had long been forgotten, the names barely legible through weeds and decay. "They'll assume we're here visiting a relative."

Becca stared at the tent in the review mirror. So strange that in one short week – less than a week, really – Justin's dad was dead and would soon be buried. If she focused on it just being his dad, she could almost pretend she'd had nothing to do with his death.

Janet turned off the car. "Let me know if you get cold."

Becca felt numb, but she knew that wasn't what her mother meant. "Mmm-hmm." She took a sip of her hot chocolate and tried to concentrate on its warmth, its sweetness. Despite all that had happened, there were still little things that were good, small sparks of happiness that wouldn't let her sink lower than she already was.

*****