Please Proceed with Alacrity

"And left! And right! And left! And right! Now pump! Pump! Pump! Pump!"

The woman's alacrity had Rebecca gasping for air and a baseball bat, neither of which were to be found in the stuffy, mat-lined workout room at the gym Becky had been frequenting for the past few weeks. She had been conned into joining this particular fitness session by one of her co-workers, a twenty-something twig of a thing that worked at the reception desk.

Becky herself had been working out at home for the past three years and had managed to lose 50 of her more than 300 lbs, but she was beginning to plateau and felt she needed a boost. That led to her joining the gym near her office. She enjoyed coming over after work and hopping on the elliptical, but she felt she could take more advantage of the $50 a month membership. After researching the different classes on her own, she mentioned her intentions at the office and was overheard by the girl currently bouncing beside her.

"And step! And step! And step!"

The music blaring through the boombox on the floor made Rebecca's head throb. It was a horrible mix of modern music merged with 80s dance. She brushed a stray, soaked hair away from her sweaty face and tried to keep pace with the girls around her. All of them were less than half her size and had clearly been doing this for quite some time.

"Now twist! And twist! And twist!"

Suddenly, Becky felt the need to find the woman a dictionary or thesaurus... or sledgehammer. The incessant repeating of words pounded into her brain, mixing with the dreadful music. The combination of that and the exertion had her stomach churning unhappily. She stopped, placing her hands on her knees as she took several deep breaths to steady herself. The other women in the class looked at her, but none of them paused in their routine, not even her 'friend.'

Becky shook her head and walked among the rows of females to the edge. She gathered up her bag and let the door clank loudly behind her. From now on, she was sticking with yoga.

**Written at the morning dash in Milkwood (Second Life). Word prompt was "alacrity". Dashes are held at Milkwood every day 5am and 6:30pm SLT.**

Quick and Dirty eBook Formatting

Formatting a book for Kindle, Nook, or Smashwords seems like a scary venture. But it doesn't have to be. One round of quality formatting should suffice for all three venues. These instructions are for a simple book with no fancy formatting or images. Edit: Additional info for Smashwords posted below.

Suggestions to make your life easier:

• Finish all edits before formatting. You don't want to mess up and have to reformat the whole thing.
• I use OpenOffice, so I can't guarantee these directions will work for Word (though I don't see why they wouldn't). Make sure you save your OO document as a .doc, though.
• Turn on Non-Printing Characters under View (Ctrl+F10). Eliminate any extra spaces or paragraph markers as you go through the text.

1. First step is to remove all formatting (except bolds and italics. Those are still ok.) Clear formatting works for me usually.
   
2. Do a Ctrl+A to select all of the text. Set font and size. I use Palatino Linotype size 12 because I think it looks nicer on the page, but the font really doesn't matter. Kindle will change it to Kindle font. 
3. Highlight the whole thing again. Under Format, choose Paragraph, then Indents&Spacing.
   
   • Before Text, After Text, Before Paragraph, After Paragraph should all be set to 0.
     
   • Set First Line to .3 (I prefer .3, but you may prefer .5)
     
   • Line Spacing should be set to Single.
     
4. Under Paragraph, then Alignment, set it all to Justified. Last Line should be set to Left.
   
5. At the end of each chapter, insert a page break (Insert->Manual Break->Page Break). Do NOT use extra lines, tabs, etc.
   
6. Now on to chapter headings. Highlight the whole heading (ex: Chapter 12), then Format->Paragraph. Set Alignment to Centered. Everything on the Indents tab should be set to 0. Spacing should be single.
   
7. Set the chapter font to size 18, bold, then add a line break before and after (I prefer there to be a bit of space between the chapter heading and actual text).
   
8. Now you can add the cover page, if you want one. (Please note: These are my preferred font sizes. If you're more comfortable with HTML, you can go into the code after you save it and change the sizes that way.)
   
   • Put a page break before the first chapter, so you're working on a clean page.
     
   • Set the font to 72 , set everything on the Indents tab to 0 and spacing to Single, center it using Format->Paragraph->Alignment, and hit enter (should leave a pretty big space at the top). Type your title (on several lines if you so choose), then leave another blank line.
     
   • Reduce the font to 15 and type your byline, hit enter.
     
   • Reduce it to 6 and type your copyright info. Here's an example of mine. Feel free to steal it. Don't forget to add your cover art copyright info, too, and credit the person who made the cover.
   
   © 2011 Samantha Warren
   The following story is a work of fiction and all names and characters are strictly the creation of the author. All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced or transmitted in any manner without expressed written consent from Samantha Warren. 

   
   

   
   

   Additional Smashwords info: I'm working on publishing my first novel to Smashwords and I've run into a few things that work wonderfully on Kindle and Nook, but Smashwords won't accept.

   1. On your copyright page, change the © 2011 Author Name to Copyright 2011 Author Name.
   2. Also on the copyright page, add a line that says Smashwords Edition. They're picky about this. They want Smashwords on there or they won't accept it.
   3. They don't like font size changes. (The style guide calls them 'ugly'. I don't agree, but it's their platform). Change any font size over 14 to 14. 

How to Market Your eBook

I've seen this question asked a lot, and I've seen some decent posts about it, but none seem extremely comprehensive. The truth is, there's no one right way to do it. Different techniques work for different people. The only thing that doesn't work is publishing the book and expecting people to flock to it without doing any legwork. So below, I've listed all the ways I'm marketing my book right now. The main thing to keep in mind is that there's no such thing as an overnight success. It will take time to build sales and a name. Patience and persistence are absolutely key.

• FaceBook- Make sure you set up an author page, not just your personal profile.
• Twitter- There's a big community of authors that chat in various ways. Get involved.
• Amazon's Author Central- Make sure your profile is filled out with a pic (doesn't necessarily have to be you, but the reader wants to see something more exciting than the gray human outline), and that all your books are linked. If people like one book, they'll want to read your others. Make it easy for them to find.
• Blog- Make a blog, be active with it. Personalize it. Put links to your books on it. Blogger offers a free site that you can get pretty customized with. They even let you make different pages, such as a special page for your books and an About Me. Don't ignore the About Me page. Readers want to know about the authors. Don't tell them what you eat for breakfast every morning, but don't stay shrouded in mystery.
• Friends and family- Encourage them to share with friends, etc. This has been my best method. They do my work for me pretty well. Thanks guys!!
• Review bloggers- I haven't had much luck with these guys yet, but I just started. This is where Hocking had great success.
• Signatures- All over the place. Put your book links as your signature EVERYWHERE. Forums, email, etc. It's free and requires no effort aside from initial setup.
• Encourage reviews from those people you know have bought it, but don't expect them to give a stellar review and don't be offended if they don't like it. Let them be honest. I know as a reader, I tend to be drawn to books that already have reviews, even if the reviews aren't the best. I see that the book has been read, and I want to be in on the party. And I'm afraid to waste money on an untested item. Reviews help, a lot.
• Giveaways- Do you have a paperback version? Set up a contest and offer a free signed copy to the winner. Or offer a fun gadget or gift card if it's just an eBook. One idea is to have people send you the receipt for each book of yours that they purchase and each receipt gets their name entered.
• Local businesses- Will the local coffee shop let you put a sign up or a few paperbacks on the counter? What about a locally-owned bookstore? Local shops love local artists. Work with those in your area. 
• Passive advertisement and patience will net you results in the long run. Be active in forums and on blogs that you follow, be helpful (don't be a dick. That'll get you nowhere), and put your information in your sig. Many will click, some will buy. It'll add up in the end.

This is my current list, but it's constantly evolving. If I find a new marketing method, I'll be sure to add it. Have a suggestion I didn't mention? Pop it in the comments!!

Blood of the Dragon in Paperback! 25% Discount

Blood of the Dragon is available in paperback. Visit my e-store and use the code 94RFWHVW at checkout to receive a 25% discount.

New Blood (Jane, Book #2)

So, I don't have the second part of Jane quite finished, but a wonderful up-and-coming cover designer has created a lovely cover for it. Check out Isabella Kruger!

Fluffified

It started out like any other Easter Sunday—waking up late, drinking stale coffee because she was too cheap to throw yesterday's pot away, lounging on the couch as she surfed Facebook for a couple hours, wishing everyone happy Easter, making a small lunch for herself and her six cats, then heading outside to take a stroll in the bright spring sun.

She stopped at a park to watch children play and that's when she noticed something in the bushes. It made quite a racket and she started to get nervous. All of a sudden, it burst through the branches, snarling and spitting, its amber eyes piercing through her, marking her as food.

Polly ran, angling away from the park, hoping to save the children on the swings. She dashed through an alley, trying to outrun her attacker. Swerving around some trash cans, she slipped on some moldy, slimy, green garbage and landed hard on her backside.

Polly scrambled to right herself, but as she turned around, the zombie bunny was bearing down on her. She screamed and threw herself backward as the bunny launched itself toward her face. She felt something thin and scratchy brush across her cheek and the bunny stopped midair, growling and slobbering through the fine mesh of a net.

"You blithering idiot. I can't believe you let this thing out."

Two men were standing on the side of the alley, dressed in lab coats. One had his head down, hands shoved into his pockets, cheeks as red as a miniature apples. The other held a high-grade fishing net, in which the fluffy zombie now squirmed and howled. He dropped the rabbit into a cat carrier and latched the door.

"Miss, please come with us. We'll get you cleaned up and, uh, explain things."

Polly, completely perplexed, stood up, overcoming the weakness in her legs to right herself. She followed the two men to a van. The one carrying the bunny opened the door and beckoned for her to enter. She hesitated, unsure if she should trust people who create zombies out of pets.

"We're not going to hurt you. I promise. But we do need to talk with you, so you understand what's going on and know that you can't share this information with anyone else."

Polly hopped in the van and went with them back to their lab, located in a warehouse on the far side of town. When they got out, one of the men led her to a small sitting room while the other took the bunny through a separate door.

"Please, have a seat. I'll get you some tea."

Polly sat and waited. The man, the smarter one it seemed, brought her a cup of tea and seated himself opposite her. He sipped from his own cup as she sipped from hers.

"So, Polly, you know you can't tell anyone about this, right?"

"Yes... wait. How did you know my name?"

He just smiled at her. Her head started to feel fuzzy and her skin started to tingle. The world around her seemed to grow larger. Polly's hands fumbled with the cup, dropping it to the carpet. She had trouble breathing and her nose twitched uncontrollably. The man advanced on her and she tried to get away, but she backed up against the couch and couldn't get around his enormous legs.

He leaned over, grabbing her neck, and hefted her into the air. Her eyes were wide and she was terrified. He carried her, not all that gently, over to a mirror. She looked and in his hand, where she was, squirmed a brown, lop-eared bunny that he held by the scruff.

"At last, success." The smile on his face was pure joy and pride. “I just love bunnies.”

Polly kicked and scratched and tried her best to get out of his grip, but he had bested her. He dropped her into a crate and called for his partner. Polly watched the man drink his tea as she was carried through a set of double doors, defeated and fluffified. 

**This was for the April theme challenge of a writing group I'm in. Keywords were *Bunny, Amber, Play, Blithering, Garbage, and Overcoming*** 

Getting Even

"No, no, no! You have to sand WITH the grain!" The old man's exasperated cries echoed through his workshop as he snatched the sandpaper from his four-year-old grandson. "Like this."

His rough, cracked hands showed a tenderness with the wood that he did not display elsewhere in his life.

"See? You have to make your strokes even.." His tone softened, as if he were speaking directly to the unfinished oak beneath him. He began cooing as he pet the wood gently with the rough paper, forgetting the child was with him.

Getting bored, the little man wandered away from his grandfather, looking for something non-sand related to keep him entertained. Finding a small, metal device with a gap in the middle, he picked it up and examined it. One edge of the gap was sharp, slicing his finger. He gasped, but forgot about the cut when he realized it didn't break through the skin far enough to draw blood. His new toy outweighed his fear of being cut and he searched the area for a piece of wood he could test the device on.

After several tense moments, his eyes fell upon a dresser sitting in the corner. It looked old, cracked in several places, the stain having worn off decades before. The little boy perked up. Grandpa wouldn't mind if he played with it. It was old and useless, anyway. Making his way across the shop, sneaking past his Grandpa, who continued to baby-talk to the now sanded piece of wood, the boy found his target.

Hefting the chunk of metal, he smacked it against the dresser. Nothing happened. He frowned and glanced around. His grandpa had heard the clunk and seemed very agitated as he headed in the boy's direction. Eyes wide, the boy turned back to his task. He wanted to know what the object did before it was stolen from him.

He pressed it against the wood, but it slipped from his hands. As the thing clanked to the ground, it slid along the side of the dresser, pulling up a thin curl of wood. A wide stripe of oak appeared wherever the object was and the boy heard a strangled gasp behind him.

He looked around, seeing his grandpa on his knees, hands on his head grasping at what little hair was left there. "What have you done?" the man muttered repeatedly, ignoring the little boy and staring at the dresser.

"I dunno," the little boy said, shrugging. It was just an old dresser.

The old man finally climbed to his feet, pushing the boy out of the way as he swiped up the planer. He examined the damage. "This is just awful. Now I'll have to redo the whole thing. This is going to take me months, years to fix." He turned on the child. "Go back inside. Go to your mother. You're not allowed in here again."

"But..."

"Go!" The voice boomed through the workshop, echoing off the many surfaces. The little boy scrambled out the door, terrified. The man turned back to the dresser.

"I'm sorry, father. I'm never going to be able to get it as perfectly even as you have." He sighed and got to work.

**Created at Milkwood's daily morning dash. Dashes are held in Second Life at 5am and 6:30pm SLT. This piece is from 4-22-11, using the prompt "even". **

Lust. It's that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you see someone for the first time. It's the rapid beat of your heart as your blood heats up, pulsing through your veins at light-speed. It's the catch in your breath the first time they speak to you, the tingle in your fingers at their first touch. It's the uncontrollable smile that involuntarily spreads across your lips every time their name flits across your brain. It's the daydreams, the night dreams, dreams of future possibilities. It's the dizzy, wine-enhanced feeling you get when they commit their life to you. But it's just a feeling.

Love. Love is a choice, a conscious decision to press on when that wonderful, enticing feeling begins to fade. It's a determination to stick to those often spoken, but rarely heeded words--"in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, for richer or for poorer, forsaking all others, til death do us part." Feelings fade, lust can wane as the years and decades pass. But love is eternal, if you choose it to be.

We are inundated in this day and age with images of what a good marriage "should be." Young girls are assaulted with animated movies telling them that their handsome prince will come rescue them from the evil of this world and they will live happily ever after. No one tells these children that they'll have to work for that happily ever after. Movies tell them how to get the handsome prince, but no one shows them how to keep him. It's easier to just give up when the going gets tough, citing "irreconcilable differences" when that hot, exciting feeling fades with time. But they need to know that the feeling isn't love. It's just lust, a need, a craving. Nothing more. Love is what really matters, and if love persists, if you choose to give it the chance to blossom in the wasteland that lust left behind, that feeling, the lust, will return to reward your trust and persistence.

Watch Where You're Walking...

"Ouch! What the heck was that?"

I looked at him, eyes squinted, as he glared at the ground behind him, then I shrugged my shoulders. "Dunno. But watch where you walk. Lots of roots and things here. You might stumble."

"I did just stumble," he mumbled behind me as I turned and continued on.

His constant grumbles and stumbles were starting to get to me. I'd barely known the guy a few weeks, but he hung around more than my best friend, despite my pleasant (and sometimes less-than-pleasant) hints for him to leave me alone. So when I decided to take a hike in the woods, he, of course, showed up right when I was leaving. Now I was trekking through the peaceful, beautiful forest, listening to his uttered complaints and audible moans.

We had been going uphill for awhile, and I admit, I was starting to get tired when we stumbled upon a clearing. I'd been in these woods before, but I'd never seen this clearing. There was a small house in the middle. It was white with bright cotton candy blue shutters (yes, cotton candy can be blue). The house was sparkling clean and the door was a dandelion yellow.

"I don't like this," my obnoxious companion muttered behind me as I stepped a bit closer.

I glanced back at him, but moved forward again. The house was surrounded by pretty little flowers. When I paused to sniff one, the door opened and an old lady hobbled out, followed by her decrepit cat.

"Hello there," she said and I returned the greeting.

He remained silent, drawing her stare. "I see you've finally come, Rupert."

He glared at her. "My name is not Rupert! It's Shawn!"

"Shawn, Rupert, it makes no matter. I've been waiting for you. You think you could escape, but you cannot."

I looked between them both, annoyance and a slight affection in her eyes, confusion (mixed with a small bit of understanding) and fear in his.

"Um, what's going on?" I asked.

She laughed, something similar to, but less bitter than a cackle. "Rupert here is my pet. He has been since the beginning. He was quite an intelligent friend, really. But a strange... accident, you could say, caused him to gain the ability to leave me. And apparently, he found a new master."

I shook my head. "Oh no. I'm not his master. I met him at the coffee shop and he's kind of latched onto me. You can have him back. He's creepy."

Rupert looked at me, appalled. "I was being nice."

"Bub, that's not nice. That's creepy."

The lady laughed again and crept toward us, mumbling and digging through her pockets. "Now, where did I put that.... Ah! Here it is. Now, hold still Rupert."

His eyes grew wide and he attempted to run away but stumbled on a root that had grown up just behind him in a very short time. He lay moaning on the ground as the old lady approached.

"Hippity pippity, rankity boop. Rupert must come back and try my new soup," she chanted twice before tossing what looked like a handful of cinnamon onto Rupert. He sneezed and snorted before the air around him fuzzed. I blinked and there standing before me in Rupert's place was a wrinkled old donkey.

**Origin of the story: There are 15-minute writing dashes at Milk Wood in Second Life every day at 5amSLT and 6:30pmSLT. This story is from the 4-15-11 morning dash, using the prompt "stumble." I ran out of time at the end and never finished it.**

Blood of the Dragon now on Kindle!

Blood of the Dragon, my first full-length novel, is now available on Kindle!

Three centuries ago, Sigurd, King of Dragons, was defeated by the Aron, self-proclaimed King of All. Now, the dragon race is enslaved, the Gypsies outlawed, and the Hidden banished. Humans live in poverty and fear of Princess Slyvania and her evil sidekick, Commander Locke.

But hope remains. Sigurd's son, Ychthorn, held in stasis for 300 years, is ready to embark on a journey with four friends to bring freedom and peace to the oppressed kingdom. Will they succeed in their mission? Or will the wicked princess and her minions bring the group to their knees? 

Shhh

"And how does that make you feel?"

Fred sighed. Ever since his girlfriend had made the decision to become a psychologist, she'd been way too focused on "feelings" and "talking". It made him ill. More ill than the undercooked chicken in front of him.

"Fine, just fine," he mumbled around a mouthful of pink, chewy poultry.

"It doesn't upset you that they undercooked your chicken? It doesn't make you angry that they would try to harm you in that manner?"

"Nope. I like undercooked chicken," he said, taking another big bite.

The waiter came up, moobs poking out through his too-tight button-up white shirt. "How is everything?"

Fred held up his plate. "Delicious. The chicken is undercooked."

"Oh! Oh my. Let me just take that for you, sir. I'll get you a new plate. I'm so sorry."

"Not a problem at all. I love undercooked chicken."

"Um, really? You know it's unhealthy, right? You could get food poisoning and stuff."

"What? Are you serious? I don't believe you. I've eaten raw chicken since I was a little boy having lunch with my grampapa."

Both the waiter and Fred's girlfriend gasped, neither registering the heavy dose of sarcasm seeping through his voice.

Fred sighed. "Fine, take it back. Get me a steak this time. Medium."

The waiter nodded and took the plate from his hand. Fred reached for another roll and slathered it in butter.

"Are you using extra butter to hide your irritation that he took your chicken?"

Fred's eyes rolled involuntarily. She clearly saw, but didn't say anything, only waited for him to answer, staring at him intently, a forkful of Alfredo hovering dangerously over the table.

"No, Emma. No, I'm not. I just like butter. Butter is heaven and it makes my taste buds dance."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Here, try some."

She glared at him as he shoved the roll at her face. "No, idiot. I meant are you sure you're not mad."

"Emma, you know I'm not mad. It's not a big deal. Stuff like this happens all the time. Would you quit trying to make trouble where there is none?"

Her face turned red and she slammed her fork to the table. "I'm not trying to make trouble!" Her squeal echoed throughout the patio they were dining on, drawing stares from neighboring tables. "I"m just trying to help you express your emotions."

"Well, maybe my emotions are quite happy being hidden and unexpressed."

She stood up, slamming fork and napkin to the table. "Fine. If that's how you feel, then enjoy your lonely dinner."

He watched her stomp out through the gate that no one was supposed to use. The waiter had returned with a steak. "Uh, is everything alright, sir?"

Fred grinned up at him. "Oh, everything is just wonderful now," he said, tucking into his steak to eat in blissful silence.

Snapshots of a Life

Running down a darkened hallway, peals of laughter singing through the air as they race toward an unknown destination.

A small schoolroom in the basement of a church. Three rows of desks, six chairs per row, split into two sections, an aisle in the middle. Some of the chairs are already filled, the young boys, kicking their feet, legs not yet long enough to reach the ground. One boy stands as the end of the aisle, heart beating fiercely in his chest at all the unfamiliar faces.

That same boy, years later, on a playground outside the church. A girl is with him as they share a swing set. Her brown pigtails fly out behind her as she sails higher and higher into the sky. The uniform she wears compliments her perfectly and he stares, watching her win the contest they'd been playing. Her smile, big, white, perfect, entrances him. He can think of nothing else at that moment. A new feeling, unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

That same boy, that same girl. Standing on a front porch. His? Hers? He doesn't remember. All he remembers is the feel of her soft skin against his hand as she steps out the door. That same smile, big, white, perfect, lips redder this time, stretched across her glowing face. The yellow, knee-length dress she wears flutters in the breeze, revealing a small peek of her perfectly formed kneecap. Her eyes shine as she watches him watch her.

Years later, that same boy, that same girl. Back in the church they shared so many memories in. Flowers in her hair, white flowers to match her lovely white dress. The pews are filled with family and friends, but their faces are all blurred, unrecognizable. All he sees is her, standing in the middle of the church on her father's arm, that same smile, big, white, perfect. She's coming to him, to be his forever, and his heart throbs with the joy, the pain, the everlasting love.

A hospital room, that same boy, that same girl, and someone new. Someone perfectly new, perfectly beautiful. A perfect blend of the two of them, nestled in the girl's arms. Her face is tired, drawn, but that smile shines through. The small bundle squirms. Its smooth, unblemished skin, unaffected by the horrors of the world, gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights. The tiny creature's eyes are closed, squinted, its face scrunched as its tiny fists curled into balls no bigger than a cherry, soft nails embedded into the pale flesh.

The big, yellow school bus looms at the end of the driveway. A small hand clenches his, fear seeping between the bond. He gazes down into the small face, lined with fluttering big, brown curls, the little blue eyes wide as she silently begs him to let her stay there forever. Pretty pink plastic backpack hangs limply on the little girl's shoulders, not yet filled to the brim with what life is about to bring her. A yellow sweater, knit by her mother, keeps the cool September breeze from the pale white skin.

Years flash by, images flying too quickly to make sense. Monumental moments delegated to brief glimpses lost within decades of information.

A young girl, white dress flowing around her, beams up into his face. Her perfectly manicured hand rests on his tuxedoed arm, red nails forming perfect squares as the diamond gleams on her third finger. White flowers dance throughout her brown curls. Her smile, big, white, perfect, lips matching her nails. She looks like her mother, he thinks, a smile coming to his own lips. The girl's blue eyes sparkle with unshed tears as the band plays the opening notes, their signal. He's about to lose her forever, and his heart begins to break.

The girl's face is drawn, tired, beaming with unexplainable happiness. Another small bundle squirms in its mother's arms. Smooth, unblemished skin shines beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The feeling of joy is utterly different from this moment decades ago. It's strong, powerful, but distant in some way. A strange image as both babies lay in the same bed.

More moments blurred into one, dancing, flickering, fading. Time flies by, lost amid events that seemed important, but were a waste in the end. Meetings attended, softball games skipped.

A face, framed by trimmed brown curls. Familiar, unnamed. Lost amid images from the past, images from a swing set and porch. Tears stain her perfect cheeks. The smile, big, white, perfect, tinged with sadness. Her lovely wrinkled hand rests on his face, fear seeping through the bond of skin.

Two girls this time, mirror images, but one is older, more experienced. Confusion. Which is which? Are they the same? Conjured from moments throughout the past, neither real? The girl on the swing set and the girl at the bus flutter in front of him, tear at him, begging to be seen as the women they really are.

The young woman in the yellow dress sits at his bedside. The girl from the school bus no longer comes, the pain of his confusion too much to bear. The young woman grasps his hand, he pulls back. The hand he sees is not the perfect, unblemished beauty he once knew. This hand it wrinkled, aged, spotted. It doesn't not belong on the woman he loves. He sees the sadness in her blue eyes, a heavy burden on them both.

Mere snapshots in an old man's life. Memories. Fading as they reach back into days long past. The boy, once vibrant, joyful, laughing through the halls, lays in his sterile, white-sheeted bed, clouded eyes focused on the harsh fluorescent lights, his last snapshot one of fear, frustration, dejection, death.

**Origin of the story: There are 15-minute writing dashes at Milk Wood in Second Life every day at 5amSLT and 6:30pmSLT. This story is from the 4-8-11 morning dash, using the prompt "snapshot."**

Vampire Assassin on Amazon!

Vampire Assassin, the first novella in the Jane series, is now available on Amazon!

Sour

Bzzt, bzzt, bzzzt.

"Ughn." She rolled over, smacking the alarm. Her tired fingers missed the massive snooze button and the plastic contraption tumbled from the nightstand, yelling at her like an angry bee.

Groaning again, she rolled out of bed, landing on the floor on her knees as she searched for the irritating noise. Her hand touched the cool plastic and she grabbed at it, fumbling with the off switch. She couldn't make it work, so she reached behind the nightstand and yanked the plug out of the wall. Tossing the dead alarm onto the bed, she levered herself up and trudged to the bathroom.

She turned on the hot water and looked in the mirror. Her short hair was a mess and stuck up in clumps all over her head. The makeup she'd worn to the bar the previous night was smeared and looked almost as bad as she felt. Her head swam and she leaned on the counter to steady herself.

"Too many whiskey sours," she chided the trashy girl in the mirror. "Never again." But she knew it would happen again. Every weekend. She was almost thirty and still hadn't found the incentive to settle down and quit acting like a freshman in college.

Groaning again, she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over her, cleansing the bitterness of the evening away. She opened her mouth to get out the sour taste of her own vomit. When she was as clean as she was going to get, she stepped out, towelled herself off, and headed to the kitchen.

The programmable coffee pot had already finished its cycle. She poured herself a cup and went to the fridge to grab the half and half. She opened the door and found that all she had left was milk. Milk? When had she bought milk? Shrugging, she picked up the cardboard container and took it back to the coffee pot. She opened it, sniffing gingerly. It smelled borderline, so she took a sip. The clumpy, bitter mess had her running to the kitchen sink to gag. What was left of last night's disaster joined with the turned milk at the bottom of the stainless steel bowl.

Growling, she dumped the milk down the drain and threw the carton in the trash. She pulled out the emergency powdered creamer, added twice as much sugar as normal, and plodded out the door to her car. The traffic on the freeway only added to her irritable mood and she arrived at work twenty minutes late.

Walking through the door, she was greeted by the ever-bubbly Bonnie, a twenty-something blonde bimbo who never seemed to have an off moment or bad hair day in her life. The woman glared at the receptionist's cheerful greeting and hid in the elevator.

As it reached her floor, the doors opened onto her own personal hell. She walked down the rows of cubicles, all designed the exact same with very few personal touches, She plopped into her less-than-comfortable chair and sighed.

"Why are you always in such a sour mood?"

She looked up at her boss. He was middle-aged and hated his job as much as she hated hers. He took his pleasure from irritating his employees until they either blew up so he could fire them or quit on their own. She gave him a bitter smile.

"I'm not in a sour mood, George. This face just shows my absolute joy at being in this wonderful office and spending days on end in your lovely presence."

He laughed and walked away as she shoved the headset on and logged into her computer.

"Customer Support. This is Ronnie. How may I help you today?" she greeted the first angry customer of the day. 


**Origin of the story: There are 15-minute writing dashes at Milk Wood in Second Life every day at 5amSLT and 6:30pmSLT. This story is from the 3-29-11 morning dash, using the prompt "sour."**

Action

"Get down! Quick!"

"What?"

"Get down! Now!"

"But why?"

She rolled her eyes and yanked him to the floor before doing an army crawl toward the door.

"Because we're not supposed to be here, idiot."

"Oh, right." He followed her to the door, crawling on his hands and knees like a dog.

She reached the door and raised her hand, gripping the handle firmly as she twisted it. The door popped open and she peered outside into the dark street. Empty. She stood up, making sure her weapons were secure, then bolted for the edge of the porch. A shot went off and she heard a thud behind her. She hit the rail and vaulted over, landing heavily in the thick bushes.

Tearing her way through the clinging branches and leaves, she raced across the lawn, using the few trees as cover from the bullets whizzing past her head. As she neared the black sedan she arrived in, a projectile slammed into her shoulder, knocking her sideways.

She rolled with the impact, feeling the pain spiderweb up through her shoulder to her neck and down to her fingertips. Grunting, she launched herself to her feet and stumbled to the car. She could hear the guns still firing, the bullets thumping into the car's thick hide.

The car was unlocked, so she gripped the handle and ripped the door open. The glass in the window shattered as a bullet pierced it, spraying tiny, diamond-like pieces all over her. She hopped in the seat, ignoring the small cuts on her hands and face. The keys weren't in the ignition. She tried to remember where her partner would have put them. Fumbling around, she found them in the cup holder, then shoved the key into the ignition.

The car roared to life and the lights illuminated the street in front of her. She could see the gunman who had shot her window off to her left. Other figures moved swiftly through the shadows on either side of the street.

She slammed the car into gear and stomped on the pedal. The wheels screamed for several tense moments before the car took off. She'd gone only fifteen feet before a man with a rocket launcher stepped into her path, locked and loaded. She slammed on the brakes.

"Aaaand, cut! Excellent work everyone! Beautiful! Now we'll load up for the real action."

The woman opened the door and rolled out of the car, sliding to her knees to rest for a few minutes. She glared at the director. Real action? Explosions weren't real action. The real action was what she just did, without a stunt-woman. She stood and shrugged to alleviate her irritation. The shrug brought new pain.

Rubbing her wounded shoulder, she walked back to her trailer, mumbling, "I didn't think rubber bullets were supposed to hurt this bad."

**Origin of the story: There are 15-minute writing dashes at Milk Wood in Second Life every day at 5amSLT and 6:30pmSLT. This story is from the 3-28-11 morning dash, using the prompt "action."**