Blog Chain: Celebrate your strengths and weaknesses

Ah, we have arrived at the first new blog chain of 2011! Ce-le-bration time, C'MON! Let's celebrate!

And with those song words, let's begin the party as Sandra has the start of the 2011 celebration blog chain question:

What do you think your strengths and weaknesses as a writer are? Did you have to develop your strengths, or did they come naturally to you? How are you trying to overcome your weaknesses?

I would say that my one weakness was not preparing to do this blog chain, so I hadn't put all that much thought into it. Then my smartphone went off with a reminder my turn was today.

Me = almost flaking out on this round. BIG weakness.

Okay, I believe my biggest weakness is my wordiness. Yes, I've come to admit that for a long time now, which goes to show that I'm still fighting against this particular demon. I use too many words to get my point across.

And my strengths? I love developing a good twist ending. I like to say I can do dialect very well and I have no problem with developing transitions from one story arc to another, fitting in the pieces and able to keep the main focus of the plot together. Another strength is that I'm a good little panster, able to write off the top of my head without planning while (hopefully) still creating an entertaining story... sorta like this blog post I'm doing at the last minute without any planning.

All my talent is natural. I've never took any classes for creative writing. I don't have any degree for it. Most of my writing is quite natural. Whenever I wish to develop a new writing skill, I use my blogs. I create stories there and find out new ways in developing plot, entertaining characters, and perhaps LESSEN ON THE WORDINESS!

Well, that's about it. I'm going to get some leftover cake and New Year's Day drink and continue to ring in the new year into the next blog question. Read Cole's post and Eric's post on this topic.

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Recently, I wrote a bit of a story on my other blog to bring in the 2011 new year. It's sort of a spur-of-the-moment freestyle piece. So there are very few editing and revisions done to it. Just a little bit of something, perhaps an ongoing writing piece I'll keep coming back to when time allows. Enjoy and leave any writing advice if you wish.
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There has never been a new thought, a new word, a new story, a new way of looking at things or a new way of inventing something. Whatever idea you create now has been developed before. The only difference is how the idea is perceived, how it is used, and whether the person succeeds or fails...

The assistant shook her head and closes the door, leaving the scientist's nameplate and his idea of thought-provoking office decor behind. She approached the lab table and the white-robed shape with a perpetual bent to his back. Her nose wrinkled at the bright blue flash and the odor of burnt metal wire.

Solder on, mighty soldier. For your country needs you...

The assistant took a seat at another table, pulling out the romance novel from her jacket as her mentor worried away at his latest invention, something to do with human sound frequency. The assistant opened the novel to the dog-eared page of where she had left off in the story: the love triangle heating up between the virgin Duchess, her lowly chimney sweeper lover, and the pompous Baron high off his status as he stalks his love with false righteousness.

Duchess: I've never meet a man who could fill my heaving bosom with the fruits of passion.

Chimney sweeper: Sweet lady, I am but a lowly man. All that I own is the sweeping brush. All I am given is this mere six-pence and perhaps a spare end piece of three-day old bread. These things are my life, and I thought my life was content. Yet I've found something that I've never thought I could be given, or was within my status to have. Your love has left me wanting more, more than just sweeping out chimneys and eating stale bread...

Duchess: Hush! Did you hear a crackling from the nearby mulberry bush? I think the Baron has followed us to our secret meeting place.

Chimney sweeper: He is a man full of his own pride, his own ego, and his own justice. His mind is gone, obsessed for that which he cannot have by force. He wants you, my lady, and shall pursue you until that obsession is sated.

Duchess: But his obsession's gratification may not be what he desires. Quickly, my love. I see the glint of metal flashing in the foliage. Unlace the top straps of my bodice piece. There you will find the small dagger. Sate the Baron on what his obsession has led to...

"Ah, I think I have it now. Come over here, Lizzy."

The assistant sighed and dog-eared the new page as the book slipped into her lab jacket. Elizabeth strolled to the scientist's table, studying the wire-y mess of transistors and circuit boards. The contraption looked like a ninth-grade science project that might erupt lava, or more than likely just erupt completely into oblivion, at the clicking of the switch.

"And this is suppose to be the next big invention of the century?" Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up, seeking to migrate into her sandy blond hair.

"It is the next big invention of..." the scientist looked down at his watch "... April 5 of 2007 at 11:34 am. Whatever will be the next big invention of April 5, 2007 at 11:35, we will have to wait and see."

Elizabeth sighed, "And what, oh great mentor seeking his sixty seconds of fame, is this going to do to help humanity?"

The scientist spread out his hands above the invention as if bestowing good graces upon the machinery lightly humming. "This will save people's lives. Can you imagine a soldier out in the field, needing specific orders relayed to him about an ambush seen over the next ridge by a helicopter pilot, but the pilot unable to communicate with him by normal means? Can you imagine a way to tune into that particular soldier's hearing, his "signature frequency" that is unique only to him? Can you imagine sending out a warning that only his ears can pick up and his mind perceive? Can you imagine the implications?"

"I imagine some pervert having fun sending out dirty messages to unsuspecting women and believing he can get away with it." Elizabeth snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Come now, Lizzy. Think of the greater good. Men in distress contacting medical aid while in battle without giving away their position. Soldiers cut off from the rest of their battalion could arrange rendezvous coordinates while avoiding hostile forces."

"We work in the secret weapon's branch of the State's military department. 'Greater good' and 'military weaponry' means someone at one end of the tool is going to come to a messy end. Why invent something with the potential to hurt someone? Can you imagine, doctor, a convict getting away with killing everybody in a McDonald's by claiming someone else was manipulating him to do so through sound frequency? It gives new meaning to 'the voices in my head made me do it' in every court plea."

The doctor sighed. He swiveled his lab seat and pointed at his door. "Lizzy, you've read the plaque on my door, the one under my name. 'There's no new idea or new invention that hasn't been thought of before.' I've thought of this invention, but I won't allow my ego to believe that nobody else is smart enough to come up with the same invention. And what if that someone was an enemy to our country? I work for the military where my inventions can be used out in the field. Yes, I realize it could lead to hurting them also. But I have to keep holding on to that sliver of hope that my invention will save soldier's lives during combat."

"I only know that use of something can lead to misuse." Elizabeth stared at the soldering tool. It still smelled of burnt wire in the air. "Just because a person is smart enough to invent something doesn't mean they are not dumb enough to use it for a deadly purpose."

"There is nothing new under the sun," the doctor shook his head...

****

Michelle Thompkin's Diary

Journal entry 12: May 2010;

I would say this was an ordinary day that was part of an ordinary life. I would say my existence wasn't very significant to either myself or to other people. But I don't believe that is the case anymore. I've been hearing things, voices in my head. I want to think I was imagining them.

But I can't think that anymore.

I suppose if I told other people they would just roll their eyes and snort or give me funny looks like I was out of my mind. I can only imagine what a shrink would think if I told him the voices were harassing me in every way imaginable in my life.

Yeah, the shrink would think I've gone crazy.

But I know the voices are real. I know because they are familiar to me, familiar to the point where I've actually met the people beforehand. And the voices are the same to those people. There is also one little thing that brings me back from having everyone, including myself, into believing that I might be taking a headlong dive over the cliff of insanity.

Other people have heard the voices too.

But let's start from the beginning, when the Starbucks barista was filling up the napkin container as I sat in the lounge chair, sipping on a vanilla cafe mocha, as the voice called out, "BITCH!"

Nobody in the cafe turned their heads to look around at the offender to our coffee-sipping silence. Nobody except me and the barista, who frowned and stared about until our eyes momentarily locked. Then the woman scooted behind the counter and disappeared into the back of the store.

She couldn't blame me for calling out the derogatory word. The service I received was fine. Besides, the shouting voice had belong to a man and only one man was in the store. He was asleep in the chair next to mine.

to be continued...

Blog Chain: Craft a Story

Ohhhh! Story blog chain time! Miss Awesomeness Michelle McLean came up with a fun activity to wrap up this year as we will usher in the next.

In 100 words or less, write a story using the words ride, post, soulless, local, dehydrator, girdle. Your story may take on any form you wish. The only two rules are 1. you can't simply list the 6 words; you must actually craft them into something creative, and 2. you must use ALL six of them.

Here's my story. 100 words. Make sure to read Sandra's post before mine and Kat's story afterward. Heck! Read everyone's stories as I add their links to the list!

Michelle M.
Shaun

Abby

Cole

Shannon

Kate

Eric

Sandra
Mine (below)
Kat
Margie

Laura

*******

The gun laid inside the Sunday Post, wrapped like an Italian sausage. I told Cheryl that I needed a ride to the local Walmart. "Buying my nephew a dehydrator for Christmas," I had mumbled. I'll sneak out while she parks the car, heading for the reservoir with the damning evidence. 


If Cheryl knew what soulless deed I had committed, she'd steer us around and floor it to the sanitarium. Pain ran across my chest, breath hiccuping, as I imagined myself suffocating inside the tight girdle that the medical staff called a straitjacket. That's not something I want to experience again...

Blog Chain: Fill in the Blank . . .

Welcome back for another post along the blog chain. Kate has a say in the question, and since it's Thanksgiving/Nanowrimo, she's taking it easy on most of us writers who are engaged in the challenge (Good Luck!)  Kate has a fun one this round. A fill-in-the-blank...

Books are_________________________.


At least I thought this would be a simple one to do. But as I started thinking about it, I realized there are so many avenues to take with this question. So I will say:

Books are . . . Life.

Stories emulate life. Stories expand lives. These books make us cry, or laugh, or just entertain us. Would the quality of our lives be lessened without books? Yes. They teach us from the day we learn our alphabets into our old age where we pick up a scrapbook of memories and read about those times that brought us joy. Weddings and anniversary dates. A funny tag line about the vacation the family went on to the Grand Canyon.

Books keep us healthy in bodies and minds. Books pass the time when we must wait for that airplane or train to arrive for a business trip. Books can bring families closer together with bedtime stories read within the soft glow of night lights.

Books are life. There won't be a time within our entire lives where we won't read one, even just a high school textbook. Whether we are devout fans of reading, if it's just a passing fancy now and again, or we can't fit something like that into our lives on a daily basis, we will all be touched by books in our lives.

Even if we just sketch a picture of one.

Read Eric's post who came before me. Kat will post her answer tomorrow.

Blog Chain: Dear Character, Who Are You?

Another interesting blog question time! Abby has this go-around with the following:

Where do your characters come from? And once they've been introduced to you, how do you get to know them?

Eric answered this question yesterday. Normally, I post all the links (besides the person who spotlights the current blogchain) at the end of the page, but he brought up the same sentiments I share when I comes to character creation.

I can't sit down and list the character's life story before writing the plot. I don't do character sketches. I don't do character collages (if you want to find out more about those, you can visit the wonderful Stina Lindenblatt and her post about getting an idea of what a character might look like. Sometimes I don't even have the character's name set in my mind. But I'll have the basis of a plotline. As I write along, the characters appear, fitting into every nook and cranny of the story as if I was just walking along the street happening upon scenes that unfold before my eyes.

I don't see creating a work of fiction as sitting and developing anything: not the plot, not the characters, not the story arcs or the dialogue or the pivotal point of the entire story. I see myself as someone happening upon the story with a notepad---you can either think of it as a fly on the wall type or a journalist---who listens and observes and commits to memory what is happening before crafting my story.

So, to make it simple, the characters pop into my head and I type everything down as an eyewitness account before their facts get tainted by my personal opinion. I'm on a tag-along for a police ride like those kids who have dreams of becoming an officer and sit in the back seat, jumping up and down with excitement, wondering (or is it perhaps hoping) something spectacular happens like a bank robbery. With guns blazing and people running, I'm right in the middle of all the action yet protected by the police cruiser's mesh prisoner cage.

The story appears in my head along with the characters. It makes things very exciting not finding out things about them until it happens, as I lean back in my chair and say, "Whoa! Never expected that!"

As I mentioned in the beginning, Eric posted a wonderful answer to the same question yesterday. Expect Kat's answer tomorrow.

Blog Chain: A talk with an author (Alive or Dead)

It's my turn! It's my turn!

Here we are with another round of the chain a'swinging, and it's my chance to ask (and answer) a question. I was thinking of making this a two-fer question. That's how excited I am. But I'll hold off and just ask one. I don't want to use up all my barely good material. Okay, here's my blogchain question:

If you could dine with any author, and I do mean any whether alive or dead (yes, we're going into the realms of time travel - but hey, we have science fiction writers on this chain so we can always ask for them to write up the time machine specs), who would you want to dine with? And if you can ask them for advice on one writing element you feel you might be struggling at, what would it be?


I wasn't sure how to answer this one myself. There are a lot of authors-- strangely, most of them are dead-- who I would love to have the pleasure to have a nice meal and a chat. The first author who pops into the mind  is J.R.R. Tolkien. I would find it fascinating to ask about his techniques on how to create such detailed worlds and scenes. But I'm not sure I could hold my tongue concerning some of his parts that seem... well, a bit fluffy--not so much as poor descriptions, just a bit long-winded and airy. Rather not spoil the dinner and find my meal in my lap as he storms out the room.


Another author who comes to mind involves Stephen King. I would love to ask him about his action scenes and how he can write with so many characters yet keep the plot flowing to a logical conclusion without any gaping plot holes or loose story lines leading into oblivion. But I'd be a bit nervous. He's probably ask for a midnight dinner on a stormy night in a haunted mansion, and I would be jumping at every shadow being stuck in a room with a master of horror writing. If the lights went out, I would run out the room screaming (especially if the maid named Annie Wilkes walks into the room holding a sledgehammer and talking about her pig and how I should write a story just for her-- loved King's "Misery" book).


But the one author I would love to dine and converse with would be Edgar Allan Poe. I would love to talk his ear off... perhaps that's not the best metaphor about having a conversation with someone who has been dead for awhile but deal with the mental image I implanted for a bit. I would want to talk about his unique style, his way of creating such descriptive scenes and character interactions in such a condensed way of short story fiction writing. I believe his voice is incredible, and learning to create such awe-inspiring short fiction can only relate into improving longer stories and plots that capture a reader's mind in ways I can only dream about.


So, while I scrub down the shovel and remove the muck from boots after my little hike into the cemetery, (no, I didn't write this as a primer for Halloween - it just happened that way, HONEST!) I would like to find out who you would dine and chat with for a night. Make sure to visit fellow blog chainer Eric for his answer to this topic.


If you will excuse me, I have a few leftover, decayed body parts I have to clean up from the dinner table.

Blog Chain: Biggest Mistakes

My turn in the blog chain has arrived a little early. I switched turns for this round, coming in second. So I'm jumping in a quick response, but this is quite an interesting topic. Laura's up for this round (I believe I'm up first during the next *gulp*). Make sure you read up on her response. You won't be disappointed! Her question:

Regarding your writing career, what’s the best mistake you’ve ever made and why?

This is a great question because I often think of my writing mistakes and on how I can improve from them to further my writing career. Besides learning to type by actually looking at the screen to reduce the number of typos (hey - at least I learned to type with ALL my fingers), I believe my best mistake was a technical one.

I accidentally deleted one of my manuscripts - the whole manuscript - twice.

Why would this be my best mistake? All that work, all those lost chapters, gone without having backed up the files?!?!?! The reason it was the best mistake I made was that I learned to first back up that manuscript in every way possible. But I also discovered two most important things:

I learned to improve on my writing

I allowed the plot to evolve in ways that made the manuscript better.

This second reason had to be the most wonderful outcome to my best mistake. With that one press of the delete button, I didn't stick with a set storyline as I recreated the manuscript. My characters changed. They grew in their personalities and interactions. Descriptive paragraphs allowed for the scenes to have more life: to hear and feel and almost taste the things going on. A singular plot developed arcs, branching out yet maintaining a purpose brought together into a solid story.

Instead of merely deleting a simple typo, I deleted a manuscript. And when I rewrote it, I found it was the best thing that ever happened.

Remember to go see Laura for her answer. Shaun will have his post up tomorrow.

Blog Chain: Remembered by...

It's another link in the blog chain, and my time is here. Shannon asked this week's topic, which is...

Imagine this: when you are gone, readers will remember your writing most for just one of these things: your characters, your plots, your settings, or your style. Which (only one!) would you prefer over the rest? Why?


I'm dead, yet I'm suppose to care??? Um... methinks I would rather be alive and just be glad my readers remember my name enough to pick up my book from the shelf - once I get that far with my writing. But if I were to croak.. ack... ack... I would like people to remember me enough to not burn my novels in joy.

Okay, seriously, if I'm dead I would like people to remember me by what I was like: my charm, my effervescent personality, how I interacted with people... er, I mean I would like people to remember my characters. How they possess charm to stay in the memory. How they have such personalities to make people laugh, or cry, or kill over crying with laughter. I want my characters' interactions to be so real that readers can relate to them in their own lives.

I would like readers to remember me by my characters, although a few flowers on my grave would be nice too.

You know the drill by now. Eric's post came before mine. Kat's post will come afterward. Read both.

flowers... I want flowers... red carnations... on my grave... or I'll haunt you!!!!

Blog Chain: Genre Talk

The wonderful Margie has this round's topic. She asked:

How did you come to write your YA genre (e.g. contemp, fantasy, etc?) And (yep, it's a 2 parter) if you weren't writing that, what genre would you be interested in exploring?

Oh, genre. How do I know thee? Let me count the ways...

I'm not a YA writer and never tried such, as several of my blog chainers have already stated also. I lean toward mystery/suspense. I'm too much of a Stephen King/Edgar Allan Poe buff to stray from writing in this particular genre. As Eric stated before me, I've dabbled in the paranormal: one mystery has a woman with psychic powers and a suspense has a cursed stone.

I've never put much thought in writing in a different genre until this question. I think maybe sci-fi would be interesting to explore, although writing the technical side of spaceships and whatnot scares me off too much to try. I could see myself dabbling in romance, so long as it still had some type of mystery and suspense elements. I don't believe I could write YA. I don't think I could write something that young adults would be able to relate too.

Ah, well...

Please visit Eric with his answer. Kat will post tomorrow.

Blog Chain: Challenge Yourself

Egads! You know I'm late when I have to head slap myself to remember just to take out the trash on Thursdays. So I am waaaayyy late for this Blog Chain. The awesome Eric starts this round's topic:

What do you find to be the most challenging aspect of being a writer?  What is your greatest reward from writing?

I think the most challenging part of being a writer involves getting other people to believe that writing can be a job, a career, a lifestyle that a person can enjoy without punching that daily time clock. Too many people believe that being a writer is a hobby - like coin collecting.

A person can be a writer and make it into a job without having to leave the house or work in an office.

A person can be a writer without having to always explain themselves that a person CAN make money from writing.

I guess the most challenging aspect of being a writer is the general attitude some people will show, the disdain when you tell them you are a writer. They may show the general tinges of interest in the beginning. Yet the moment they find out you don't have a book out or aren't part of a news corporation as a journalist, they scrunch their noses in the universal look of disregard as if saying, "What's the point with writing if you aren't published?"

Okay, I think I've ranted enough with the first part of Eric's question. Let's move on to the second part. What do I find the most rewarding part of being a writer?

I think the reward is seeing my writing on the screen. To read it and say to myself, "I did that. It's my words, my thoughts, my style and voice and opinion. I crafted that scene, that paragraph. I molded the characters the way I wanted them to be.

Truthfully, it's an ego trip. I guess dealing with the negative attitude of people who don't understand what it means to be a writer, I need that boost to my ego to let me know that it is all right to be a writer. This is the greatest reward I could ever imagine.

Go visit our chain starter Eric and read his answer and please visit the wonderful Kat for her answer.

Blog Chain: Where Am I?

Yikes! I've been away from posting here for some time. So you know when you see a new one here, it must be part of the blog chain series. This round's question comes from the wonderful Cole who asks:

Are you querying? Gearing up to go on submission? Writing? Revising? I'd love to hear what's new with you. And if you'd like to share a snippet of your WIP, even better!

Um, well, really I haven't done much in the querying or submission department. Much of life's happenstance has gotten my mind completely from the blogging community. From where I've left off, I have two finished fiction manuscripts ready for revision/crit/querying. Other than that, I've been busy with other things.

Yeah, I know this wasn't much of a blog post. I'll make it up to you with a snippet from my suspense manuscript, The Stone Man. It's possible I posted this snippet before, but I'm too busy to check. Hope you enjoy it.
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When the car reached the gravel road, Graham pushed his foot down on the gas. His fingers gripped the steering wheel, mentally urging the car faster. Instead, the wheels turned slower. Pings and clanks sounded under the hood. All the warning signals in the instrument panel lit up, flashing many red angry eyes at him. He didn’t know whether the bumpy ground had done something to the car or the salesman had kept something hidden from him. Either way, the car slowed. Wisps of steam escaped from along the edges of the hood.

Graham kept it going while knowing those wheels still moved faster than his walking feet. Then a wall of steam poured through the hood, fogging up the windshield and blocking the sight of the road. A busted radiator. He knew it immediately. His hands steered the car off the road as it coasted to a stop. Then Graham pounded his fists against the steering wheel to release the pent-up anger before stepping out.

He hiked along the road. By the time Graham reached the junkyard, his nose sniffed at the breeze. Fresh shit. Cotter had a holding tank for the barn runoff from his dairy cows. The farmer would store it until the spring when a big truck with a pump would syphon out the mess in the hole. Then the farmer would fertilize his fields before he planted his corn.

Graham looked forward to the smell although he never planned on breaking his promise to the farmer about filching any more of his livestock. Yet Marty needed the energy, and Cotter’s cows had nowhere to run in their pens. If Graham could wake them up and herd them in a tight group, he could fill the stone even more than with the two deer he’d hunted. Graham placed his hands on top of the wooden fence.

Something cracked against the back of his head. His chin knocked into his chest. Graham’s hands reached up and held his throbbing scalp, a bump already rising along his hair. His eyes winced as he gazed into the field and saw something sparkle in the grass. Another star?

Glass. Long. Round. He sniffed his hands. Despite the manure smell from the storage tank, he caught a whiff of alcohol. Then something hard and sharp crunched into his back. Graham’s hand went down, clutching the sore spot. He saw a large rock sitting beside his feet.

A grumpy voice shouted, “Hey, now. What you doing all climbing over people’s fences?” A loud belch interrupted the slurred speech. “Go on, get outta here. Nothing but a worthless con man. Ain’t nobody want you here.”

Graham shifted around. He now noticed the drunk up against the junkyard fence. Obvious the man headed toward Sumter’s Pub although it didn’t look like he had enough change to buy anything. Dirty clothes hung over his body in four layers. All browned from the dirt and his own sweat. Forward and back, he swayed on his feet. The man held a large garbage bag over one shoulder. A thick piece of rope wrapped around his knuckles and tied the opening close. The drunk reached down to pick up several more rocks while stumbling. The weight of the garbage bag tipped him forward. He slammed face first into the ground.

Graham assumed this’d be the end of it. For almost three minutes the drunk sat there with his face flat on the ground and his rear end pointing toward the heavens. The garbage bag had busted open. Old newspapers, ripped clothing, and hundreds of bottle caps spilled across the road. A high groan escaped from beneath him. Then the drunk flopped to the side. Scraped skin covered his face along. A good amount of blood ran from the man’s nose bent with it in a crooked position. He gazed at his trash on the ground while wiping at the blood.

The man looked all right beside the busted nose. Graham turned toward the fence. One foot pushed on the bottom beam when the drunk started screaming.

“HE GONE PUNCH ME AND STEAL MY STUFF. I’LL GO HAVE YOU ARRESTED, BAXTER.”

At the mention of his name, Graham halted in his climb over the fence. He had no idea who the fool was yet the drunk obviously knew him from somewhere. After a sigh, he climbed down. His eyes gave a long stare, then he glanced up the road searching for any movement outside the bar. Loud music blared from inside. Old man Sumter must’ve gotten a local band in to entertain the folks tonight.

Graham strolled toward the drunk with his hands in pockets. “I didn’t hit on you. You fell and hit yourself.”

“YOU GONE AND DONE IT. GIVE ME BACK MY THINGS. THIEF! HELP! HE BEATING ME.”

Graham growled, “You threw a bottle at me. I should’ve come over and pounded your sorry ass. I didn’t. And you got nothing in that bag I want. All your things are there on the ground. Leave me alone.”

“Judge will lock you up good, Baxter. Good hundred years in jail. I’ll live in your place. Make myself comfy there,” the drunk said.

He had Graham worried with the threat. Even if the lawmen didn’t believe the drunk, they might hold both of the men in a cell overnight. Best if Graham did his business in Cotter’s barn and leave. His chances would be better if the lawmen found him back at the fort rather than standing over the bleeding drunk. Besides, Marty was alone in the storage room with his health worsening.

Graham walked back toward the fence. His hands grabbed the beam when something rammed into him. The boards broke and they went sprawling into the field.

He groaned and rolled up to a sitting position, his body throbbing everywhere. His eyes watched the drunk man stagger up to feet. The man’s hand reached into the grass and lifted the bottle. Then he strode over, a little steadier now with his anger helping his cause. A bad situation. Normally, Graham would beat on the drunk without giving a second thought about it. Yet he was unsure whether he had the strength to lift his arm in protection.

The drunk stomped forward with the bottle raised over his head. He muttered, “You give me everything. Empty your pockets and give me all you have. Give me your cash. Watch. Everything. Or I call the sheriff. Call him right now.”

Graham’s eyes stared at the drunk’s serious face. He had nothing valuable on him. Only things he kept in his pockets were the car keys and the convention center keys. The last of Cotter’s money went toward Marty’s comic books. Graham reached into the pocket and listened to the rustling plastic. He pulled out the sandwich bag and debated it for only a second as the drunk man’s arm trembled, ready to split open his skull. He held up the bag.

The drunk frowned. “Why I want a rock for? Plenty of them on the road for me to use on your head.”

Graham shrugged. “This one is different. It’s a fallen star. Came right out of the sky.”

“You think I fell off the truck yesterday? You pull out something better than that or I bust this bottle apart and slit your throat. Then I go into those pockets anyway and take what I want. Your choice on whether you want to stay alive,” the man threatened.

Graham snorted. “Do I look like someone who carries rocks in my pockets for nothing? If you know my name then you know I don’t steal worthless things. This is valuable to the right person.”

“What you mean valuable?” The drunk’s arm lowered. He hesitated before darting fingers snatched up the bag. The man opened the top and peered inside at the stone.

“Museum people, for one, like those who study the sky for a living. They’re always looking for stuff like this. Pay people big money when the rocks come from there.” Graham pointed upward.

The drunk’s eyes moved along Graham’s arm and stared at the sky. He hiccuped and shook the bag, excitement showing on his features. Then he looked down suspiciously. He backed away several feet before upending the bag. The stone fall into his hand.

Graham kept his face lowered while he looked at his dusty shoes and listened to the man’s heavy breathing. His palms flipped upward. The evening deepened more yet he could see the paleness of his skin, the round circles and the streaks moving up along fingers and down past wrists. It looked like he held stars. Pale and cold. Twenty minutes passed by the time he glanced upward.

The drunk man now sat on the grass with his eyes fixed on the stone sitting in his palm. Blood dripped off the top of his lip and splattered on pants. His body trembled yet he was too drunk to notice what was going on or even pay attention to what he was feeling. Also, his body had thinned into a less solid form. Along the edges of the drunk’s clothes, Graham could see through him like one of Marty’s comic book heroes who had special x-ray vision.

“Let it go,” Graham whispered. His own body trembled, yet with fright. He knew what he’d done, always known with the flower and the deer. Yet this was too much. He’d gone too far. What Graham had just done was worse than a knife shoved into someone’s gut or a gun pointed at a person’s head. He’d beaten people before and stolen from them. Yet he’d never taken a man’s life deliberately, despite how many people in this town believed he did from his second conviction.

“LET IT GO,” Graham shouted. In the distance, Cotter’s dogs barked. The drunk man lifted his face, snorted, and tossed the bottle. Graham’s arm came up. Yet the bottle broke apart, sending glass across his body. He shook the pieces from his clothes and hair. Then he charged forward with his shoulder up and aimed at the drunk’s chest, wanting to knock the stone from the man’s grip.

Graham felt himself enter the drunk's ethereal body. Veins slithered across his skin. Muscles bunched at the contact he made. Moisture slimed his jacket from bile and blood and liquid he had no name for from organs he had no right in touching. Then his elbow neared the stone. Pain. Heat. Heaviness. Uncanny power.

Raw energy smacked into every part of Graham’s body and sent him airborne. He flew backward eight feet and then struck the ground, wisps of smoke rising from his jacket. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to stay awake. Yet his mind and body hurt. Graham’s eyes took in the sight of the deepening night, just staring at the stars and the blackness beyond them. When his senses returned, he flipped onto his side and shook off the dazed sensation. He looked over at the drunk man.

Gone. Yet Graham knew the man would be. Only thing left was the blood spatter across the grass blades. The black stone sat near the bag, vibrating.
*******
Okay, I know that was more than a snippet. But hopefully it was entertaining to you, or at least passed a few moments of your time. Please visit the ever popular Eric for his post. And don't forget to drop by and see the talented Kat tomorrow for her answer.