“First Un-Date” Chapter 1 of WANTED: A Boyfriend Who Doesn’t Suck

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful guy. He’s like the sixteen-year-old rebel version of James Franco—I’m talking at his prime. I stared at—no, I studied—Chris’s profile photo. Standing slender and toned, around 5’9, his olive skin waxed freaking flawless, his refined chest wrapped by a white sleeveless, his hips hugged by dark denims, and his short brown hair crowned with a green LA cap. Uh, and those brown eyes, deep and shining, like a warm ocean in the moonlight. Girl, let me tell you, his Honduran mom and Caucasian dad made. Him. Well! A year younger than me, he was the most gorgeous Sophomore I’d ever seen. No, the most gorgeous high schooler I’d ever seen period

My name is Natasha, and I’ve always been a lover (albeit, a virgin one) with a decent amount of fighter in me. But that feisty Cuban side mostly emerged when my best friends were being hated on by stuck-up, back-stabbing ex-besties who kicked us out of their lame parties or recklessly acted like they were gonna run us over with one of their fancy cars. Or if a guy treated our hearts like a paper-ball and thus needed a good slap across the face—like Isabelle’s ex did back in middle school, and then Sarah’s boyfriend did earlier this year. By the buses. In front of everyone (the jerk cheated on her, so potentially getting suspended was worth it).  

It was my junior year in high school and by now, I’d had ten boyfriends since ninth-grade. My relationships usually lasted two months max; either because I’d fallen out of like with the guy or he was a lying, cheating, immature punk—or a controlling scumbag. For those reasons—and more I’ll spare you from—I did most of the dumping. And I’d been cool with flash-flings; they were exciting and kept things fresh. But that changed quite recently.

I had an intense crush on Maxime, this swoon-worthy, French charmer with curly, ash-blond hair and big, blue eyes, who resembled Mel Gibson in his super hot Grease days. He sits beside me in honors English, and finally invited me to hang out with him at his mini-mansion with another Frenchy stud. But though he flirted tons, Maxime totally failed to make a legit move. When I confronted him about it, he jammed a dagger in my heart with unfiltered honesty: “Natasha,” he’d said with his thick accent, “I have a girlfriend back in France who I am in love with. We are in an open relationship, so I am not looking for anything serious, just someone to have sex with, but I know you’re a good girl so I don’t want to do that to you. It is best if we remain as friends.”

After that chest-stab, I was sick of the short-term flings. I wanted something that would last. I became mission-minded. Every time I went out, I took hours to get ready, even waking up extra early before school each morning to ensure I looked my best because now, I wanted to fall in love. I wanted something long lasting. I wanted to meet the one. And though I barely know this James Franco doppleganger, something deep within my soul is so drawn to him…It’s the most bizarre and ethereal thing I’ve ever experienced.

I’d been onto Chris since the first time my eyes devoured his frame at the mall. He was Nadia’s boyfriend, my once close friend back in middle school, but that closeness had fizzled and now they were broken up—and he did the dumping.

An alert appeared beside his profile picture in bold font: online.

My heart jolted as if electrified. Beneath the online alert there read a “message now” option. Should I just do it? Make the first move? Playing hard to get had always been thee thing to do, and I was quite the pro at it, much to the disdain of one ex who demanded I call him, “at least five times a day,” and, “treat him sweetly like his old girlfriends had.” Yeah don’t worry, that didn’t last long. But with Chris…something about him just seemed to suck stuff out of me that normally stuck like glue. He…unraveled me.

Ah, what the hell? I pounded on the keyboard before my mind could convince me not to.

Hey, Chris. I’m Natasha, Nadia’s friend. We met briefly at the mall a few weeks back.

I hit send, my heart racing. Freak. Should I have mentioned Nadia? What if he thinks we’re still close and I’m writing him on her behalf? Trying to get info or blackmail dirt?

Hey, I remember you. What’s goin’ on, Tasha?

Another heart-jolt rattled my chest. Oh my God. He responded. Thank God I’m an actress; keeping it cool when inside you’re freaking out is my specialty—again, unless the Cuban Lioness needs to be unleashed.

Nothing much, just at home. You?

Same. I see on your profile you’re pretty spiritual. That’s really cool.

I smiled at the screen. I was raised Catholic, but around eleven or so, me, my parents, and older sister, Natalia, were invited to a protestant church. For the first time we kinda comprehended why Jesus died for us and how he wanted a relationship with us. We all said a prayer that day and I remember feeling something powerful, and just crying a lot. From then on, I’d started praying religiously every night—mostly about my relationships. Dad started going to that big nondenominational church, but I stopped going when seventh-grade came around. Me and early mornings aren’t buddies. Plus, middle-school romances are dramatic and draining. With all the little boy drama, I needed to sleep in.

I wrote back. Yeah, I’m a Christian. My family and I had an intense experience at a church back when I was eleven so I definitely believe in God. How about you?

I believe humans can obtain Nirvana, their own utopia here on earth. I’ve been studying Buddhism and Taoism.

I had to do a quick Google search, especially for Taoism. A lot of stuff about rebirth and reaching perfection by becoming one with “the Way.” Pretty elusive, mysterious, and deep—like Chris; a match made in religious heaven. Believing in God was crucial though, but maybe over time he’d begin to…

Our conversation continued. An hour passed. Then two. Then three. Chris divulged more on his confusing religious beliefs and how his mom sent him to a private Catholic school because he got into too many fights at his old public one; his love for Los Angeles, where I myself hoped to live someday and become a famous actress; his favorite music: old school hip-hop, and the band Sublime; his desire to one day become a tattoo artist, even though he had yet to scar his skin with ink; his little brother, Mikey, whom he apparently adored.

This kid was so…likable. And for someone who dripped with mystery, he was really easy to talk to. A few hours of conversation and already, he felt like a close friend…

I glanced at the time at the top of my computer screen: 3:00 am. My mouth fell open. We had that much to say to each other?

Hey, it’s getting late. Chris wrote. But do you want to meet up at the mall Saturday and watch a movie?

I beamed, my face hurting from the many times I’d smiled over the past three hours.

That’d be cool. What time?

Meet me at the food court at 8pm.

All right. Have a goodnight.

Goodnight, Tasha.

As I exited the chat-box—still smiling—I eased back into my desk chair and brought my knees to my chest. Butterflies swarmed my stomach as I shook my head.

I’m going on a date with Chris Conners.

***

I’ve longed for this night like a vampire who’d been deprived of blood for a century. Saturday night is finally here. Standing across from Alice’s mirrored closet doors, applying hairspray to my scrunched, dark-blonde curls, I glanced at each of my besties. Alice, Isabelle, and Marilyn sat on Alice’s full-sized bed. Like myself, they rocked colorful tops, Chuck Taylors, and skinny jeans.

Since both of our last name’s begin with “S”, me and Alice sat beside each other in sixth-grade geography. We each thought the other was super pretty, and bonded over how cute Mr. Montega was. We instantly became best friends. A year later, me and Isabelle were at a fair and as the terrifying amusement ride began, we both shouted, “In case we die, I want you to know you’re my best friend!”

And dear Marilyn and I met in sixth-grade homeroom. Being more on the chubby side, Marilyn had been made fun of—a lot. And I despise saying it, but I’d partaken in the bullying. Yet the same girl I picked on would be the same girl I’d almost get into fist-fights defending.

We had this school dance and I’d taken off my heels and asked Marilyn if she could watch them for me, which she did without a lick of attitude. Afterwards, as I danced with Alice and Isabelle, Mar stood close by, bopping insecurely to the beat. Poor girl dripped with insecurity and shyness. Though she kept popping up, she hadn’t said a word the whole night. I honestly began to feel for her, and that following Monday, I did a real 180.

Marilyn lived with her single mom and had a rich grandma. So while me and my ex, cool-girl “best friend,” Carolina, had dollar-store lipgloss, Mar would bust out with the good stuff: Lancôme. Carolina asked Mar if she could borrow some gloss and then immediately after, she called Mar a, “fat, rich bitch,” loudly enough for several kids to hear. Carolina looked at me, awaiting my joining in like usual, but I held my tongue—and her stare—until she rolled her eyes and focused her gaze elsewhere. From that day on, I’d distanced myself from Carolina and instead, drew closer and closer to Mar. I helped pull her from her shell, and my God, am I glad I did because the girl is phenomenal. She was my inspiration for joining the anti-bullying, Heritage Club, where we go to classes and share our stories of bullying in hopes of changing perpetrators’ minds and to encourage victims.

After one last long spritz of hairspray, I turned from the mirror and faced the girls. “Call Jose to make sure Ryan’s going to be there.”

With phone in hand, Alice hopped off of her bed, part of her flat midriff exposed by her orange top. Pretty, silky-haired, and slender, she and Isabelle were childhood-models for a reason. “I already texted him,” Alice said. “He says he might go.”

“Hopefully he does because you look super hot tonight,” I replied.

“You think?” She pulled on her spandex-blouse that complemented her sun-kissed complexion. “I feel like this shirt shows my gut.”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” Marilyn narrowed her beady, blue eyes. “That”—she pointed to Alice’s microscopic belly-lump—“I wish I had.”

“For real, Alice.” Isabelle stood up now and lifted her turquoise blouse, revealing her even flatter stomach. “If anything, I have a gut.”

Marilyn gaped at them. “Okay, the problem isn’t your bodies, it’s your brains.”

I laughed. “For real, you girls are trippin’. We’re all hot.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m hot,” Mar said.

I clasped my hip. “Dude, you’re really pretty, and there’s nothing wrong with being voluptuous.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well we should get going, don’t you have to meet Chris at eight?”

“Yes!” My heart fluttered as I faced the mirror again and tousled my stiff curls. After analyzing his enticing profile pics and poetic “About me” section, where I’d discovered we both were Hispanic writers who dreamed of moving to LA, and then our three-hour instant message conversation that lasted until the wee hours of the night, I realized Chris Conners was simply perfect for me. And tonight, I’m positive our first date will be nothing short of amazing.

***

Throngs of Latino families, kids from our high school, elderly folk, basically everyone and their moms packed the food court. Searching out Chris in that herd of madness would be nearly impossible.

Mar pulled a wooden chair out from a nearby table and sat. “You wanna eat something while we wait?”

“Not really.” I dropped next to her as Alice and Isabelle leaned against a nearby pillar.

Where the hell was the boy? It was already fifteen minutes past eight! Thank God I wasn’t alone. The whole sitting around and waiting for a guy thing was so not hard to get.

“There he is!” Alice nudged my shoulder.

Instead of dwelling on the pang she caused, I focused on slowing my now pounding heart so my palms wouldn’t sweat. I’d never been this nervous over a guy before. Given, I’d never known such a real-life, hot-as-James-Franco-in-his-prime guy. And unlike your normal, simply hot guys, Chris oozed with this hidden veil of secrets. He’d gaze at you with those gleaming eyes like a dark, taunting well of water waiting to be discovered and drawn out by someone…and hopefully that someone was me.

Chris stood out through the horde—tall and skinny in blue denims, his white sleeveless, and green cap with matching bandana hanging from his pocket. His latte-colored skin looked delightfully smooth and his chocolate irises and bubble-gum lips so delectable, so luscious, so—a posse of boys trailed behind him, also in green hats with matching bandanas. I rose to my feet as Chris approached. So much for going on a solo date.

“Hey, Tasha.” The way his slow, raspy voice spoke the nickname he’d given me slightly pacified my disappointment. No one called me Tasha, and that made it all the sweeter.

“Hi, Chris. We still gonna watch a movie?”

“Let me check with them.” He turned to his gang and they walked an out-of-earshot distance away to a huge gum-ball machine awkwardly set in the middle of the food court.

I tried to make small talk with my besties while he deliberated with his boys. If I didn’t know they all lived in nice condos around Surfside and attended Catholic school, I would’ve thought they were thugs representing a gang called the Jalepenos.

“What do you think they’re saying?” Mar whispered.

“I don’t know.” I glanced in Chris’s direction. He peered back at me. My neck hairs rose as his friends did the same, grins etched on their faces.

What the hell are they saying about me? Do I look like I tried too hard? Dammit, I probably do look like I tried too hard!

He strolled over to me while Los Jalepenos stayed posted. “I’ll be back later.”

I gaped at him as he turned around and walked out of the automatic doors, his boys following.

My heart dropped to my toes. Wait a minute. Did I do something wrong?

“What a jerk!” Alice’s nostrils flared like a roused dragon as she pushed herself off of the pillar. “I can’t believe he made you meet him just so he can say hi for five seconds and then ditch you!”

“Seriously,” Isabelle said. “That is so messed up.”

I tried not to cry, but my vision blurred anyway. Based on me and Chris’s conversation, I really thought he liked me. Maybe I was wrong.

Marilyn rested her warm palm on my shoulder. “What do you wanna do, Tash?”

I bit my lip to fight back the tears, but failed. “I just wanna go home.”

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Short Story: Owner of the Bank of Souls

Meg is dying–fast. There’s only one way for her boyfriend to save her. The Bank of Souls.

“Tomorrow it’ll come and tomorrow she’ll be dead!” Danner stood over my cot, all dark and shadowy, though the fireplace crackling behind him did cast light on one thing—his shining green eyes. Or I guess that’s two things technically. To the right of the fireplace, Birdie hunched, sunken and gray like the armchair he sat in.

“Well darn, Danny,” I coughed, “quite the inspiration.” 

He leaned over and softened some. “Shh, Meg, please, just rest.” 

“Well, according to you, I’m about to have plenty of that in eight hours—give or take.” 

His glistening eyes laid on me and though the darkness in my cabin’s living room obscured it, he curved his lips in a smirk—the same smirk he gave me at the prison courtyard before introducing himself as my future husband. But like my health over the last forty-eight hours, it quickly vanished. 

“All we can do is pray for dayligh’,” Birdie said, his voice hoarse.

“I’m sick of praying, Birdie!” Danner rose. “We’ve got to do something!” 

“You willin’ to go out there durin’ curfew and risk meetin’ the courier halfway?”

“I think my odds at taking a bullet are better than hers right now.”

“That so?” Now Birdie rose, wrinkled and still hunched, he managed to meet brawny Danner eye-to-one-eye. Like it did for Danner, the flames shined off Birdie’s single iris and only deepened the shadow in his crater of the other. “I know the odds, kid, and they ain’t good. You’re better off sittin’ your stubborn butt down and waitin’ for her medicine to come.”

 “Dad, please—” I shut my mouth. Birdie’s singular stare darted to me. Despite the warmth, a shiver tore through my bones. 

Birdie walked around Danner and slowly approached. “What did you call me?”

“Dad,” I said it lower, but stronger somehow. Of all the eighteen years he’d raised me, never once had I called him Dad. He never taught me to. 

A tear welled and he knelt beside me and laid his heavy, thumbless hand on my whole one—another friendly reminder from the dictatorship not to ever buy cow meat from the black market again. “Darnit, Meg. I told you what to call me.”

“God forbid, right? Even on my death bed.”

“You’re not gonna die, Meg.” 

“Just like Mom wasn’t going to?”

A tear escaped and he quickly turned away. My own eyes remained dry. I didn’t have the luxury of thirty years of memories. Not even a full twenty-four hours. I only had the reminder of the curse, the plague I was from birth. 

Danner returned to my side, soft again. “Do you want me to stay?”

Sweat dripped from my temples; heat, pain, and love will do that to you. “Kinda.”

He chuckled. “But I’ve got to do something, Meg.”

“Then kiss me.”

He grabbed my hand in his and whispered, “With this audience? I’ll really die before you do.”

“Romeo didn’t care.”

“Yeah, and look how that ended up.”

I sighed. “But unlike Juliet…I am really dying, Danner.” 

His head bowed and he kissed my hand. Hot tears landed on my skin. He peered up again. After what felt like eons, he slowly leaned in and pressed his soft lips to mine. Bitter sweet, like black coffee and milk. Another luxury we’d been deprived of for years. My aching muscles eased. My eyelids grew heavy. My breathing hastened. 

Danner recoiled. “Meg? Meg!”

“Meg!” Birdie cried out. Their loud voices drifted as my head throbbed. Burning stabs cut through my heart. I gasped and grabbed my chest. But I couldn’t feel my hand. Only my heart. The rapid slicing. From every angle. Cutting through my veins. Ripping at my arteries. My lungs squeezed in. A million pounds. I dropped back. This. Was. It. My odds. Maybe I’d meet. Mom.

 Finally. Say hi. Or sorry.

Blackness reigned.

***                                                               

“Meg!” Danner shouted, her lifeless, thin body like the weight of a child in his arms. He held her tightly. “Please, don’t do this. I need you.” Tears soaked his face. And rage consumed his heart. They did this to her. To her mother. To his grandparents. Their neighbors. Scraps and shackles. Crap hospitals. Criminalizing private anything. 

Birdie dropped to his knees and sobbed. “Meg, my Megan. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Danner shut his eyes. Meg’s face that day in the prison courtyard filled his mind. Still thin, but fuller. Her skin glowing with sweat and her dark eyes plain yet penetrating. Makeup was for rich girls. Not that she needed it. 

She sat against the iron gate, writing on a torn piece of bed sheet with a pen she’d stolen from an officer. She had wrapped the flashy pen in some bed sheet, too. Danner was the only one who saw her do it. 

The meat-head sat in his cozy desk chair, writing in the new prisoners on his clipboard with an old, red-feathered ink pen. He prided his penmanship—refusing to use the government provided tablet. Meg had been eyeing the pen the whole time she waited in line. By the time she was third, she feigned the most believable sneeze attack you’d ever seen. Everyone panicked—not wanting to catch the latest pestilence—even Meat-Head. He sprang from his comfy chair like someone jammed a dagger through his cheeks, dropping his pen and notepad. Meanwhile, Meg stumbled forward, still sneezing, and slapped her hands onto the table. As she turned around, she swiped the pen and slipped it into the back of her pants, her sneeze explosion finally ceasing. 

Meat-Head was so disturbed he’d called in backup and took an abrupt break from his post. 

And that’s when the thought hit Danner and he just knew it. He knew one day he’d marry that crazy girl. And he had to tell her. 

“I saw what you did.” Danner opened with.

She stopped writing and looked up at him with those eyes. “And?”

He smirked. “And I’m your future husband.” 

Meg huffed, but then smiled, too.

Danner opened his eyes. And gently pulled Meg away from his chest. Her mouth hung open slightly. But now she was dead.

A knock rattled the front door.

 Birdie continued sobbing as Danner carefully laid Meg on the cot and then rushed to the door. He opened it. Night masked the surrounding woods up to the porch, but a ray of moonlight snuck through the trees and onto a brown paper box on the doorstep. Danner glanced around. The courier couldn’t of disappeared that fast. Danner grabbed the box, slowly, before shutting the door and locking it.

Birdie looked up, his face wet with tears and snot. He frowned at the odd package as Danner scanned it. Not the Black Market’s usual white, imitation government box with realistic insignias and a fake return address.

“Who’s it from?” Birdie finally spoke.

“Doesn’t say.”

“Then don’t open it. Could be a bomb or something from the Regime.”

Danner clutched the box, his eyes traveling to Meg, her skin paler than ever. He strode from the room and into the half kitchen. He snatched a knife from a drawer, set the box on the counter, and then sliced the tape that sealed it. 

As Danner opened the box, Birdie stepped into the kitchen. A clipboard with a paper lay at the bottom. 

“What the hell is it?”

Danner slowly removed the clipboard and read the crimson printed words:

I, Danner Adam Mitchel, on this sixth day of September, year 2033, hereby choose to pledge that in the place of Megan Marie Blackwell, I shall offer my life in exchange for hers. 

Danner’s heart pounded. Beneath a line with an empty space, cursive writing spelled: Anticus Mordem, Owner of the Bank of Souls.

Danner looked inside the box again. A red-feathered pen lay in the center. 

Birdie rushed to his side and grabbed the clipboard. As he read it, he shook his head. “What kinda sick bast—”

Danner clasped the pen and snatched the clipboard back, then walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Meg still lay there. Her skin now yellowing. Danner approached her. He suddenly remembered what he’d stowed in his left pocket. A ring he’d traded five batteries and a week’s worth of flour for. A six month’s wage. He had the proposal all planned. 

He’d built a small table from two of his dining chairs and set it in his backyard beneath the best looking tree he could find and then sprinkled it with purple flowers—her favorite color. He was going to cook wheat pasta for her and then ask the big question. But before he could, she got food poisoning from spoiled berries and now here they were, two days later. 

Danner reached in his pocket and removed the ring. Rose gold. Plain but beautiful, like Meg. Lifting her limp hand, he slid the ring onto her ring finger. “If this works, I’ll see you on the other side, Juliet.” He gave her one more kiss before pressing the red-feathered pen on the empty line and filling it with his name. 

A pang thrust through his chest. He staggered before hitting the floor. 

“Danner!” Birdie dropped beside him and began compressing his chest. “No, you ain’t goin’, too, kid! C’mon!” He pushed down hard. Over and over.

“Dad?” Meg’s voice. 

Danner’s chest seared at the sound and he forced himself to look at her. Her skin shone its normal pale, kissed with red. Her dark eyes alive—and terrified. 

As she jumped out of the cot, Birdie stopped compressing. “Megan? But…”

Megan took over. She pumped and pumped. Pressed her lips to Danner’s. Breathed out. Pumped some more. Breathed out…

“No, no, Danner, don’t you dare!” She cried as she pressed harder. 

The pain spread until it swallowed. And Danner gave his life.

***                                                              

“No!” I cupped Danner’s cheeks. His eyes were open. But distant. I touched his neck. Nothing. I slowly scooted away. What kind of nightmare am I living? I died only to wake up to this? No. It isn’t real. I’m still dead. Maybe this is hell. My punishment for killing Mom during labor. 

“Meg.” Birdie smashed my dark hopes. He held out a clipboard, his hand trembling. 

I took it. Read the words. And Danner’s signature. 

I shook my head. “This isn’t possible.”

“You…” Birdie’s voice quaked, his blue eye wide. “You died. I—I saw it. And then Danner signed. Dropped to the ground.” His body shaking, he muttered the rest. 

My heart raced. Beside Danner lay a red-feathered pen—exactly like the one I swiped from that tool at the prison. I snatched it and then noticed a rose-gold ring on my wedding finger. Oh my God.

I clasped my mouth. My head thrashed as my mind swirled. This is hell. A living hell. 

I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe. To think. What would Mom do? Dumb question. I’d never know. Birdie forbade asking about her. And he never brought her up. She could’ve been a dream this whole time. A good dream. Not like this. I took another deep breath. And opened my eyes. 

I looked at Danner. Gone. Somewhere else. But I wasn’t ready to let him go. 

I ripped the paper from the clipboard and shoved the feathered pen in my back pocket. As I stood to my feet, Birdie did, too.

“What are you doin’?”

“I’m going to find this Anticus Mordem guy. And make him bring Danner back.”

Just Finish the Darn Novel Already

I am preaching to myself–I, who have been slogging through completing my second novel for three friggin’ years. Yes, I do have four children six and under, with the youngest being 14-months-old, BUT surely, in three years I could’ve made more time to write–I just didn’t.

It is soooo much easier to just find an entertaining escape; watching YouTube videos, binging a on a streaming site, doing another artistic hobby that takes a lot less brain power and time (for me it was designing mugs and t-shirts). Writing. Is. Grueling. ESPECIALLY when it means so much to you and you gotta be all freaking superhero with it–wanting your book to do more than just entertain. You know, when you would rather your book be significant in impacting readers more than you’d like it to just be successful in a popularity/fiscal sense. Because I want my book to be powerful and used by God I laid this pressure on myself that makes my novel daunting.

I can’t shake the desire for my book to be more than just an exciting and wonderfully written tale so my only other option is to force myself to keep writing despite the weight of it. The annoying yet freeing thing about this dilemma is that when I finally do get to writing, I just flow. It’s getting myself to that point that’s been my struggle.

I feel like Moses. And no, my book won’t be as impactful as his calling from God was, but I mean the sentiment and the hesitancy the man struggled with to just go and do what he was told. He did it, but it wasn’t an easy task. Sometimes, no one can get you to write your book. You’ve gotta just choose to stop making excuses and do it. This is a long-haul passion/career. I’ve invested in the craft for over eight years and spent thousands of dollars on it. I cannot give up.

What about you? What is your biggest roadblock to writing?

All right, off to homeschool and then, dare I say it, I will write for a second day in a row! Off to the races!

Make Life Really Freaking Hard For Your Hero

There comes a point in your hero’s journey where stuff has got to become very, very difficult. In the beginning, we’re meeting her for the first time, and life doesn’t have to be so super duper hard right now. But something’s gotta go wrong shortly. Once we’ve got a taste of her “ordinary world” what life is like normally for her, that’s when we throw something at her: the inciting incident–and then just keep pounding her with bigger and bigger problems–consistent resistance, obstacle after obstacle, one step forward, two steps back. BUT, don’t forget that leading up to this incident and its problematic cousins there must be tension. Nope, we don’t need an action packed fight scene showing off her nifty moves. We don’t need a bunch of interior monologue info-dumping her life to the reader, but we do need that sense of tension, of something brewing, or something off, or something looming.

Then, when that inciting incident happens, life suddenly becomes harder and harder for the hero. Beat her up. Let her go through the ringer. She’s gotta feel the pain so your audience feels it with her and is itching for justice, for relief, for the answer, for things to finally work out for her.

The death alarm sounded, that phantom punch in the gut I always dreaded. I touched the metallic gateway valve embedded in my chest at the top of my sternum–warm but not yet hot. The alarm was real. Someone in my territory would die tonight, and I had to find the poor soul. -Reapers, Bryan Davis

BAM, the inciting incident hits you immediately, wonderfully, and then every sentence is dripping with tension, dread is oozing from every word. I think this is one of the best examples of a not-so-ordinary world with a very quick, in fact, and instant inciting incident that gets the story rolling and this snowball only grows larger and larger–things begin to get harder and harder soon, but first we get to know Phoenix a bit more. We see him in his dingy apartment, gathering important items for his mission; we get insight into his dystopian, supernatural Chicago life by the environment not only inside his apartment, but outside of his window where a ghost who doesn’t know it wanders by a street corner and then the interaction Phoenix has with a fellow “reaper” who lives in the apartment building directly across from his.

The next scene arrives and it’s one difficulty that leads to another and then another, and all the while the tension is like a hissing tea kettle and, in my opinion, is actually more gripping than a wild battle.

He crosses a dangerous park where baddies lurk, you sense this whole area, this whole walk to find who is dying is ominous, but then he arrives safely to find it’s a little girl on the brink, and he’s only got one pill to offer her. First, she struggles to take it. The family is dripping with desperation and the tension is rising as this little girl just can’t swallow the darn pill. But then, a DEO shows up, a death enforcement officer who isn’t here to try and save little Molly from death–she’s here to enforce it. Now Phoenix has a very difficult problem because she also isn’t just any old DEO, she’s also an Owl–she’s got supernatural abilities and a high government position. But there’s more. She finds the pill and oh snapping turtle–it’s illegal to smuggle medicine so now Phoenix’s problems are really piling up. And THEN someone–I hope by now you’ve got the point so I can stop spoiling this amazing novel for you.

In fact, reading and studying how Bryan Davis wrote Reapers would benefit you more than this blog can–and leave you flipping pages into the wee hours of the night even though you’re a sleep-deprived Momma who’s bound to be woken up early the next morning by her other kiddos.

Happy writing!

Update! Where I’ve been and What’s Next

Hello, my creative preciouses. It’s been quite some time. Do forgive me. Sleep deprivation hasn’t fled from me for over a year now. This is mostly my ten-month-old’s fault, but my four-year-old has also been waking in the wee hours as well, causing this momma to awaken four or so times nightly. Three espresso shots barely help, but it’s just a season. I hope. (That was a lot of numbers and I loathe math.)

So yep, that makes four kiddos now, all five and under, two of which I homeschool.

Me. Plus one.

We also bought and sold a home after a year of living in it, then moved to another state, and it took seven months to finally close on a new home to which we finally moved into five months ago.

In writing news, I revised the first book I’ve ever written, turning the over 100K manuscript into three novellas. WANTED: A Boyfriend Who Doesn’t Suck drives you into the drama that began with my first love at seventeen, onto my second, and then my third and last. It’s my true, supernatural love story. I am looking for readers/reviewers so if you’re interested, do leave me a comment with your email and I’ll shoot it over to ya.

Excerpt from The Phantom Lover

What about you? What have you been up to? Feel free to leave a comment regarding your happenings.

At the end of the day, I’m thankful to God for the life He gave me. Mostly, for giving me Himself, because without Him, I don’t know where I’d be.

Happy reading!

Get the New Edition of My YA Fantasy for FREE!

Copy of FREE-2

My goodness, it has been quite a while. I have FOUR wee ones now–all five and under, and one is three months old, we sold our house, moved to another state, and still haven’t closed on a property–five months later. In other words, please have grace for my extended absence.

This sleep-deprived Momma had an epiphany a few days ago, a desire that I wanted to give my book away to 100 people. However, the more the merrier! So until July 4th, you can snag this new edition of my YA fantasy for FREE. If you’ve read it before, you’re in for a treat because there’s more story, more character background, more world building, just more in general! I hope to write more on here, perhaps even release sneak reads from book two: Pandemic Princess (a title hubby came up with BEFORE the Corona craze).

What’s new with you all? What are you working on or reading? How are you holding up in the 2020 chaos? Much love!

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Withered writing hand, but I’ll extend it anyway

I’ve been writing-deprived for some time. I wanna get back in the groove, share, flow, pour out whatever this imagination can come up with. But I have some serious frienemies (friend/enemies), these Thing 1, Thing 2, and Thing 3’s: my precious children. I adore them. They’re far more important than writing, but my sleep deprivation makes it quite difficult to squeeze in time to type. I have other duties as well, that shove this to the back burner. But alas, I wanna find time, I wanna make time, I wanna fight for this…

This is influence. I’m not in this for the money (as my four-year-plus KDP account will testify). But I can show my fellow young people (I’m not thirty yet so I can say that), something fresh, some new perspectives, though truly, they aren’t new, they’re ancient, they’re infinite, but in our culture’s context they’re new, unique, and refreshing, especially when embraced. Valor with integrity, valor with purity, valor with hope, and with genuine love. My goodness, how many stories there are to tell, how many characters there are to display.

So if you’re a Christian, do pray for me…And to all my readers, I want to do this for you.

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Have you tried Canva for book covers?

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I made this for free with Canva.com. They have a really cool section with ALL book cover templates, even ones specified to Wattpad and it’s great quality text and whatnot for FREE! Look at that, 50,000 templates!

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Check out some of the Wattpad specific covers:

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Seriously, how cool is this? Have you used this tool. If you have, feel free to let me know and share a link with your cover. Happy cover making!

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Read my ongoing, NA urban fantasy story for free on Wattpad: CORYN OF BELLSFERRY: BLOOD THIEVES.

“With long snaking roads enshrouded by dense woodland and only smatters of clarity along the rolling hills, the beautiful countryside of Bellsferry was the perfect place for predators to stalk.”

Coryn knows fate when she’s pricked by it–she thinks.

In a world where American law has been overthrown, and wanna-be supernatural, self-made vampires exist–who by the way, are really creepy and demented and have started preying on the small town of Bellsferry–there also exists Coryn, a twenty-three-year-old single mother who’s just trying to survive through life–and give her daughter a somewhat decent one. But when Coryn is taken under her gunslinging neighbors’ wings and something…otherworldly happens, forget decent; she and her daughter’s lives are now even more dangerous than before. Sigh. That’s what happens when you accidentally become the only real nemesis to the deranged psychopaths who have iron-gripped your hometown.

Since before the demolition of law, Coryn grew up surviving through life, but now she has to protect not only herself and her seven-year-old daughter, but their entire town–doesn’t she?

 

Coryn of Bellsferry: Blood Thieves -Chapter 5: Unexpected Guests

Hunter aesthetic! 

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Coryn Aesthetic!

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Chapter 5 of Coryn of Bellsferry: Blood Thieves is here! Check it out on Wattpad!

“I shivered, despite the summer heat. What if something happened to me? What if the Blood Thieves got to me? What would that do to my daughter, losing the person closest to her? She barely knew Gunner and Dixie. She’d be devastated and scared, and the security and joy of her childhood bubble would burst and she’d be thrown into the dark, confusing maze of this dangerous world. Death was banging on all of our doors, especially mine and Krista’s, and who knew when it’d break through and seize its loot. It could happen tonight…”-from chapter 5

Chapter vibes:

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Coryn Aesthetic!

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SYNOPSIS TIME!

“With long snaking roads enshrouded by dense woodland and only smatters of clarity along the rolling hills, the beautiful countryside of Bellsferry was the perfect place for predators to stalk.” Coryn knows fate when she’s pricked by it–she thinks.

In a world where American law has been overthrown, and wanna-be supernatural, self-made vampires exist–who by the way, are really creepy and demented and have started preying on the small town of Bellsferry–there also exists Coryn, a twenty-three-year-old single mother who’s just trying to survive through life–and give her daughter a somewhat decent one. But when Coryn is taken under her gunslinging neighbors’ wings and something…otherworldly happens, forget decent; she and her daughter’s lives are now even more dangerous than before. Sigh. That’s what happens when you accidentally become the only real nemesis to the deranged psychopaths who have iron-gripped your hometown.

Since before the demolition of law, Coryn grew up surviving through life, but now she has to protect not only herself and her seven-year-old daughter, but their entire town–doesn’t she?

 

Have you been following along? If so, what are your thoughts so far? Got a WIP you’re working on? Are you on Wattpad? Let me know! Happy reading! -Natasha