Above her, the rain glistened in gray parallel sheets, opaque and gossamer like veils, almost blocking her view of the sky. Below her, toward the unseen depth, it lost itself in a gray steam rose Around her, all was almost impenetrable fog. If she squinted and shaded her eyes, she could almost see the houses near at hand, but not the houses that dotted the far off landscape.
The rain made her feel damp but not cold and the morning would have been pleasant enough if not for the smell of oil used to grease the axles and the motors.
Night Wife -- Should it be urban fantasy or hen-lit? And can I really get that deeply into an erotic story? Christian demon-lover thingey? Gotta think
She took a cab home, of course. All during the long trip, she peered out at the heavily-falling snow, feeling the weight of her memories. How cold and heavy snow was! She supposed snow was a good thing. Winter was a good thing, as well. After all, some countries had little precipitation in winter? And what happened in summer? Drought. She often thought like that: seeing life and events as metaphor. When her friend’s cat gave birth to two cats, Jewel had taken their individual temperaments as a warning from heaven. Both kittens had been shy and skittish around humans. But their reactions to touches had been different. One of them stood shyly by, shivering. The other, equally shy, had been plain nasty. No one liked it. No one had hurt them, Jewel told herself. But I’ve been hurt. Yet we were both afraid of the world. And Fraidy turned people off.
She had been careful not to turn people off. That’s where the charm had come in.
Constant Tower -- Decided it had to have religion at the center, so am revamping the muddle in the middle.
Several hours later, Psal clutched a newborn boy in his left arm. The infant’s palate was split, the nose cleft in two. With his right hand, he was attempting to ward off Cyrt --one of the chief captains, and is father’s close kinsman. A jagged scar on his right cheek earned in a past skirmish with a Peacock clan, but the scar on his soul cut even deeper. Dagger drawn, that merciless warrior tossed the knife from his left hand to his right and back again. The blade flashed rhythmically, like oil lanterns flickering in the morning light.
As tears trailed down Psal’s cheek, he reproached himself for weeping. King Nahas stood near the hearth, a look of disdain on his face -- obviously shamed by his son’s weakness. Near a window, his mother Queen Hinis also threw him a scornful look.
Nevertheless, the boy pleaded. “King Nahas, Father. Queen Hinis, Mother. Allow the child to live.”
My Life as an Onion -- Deciding how into evil main character is.
He directed me toward a balcony on the northern side of the house and pointed toward a small house located toward the back of the property. The carriage house. It stood near the garage and the servants’ quarters, halfway between the Moreau mansion and the greenhouse. A long road –lined on either side with giant sunflowers-- connected the circular driveway of the carriage house to that of the main mansion.
“Wow,” I said, “in the dark, the sunflowers look like giants. And the ones who still have their heads look like they’re in mourning. Like they’re at a funeral or something. Look, some of them are so still, and some are kinda swaying. I’d hate to walk that road, especially at night, with all the flowers grieving like that. And the ones with the flower tops cut off . . . don’t they look like they could reach out with their branches and grab a person walking alone? Don’t you think the branches look like beckoning arms?”
I didn’t hear an answer. When I turned to him, he was looking at me curiously. In the wintry twilight, his face seemed to go white with pain. I sensed my talk of funerals had brought his brother to his mind. “Uh,” I stammered. “I’m, ah, I’m sorry. I’m a poetry nut.”
Waiting to hear from doctor about the operation. Dreading that it's the Big C but will be strong. I have great stories to tell.