Short Story Time--The Acrobat

The following is a short story I submitted to Writer's Digest based on one of their prompts (in this case, you had to start the story with the sentence "It was on a bright, starry night that the traveling circus rolled into town").  Well, I didn't win--and I also forgot to title the story (whoops).  It had to be 750 words or less which was the tricky part for me as I'm used to writing pieces ALOT more detailed than that. Here it is for your reading pleasure (newly titled):

The Acrobat

It was on a bright, starry night that the traveling circus rolled into town. Carefully, I packed my bags, leery of the watchful eyes of my husband. Too many nights had been spent under his dictatorship. It was time to break free, to reunite with my love.

Many months were spent preparing for this summer night. Months of bribing the mailman into leaving Thomas’ letters in the hollowed out crevice of the Sycamore in our yard. Although, no bribe really had been necessary as even he knew the hell that awaited me everyday.

I’d been married off to John two years ago by my parents who’d considered him the perfect match for me. Coming from a long line of investment banking entrepreneurs, John was wealthy; John was sophisticated; John was my worst nightmare. Each morning, I took extra time camouflaging bruises left in the wake of the night before. Often times, I found myself donning blouses that covered my arms even in the warmest of weather to detract attention from prying eyes. Being young and naïve, I’d wondered if this wasn’t what most marriages were like. That perception was shattered when I met Thomas.

When the circus came to town last year, John dragged me along. Perspective clients were there and he’d purchased the rather pricey tickets to impress them. As the ever dutiful wife, I’d smiled and made conversation with those he was trying to impress--taking my seat next to him when the performances began. One by one, the various acts invaded the center ring: clowns, jugglers, lion tamers and elephants. They performed while I blankly stared ahead into the void consuming my existence. For the last act, the acrobats took to the stage and, for the most part, went unnoticed by me; except for one.

He was taller than the rest of them; handsome, with eyes of forest green. From my vantage point in the front row, my gaze remained on him. To my surprise, so did his. Seconds, seemingly like minutes, ticked by as our gazes remained focused on each other. Those mere seconds were all it took for me to fall in love with Thomas Lenahan. There was an intensity in his eyes that reached into my soul. An intensity that sheltered me from the chaos surrounding me. Finally breaking his stare, he climbed the ladder to the awaiting trapeze.
Through the air he flipped. He was true poetry in motion and my admiration wasn’t the only attention he garnered as evidenced by the shower of applause and roses he received after his finale. Taking a humble bow, he retrieved a single red rose from the ground and, with his eyes once again finding mine, walked over to my racing heart, presenting it to me.

“Thank you,” I hesitated glancing at John.

He bowed at me without saying a word, leaving the ring. An emptiness consumed me in his absence.

“Seems to me the young man took on a charity case,” John muttered softly.

“It would appear so, Darling.”

After the performance, I snuck away while John finished his schmoozing. With rose still in hand, I sat alone on a rock in the back of the tent and cried. With my sleeve, I dabbed away the tears, pulling it up where my makeup stained the fabric.

“A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t have anything to cry about,” a voice near me said. Looking up, I saw Thomas standing over me, a look of concern overspreading his face. “And what’s that!” He pulled my sleeve up revealing my bruises. “Come away with me.” he pleaded.

“What? You’re crazy. There’s no way I can escape him.”

“In case you change your mind,” he scribbled something down on a piece of parchment and handed it to me.

For the next year, I used those addresses Thomas would send me from across the country to correspond with him. At first our letters were innocent conversations between friends, but soon they and our relationship blossomed and I realized that escape was possible.

Promising I would catch up with him, John left for the circus. Then, under the cover of night, so did I. Approaching the tent, I saw John for the last time and made a beeline away from him. In the back of the tent, where he said he’d be, stood Thomas, with a smile spread wide across his face.

“I changed my mind,” I said with a sly smile.

Hand in hand, he guided me away into the darkness.

Universal Laws

It's Friday, I'm lazy--and a tad bit brain dead.  Therefore, I'm submitting a repost for your reading pleasure:

1.   Law of Mechanical Repair  -  After your hands become coated with grease, your nose will begin to itch and you'll have to pee.

  2.   Law of Gravity   -  Any tool, nut, bolt, screw, when dropped, will roll to the least accessible corner.

3.  Law of Probability   - The probability of being watched is directly proportional to the stupidity of your act

4.   Law of Random Numbers - If you dial a wrong number, you never get a busy signal and someone always answers.

5.   Law of the Alibi   -  If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a flat tire, the very next morning you will have a flat tire..

6.   Variation Law   -  If you change lines (or traffic lanes), the one you were in will always move faster than the one you are in now (works every time).

7.  Law of the Bath -  When the body is fully immersed in water, the telephone rings.

8.  Law of Close Encounters   - The probability of meeting someone you know increases dramatically when you are with someone you don't want to be seen with.

9.  Law of the Result   -  When you try to prove to someone that a machine won't work, it will.

10.  Law of Biomechanics  -  The severity of the itch is inversely proportional to the reach.

11..  Law of the Theater and Hockey Arena  - At any event, the people whose seats are furthest from the aisle, always arrive last. They are the ones who will leave their seats several times to go for food, beer, or the toilet and who leave early before the end of the performance or the game is over. The folks in the aisle seats come early, never move once, have long gangly legs or big bellies, and stay to the bitter end of the performance. . The aisle people also are very surly folk.

12.  The Coffee Law  - As soon as you sit down to a cup of hot coffee, your boss will ask you to do something which will last until the coffee is cold.

13.   Murphy's Law of Lockers  - If there are only two people in a locker room, they will have adjacent lockers.

14.  Law of Physical Surfaces   -  The chances of an open-faced jelly sandwich landing face down on a floor, are directly correlated to the newness and cost of the carpet or rug.

15...   Law of Logical Argument   -  Anything is possible if you don't know what you are talking about.

16.   Brown's Law of Physical Appearance   -  If the clothes fit, they're ugly.

17.   Oliver's Law of Public Speaking   -  A closed mouth gathers no feet.

18.   Wilson 's Law of Commercial Marketing Strategy   -   As soon as you find a product that you really like, they will stop making it.

19.   Doctors' Law   -  If you don't feel well, make an appointment to go to the doctor, by the time you get there you'll feel better. But don't make an appointment, and you'll stay sick.

Your Monthly Plothole-Because Nothing Flattens Your Story More Than a Plothole

First and foremost, I'm no expert; and I will never claim to be. I'm just beginning my literary journey and am not self-righteous enough to believe that my work is better than anyone else's--especially those who actually have had their books published (self-publishing doesn't count). I'm no grammar queen or literary genius.  When I go back over my work for revisions and editing, there are many times I find myself saying, "WTF were you thinking, Sara." Of course, to be fair I do my writing VERY late at night and I also work 40+ hour per week and am essentially a single mother of a four-year-old (the hubs is in the military).

However, with that being said, if it's one thing EVERY writer should be wary of it's plotholes.  Plotholes are these tricky little bastards that seem to crop-up whenever you think your novel is complete.  They're that bitch in high school who stole your boyfriend right from under your nose when you thought everthing was fine.  Yes, plotholes.  Those little discrepancies in your storyline that don't quite jive with the flow of the story or, in worst case scenarios, completely contradict the plot/sequence of events you've so nicely laid out.  Even the littlest of hole--for most of us---can sink an entire ship. 

Unless, of course, you're my first nominee.  With that said, it's time for my first ever monthly Plothole rant. And the lucky victim is--drum roll:

BREAKING DAWN

Plothole:  Vampires do not and/or cannot change.  That's why Edward Cullen never aged past 17; why girl vamps can't conceive; why Joan Rivers' face hasn't fallen off yet...oh wait, that's for an entirely different reason...In Breaking Dawn--SPOILER--Bella gets pregnant by--unless she's leading some secret life--Edward Cullen.  Edward Cullen is a vampire.  Female vampires can't ovulate because, as the book says, their bodies don't change.  So, does that mean that male vampires can continue to produce the swimmers necessary to impregnate a woman?  Last time I checked, a man's body needs to go through some sort of cycle to produce these bad boys (or girls)--correct me if I'm wrong anatomy wizards--and don't even get me started on the fact that blood flow is needed to make other appendages...Ahem...work.  The mere fact that Bella was able to get pregnant was Breaking Dawn's "jumping the shark" moment for me and, in my opinion, a huge plothole contradicting several statements made throughout the series.  

Possible fixes:  Drop the whole our bodies don't change thing and let the female vamps get knocked up (I know Rosalie wouldn't have protested to this);  make their bodies change only...slowly; make Jacob the father (of course, that would detract from the later creepadelic plotline).

Of course, when your biggest fans are teenage girls who are so in love with a fictional character that they can't even see straight, then having a plothole the size of Texas is just a mere technicality. Today, I actually saw a poem by--I'm presuming she was young--girl.  The poem was entitled Edward Cullen and was filled with a monotony of depression-filled rants about how she will never be able to be with him or even touch him for that matter.  It made me want to find her, say "Aw honey, come here," take her in my arms, and SMACK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF HER!  Are you flippin' kidding me???!!!!!

Til next time and next plothole (which I'm sure will be something else from the Twilight saga).

Superhero Fiction the Next Big Thing? If the Big Guy Upstairs Loves me it will be...

Most call it science fiction; some call it speculative fiction, but in reality it's superhero fiction.  What's superhero fiction, you ask?  Good question.  Once considered soley for comic books, superhero fiction--and my genre of choice--is finding its niche in novels. This means that caped crusaders could be kicking vampires and werewolves off of  their pedestals high on the bookstore shelves soon, very soon. Soon, Enigma Black may have a market and I won't have to worry about how many agents are cringing at the word "superhero" in my query letter.  In the words of Mr. Burns..."Excellent."

Check out the following link for further details:

http://io9.com/#!5715790/superhero-fiction-the-next-big-thing

I Do Poetry Too...Sort of

Well look at me, I'm just a blogging fool.  This is twice in one week.  My views increased substantially when I posted the excerpt to the first chapter of my novel--and they weren't all from just me this time.  Anyone who wants to throw a critique in, feel free.  What am I going to do to you...smack you over the Internet?

I'm in the middle of another set of revisions to Enigma Black.  My genre is science fiction, however, Enigma also dabbles in dystopian with a hint of superhero tossed in.  Trying selling that one to an agent. Query review here I come!

The following is a poem from my dabbling in poetry; any comments would be outstanding--fabulous, even:

A dagger through my heart
Blood pours on the blackened concrete
I’m numb from the pain and I don’t know why
Goodbye my love, goodbye

He looks at me with eyes of blue sorrow
Golden ring around the irises
Reflecting broken, golden promises--lies
Goodbye my love, goodbye

Nights filled with endless passion
Wrapped in your embrace
Ecstasy was ours; dreams took to the sky
Goodbye my love, goodbye

Days turned to months
Hours filled with laughter, peace filling my soul
Your words saved my life, ceasing my cry
Goodbye my love, goodbye

Summer stars shone upon you
Your choices sealing our fate in the heavens
Under the horizon betrayal ran high
Goodbye my love, goodbye

Broken soul, broken heart, broken vows
Uncovered in the dark
During one picturesque evening in July
Goodbye my love, goodbye

Forgiveness becomes profanity spoken
Love, though present, is irrevocably broken
All words spoken are thrown to the side
Goodbye my love, goodbye

My life was spared in your arms, to you sincere praise is due
For giving me painful love and blinding heartache
Ensured that my resolve would never die
Goodbye my love, goodbye
　
　
　
　
　

Enigma Black-Chapter One Excerpt

Elevator Pitch:  Ten years ago she was the target; now, she's the assassin.

The following is the first chapter of the first novel of my science fiction trilogy entitled Enigma Black.  As of right now, I'm in my fourth--or maybe, fifth--set of revisions for the book after having received my first rejection from an agent on a full manuscript request.  I now know what the expression the first cut is the deepest means because ouch!  I can't say as I blame her as the manuscript really did need more work and it is most certainly receiving it now.

Enigma Black, although science fiction, has dystopian as well as romantic elements.  Because I'm sick of doing queries at the moment, I'm going to spare the synopsis and just say "here you go":
 

The Incident at the Flamingo Resort

He wearily paced the casino floor wanting desperately to join his sleeping family back up in their room. Unfortunately, as a chronic sufferer of insomnia he knew that any effort at attempting sleep now would be fruitless, and his restlessness would only disrupt his wife and son from their slumber. So, instead, he forced himself to meander through the aisles of slot machines in an effort to build up enough fatigue to hopefully knock him out. Oh how he hated those machines. On top of the shrill noises emanating from them, he also found himself having to shield his eyes from the flashing lights the ones at this particular casino emitted.

To add insult to injury, the dreadful apparatuses were also specially constructed to tie in perfectly with the ultra-annoying beach theme of the Flamingo Resort and Casino. When he and his son first arrived at the resort earlier that day, he couldn’t resist tapping him on the shoulder to whisper something about a flamingo throwing up after an acid trip. This jab had instantly changed his son’s expression from one of horror to one of sheer amusement. His wife--needless to say--had not been amused.

Aside from its attempts at depicting a cutesy family-themed vibe, it was still a casino with the same droll neon signs marketing poker, black jack, and craps all while using the potential of various monetary jackpots to lure the masses in hook, line and sinker. Like fish with torn mouths, they always took the bait coming back for punishment time and time again.

It was his wife’s idea, coming to Atlantic City. Had it been up to him, he never would have set foot in the place. For his wife it was the perfect culmination of her love of the ocean and machines that flashed and clanged--or so he suspected--that had lured her here. None of what this eye sore had to offer held any interest to him. If he had his way, they would have vacationed somewhere sunny, warm and somewhat educational such as the Alamo or the Mayan ruins. Unfortunately though, as she so often did, his wife had won the argument meaning that he and their teenage son were once again forced to endure yet another one-sided vacation.

After a half an hour of strolling aimlessly on the casino floor, he decided he’d rather not endure a migraine on top of his persistent insomnia choosing, instead, to catch some air on the boardwalk. Within seconds of stepping outside it became immediately apparent to him that the casino may be the lesser of two evils. The frigid December winds caught him off guard, assaulting him with everything they had. Ignoring the stabbing cold, he walked across the deck where he noticed a solitary figure looming in the darkness. The sharp contrasts of man’s face were revealed slightly by the small flame of the cigarette between his lips. As he drew nearer the man began to speak.

"It’s enough to freeze your cojones off out here," the stranger spoke. "If it weren’t for this damn addiction I’d be curled up in bed snuggled up nice and warm next to the saucy redhead I picked up earlier."

He smirked at the man’s vulgarity. Unsure of what to say but not really wanting to engage him in conversation, he offered up a quick retort, "What are you waiting for then? Put that thing out and get back there."

The figure chuckled, flicking away ash from the end of his cigarette. Preferring to be alone he, walked down the stairs leading out to the boardwalk with the weathered wooden steps creaking violently under the weight of each of his footsteps. Pausing under a light post, he put his hands in his pockets for warmth watching the ocean as it became one with the night sky on the horizon. As another blast of wind cut through his skin, he laughed at the irony of the moment. In that instant, his surroundings matched the mood that had hung over him like a dark cloud for the last several years.

He loved his wife dearly but was confused as to whether this love was coming from his heart or from the feeling of indebtedness he harbored for her having supported him during a prolonged battle with prostate cancer. He'd been diagnosed shortly after the birth of their son. The cancer had struck him unmercifully, wreaking havoc on his body until there was virtually nothing left of it.

Miraculously, after several grueling rounds of chemotherapy and an extensive amount of recovery time, the disease went into remission.  However, in its wake, he’d been rendered a frail shell of a man with the disease not only having robbed him of his dignity but also stripping him of his manhood as well. Being unable to produce anymore biological children with his young wife robbed her of her dream of having a big family. Since they had neither the resources nor the interest in adoption it’d all rested upon his shoulders and he felt as though he'd somehow failed her.

Despite his illness and her unspoken disappointment with the path her life had taken, her devotion to him never wavered. So it was, on a day nearly fourteen years ago, that he made a promise to give his wife the world in exchange for the life he was unable to physically deliver to her. Years later, this promise felt more like a life sentence. Lately, he was beginning to feel as though his debt to her had been paid in full with inflated interest and that their son, Ian, was the only thing keeping him tied to her anymore.

Ian, oh how his young son was the spitting image of him. They looked alike, spoke alike, and even possessed some of the same mannerisms--such as the propensity to breakout in laughter at the most unusual of times. His son was the miniature version of him in every conceivable way and it was all his wife could do to keep from pulling her hair out because of it. It was yet another way he reminded her that he’d been nothing but a disappointment to her.

He stood in placid contemplation staring into the black hole unfolding in front of him. Wind swept around him with more ferocity thoroughly chilling his body to the bone; the lone figure on the illuminated boardwalk. Removing his hand from his pocket, he looked at his watch. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. Figuring he should return to thaw out and attempt to rejoin his family, he walked back toward the steps to the deck of the casino.

A shudder overcame him as the casino came back into view, but it wasn’t due to the cold. It was a shudder emitted from the mere site of the garish pink neon flamingos whose animatronics seemingly made them dance around the entryway. Why did I let her talk me into this, he thought to himself as he opened the door where he was greeted by a rush of heat and a synthetic palm tree leaf straight to the face.

The gaming floor was eerily quiet being as it was relatively deserted. However, even in the tranquility of this moment a sense of impending doom overcame him. Invading his thoughts, it followed with each step he took on the gaming floor, persisting throughout his walk across casino toward the guest rooms. On the news he’d heard about a string of attacks taking place recently. These attacks, in the form of bombings, appeared to be occurring at random and without any clear purpose other than for pure shock value and the sick, homicidal amusement of their perpetrator. Such attacks had prompted him to suggest to his wife that they reschedule their vacation until the world returned to normal again, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’d accused him of backing out on her causing him to concede defeat immediately. Besides, out of the multitude of potential targets out there why would The Flamingo Casino and Resort be anywhere near the top of the hit-list?

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he turned around to appease his sudden uneasiness by doing a quick sweep of the gaming floor and the remaining people on it. Not surprisingly, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary in either respect. Oh great, I must be losing my mind along with my sleep, he thought to himself. Satisfied with his survey of the room, he hypothesized that his sleep deprivation was causing pure paranoia to take over his mind.

"Get a grip," he mumbled under his breath as he turned back around to walk down the hallway.

Then it came. A violent, deafening commotion erupted from behind him instantaneously throwing him to the floor. In stunned confusion, he looked up from the pink and green palm tree-etched carpeting in time to see, to his horror, a wall of fire steadily overtaking everything and everyone in its path moving steadily towards him.

The casino’s plastic ambiances melted in the scorching heat as did its organic patronages, going up like dry kindling in a tidal wave of flame. Any screams escaping the mouths of the few in the path of the devastation were quieted by the fire’s wrath. There wasn’t any time for him to take evasive action and he knew that any effort to do so would be nothing short of suicide. Putting his faith in the hands of another, he laid on the floor shielding his head with his arms as the flames consumed him.

Blog #1-> Yeah I'm original

Well, since it appears as though this is the thing to do for most authors/aspiring authors, I figured what the heck.  It's one way to get published, right?  This summer I completed my first novel, a science fiction novel that I'm having a heck of a time landing an agent for (ok so I'm not really trying all that hard).  Who would have thought that getting a novel published WASN'T easy.  I mean if Hilary Duff, Snookie and Nicole Richie can do it how hard can it be?  Yeaaaahhh.  So far, I've received the standard rejection letters from some of the agents I've queried and complete silence from others).  I didn't expect to have my novel picked up right away, but I at least expected a request for a partial and a nice rejection to at least the book itself and not just a letter.  I guess it's back to overhauling the query letter.

So, you could say that at the moment I'm in query hell.  It's been my peference thus far to send e-queries. It's a preference that I'm finding really isn't as effective as one would think it to be.  Thus, I'm struggling to find time now to put a letter and sample chapters together (between taking care of a four-year-old and working a very demanding full-time job).  However, in doing this, I'm also finding that I'd much rather chew my arm off than write a synopsis for my book.  How in the world are you supposed to condense a 400 page book into 2 or 3 pages and have it sound good? Can you say freakin' impossible?  Writing the novel itself was easier.

To those aspiring novelists out there that may be reading this, I feel your pain.  To those newly agented authors out there, bite me.  Just kidding :)  

I guess I would like my blog(s) to serve as a sounding board for those aspiring and seasoned novelists.  So, if there is anyone out there reading this, any advice would be greatly appreciated.  Or, if you just want to vent, that's fine too.

Back to the drawing board.