Tag: A. Catherine Noon

  • Flash Fiction Fridays!

    Each Friday, the writers of the Writer’s Retreat reflect on their favorite flash fiction ficlets created over the course of the week, or sometimes even farther back, or maybe even something brand-spanking new. While we never know quite what we’ll share, we can guarantee that it will entertain! Join us!

    A. Catherine Noon: “Succession”

    Darla M. Sands: “More Than Meets the Eye”

    Lucius Antony: “The First Assignment”

    From the Journal of Shawn Talric concerning the Dar’ny’uil Insurrection

    I wanted action, how foolish.

    After a year of training, they gave me my first assignment. After learning to use my new powers, they told me to ride a train to the destination. Not only was I to ride a train, but I was also only suppose to apprehend a rogue who was not expected to put up much resistance.

    I played with lightning in my hands as I sat in the almost empty cargo car of the train. I thought about the day this all started and that woman, Jamie, who tried to keep me away from Ibarra and failed.

    As I thought of the possibilities of what would’ve happened if she had succeeded, I felt a familiar pull, and mental sensation.

    He was outside.

    There was a flash of light from my body as I transported outside, in front of the rogue who had felt me coming, and waited for me.

    He had dark hair and blue eyes that twinkled like the sea at sunset. His loose clothing was a better choice for the hot, arid climate than my leather coat, but I didn’t choose the setting.

    “You’re new. What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was coarse, probably from years of heavy smoking.

    “Ibarra sent me. I’m supposed to take you back to New York.”

    “Tell Ibarra to go fuck himself.”

    He turned away from me. In another small flash of green light I appeared in front of him, the ground beneath my feet black and sizzling. I lifted my hand and conducted some lightning with it, threatening him.

    “Tell him yourself,” I replied.

    He changed his form: his skin melting off of his body to reveal a pure white form with a blue aura surrounding him. His pupils and irises disappeared and his hair became unruly and changed to same shade of blue as his aura.

    He attacked first, throwing a fireball. I extended my hand, forming a shield of nearly pure energy to protect myself. The fire dissipated against my shield, and retaliated with striking at him with lightning from my left hand.

    I noticed his disappearance in the same instant that his foot connected with the back of my neck. I fell to the ground as a sharp, searing pain racked my body. I cut off the sensation of pain, a handy trick I had learned during my training, and caught his fist in my palm.

    I saw the skin on my hand begin to crack and break off, revealing the same pure white, luminescent skin and green aura. I began to encase his arm in ice while he struggled to free himself from my grip. He forcible cut his own arm off at the elbow, and flew into the air.

    At a safe distance, he held out his good arm and shot three sharp crags of ice in my direction. I played into scheme and created a shield to protect myself. His attacks shattered and I retaliated with a wave of white fire. He emerged from the attack unscathed; I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know how.

    He landed, and I started to feel sick. It had started with a slight headache as I was freezing his arm, and had escalated to a migraine and a terrible contortion within my stomach. He started laughing and walking towards me as my vision started to blur.

    I fell to my knees and retched. My skin and hair slowly dimmed and faded to their normal complexion, and my aura had disappeared completely. My breath came in heaves and my sweat dripped onto the ground below.

    “Young fool!” he laughed as he powered down. “You used too much energy, and now you’re completely helpless. Killing you would leave a bad taste in my mouth, just leave me alone. And tell Ibarra to do the same.”

    He turned his back and I shot him. They could fix him when I get back to headquarters.

  • Thursday 13

    Every Thursday, the writers of the Writer’s Retreat participate in the Thursday 13 meme and this Thursday is no exception.

    A. Catherine Noon

    Darla M. Sands

    And from a brand-new entrant:
    Debbie Cairo

    Tess Miller

    And from another brand-new entrant, Lucius Antony!

    Thursday 13 – December 3, 2009: Thirteen Reasons Conan of Cimmeria is a Badass

    Ok, if you didn’t know, my favorite author is Robert E. Howard. I like his writing style and I like his characters. The first character of his I was introduced to (that made me fall in love with the author) was Conan. So, here are thirteen reasons why everyone should agree that he is probably the ultimate badass.

    1. He has his priorities straight. In the first Conan story (Phoenix on the Sword), Conan is already a king, and has to face a revolt of maybe around a dozen men, give or take. So, what does he do? He kills them, is then assaulted by a supernatural creature (which he kills) before anyone loyal to him arrives. At this point, he very injured and probably near death, so what does he want after all this? Wine. Why? Because “Slaying is cursed dry work.”

    2. The man won’t give up when he finds something that he wants. In The Frost Giant’s Daughter, Conan is the last surviving man on the battlefield, on either side, and even takes a pretty bad hit to the head. Instead of waiting around or going to find the reinforcements that were suppose to arrive before the battle, he decides to wander off (this is winter in a very snowy land, under the easily seeable conditions he could get lost and freeze to death). Why does he risk death yet again? For sex. He chases after a woman, not stopping when she calls on her ice giant brothers to stop him… nor does he stop when she says “no” but his morals aren’t exactly what I’m looking at the moment.

    3. He kills a man by throwing a chair at him. Need I say more?

    4. In another story, he’s crucified. After the cross is cut to the ground, and the nails from his hands removed by tongs used for shoeing horses, he grabs the instrument from the man and pulls the nail out of his feet himself. He then proceeds to ride for at least the rest of the day before seeking medical attention.

    5. Conan is not afraid to incite a rage from you by calling into question your parentage… even you’re a DRAGON.

    6. As mentioned earlier, this barbarian from Cimmeria becomes king of a different country called Aquilonia. How? He chokes the previous king with his bare hands and takes the crown. ‘Nuff said.

    7. The man is chivalrous. He always, always, saves the girl… even if “saving” the girl is more along the lines of “saving the girl the torture of walking through a desert with no water by quickly and painlessly killing her.” Just a note, he never actually DOES it, the thought just crossed his mind before they found a city that stands in the middle of the desert inhabited by people who are always sleeping. If it’s any consolation, he DID give her the last of the water first.

    8. He’s so badass that the women love him enough to find a way to come back from the grave to save him.

    9. He always pays back his debts. I’m fairly certain he married the woman that rescued him from prison, once… It’s never actually mentioned in Howard’s stories, but I believe it brought up in one of the pastiches. Either way, he doesn’t forget his debt to her at the end of the novel, which is probably several months after his rescue.

    10. Loyalty. When a friend of his killed a guard for making a rude comment to his woman and fled the town, Conan didn’t rat him out to the judge, even under penalty of staying in a dungeon for the rest of his life. In fact, he did the town a favor by killing said judge because the judge was clearly mad.

    11. The man is also a poet. Can you imagine how much more badass people would be if they could make poetry about your death after they kill you? Just imagine how much better The Iliad would be if Achilles had written it himself. If you doubt me, try finding a copy of The Road of Kings on the internet that was clearly meant to be written by Conan.

    12. One of the things he does as king is correct the maps in the royal… map keeping place. .. because he knows from experience that they are wrong. Ok, I can’t really tell if this is really badass or not. My list topped out at 11 and there wasn’t anything I could do short of going straight to the tomes to find more.

    13. Conan laughs at you for using the internet when there are battles to fight! Seriously, I procrastinated too long.

  • Thursday 13

    Every Thursday, the writers of the Writer’s Retreat participate in the Thursday 13 meme. Come join us as we ruminate on 13 things of interest this Thanksgiving Thursday!

    Nikki Memmott

    Tess Miller

    A. Catherine Noon

    Darla M. Sands

    Taurus and Taurus

  • Thursday 13: We’re BAAAAACK!

    After a long hiatus in which our writing team went on Safari to Africa and photographed the vanishing elephant populations along the Niger River delta, we have returned.

    Every Thursday, there is a Meme called Thursday 13. Its purpose is two-fold: to share thirteen things that catch our attention, and to visit each others’ blogs and see what others are noticing. While we can’t guarantee what you’ll find, we can guarantee it will be interesting!

    Here at the Writer’s Retreat, we feature a smorgasbord of our writers’ creations. Some of them are posted here, and some are linked to individual blogs. Please leave comments, since we writers are a narcissistic bunch! 🙂

    Our contributions for this week:

    A. Catherine Noon

    Darla M. Sands:

    Thirteen things I can do without:

    excessive riches
    pimples
    gum on my shoe
    lyrics I can’t understand
    dill pickles
    excessively talkative truck drivers
    dandruff
    mean people
    hairballs on the carpet
    slow drivers
    a runny nose
    writing interruptions
    housework

    Nikki Memmott:

    Nikki’s 13 muse-iest songs circa the year 2000…

    1. Faster Faster by Bree Sharp – did an AU Highlander fic inspired by this song. Supposed to be a PWP for a girl who liked Richie a little on the rougher side, and 6 mos later was a lot more than that. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y3RyJAdeIDw – video’s actually Farscape clips, but it’s the right song)

    2. Saturate Me by Mandy Moore – I know, Mandy Moore, right? Still, I just could not get enough of this song. No stories directly inspired by this one, but it definitely got the writing juices flowing. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4143g-ZXI-Y)

    3. Breathe by Faith Hill – Made the mistake of listening to this song one morning after writing a smutty story the day before. Turned into a morning after story Smile (Found a cool video of Faith with Carlos Santana doing this song. Have to get through the Faith-as-fangirl stuff at the beginning, but it’s nice – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJ1RqPqF9O4)

    4. Good Morning, Beautiful by Steve Holy – Ok, so my Richie and Methos muses were sappy, lol. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHUxogmXob4)

    5. Now We Are Free (Maximus Mix) from the More Gladiator soundtrack – I write best when I have background music that’s enough to set the mood but not intrusive. Wrote a heck of a lot of R/M listening to this song.

    6. Saints and Angels by Sara Evans – Methos finally had to give in and tell Richie some of the stuff he reeeally didn’t want to tell Richie about his past. I still love this song. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQ1DRUu1L…e=related)

    7. The Last Thing on My Mind by Patti Loveless – Never got a whole HL story out of this, but might get an ABVH one. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQ1DRUu1L…e=related)

    8. I Guess You Get Used to Somebody by Tim McGraw – Damn, I forgot how much I love this song. The CD also has Angry All the Time which is, oddly enough, my favorite Tim and Faith duet. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWCEc2yuzko)

    9. Burn by JoDee Messina – I have no idea why this is Richie’s song according to my Methos muse, but there you go. Never got around to the directly inspired fic, but I was all about this song back in the day. (Think it sounds like a Jason and Nathaniel song, Darla?? 🙂 (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcPad0WFehk)

    10. Empty by Terri Clark – I’m not sure how this made it on to the musey song mix. The story idea for this one is long gone, I guess. I still fricking love the song, though. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jM-SvX6KmU8)

    11. Save Yourself by Sense Field – I know there was a story in here somewhere. The Ride Alone sequel, maybe. It was nice to listen to it again. I haven’t heard it for a long time. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Und_fe6XSI)

    12. Space Between by Dave Matthews Band – This song has a lot of strong images about relationships that often helps me when I’m trying to wrangle the muses. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9DMdyrmb2k)

    13. What I Need by Julie Reeves – Again, sort of mood music since most of my stories are internal, rather than external plots. And a good song. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7-rhE3oosw)

    OK, I’m done rambling now 🙂

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress: Chapter 15

    By the time the sun slept, tucked in its bed, she had a neat schematic of all the pieces she could put together. There were holes, to be sure, but at least she had a start.

    First and foremost, in a section by themselves, the Greene family took up almost half the page. Next came Mrs. Dawson and her strange behavior at Mario’s, especially the strange, mismatched handbag.

    At the bottom, like footnotes, sat the rest of her cases. She was ninety-nine percent sure they had nothing to do with any of this, but Viktor had indicated he knew of them. So that meant … what, exactly? She didn’t know, but if she had to beat him with the paper, she’d find out!

    She sat back and tossed the pen on the desk. She eyed her computer, but it did her no good without a hard drive.

    Just as she started to get heartily bored, a figure appeared outside her door. She stared at it, heart in her mouth.

    “Raych?”

    Victor didn’t say anything else, but she recognized his voice. “Coming.” She unlocked the door. “Where have you been?”

    He handed her a large brown sack, redolent of onions and garlic and marinara sauce. Definitely marina sauce. “What’s this?”

    “Dinner,” he responded. He pushed the door shut behind himself and locked it, then went to her windows and closed each of the blinds one by one. He turned back to catch her watching him, frozen with the bag in her hands. “You gonna serve us, or do we just smell it?”

    She moved. “Sorry.” She got plates and set them down next to the bag on the desk. She lifted out the containers, wincing at the heat. He brought pasta with marinara and grilled chicken, garlic bread, salad, and dessert in a container marked, helpfully, ‘dessert.’ “What’s this?”

    “Dessert.”

    She rolled her eyes. “I can see that. What kind of dessert?”

    “Eat your dinner first.”

    “Yes, Dad,” she retorted, working the lid off the container. It turned out to be a luscious-looking chocolate cake with ganache. Her stomach growled loudly.

    He laughed and took one of the plates, serving himself pasta. He sat down on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “I found your hard drive.”

    She stared at him, meal forgotten. “You’re kidding!”

    He shrugged. “Took some doing, but I got it back. I’ll install it after dinner for you.”

    “Is there any data still on it?”

    “Some.”

    “Some?”

    He nodded. “Some. They destroyed the files related to the Greenes and some other pictures, but other than that, it’s intact.”

    She hid her disappointment. “I did some work while you were gone.” She sat down in her chair and pulled the notes over. She took a bite of chicken and paused. “Oh my God, is that good.” It came out garbled.

    “I’m glad you like,” he responded. “I wasn’t sure what you liked for dinner, but I figured Italian was a safe bet.”

    “Because my name is Carmichael?”

    He snorted. “No. Because I know you’ve eaten Italian before.”

    She almost asked, but didn’t. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I put together all the things I know so far. It’s not a lot, and there are holes, but here.” She handed him the paper. “I don’t think those ones at the bottom are connected, but I don’t know.”

    He studied it, eyes flicking back and forth as he read. “Impressive,” he grunted finally.

    “Don’t sound so shocked. I do this for a living, remember?”

    Viktor eyed her. “I know that. I meant, it’s impressive the connections you’ve made here. You’re right about Mrs. Dawson, she’s connected.”

    She felt like preening at his compliment. “Connected how?”

    “Blackmail.”

    “They’re blackmailing her? How?”

    He smirked again. “What makes you think she’s a victim?”

    She frowned, confused. “Huh?”

    “She’s the pickup contact. She’s not being blackmailed, Mario’s is.”

    “Oh my God.” She flashed on the handbag. “So that’s what that was for!”

    “What?”

    “The second time she went there, she came out with a handbag that didn’t match her outfit. I couldn’t figure out what it was for; I bet it was the drop!”

    “Probably.”

    “Her husband thinks she’s cheating on him.”

    “With whom?” Viktor scoffed. “That’s preposterous!”

    “He thinks it’s his partner, Peter Henkle.”

    “Henkle’s gay!” Viktor took another bite of chicken and watched her reaction. “I take it, you didn’t know that?”

    She shook her head and tried to school her features to a less startled expression. “No, I had… um, no idea…” None at all, actually. She should have, probably.

    “Carter Lawson’s in debt up to his eyeballs. He got into gambling a few years ago and is paying it off. He’s clean, hasn’t touched the dice in months, but still. My bet is that his wife did it in order to get them off the hook financially. I’m not sure why he’d hire you; she’s head over heels in love with him. She’d do anything for him.”

    “He doesn’t know that?” Why would he hire her, then? “Who is he in debt with?”

    Viktor’s expression grew careful. “No one you need to concern yourself with.”

    Russian mob, then. Huh. They were everywhere, these days. “Maybe she didn’t tell him what she’s doing?”

    He cocked his head. “That’s a possibility. Sort of like Othello, really.”

    She stared at him. “What?”

    “It’s a play by Shakes –”

    “I know what it is,” she interrupted. “I’m just surprised you’d quote it!”

    He laughed at her with a straight face. “Ah.”

    “So, Othello suspects his wife of cheating, even though she isn’t. Mrs. Lawson tries to get money, and doesn’t realize he’s making his debt payments. Mr. Henkle’s gay, and his partner thinks he’s sleeping with his wife.”

    “Yeah.”

    “So what does that have to do with the Greenes?”

    His brows drew down and he took a bite of salad, chewing the crunchy greens with loud sounds. He swallowed. “What makes you think they’re connected?”

    “Call it a hunch,” she growled.

    He laughed. “Okay, okay.” He sipped his drink. “They are connected because the Greenes work for her boss, that’s all. Nothing more sinister than that; they don’t know each other, as far as I know.”

    “So what do I tell Mr. Lawson about his wife?”

    “He still pays your fee either way. Tell him the truth, that his partner’s gay and his wife loves him dearly.”

    “What about the embezzlement?”

    “Leave that out of it.”

    “What about the woman?” she asked absently, looking back at her list.

    “What woman?” he asked sharply.

    “The one in the window?” She looked up at him. “I didn’t tell you?”

    He wasn’t smiling anymore. “No, you didn’t tell me. What woman?”

    “The one in the window, down the street from Mario’s? She was there the first day I saw Mrs. Lawson go in.”

    “Curly brown hair? Wears red lipstick?”

    “How the hell do you know that?”

    He shrugged. “I know many things. That’s not a person you want to tangle with.”

    “Why? Jesus, Viktor. Everyone around me right now is someone you want me to stay away from!”

    “Why would she be following Mrs. Lawson?” It sounded like he mused to himself, not her.

    “My question exactly. She seemed angry.”

    “She would be.” He stood. “I need to go. I’ll be back,” he said before she could open her mouth. “I’ll be back.”

    She watched him deposit his food in her trash can and walk out.

    Just like that.

    She didn’t throw her drink at the door as he closed it, but she sure was tempted.

  • Wiley Wednesday for January 21, 2009

    I want to share a Zen koan with you, but I think first it needs a little introduction.

    A koan is a teaching fable. They don’t always make immediate sense to Western ears, (and may not to Japanese ones either, I don’t know), but that’s the point. They’re meant to make the student (and in this sense, we are all students) ponder them. Deceptively simple, like Haiku, they are powerful reminders of a way to live that is in tune with ourselves and the Tao.

    I was given this koan by the Universe in what can only be described as an episode where the Universe was showing off its sense of humor. (And those of you who think the Universe HAS no sense of humor have never really studied a platypus.) (Of course, some say the platypus is proof that God smokes pot, but I digress.) Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, I was an idiot. A cute idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. Like many cute idiots, I found a ‘man.’ This man was charming, smart, and just-so-slightly dangerous. You know, the kind of man that if I had a big brother, my big brother would have kicked his ass and buried the body before my next date. But I didn’t have a big brother, so I went out with this jerk. I mean, he even had a special made-up name, which at the time I thought was edgy and cool.

    Yes, I know. Didn’t I say I was an idiot? Pay attention!

    So I go out with this guy, and of course he treats me like an idiot. (Fitting, wouldn’t you say?) It took me mumbleSIXmumble months to figure out this jerk was no good, and I dumped him. However, he had my favorite radio at his house. So instead of buy a new radio, which on my income at the time really was not doable, I went over to his house to get it, with my new boyfriend in tow.

    I rang the well. “Ding dong!” (Remember that alliteration.) I was met at the front door by a fat guy and a skinny guy. (Don’t some jokes begin this way?) Both guys were completely.stark.raving.naked.

    You read right.

    Naked.

    My current boyfriend turned beet red, and did I mention he’s a martial arts teacher? The storm clouds were brewing, my friend, and the forecast did not look promising. All this for a radio?

    Ever onward, I went into the house and asked after my ex. He was in the bedroom, I was told, with his current girlfriend. She had a Playboy bunny name, and you could feel the heat from my current boyfriend’s fury. I asked to use the bathroom. As I walked by, the door to my ex’s bedroom as open, and they were engaged in, well, things that are better done with the door closed.

    Particularly with a fat naked guy and a skinny naked guy in the next room, call me crazy.

    So I retreated into the bathroom and sat there, trying to figure out whether I should just stand in the living room and shout for my radio, leave, or wait it out. And then I saw it.

    There, on the window sill, an innocuous little book, entitled, Zen Koans.

    Take it from me. When in this situation, beware of Trojans bearing gifts. Or something.

    I picked up the book and flipped to a page at random. And here, in all its glory and magnificence, is what the Universe said to me:

    “Chau-Chu fell down in the snow, and yelled, “Help me up! Help me up!” A Zen monk came and laid down beside him.

    “Chau-Chu got up and went away.”

    Enjoy!

  • Wiley Wednesday: To Outline or Not To Outline

    A lot of people, generally nonwriters or new writers, tell me that to write a novel, one needs an outline. To which I say, Hogwash.

    That’s right. Hogwash!

    One needs an outline as much as one needs a pencil – which is to say, there’s more than one way to write something down.

    Take a look at my story, The Night is a Harsh Mistress. I started this without any kind of cohesive plan, just an idea of a flavor. I wanted to write something noir, which is to say like a 1940’s detective novel, but with a female lead. Most such novels have a main character who is a loner and who smokes, and I felt that in today’s climate, smoking without compunction would be a little unrealistic, so it would be someone trying to quit.

    Voila.

    That was really it.

    So, when I started, I wrote about her in the pursuit of one of her cases. Classical storytelling tells us that we need to show our protagonist succeeding at their objective, then put in a position where they cannot possibly win, then they surmount the odds and win. So the first chapter is her succeeding at her work. Then it gets weird.

    I added Viktor not, as many of my readers have assumed, as a love interest, but as a foil. He’s someone who would usually be a villain, but in this context I wanted him to be more of someone who helped Rachel to find herself in the midst of all the activity of her life.

    How do I keep the strands straight? A couple ways. For one, I reread periodically, so I can keep the flavor of the story in my head. This is more critical when I’m writing a serial like Rachel, since I’m only writing a chapter every two weeks. Additionally, I keep a notes section at the end, called “Endnotes,” where I track ideas for action I want to see happen or things I don’t want to forget. I also put questions here, like “Who is the man in the first chapter?” That way, as I’m writing, I can incorporate those things into the story.

    I find that if I write an outline, in order, from start to finish, it sucks the fun out of the story for me. That’s not to say that outlining is bad or doesn’t work for others, just that it doesn’t work for me. If you find you’re that way too, it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong – it just means you’re not left-brain sequential in your approach to your storytelling. Or, it may mean that you use an outline for some projects and not for others.

    Steven King, in his book On Writing, talks about his method of working (and he doesn’t use an outline either). He starts a story and doesn’t stop until he’s finished. He suggests that you find a room, hide away in it, (the fact that the room has a door, even if it’s the bathroom or a laundry room, is of the utmost importance), and write on a regular basis. He suggests not starting a new project until your current one is finished, because he finds that it dilutes his focus. While I don’t work that way – I usually have multiple projects going at any one time – I like his idea of having a regular writing time where you shut yourself away from distractions and work until you’re finished. That’s advice more of us could use.

    So instead of worrying about your outline next time you sit down to write something, just try telling a story and see where it leads you. Like me, you might find this method is a lot more fun. And, in this business, what’s fun is what works.

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 14

    The Night Is A Harsh Mistress
    by A. Catherine Noon

    Chapter 14

    Fine. If Viktor Khrushchev wanted to pretend this was some kind of bad crime novel, then fine. She would show him that Rachel Carmichael was nobody’s fool. After all, it did say “Rachel Carmichael, Private Detection and Security Consultation” on her door, not “Damsel in Distress” or “Idiot in Need of Coddling.” And most especially not “Someone Who Can’t Be Told Anything Useful For Their Own Good.” She lit one of his cigarettes with precise, angry movements and then regretted it. The scent made her think of him.

    “This is stupid,” she announced out loud to the room and then flinched. Then felt completely ridiculous. “It’s not like there’s anything to it,” she muttered out loud spitefully. She got up and moved around the office, straightening her belongings and neatening.

    It took about five minutes and then she was back at her desk, staring down at the blotter. Outside, the sun sank toward the horizon, stealing the light from the day. She started to reach for her desk lamp and froze.

    A person stood outside her door.

    Rachel wasn’t sure how long she froze, staring at the door and the shadow outside of it. The unknown visitor didn’t knock or do anything, just loomed. Rachel cast about for something to do or say that wouldn’t be so ridiculously like a deer in the headlights. She cursed Viktor in her mind for making her so paranoid. When the handle jiggled and she heard the scrape of a lock pick, she did the first thing that popped into her mind.

    She ducked under her desk.

    “Good afternoon!”

    Mr. Singh’s voice startled her so badly she squeaked.

    The stranger responded, and said something Rachel couldn’t quite make out. Mr. Singh said something and then the voices moved away, toward the elevators. Rachel stayed where she was, thinking, even though her mind refused to come up with anything useful. Finally, deciding that the stranger would be long gone by now, she got up and turned on her desk lamp.

    “Miss Carmichael?” Mr. Singh called, tapping the glass.

    She jumped. “Coming,” she called. She grabbed a file to use as a prop and went to the door.

    Mr. Singh beamed at her. “You just missed him!”

    “Him who?”

    “Your friend, of course. Look, he left a message on your door while you were in the bathroom. If I knew you were here, I would have had him wait.”

    Rachel frowned. Taped to the outside of her door was a folded sheet of paper. “Thank you, Mr. Singh.”

    He waved his hand airily and turned away, bustling already. “No worries, Miss Carmichael. No worries!” His cheerful wave over his shoulder made her smile.

    She retreated into her office and pushed the door closed. She unfolded the sheet of paper and stared at it.

    It was blank.

    She set it on her desk and studied it. A blank note. A missing boy who wasn’t missing. The Russian mafia somehow aware of her business, and Viktor Khrushchev, White Knight. Don’t forget Mrs. Dawson.

    No, it definitely wouldn’t do to forget Mrs. Dawson.

    Rachel sat down and turned her chair to the window, staring moodily out at the sunset. The sun continued its descent, oblivious.

  • Wiley Wednesday, 10/15/2008: “Twin Realities”

    As we head into what shows every sign of being a prolonged period of economic stress, it pays to look to our own houses and make sure they are ready to weather the coming storm. As writers, we must be sure to keep our spiritual and emotional house in order so that we may continue to create. It is the times of challenge that show us where our weak points are, the cracks in our armor that let the wind in; the leaks in the roof that send drips down on our heads. These don’t need to be as onerous if we just remember the universal principle of the power of thought.

    While not a new idea, it bears repeating. I’m not talking here of ‘blame the victim:’ “Oh, you thought about cancer, so that’s why you have cancer.” That kind of cause/effect leap is specious and unhelpful. I’m talking here in a subtle reality shift of what reality we choose to inhabit. The key word there is “reality” – I’m not talking about avoidance of reality, quite the contrary. But there’s a world of difference between being aware of reality and cynicism – though cynics will, of course, tell you differently.

    Every day we are given a choice (or, if you prefer not to think of something “giving” us anything, then I’ll say merely each day we have a choice to make). We can inhabit the reality of abundance, or the reality of lack.

    It’s easy to get down about the future, the world, when things aren’t going our way. But Rena Tarbet once said, it doesn’t matter what stops you – your mother’s diagnosis of cancer, a sick child, your own injury, the dog threw up. What does it matter, if it stops you? There are stories of great everyday heroism – Christopher Reeve, Helen Keller, Steven Hawking… these stories can inspire us, but better, they can inform us of what it takes to inhabit the real. We are far more wealthy than even we are aware of, a fact that immediately becomes apparent if we watch footage of Iraq and Afghanistan, to name just two of the places on earth today that are torn by war and worse. We have safe homes to live in and people to love us (even at the remove of the internet – love is love, don’t throw it away because it’s not physically sitting next to you on your couch).

    Okay, so all of that is very good and well, if we already inhabit the reality of our own abundance. But if you are reading this, thinking “Yeah, yeah, but I’m really NOT living in abundance and have no idea how to get there,” do not despair. Two simple tools can help each of us shift our reality. If you consent to walk this path with me, you will not be the same person three weeks from now.

    The first tool begins as soon as you finish reading this: count your blessings. That’s right, pull out a sheet of paper, (yes, please handwrite this exercise; the hand knows reality better than the keyboard). Write down each of your blessings: you have underwear, socks, pants, shirts, sheets, a bed, four walls and a roof, food, and go from there. Try to get to fifty, then a hundred.

    The second tool is a gratitude journal. First discussed in Sarah Ban Breathnach’s lovely book, Simple Abundance, the idea of the gratitude journal is to make us aware of just exactly how much we have in our lives, every day, for which to be grateful. Each night for the next month, before bed, write down five things for which you are grateful. Some days they may be magnificent. Others, particularly if you are really in a state of lack, it may simply be the simplest: I am alive, I have an internet connection, I can type, I can read, I ate food today. That’s okay; they don’t have to be big things.

    And that’s the lesson. It doesn’t have to be big things. But the reality of abundance is the mirror image of the reality of lack, and they are both simple realities. It’s your choice which one to inhabit.

    Please, leave a comment and tell me how your blessings list went, or any thoughts on the twin nature of reality that you might like to share. We are not alone, and sometimes just that simple fact can remind us of how abundant our lives really are.

    Resources

    Ms. Sarah Ban Breathnach’s website: http://www.simpleabundance.com/
    Author, Simple Abundance (and many other excellent books, including Moving On)
    Available on Amazon, http://www.amazon.com/b?ie=UTF8&node=282922

    Ms. Rena Tarbet’s website: http://www.renatarbet.com/
    Author, How to Succeed in Spite of Life’s Challenges
    Available on Amazon, http://www.amazon.com/Rena-Succeed-Spite-Lifes-Challenges/dp/1880692325

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 13

    The Night Is A Harsh Mistress
    by A. Catherine Noon

    Chapter 13

    Viktor’s smirk widened. “I can find it because I know where to look.” He paused. “You’ve had no contact from the boy?”

    Rachel squinted in an effort to keep her reaction to herself. She knew it didn’t work, but he didn’t react to her, just watched her. “No. No contact from him or his parents. Whoever they are.”

    He digested that. “No other contacts?”

    She almost didn’t answer him. What right did he have to question her? But the fact remained that he saved her life, and that she probably owed him at least a little for that. He seemed to be her biggest ally in this mess, even though that didn’t mean much since he refused to actually share any of his information. “I saw Mrs. Dawson today and followed her.”

    He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? And where did she go today?”

    “Mario’s, again. Same as last time.”

    “Same as… You mean you’ve already followed her there once?” His attention seemed sharper somehow.

    “Yes. Viktor, maybe if you told me what is actually going on I could give you better answers.” She was proud of herself. She didn’t shout or snap at him when she said it. No matter how much she wanted to.

    He seemed startled. He studied her without speaking, his blue eyes intent and slightly less empty than they seemed usually. Finally he inhaled and sat back. “There’s more going on here than you realize, Raych. Not all of it is safe.”

    “I realize that,” she snapped.

    He nodded. “Yes. But what you don’t realize is how much danger you,” he pointed at her in emphasis, “are in.”

    Her stomach tightened. “What are you talking about?” Her voice came out breathy and even squeaked a little.

    “You’ve managed to stumble on something that has nothing to do with your business. How the Greenes managed to get to you in the first place is beyond me. They never should have come to you. But now that you’re involved, I’m trying to keep you from coming to the attention of people you really don’t want to meet.”

    “Viktor. Stop it. You sound like a bad crime novel. ‘You’re in danger.’ ‘There are people you don’t want to meet, more going on than you know.’ Talk to me, like I’m an adult! I’m not an infant, and I can take care of myself. If you gave me enough information to actually make better decisions, then maybe I wouldn’t be in so much danger!” She was shouting by the time she finished her little speech but stared at him, seething. She meant every word.

    For his part, he just stared at her. A buzz caught her attention and she watched him reach inside his jacket to pull out a handheld. He glanced at it and his face went blank.

    When he met her gaze, he was back to his remote, dangerous self. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” He held up a hand when she started to argue. “I promise. When I come back, I’ll explain as much as I can. Please, Raych.” His eyes, as he stared into hers, seemed intense suddenly. “Just stay here. Keep the door locked and don’t go anywhere until I get back, okay?”

    And then he was gone. Just like that.

    Dammit!