Chapter Lengths Do Matter

I have often heard the question by new authors, "How do you know when to start a new chapter?" Or "How long should a chapter be?" Or variations thereof whether at conferences, on-line or face-to-face (yes, authors do occasionally leave their writing niches for 'live' human contact.)

The answers are seemingly as varied as those answering the question. So, here are my few cents worth (Those that have read or will read my work in the future can watch for these.)

#1 - In my opinion, there is no such thing as a chapter that is too short, as long as it contains a complete scene - I've read one that was less than a page. Although I love writing and verbalizing a bit too much to accomplish this feat of excellence.

#2 - I personally like to have a chapter run about ten pages but I've read one or two that were closer to thirty.

#3 - Since most readers assume that a chapter break is the best place to put a book down, the author is facing the dreaded loss of interest by the reader. So as Jack M. Bickham says in his book, Scene and Structure, " always end them(the chapter) at a point where the reader can't put the book down." So, the simplest way to avoid the dreaded 'lay down'  is with a carefully crafted 'hook.'

#4 - Generally speaking, your chapters in a specific work should be relatively similar, but don't be afraid to step outside the box if the plot benefits from it.

#5 - IMHO, A chapter needs to have a chapter goal, whether stated or inferred, usually only one point of view or viewpoint, and ends in a jarring disaster.

Note: The jarring disaster is not the same as your story climax.

Now, before you etch these guidelines in stone and thereafter set the stones in cement, remember that every guideline is simply that, a guideline and at times, to keep your reader involved, needs to be broken. Don't break the rule or guideline just because you're feeling lazy or can't figure out how to make it work. Remember that writing is work and you better be doing it for the love affair with the writing craft, not the perceived accolade or cash at the end of the proverbial rainbow. Just like in real life, where there is rarely a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so it is with writing and if everyone could do it, we would all be authors and not readers.

Goal - for Dark Days of Promise to go viral. I hope you all catch it and feel better because of it.

Horsey Sauce ain't like Momma's used to be.

Excerpt from a novel - Houdini's Vice - that is being deleted but it shadows an experience I had. Mom used to grow horseradish in the garden for Dad, but we kids, or at least I never had it.

                          

Porsche wrinkled her nose remembering her first experience with the spicy condiment. She had attended a work luncheon her first year away at school. She ordered a Rueben plate. The horseradish arrived on the side and not wanting to offend her host, Porsche had dressed her sandwich with a generous dollop. The first bite hadn't been bad with just a hint of heat. Her second bite, a borderline unlady-like one at that, hadn't proved as benign. The heat started at her nose, tickling at first. She inhaled and the rush to her sinuses cleared them for the landing of a B52 bomber in the dessert, it was time to send in the rain in the form of her tears. She blinked them back feeling like the country bumpkin she knew herself to be. Frantic for relief, she grabbed her water glass intending to flood the barren wastes of her facial cavity. It proved the wrong thing to do as water only makes straight horseradish all the more potent. Could she have done more to send the steam out through her ears? She doubted it and even though years had passed, even the mention of horseradish made her cringe. Trevor was insane if he liked the stuff.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" Ilene laughed. "You look like I just fed you peas and liverwurst. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Porsche waved off her mother's concern. "I just don't like horseradish."

"What?" Ilene asked in surprise. "You used to love horsey sauce when you were a kid."

"Mom, horsey sauce with a horse crazed child and horseradish are two very different things." Porsche hurried out of the kitchen not wanting to explain her run-in to her mother.

(Photos belong to other websites.)

Writers Unite to Fight Cancer

So excited to be invited to join WUFC (Writers Unite to Fight Cancer) for such a good cause.

Memorial Day

Rolling through this weekend with a huge swelling in my breast. Thanking our armed forces for their defense of what I hold dear. Liberty. Freedom.

Scenes such as this inspired Dark Days of Promise. I don't know this man, but thank you.

Photo copied from markymarkinexile.blogspot.com

Compliments, Felicitations, and Dissertations

What woman in her right (or left) mind doesn't appreciate a heart-felt compliment?
I wondered that as I dismissed yet another kind felicitation. Am I insane? Well, that is debate-able, and on some days I would proudly proclaim "YES."

Okay, so what is this awesome compliment that I felt so unworthy of, you may ask. It was this--I'll try to summarize. Yes, as an author, and according to this compliment, I am very well qualified to do so.

Where was I/ Oh yeah, the summary of the compliment...You (as in I) should write children's books. That is where you excel. You have truly missed your niche in the writing field. Those stories you used to tell your children were riveting, and they still remember them.

I should have smiled demurely and answered "Thank you." But no, not this one. I had to lapse into a full dissertation on the skill required to write a children's book, complete with the value of reading levels and illustrations. Oh, when will I learn that sometimes (and I wonder if this was one of those times) a compliment is meant to lift the troubled soul. To bring a smile. Or to just make one feel good.

Hump...
So, to women everywhere...Next time a compliment comes your way, smile and say "thank you."
(You can always dissect the critter later.)

Life is Too Short Collection Review

This is not the kind of book you will usually find me reading. I'm generally the romance reader, not the sappy Harlequin types but the romance with a touch of humor, inspiration, intrigue or even time-travel. I'm not sure if that is because I'm a professional reviewer of those genres or if I'm a reviewer of those genres because that is what I generally gravitate to. Probably a touch of both.

Whether you are a woman, a wife, or a mother this book is one you will relate to. Actually those who have a significant other in their lives that fits into one or more of these roles will enjoy this book as well. Connie has a way of adding humor to those sometime difficult roles from a personal perspective.  The book is broken up into sections for easy referencing although it is an enjoyable read, with more than a few tidbits of wisdom generously sprinkled in, from cover to cover.

What woman (or man) can't benefit from these self-help nuggets? Whether it is learning to find joy in the moments that make up our sometimes bumpy journey in life, learning to appreciate the differences that make men/women relationships what they are, or reaching for the ideal mother that somehow we expect ourselves to be(and never quite managing the miraculous feat.) Connie Sokol puts it all into perspective and manageable bite size pieces to accomplish the goals the reader didn't know they even had. This collection stands as proof that sometimes--life is more entertaining than fiction and certainly worth the effort to make it better. This book undoubtedly deserves a  ***** (5 star rating).

Take a dip with me, the water's fine.

'Tis the season for judging and contests. Won't you take a dip with me? Who knows, think about all those long posts, emails, text messages, journal entries that you've written... maybe you are an author that just hasn't had the courage to spread your wings and try to fly.
I'm encouraging you to get involved and try. If not in the actual writing, why not visit the RONE Award voting  and check to see if that novel you read last week, last month or last year has been nominated. You are invited to cast your vote, and believe me, the RONEs are about what the readers think!

(Of course I would love to have you vote for Dark Days of Promise when the Inspirationals are up for voting in a couple of weeks.)

Second Annual WUFC Writing Contest

 

The Second Annual WUFC  Writing Contest is open for submissions from April 16th, 2013 - August 15th, 2013. 

Writers Unite to Fight Cancer (WUFC) is a group of authors who raise money for cancer research.

This year's theme will be the Drive to Thrive.

Everyone over the age of 18 is eligible to enter. May have been published before, or be a first time writer. Subject matter may be on any topic as long as it follows the theme of the Drive to Thrive.

Entry Fee is $30.00 per submission. There is no limit to the number of submissions allowed. The funds raised from entry fees and sales of books above the cost of production will be donated to the combined cancer research program at Southwest College of Naturopathic Medicine and Arizona State University under the Direction of Robert Waters.

Categories / Genres:  Word Counts limited to 4000 words.

Fiction - Short Stories or partial novels - all genres middle grade up to adult: Mystery, Fantasy, Science Fiction,  Dystopia,  Historical,  Steam Punk,  Inspirational, Paranormal, Speculative, Romance, Suspense, Western

Non-Fiction - Memoir / auto-biography, Self-help, Motivational, Inspirational, Spiritual, Essay or Editorial.

(Partial novels / books  must have a resolution within the text submitted.)

Do Not Submit: Horror, Erotica, Poetry, gratuitous violence, Foul or Vulgar language.

Maximum Word Count for all submissions is 4000 words.

Finalists and Winners will be given the opportunity to be published in the 2nd WUFC Writing Contest Anthology if they are willing work with one of our editors – at no charge.

All entries must be received by midnight 8/16/13. Send submissions to:

Margaret L. Turley, Administrator                      1146 N. Mesa Dr. #102-233
writersunitetofightcancer@gmail.com                               Mesa, AZ  85201
Website: http://writersunitetofightcancer.com     480-586-7902 – cell phone

RONE Awards --Round Two--

It is my pleasure to announce that my debut novel, Dark Days of Promise has made it to the second round of judging. Round Two is voted on by readers like you. Please visit the InD'Tales site (link included) and vote. My book is in the Inspiration Genre later in the judging, but it would be awesome if you would vote on all of your favorite categories. Who knows, you might just find some new and exciting reads!
http://www.indtale.com/2012-rone-awards

Logline Update:

This is what I get for sleeping on it. This story is a romance and as such, the target audience is predominantly female.

Whoa! That means that the readers will more readily relate to a main character that is female, not male. Oh Trevor, you poor underappreciated man! Will you forgive this feminine author and her female wiles? Complete with changing her mind on many occasions? I promise I will tell your side of the story as well…

(Trevor, after shaking his head and his fist at me.) Do I have any choice? But I reserve the right to be unpredictable if the mood strikes me. Don't you dare try to make me into the typical romantic lead, fawning over a brainless heroine. I won't save her if you do.

Porsche's logline:  Being headstrong and resourceful isn't always the best choice for a twenty-four-year-old woman unwilling to recognize her need to overcome her personal injuries and trust the one man responsible for her collapsing world before she can find true happiness.

(Trevor) So I'm responsible for her world collapsing around her am I?  I like it!

-Update - Writing helps - Logline -

For those of you who are not writers, let me advise you that your favorite authors work hours on necessary tasks that you may not ever be aware of just so that you, the voracious and occasional readers have hours of reading pleasure.
That said, I have recently read on another blog (I visit and read so many, I can't remember whose it was so let me just insert the post author's name, Jenny Hansen.) For years since I began writing seriously, I've wondered how in the heck to write a decent logline. For those of you who do not know what this is, let me summarize in my own words. (This isn't written in stone, so don't quote me.) A logline is one sentence that not only hooks the reader but tells who the main character is (without using his or her name), summarizes their story goal and the obstacle (read villain) that they must overcome and what is at stake. That is a lot of info to cram into one sentence! Oh, and did I mention that an acquisition editor that reads thousands of these every day, will toss it in the circular file (read trash) if it is a run-on sentence? Oh yeah, love and support your favorite authors and let them know it by stalking/following them. The stalking/following deal includes those who borrow books as a rule rather than buying the books.
Okay so I was looking through my files earlier this week for an unrelated item and came upon the saved info.
^^^^^^SCREECH!!!
Jenny instructed authors to begin a book by writing this logline, not trying to write it after the story is completed! Oh! So this is the tool I need to keep my characters from high jacking the plot!
Enter the chapter I shared here earlier this week. Time to write the logline to keep Trevor in line (He has been a frequent visitor to my writing dreams for years. He has a lot to say and I have tried -- much to his frustration -- to tell only a bit of his story. He is demanding center stage. Oh yes, he is willing to share the stage… as long as I am very clear on who the hero is!)
He is ecstatic that I am writing a log line to keep me in line.
So, without further ado…I think I've given it plenty…Here is the logline for Trevor's Story.

It takes more than a shove to steer a confident and headstrong, retired CEO of twenty-six in the right direction; it will take the nudge of an inquisitive mind and a spunky physical therapy student to learn to live again after the forces of nature threaten his fortune and his life.

Update - April 8, 2013

Since moving, I have found an old file that needs my attention and with any luck, the book will be ready for beta readers and the publisher later this year. So, this morning, I revamped and included what I've learned about goats, or rather wether goats which are castorated male goats. I'll share Chapter 1. Let me know what you think.

Chapter 1

Trevor simultaneously slammed on his brakes and hit his horn. Surprise coursed through his veins at the sound of a train whistle emanating from his newly acquired truck. He had little time to wonder while keeping his vehicle from swerving out of control. He pumped the brakes again and came to a stop. The goat did little more than look at his bright red truck and continue munching on whatever it held in its mouth. A bag bounced across the street, carried by the morning breeze. Contending with a foot-footed creature for the right-of-way on a busy thoroughfare wasn't what he'd bargained for on his visit to what he expected would be a quiet adventure to Arbon, Idaho.

The goat bounded after the dancing plastic bag. He let off the pressure on his brakes allowing his truck to roll forward in the goats wake. Entertained by the unexpected distraction, Trevor watched the frolicking animal as it chased the bag and jump high in the air after it. Amused, Trevor pulled into the fast food restaurant's parking lot. The little black and white critter scampered first one way and then the other after the bag and even slipped on the pavement once while pirouetting in its pursuit. Trevor chuckled; the goat looked like he had airplane wings for ears! The animal skidded to a halt, bleated a moment and bounded toward the brightly colored picnic tables. With acrobatic ease that would make the goat's cousin, the mountain goat proud, the animal high tailed it onto the bright yellow table surface. The goat appeared to square his white neck and shoulders, much like a prize fighter returning to a bout and immediately began prancing and dancing.

A young woman, dressed in her work smock, exited the restaurant and confronted the four footed dancer. Unimpressed by the human's efforts to scare him away, the goat jumped off the yellow table and just as easily mounted the blue table top. Trevor half expected the goat to kick the previous diner's remains off the table to make room for his performance. Instead the goat snatched up the paper plate and started munching away.

The young woman approached waving her arms wildly to startle the animal. He merely stared at her, bleated and continued munching what Trevor assumed was a syrupy plate. Beaten by the uninvited patron, the frustrated young woman returned inside. Trevor watched the goat, several questions running through his mind. Who's goat wandered the streets of this small town? Did they know their goat was terrorizing what appeared to be the only fast-food establishment in town? How long would the goat occupy the table top?

Trevor mentally shook himself. This goat had nothing to do with why he was here. The only thing this interlude accomplished was a much needed break from his long drive. When he took a few minutes to relax, he had to admit he was famished. Maybe with a not breakfast, instead of a granola bar, he would manage to organize a game plan. He had little to go on other than his grandfather's journal. He had all summer to find the mine, if it really existed, and the riches the journal described. One thing at a time, and the first thing was to satisfy his hunger.

Easter Morning

Wishing each and every one of you a good day on the glorious morning!
HAPPY EASTER!!!
Come back tomorrow for more Talisman --- no joke, I'm just getting started, but you? Hhhmm...do you want more? Let me know what you think this week. I'm thinking I've tickled your tastebuds just enouigh. Maybe you're wanting more and maybe not, but I'd love to know what you're thinking.

Indefinite Delay

Due to a family move over the Easter weekend, further posts of The Talisman will be postponed.

Wip - The Talisman - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Present Day

Part B

Rhea's heart dropped. No wonder Trish had returned home. Her life-long dream had been shattered. She had turned to plan B, whatever that was. Rhea gasped. Plan B, ride off into the sunset never to be heard from again. Could that be Plan B? It didn't seem that farfetched when she considered Grammy and her outlandish stories.

Tap, tap, tap.

Rhea flinched and looked at her window to discover Vance standing there. Rhea put her hand in motion, rolling down the window.

"Morning, Mrs. Larsen." Rhea could still remember changing this boy's diapers twenty years ago but still he used the formal address.

"Morning." Rhea interfused her thoughts and righted her demeanor.

"What brings you by this morning?"

"I'm looking for Trish."

"What? Miss Play by the Rules sneaking around behind your back or something?"

"Or something. She didn't come home last night…"

It didn't take long to discover that Yedi wasn't in his stall or that Trish hadn't returned her saddle and tack.

Vance pulled out his cell phone, astonishing Rhea with not only the number of people he called asking if they'd seen Trish but the clarity of the conversation via the wireless.

"Looks like nobody's seen her since yesterday morning."

"It didn't sound to me like anyone had seen her. Who said they'd seen her?"

"Me." Vance said as though the one syllable solved the puzzle.

"You," Rhea pounced on the clue. "Where? When?"

"Right here yesterday morning. She seemed fine."

"What did she say? Where did she go?"

"Whoa, Mrs. Larsen. She said 'Morning, I'm going riding.' That was it. She didn't say where she was headed or when she planned to be back."

"Which way did she go?"

"Down the road, but that isn't going to help us any. She was on horseback and she knows the valley as good as I do. It wouldn't surprise me none if she turned up in a day or so, telling us she'd followed the Oregon Trail or the Old Stage Coach Trail."

"Did she take supplies?"

"I didn't notice any other than her canteen, but really, I pulled out of here before mid morning to get to that sale in Idaho Falls on time. She coulda come back by and Mom wouldn't have seen her if Trish came to this north gate."

"Young man, you are not helping," Rhea accused.

"What's to help? If Trish wants to vanish up one of these canyons, she's likely to do it and see more deer and elk than hunters do. She's a survivor. You know that. Heck, she taught me about most of those canyons."

"And her father taught her."

"Don't worry about her."

"I can't help it. It's womankind's nature to worry and to top it off; I have a bad feeling about this."

"Why?"

Rhea reached through the open car window, grasped the piece of bad news and handed it to Vance. "This, is why."

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Present Day

Part A

Rhea woke with a start. Why was she sitting up in her chair and in the living room? Trish!

Rhea scrambled to right herself, plucking her reading glasses from their precarious perch at the end of her nose with one hand while fumbling for her romance novel that had slid between the chairs generous cushions. The grandfather clock ticked with its usual disciplined beat. She reached to turn off the lamp on the side table. The first pale glimmer of dawn beckoned at the horizon across the valley. Pushing the footrest closed, she stood and moved carefully through the waning darkness to see the clock's face. Five o'clock. She had fallen asleep waiting for Trish to come home.

This wasn't like Trish. Yesterday had been her birthday but she hadn't seemed overly distraught about it. She'd left the house early to go riding.

Maybe she'd gone with Vance. No one at his home had answered the phone last evening and Rhea had left more than one message. Of course if Vance and his mother were anything like herself, the light on the message recorder could go unnoticed for more than a day.

Where was Trish? Cell phones were wonderful gadgets and maybe after this, she would get one, but service was spotty at best in this valley and thus her decision to keep the landline. It was too early to call. Vinita, Vince's mother worked the late shift and wouldn't be up until after eight. That left her one choice, to go over and try to catch Vance before he got too engaged in training or left to deliver a horse. Why did Trish have to agree to go into business with Vance? He was so young and full of dreams, not to mention being cock-sure of himself.

Rhea mentally shook herself. Trish and Vance and their huge dreams were not the issue this morning. Finding Trish was.

Rhea paused long enough in the kitchen to grab a couple pieces of toast, she'd need it to think straight and if the day demanded more? Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. With her purse strap over her arm, butter slicking her fingers from the toast and keys in the other hand, Rhea hurried through the brisk morning air to her car. The old Pontiac Grand Prix turned over and burst into the gentle roar of power tweaked by local teens. Taking her foot off the brake she let the power roll the heavy car down the drive before coaxing the engine to speed down the dirt road. Oh Trish, where are you?

Ten years ago, Rhea would have thumbed through Trish's notebook, looking for friends and boyfriends whose couches Trish would happily crash on in a case like this. But not today. Trish had come home after weeks of phone calls from Rhea, begging her to reconsider.

Trish had reconsidered all right, right into Vance's dream of horses and training grandeur. What had become of Trish's dream to become a defense attorney? Rhea mulled the possibilities around in her head. Maybe something had happened at the law offices of Mikelson, Hoffman and Bauer. Trish had seemed happy enough until that last phone conversation. Rhea shook her head; she'd not held the power to sway Trish's decisions since high school. Something or someone else must have been the cause for Trish's willing return home.

Deep in thought, Rhea took the corner a bit too fast. The papers on the passenger seat slid. Rhea slapped her hand on them to keep them from falling to the floor. Letting off the accelerator, Rhea pulled safely into the yards of Vance's dream-come-true. As Rhea lifted her hand to put the car into park, the papers slipped to their earlier destination, the floor. It was only then that she took the moment to read. She didn't have to read much to discover the reason for Trish's rash decisions. The letter informed the reader that Trish had not passed her bar exam.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part C

Quinn stirred the fire, getting it going again. He figured it was about three in the morning. The horses squealed alerting him to what had woken him in the first place. He didn't usually wake at this hour unless he had good reason. This spring the job for Leavitt had stolen many nights sleep, what with the wolves running the range. The men had opted to work in pairs this year, all but Quinn. He preferred to work alone to protect his secrets, even if it meant less sleep. Leavitt paid well for these occasional short jobs of gathering his livestock from the rough passes of this ridge. Passes no one knew as well as Quinn.

He checked the horses. The stallion pawed at the ground, testing the tether line. Quinn checked the knots and tightened the line. It would be unwise to try to traverse this country without a horse. Though not wide eyed, the stallion seemed ready to bolt at the slightest altercation. Quinn soothed the animal, running an appreciative hand over his sleek coat. The stallion's head was fine, his eyes speaking of intelligence. Could this stud be stolen property? Maybe he was used for breeding as he certainly wasn't a cowpony. This was the type of animal Quinn would happily breed his mares against. Too bad the mare he rode on this trip wasn't in season. If she were, no doubt there would have been a bit more squealing on her part.

Quinn had spent years bartering good breed mares for his training services. Noble was notorious for not recognizing a good animal and even worse at caring for them. Quinn had rescued more than one prime mare from the man.

 Finding all well with the horses, he returned to the campfire. The woman had named herself Trish, not what he would have expected.

He filled the quiet hours of darkness watching her sleep. Her long hair had a hint of red in the firelight. Her features were gentle, her cheekbones high, her nose slightly upturned. He wondered how old she was. The dirt and grime smeared along her cheeks and chin masked her age quite adequately, a comely woman, not overly attractive.

Why would a woman dress like a man? Her clothing choice wasn't the only thing that seemed odd. Her shirt had fancy stitching and a collar like that needing a cravat of sorts, but she had none. And her pants: she looked to be plumb poured into them. Of course though it had been merely a glance, he had noticed the curves of her figure. Zelda had once been slight like Trish, and he'd liked Zelda that way. But time at Pierre's saloon had changed her.

When Quinn had first watched Trish from the cover of a downed tree nearby, she had seemed so small and needy under Old Curly's cruel captivity. Curly had threatened to take a poke at her and her whole bearing changed. Trish had become a she wolf, fighting for her life. A reaction totally opposite of how he knew Zelda would have reacted. Obviously this woman was cut from different cloth.

Trish had proved her capability to use a weapon quite well; he had the broken tooth and a nasty bump on his head to attest to it. He glanced at the dead man. She had finished him as well. A daughter, even one with amnesia wouldn't turn on her father unless… How long had Curly had her trussed up? Had he hit her or threatened to rape her before? If he had, he'd gotten what he deserved. Nah, it didn't make sense. Curly was as old and dirty as years of nothing but trails could make a man. Trish, on the other hand was clean in spite of the dirty smudge on her face and arms.

In Quinn's experience women generally needed taking care of. Trish apparently did too. Of course when she'd been free of her tethers, the tables had turned.

She turned over in her sleep, pulling her blanket up and exposing her feet. He appraised her boots. The heel seemed high and the fringe… Common sense, even that of a lady, deemed such extra trappings unwise. Maybe she was hiding the fancy stitching across the toe of the boot. The woman's clothing didn't make sense.

Trish wasn't like other women he'd known. His mother and sister were both genteel ladies of the South although they'd not been strangers to work. Zelda, though not refined, certainly enjoyed the softer side of life. Honest work, whether in the house or the fields wasn't what Zelda relished. Lucinda, Albert's wife, wasn't a complainer. She dealt with living in the rough cabin for the past year with a loving, even doting affection for Albert. They all needed defending at some point, but not this one.

Trish was different, and spirited -- just like her stallion. He liked a spirited horse. He'd trained many of them. They made the best mounts, even in a cowpony. Spirited animals worked hard and would give a man their last ounce of strength.

The log in the fire dropped, sending sparks into the air. Trish stirred, turning over but didn't wake.

Birds chirped heralding the coming of morning. Steam rose from the heating coffee pot. At last she awoke.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part B

His indifferent indication of the campsite revealed his disgust. He glanced at her while evaluating the situation. "Well, we gotta call ya somethin'. Got a name ya like?"

She didn't want to answer too fast. "For some reason I feel partial to Trish."

"Trish. Guess it's a'right. Nice meetin' ya ma'am." He repositioned his hat on his head with a gentleman's nod.

 Trish found his presence so near her disturbing and shifted onto her side, her back to him. She tried to focus on the flames of the fire but her eyes inevitably returned to Curly. She pinched her eyes closed not wanting to remember the dead man on the other side of the fire or those frenzied moments leading up to his death. Fearing the memory more than the stranger, she rolled over and wiggled a bit closer to him, her chin tucked to avert her eyes from meeting his.

"Fire's gonna die down. Ya might be want'n to stay close to it."

"It. Not Curly."

"He's a real danger now," Quinn interjected in a sardonic fashion.

A shudder crawled up her back. How could she admit to him the horror she felt at what she had done? She couldn't verbally admit it to herself. "It's not Curly that bothers me. It's dead bodies in general. That blank death stare gives me the creeps."

He rolled out of his bedroll and circled the fire. On the other side he bent over the body and rolled it further away from the fire, face down. He returned stepping over her.

"Anything else botherin' ya?"

She wanted to say lots of things bothered her, including being near him. Instead she answered, "No, thank you."

He settled into his bedroll and moments later serenaded her with his snoring. How could he do it? How could he be part of a murder, roll the victim over and sleep as if it were all in a day's work? Was he that hard? She stopped. Who had killed Curly? Had Quinn with his knife? Or had she struck the final blow? One of them could be found guilty of murder in a court of law, but the other would be an accessory.

If she should happen to be charged with murder, she would plead self defense. If charged with accessory? She was guilty. The memory of her actions sickened her. She faced the fire. Maybe if she snuggled down just right, the rocks at the fire's edge would block her view of Curly. She watched the flames as the fire crackled but she couldn't ignore the dead man.

She turned over, her feet getting tangled in the bedroll. She sat up, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. She had to deal with this. Her gaze settled on Quinn. She didn't know the man. He had proven himself dangerous… no more so than she herself. The light from the fire flickered across his rugged features turning the dark locks of hair fiery black. Could she trust this man? Did she have a choice? If she must trust herself to someone in this dangerous adventure of hers, she could do worse. She had done worse. She resituated her bedroll closer to him chiding herself for finding him even slightly attractive. Pulling a few rocks out from under her, she turned to him for a smidgeon of human comfort and safety. The wolves howled and after a time she slept.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part A

Trish lay on her back with her knees up, ready to spring from her bedroll and scramble away or fight. Old Curly's bedroll surprised her with its functional warmth that also served well as padding under her. She opted to wrap the newest looking blanket around her, a finely woven Indian blanket of deep orangey red with a unique pattern near one end.

She stared at the night sky teaming with its abundance of stars so unlike the night sky of her home in the outskirts of Seattle. There the night sky invariably glowed with the reflection of manmade lights on the overcast sky. Oh sure, there were clear nights, but she'd stopped noticing them about the time she'd mistakenly believed her career kicked into high gear. How could she have really believed the "Old Boys" considered her as anything but a glorified office girl? They had given her the mandatory pay raise every six months with the occasional bonus of a title change. She knew betting took place on everything of public knowledge from a baby's birth date, time and weight to who was shacking up with who. Surely the office had run betting odds for if she, the oldest unofficial intern in the office would pass her exams this time just like they had the time before.

The memories made her want to climb in a hole and disappear. She chuckled mirthlessly. She had done better than that; she had slipped through the fabric of time with a device she no doubt should have used years ago. Why didn't she listen to Grammy? I listened alright. I just didn't believe her.

Had Trish listened with an open mind, she could be experiencing her umpteenth adventure rather than her first and by now she would know better than to fall victim to the likes of Old Curly.

"What's done is done," she sighed barely above a whisper. Realizing she'd verbalized her thoughts, she snapped back to her present situation.

A rather handsome stranger lay to one side of her. On the other side, and just beyond the fire, lay a dead man. She didn't know if she could trust the stranger and yet he hadn't killed her. He had actually, in a roundabout way, helped her kill the man holding her prisoner. She may have gotten away from Old Curly without this strangers help, but when and at what price? She was here alone and it had proven dangerous today. Maybe surviving seven days wasn't as easy as Grammy had made it sound. She needed to trust someone, why not him?

"Do you have a name?" she asked into the darkness.

He didn't answer right away. "Quinn. You?"

What if he asked about more than her name? She couldn't tell him she was from the twenty-first century. He'd never believe her and what if he asked where she was from? She didn't know anyone and she didn't know exactly what the year was. Her not knowing even the most common realities could easily be mistaken for amnesia. That's it!

"I -- I don't know."

"What do you mean, ya don't know? Every man has a name."

She had to think fast. A lie was easier to remember if it echoed the truth. "I just remember Curly fishing me out of the gulley. Nothing else."

He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. "Is that why Curly had you trussed up? Ya ain't lyin' to me?"

"I don't know why he had me tied up. He helped me out. I thanked him. The next thing I knew he'd lassoed me."

"He ain't your pa is he?"

Her stomach wrenched at the thought. "Heavens no. You think he'd wanna take a poke at his own daughter?"

"It'd explain a bit though. Don't 'magine his fatherin' skills'd be much better than his othern'."

"What other?" Was she really having a conversation about a dead man?

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - Part C

Chapter 4

Part C

He grimaced, pulling his head back. "What's with the high fa-lutten words? Ya from back East somewhere's? I ain't heard that kind of gibberish since I was a youngster." He settled back against a rather large, downed tree and relaxed, his knees flexed and his arms draped across his thighs.

A wolf howled in the distance sending a shiver up her spine. How close was it? Would it be safe to travel alone? Through this canyon in the dark? The possibilities raced across her mind. Although she would be considered a city girl in this era, she knew enough to know the answers to her questions. Too close, no, and no. The wolf howled again as if finalizing her decision. A choice she didn't want to make.

"I tell you what. You haul dead Old Curly away from here and I'll share the fire with you," she bargained.

"Tell you what. We leave Old Curly where he is. Put our bedrolls on this side of the fire and let the wolves have him tomorrow while we mosey on down the canyon."

"I'm not sleeping near a dead body." She cringed, had she really killed a man? No, she could never even hurt a man… but she had this time.

He almost smiled "Put 'im out in the cold and invite the wolves to dinner, eh? Or maybe you plan to fight the pack off yourself. Either way, the wolves'll have dinner. I'm thinkin' I'll stay right here, near the fire and put the vittles out for 'em when we leave at daybreak."

She stared at him, relaxing her grip on the rifle. "Yeah, but can I trust you?"

In one fluid motion he sprung to his feet, grabbed his knife and held it to her throat. Trish froze. He held her against him, his blade centimeters from her neck for several minutes before releasing her. He stepped away into the darkness. Her knees nearly buckled, and her whole body trembled.

"If I was gonna help Old Curly or hurt ya, ya couldn't a stopped me. Settle your roll by the fire an' I'll check the horses. Just don't shoot me when I come back."

She stared after him as he disappeared into the darkness.

...next week...Chapter 5

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - part B

Chapter 4

Part B

Trish turned to regard the beans scattered in the dirt. The plate had landed right side up with a few beans still stuck to it. Nausea engulfed her. For the first time all day she was grateful that her stomach was empty. The need to heave gave way to rumblings before shifting to shallow pangs.

She turned her attention on the newcomer. His knife had cut her free but it had also killed. She could see the shallow rise and fall of his muscled chest. She watched the firelight skip on his features. How long would he lay unconscious?

She carefully measured the knife to the sheath at his waist; an exact match. Had he turned and thrown the knife to protect her? She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to remember. It had happened so fast. One moment he was standing there, making those weird faces at her. Then he spun. She slammed the branch as hard as she could at his head, twice. Wait.

She stepped over him, retrieving his hat and setting it on his head. Maybe there had been a reason for the look he gave her and for the… She swallowed. What if he had been trying to communicate with her? Telling her something?

Trish took her hat off and did the best she could to comb her hair with her fingers. She would watch him and wait. His knife balanced on her knees. The fire burned low. She set the knife on a rock and added a log to the fire.

"Come on, hero. If you are a hero, wake up. I couldn't have hit you that hard." She shivered knowing she'd hit Old Curly hard enough. She looked around wondering where Old Curly left his bedroll. Locating it with his mule's pack, she stood to retrieve it. "Dang, I forgot how cold the canyons get at night. Curly, you dog, you better not have fleas or --"

"You always talk to dead men?"

Trish jumped and spun. She stared at him. When did he wake up?

"How do you know he's dead?"

The man chuckled, winced in pain and sat up. "You got a wicked swing." He touched his head and grimaced.

Curly's rifle lay with the rest of the gear still with the pack. Trish grabbed it, pointing it at the newcomer. He glanced at her but continued to check his head for blood. "You should at least trust me now. I could have killed you or at least let Old Curly have his way with you. Put the rifle away before you kill somethin'."

"Trust you? Why should I? How do I know you were trying to help me, and not just get Curly out of the picture?"

"Are you slow? Is that why he had you all trussed up like a steer?"

Trish kept the gun pointed his direction. She had no idea whether or not it was loaded. She reached for the bedroll, rolling it up her leg to get it under her arm. "I'm not slow, and you haven't answered my question."

"The old goat's dead or you wouldn't be free." He glanced at the body before his gaze focused on his knife several feet away. "Ya gonna let me have my knife back?"

She moved to the knife, planting her foot on it.

"Hm--" He pressed his fingers to his lips, checking for blood. She watched him roll his tongue around his teeth. "Busted one of my teeth, too."

She smiled; she'd done better than expected. "Looks like you won't be taking advantage of a shanghaied woman. I ought to press charges against you for being an accessory."

...to be continued

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - Part A

Chapter 4

Part A

Adrenaline pumped through Trish's veins. Her heart pounded, threatening to jump out of her chest and yet she stood firm. No man would take her virtue without a fight.

She turned her attack on Old Curly. He was on his knees, his eyes stunned, his right arm in the air as if to protect himself from her blows. Just think of his head as a tennis ball. She shuffled her feet on the uneven ground, took her stance and swung a beautifully executed backhand. Curly fell back. A strange ker-thunk whispered in the darkness. Both men lay motionless.

Trish stood still, surprised at her easy victory. Smoke from the campfire drifted toward her. The branch slipped from her fingers. Why had the man who ate her supper turned at the last minute? It was as if he'd wanted her to hit him. It took her a minute to absorb what she'd done. She could see by the campfire's dancing light that he was still breathing. She shuddered, willing the gruesome scene to depart. Remembering her need to escape, she knelt by the newcomer hoping to find a knife to cut the rope off her wrists. She did her best to search him, her hands roaming across solid muscle, finding the empty sheath. Why would he have a sheath and no knife? She sat back on her heels and looked at him.

She'd sent his pale cowboy hat flying when she hit him and now she couldn't reach it to return it. A glimmer of guilt for robbing him of his cowboy appeal, tickled her thoughts. No, he doesn't deserve my sympathy. He was going to help Curly rape me. Still, she couldn't keep herself from marveling at his wavy locks of dark brown hair and felt jealous as his eyelashes appeared thick and long against tanned cheeks. His nose came to a gentle point punctuating defining cheekbones and a strong jaw. He looked totally at ease with his mouth pleasantly relaxed. She resisted the impulse to twist her head and get closer. Where was his knife?

The fire crackled and spit as a log shifted, making her jump. She stood, trying to evaluate Old Curly from a distance. He lay in an awkward position with his legs tucked under him, his eyes open. Her gut twisted, bile rising in her throat. Was he dead? She dared to get closer and found herself jerked to a halt. The stranger lay on the rope tethering her. Tugging at it, she pulled the rope free and stepped closer to Curly. The shaft of a knife stuck out of his chest, a pool of blood on his clothes and another dark puddle growing on the ground under his head. He had to be dead. She reached for the knife and pulled. It stuck firm. She turned away, her hands trembling.

Moments later shuddering angst encompassed her whole frame. What had she done? She mentally shook herself knowing she wasn't out of this mess yet and forced herself to do what she must.

She turned back to the dead man, placing her foot on his chest. "I'm not --" She grasped the knife and gave it a firm tug. "Going --" Another tug. "To die out here with the likes of you."

The knife came free. She staggered back, almost falling into the fire. She returned to his body and wiped the knife on his coat. Her strength, driven by shear willpower lagged as she stumbled to sit on the decaying log Curly had forced her to drag to the fireside. She sat with her back to his dead stare. Propping the knife between her feet, she worked at the cord securing her wrists. A sharp zing at her wrist warned her to work more carefully. At last she was free. Trish examined her cut wrist in the flickering fire light. Where was that canteen?

 Locating it behind the rock Old Curly had used to anchor the her tether, she poured water on her cut. The cloth she'd used as a hot pad would have to do for a wrap. Piercing the cloth with the knife, she gave the fabric a savage yank to tear it. Using her teeth as well as her fingers from her injured limb, she managed to tie a rough bandage on her wrist. Her stomach grumbled.

…to be continued

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

OH MY GOSH!! So sorry, this should have been the first post this week and I'm just catching it. You can go to the Talisman series tab and read this chapter in order. Again, I am soooo sorry for the mix-up.
The Talisman

Book1

Chapter 3

Part A

The setting sun signaled the need to make camp, yet Quinn pushed on. There would be time to rest once he reached home. He smiled thinking of Zelda and her warm welcome. Of course she would prefer he get the trail dust off and a shave before he visited her, but her solicitous attentions warmed his thoughts. Yes, she had proven herself well worth the gamble. She was no innocent, but he'd known that from the beginning.

He caught a glimpse of flickering fire light as he rounded the pass. Strange. Settlers didn't know about this pass. From the side these folks must have come, it looked like a box canyon. He knew it was passable on horseback but was careful not to travel this pass from the other side so as to not leave a trail. So far the rustlers had not found this shortcut between the Big Lost and Little Lost valleys. He intended to keep it that way. This pass afforded him the luxury of getting home a whole day early. Others in the valley communities had voiced their wonder about how he could make a living with playing cards, riding an occasional round-up and still get his homestead going. He had his secrets and this one he would keep to himself, not even sharing it with Albert, his brother.

Quinn reined his horse toward the game trail on the south once he cleared the narrow pass. Usually he kept to the stream to cover his tracks. Tonight it was more important to learn who was in this canyon. A canyon most believed had only one way out.

He tied his horse a good distance from the campfire and crept closer on foot, careful to remain out of sight. Crouched behind a fallen log, he watched the old timer, his long coat shielding Quinn's view of the fire. At last the man moved around the fire revealing another more slender figure bending over the fire. He watched long enough to recognize something wasn't right. When the figure stood, he kept his arms tight to his body, his hands together. He didn't even pull the long hair off his face.

The figure had no coat and carried the pot from the fire much too close to his body, pouring the steaming liquid from an awkward angle. The form jumped, a feminine squeal of pain filling the air. The old timer swiped a heavy backhand at the slender form.

"Stupid wench!"

Quinn felt the bile of outrage rise in his throat, an old battle reawakened in his gut. Men had died at the hands of outraged youth over the shameful treatment of his kith and kin. To his way of thinking no female, young or old, educated or not, deserved abuse at a man's hand. There were some things a man just should not do. He and his brother had ended a particular abusive situation with their own retribution. They had fled from the warped Tennessee lawman and kept on the move for years with only their horses under them. Hard work kept them fed and card games kept them on the move… until Denver. One night and one card game had changed it all but not the past. The past held bitter secrets, molding the man he'd become. His mother and sister's screams of that night melted to whimpers, whimpers that always brought the same reaction to the surface, his grinding teeth and insatiable need for vengeance. A need from his past that dictated he not allow an old timer to strike a woman.

Quinn worked his way back to his horse, remounted and skirted the camp to approach from the west. He rode in, his back straight, his shoulders broad. He would not run from this fight, if it came to that.

...to be continued.

Oops!

While getting next weeks posts ready, I noticed an error in this weeks order. Part A  of chapter 3 up tomorrow.
Please note that my cheeks are flushed a heated red as my stomach covorts dangerously.

Excuse me...(my muse taps me on the shoulder)...no time for apologizes...get to work. You have another story you are writing while sharing this one with readers. Hurry...you can't leave this one for long.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

The Talisman

Book 1

Chapter 3

Part C

"Thinking of takin' 'er off my hands, are ya?" Curly shook his head. "She's a heap of trouble but ya ain't takin 'er 'fore I get my poke."

"Tough time getting that poke?" Quinn couldn't help but feel relief knowing the woman had held Curly off until now.

"Ain't been the time."

"So what's stopping you?" Quinn measured the man across the campfire from him, disgust growing with every passing minute.

"Nothun now. My belly's full. I ain't a greedy feller. Ya can 'ave a go, jus' as well. Then we know what stakes we're playin' fer."

Quinn noticed the evil glint of anticipation in Curly's eyes. He looked around to see the woman grasping a stout branch in her hands, obviously planning to stand her ground. Instinct told him that she very well could.

"No way. Over my dead body. You want a go? I'll take your manhood first," she hissed.

"Wretch!"

Quinn stood facing her, the plate of beans forgotten. If he could divert any hostility he had to come between the woman and Old Curly. He sidestepped, placing one foot firmly on the rope that tethered her. He spread his hands, inviting her to trust him as he would a skittish horse. He tried to reassure her, mouthing the words, "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

He sensed rather than saw Curly skirt the fire. "Ya go fer 'er hands. I'll hog tie 'er."

Quinn's hand recoiled at the same time he spun. His knife flashed once before sinking into Old Curly's shoulder. "N--" The stout branch caught Quinn off guard. The second swipe hit him and all went black.

...Next week -- Chapter 4

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

The Talisman

Book1

Chapter 3

Part B

"Hello at the fire." Quinn called out.

"Who goes there?" came the guarded greeting from the camp.

"Are ya willing to share your fire? I come in friendly," Quinn responded, checking the knife at his belt.

"That's two in one day. Come on in."

Quinn rode closer to the camp wondering at the comment, dismounting at the firelight's ring. "Smells right inviting." He nodded at the woman and the plate of beans in her hand.

"When she ain't burnin' it or dumpin' it on ya." The old timer turned his attention to the woman. "Get the man the rest of 'em vittles."

Quinn watched her. She glanced longingly at the beans and then handed him the plate. He noticed a look of angry annoyance replace that of hunger on her features as he took the plate he observed that her hands were tethered. A length of rope kept her within the ring of firelight.

"Have a sit. Move woman or ya'll get no blanket tonight."

The woman eyed her captor, an inkling of hunger mixing with the vengeful glare. She moved away from him as far as her tether would allow.

Quinn nodded his thanks and hesitantly took her seat on a comfortable rock. He spooned a healthy bite into his mouth. They tasted awful. What had she done to them? The old timer took his place on a ratty stool and resumed his meal, seemingly unaware of the offensive taste.

"Betcha are wondrun' 'bout this." The old man traced the tether in the air with his spoon.

Quinn nodded in a nonchalant manner taking a smaller bite of beans.

"Ungrateful wretch. Saved 'er life, I did. An' this 'eres the result."

"She volunteered to be your slave, did she?" Quinn knew better, but wanted to hear the old timer's version of the story. Nothing made it right to tether a woman like this, especially one that seemed rather unhappy about it. If she were a cattle rustler, it might be different. The old timer definitely wasn't a cattleman.

"Jus' opposite. Old Curly saves her life an' she weren't even appreciable. Ya ever heard of that?"

"I said 'thanks'," the woman snapped.

Curly yanked hard on the rope causing her to fall. Quinn considered the rope, following it with his eyes to find it anchored to a large rock near Curly.

Anger boiled in Quinn's throat. You couldn't force someone to be thankful and if anything Curly had heaped the wrath of the woman on himself. He managed to hide his feelings. Could Curly be reasoned with? Was Curly the type of man to seek revenge if Quinn stepped in? Would he have to outright kill Curly to set the woman free? Quinn considered the woman in the firelight. She was slender, the manly clothing doing nothing to hide her feminine curves even if she looked rather dirty and unkempt. He harbored little doubt about Curly's warped motive.

"Women," Quinn drawled. "Seems they're more trouble than they're worth. Are you a gambling man, Curly?"

...to be continued.