Cover art ideas for my books

This is for my newest novel. I created it myself with photoshop. The "#1 New York Times Bestseller" obviously hasn't happened... yet.



Seeing my books like this visually really inspires me. I want to see them in print!

Shera- Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Does Brad Fergusson like you or something?” Chrissie said in a low, almost wicked tone to me over a mocha frappe. We jetted off-campus for lunch at our favorite local coffee and sandwich shop. It was just off the center street of Whitefish that looked right off the set of an old John Wayne movie. We walked through the café’s beaded doorway and unexpectedly found Brad, Richard and Dave sitting on cushions like Gods of Gorgeousness around a low table in the corner.

I’d hoped Chrissie wouldn’t notice Brad staring at me, but his odd yellow-green eyes under his jetting orange hair had hardly left my face. What made things worse is that over the past few days, I’d come to realize that Brad was pretty much the only human I felt like licking. Him and sometimes Richard, and a dark-haired guy in leather chaps I hadn’t noticed lurking in the back of my Chemistry class before, but there was something about the way Brad’s orange hair stuck out like dry grass that made my tongue itch to smooth it down.

“No,” I nearly choke on my steaming latte. “He’s just weird that’s all.”

“Tell me about it,” Chrissie rolled her tongue piercing around in her mouth. “Yesterday in Chemistry I saw him licking a vile of hydrogen.”

My ears perked up. “Licking?” I asked, setting down the mug carefully so it wouldn’t spill all over my new death metal blouse. “Did you say licking?”

“Yeah,” she leaned in across the table. “Some say he’s into some pretty weird stuff, but licking a vile of hydrogen? Come on.”

“That is weird,” I muttered, but my mind was going fast. Maybe it’s some kind of disease: this propensity to lick things. Maybe it’s communicable, I did kiss Greg Browning on prom night, and he seemed to want to do a lot of licking, or maybe it’s airborne. Should I ask him about it? Should I tell Chrissie?

“You ready for the auditions tomorrow?” her question severed my line of thought. Tomorrow? They were already tomorrow?

“Absolutely,” I gave a pretense of supreme confidence but the truth was that I’d been pretty distracted lately. “You?”

“Sure, but I can’t decide to go for Lesiel or the hot Frau chick,” she went on and though I knew she still wanted the part of Maria, I was debating if licking a vile in Chemistry class was a coincidence or just another symptom of a deranged mind. It’s probably nothing, I determined as I liked the whip cream off the tip of my spoon. I’m the one with the real problem, and I shouldn’t say anything about to anyone either especially any of them. My eyes shot over to the corner table where they immediately met Brad’s electric green ones.

I wanted to look away, but I noticed a thin line of white cream just above his upper lip. Out flashed his pink tongue and in less than a second it was gone. My spoon fell from my mouth and clanged onto the table. Brad just cocked an orange eyebrow and gave a mischievous smirk.

“Ugh,” Chrissie whined next to me. “You splattered cream all over my shirt.” She dabbed at it with a napkin, but I stood up and grabbed her arm.

“Come on,” I urged. “Let’s go.”

“Why?” Her brown eyes told me she thought I was crazy, which I probably was, but this was just too much for me.

“I just need to get out of here now.” I couldn’t possibly tell her the real reason.

“Ok, but can I get my drink,” she shrugged my hand off.

“Fine,” I grumbled, feeling both Brad and Richard’s eyes on me now. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Forget Brad. Forget licking. Forget every strange thing that’s happened this week, I told myself as I scrambled out of the school and to the dirt lot where my old beat up Jeep was parked. I have an audition tomorrow to prepare for and need to stay focused. Focus, Valerie.

I fished through my purse for my keys when a voice on the other side of my car said, “Valerie,” and made me drop the whole bag. Ruby lipstick, black eyeliner, and pieces of watermelon gum splattered across the red dirt.

“Great,” I muttered at my own jitteriness.

“Let me help you with that,” they said and a freckled hand picked up a piece of gum and offered to return it to me. “Watermelon. That’s my favorite.” I looked up to see the grinning face of Brad.

“Keep it,” I told him, angry that he scared me.

He gave a light laugh that made his thin shoulders rise. “I think you need it more than I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I scowled. “You think I’ve got bad breath or something?”

Again, he just tossed me that off-smile. A very weird moment passed. Are you going to say something? I wondered and was just about to step around him and get in my car when he said, “Simon wants to meet you. I think he’ll have some answers for you. Be at Riverside Park tomorrow night at 8 p.m. Don’t be late.”

With that, he turned his orange head around and started to walk away.

“Who’s Simon?” I asked, stunned that he was going to leave after saying something like that, but still he just skipped on further down the lot. I could see Richard’s bulky form leaning up against a pickup at the end of the row. “What are you talking about?”
He gave a little hop and called back over his shoulder. “Riverside Park. 8 o’clock. Don’t be late.”

I couldn’t believe it. Was this guy completely nuts? I turned around to see if anyone else had witnessed this but the lot was empty. I called after him, “You think I’m going to meet you and your creep friends at some park tomorrow night, you’re wrong.” But Brad had already met up with Richard and they were getting into the truck.

What a wacko! Why is it in a town of only 5,000 I’ve got to be the one to attract all the loonies? I slammed the rest of the lipstick and gum back into my purse and resolved that the last thing I would ever do tomorrow was go to Riverside Park.

That night, I ran over the lyrics of every song over and over again in my head until I was sure I sang them even in my sleep. I was a senior now; this was my last shot at something greater than chucking horse manure, or stocking Red Dirt Shirts on the shop shelves. The school musical was just one step for me into a big, bright exciting future that consisted of: L.A. movie sets, and picking the right gowns to wear for all the premiers.

But the next day, I woke up with a massive twisted knot in my stomach greater than the state of Montana. Was it just nerves about the audition? As I slurped down my Fruit Loops, I kept thinking back on what Brad told me as he stood nonchalantly by my Jeep with his quirky grin like he knew something about me I didn’t even know. “Simon wants to meet you. I think he’ll have some answers for you.” Who the heck is Simon and why would he have answers for me? What kind of answers could he have anyway? But the truth was that I did have questions that needed answering. Knowing the truth was so appealing. But shouldn’t I be focusing on the auditions?

Sick of the indecision, I decided I could go to the auditions which were after school at five and then maybe swing by the park just to see if anyone would actually be there. It was probably the stupidest thing I could do, but the part of me that was so desperate for answers drove logic away.

I tapped my legs nervously all through English, American History, Algebra and Spanish, consciously avoiding Brad, but he wasn’t at school at all. Neither was Richard. Dave Lonsley was there, shouting out Captain VonTrapp lines every once in a while to a gathered hallway crowd. My heart fluttered just a bit at the thought that we’d be playing leads together.

“You look sick,” Chrissie told me as we took our seats in the middle of the auditorium as the minutes to show time ticked down. “You sure you’re still up for auditioning?”

“I’ll be fine,” I told her, but I wasn’t sure I was, or if I was more nervous about singing or going to the park. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Simon?” More and more hopeful thespians poured in through the doors. There was a twinge of nervous energy in the air. My hands were shaking slightly in my lap, but I hid them under my hoodie so Chrissie wouldn’t see.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t think so, why?” I didn’t answer her but pretended to be interested in fixing my broken zipper. “You ok, Val? You’ve been acting almost as dumb-headed as the cheer squad.”

“Thanks,” I rolled my eyes and squished the bread between my fingers.

“I’m just saying. You don’t have to go for this whole musical thing, you know.” Yeah wouldn’t that be convenient for you? I wanted to say back to her, but opted for going over “My Favorite Things” again under my breath, but my own invented lyrics kept creping in, making me freak out that they might slip out when I was on stage.

The excited whispers died down as the director, Mr. Dunn, walked onto the stage and gave a few brief words of welcome and good luck before taking his place at a card table with a single lamp which illuminated the stack of audition sheets we all filled out. There were a lot more auctioneers than I thought there would be, and I was suddenly wary of my ability to walk into the lead as easily as I had hoped.

Biting my lip, I took in the seemingly endless rows of students as the first one bravely took the stage. An expectant hush rippled down the aisles as the tiny, blonde girl shakily started her first notes, but something in the back corner of the auditorium caught my eye and I was no longer paying attention. Normally, I would have passed the tall, thin shape off as a shadow, just another crevice the spotlight failed to illuminate, but shadows don’t have eyes that look back at you. Especially not brilliant yellow eyes. I blinked to see if perhaps the stage lights had just reflected oddly, but the distant pair of eyes simply blinked back at me. A thousand spider legs danced down my spine.

I looked back at Chrissie, and even though she was just feet from me, her eyes didn’t glow like those in the back corner. “Chrissie,” I whispered as the girl on stage wound into the last verse, “do you see that over there?” I tried to point to her, but she batted my arm down.

“Shhhh, Val,” she shushed me. But still, the yellow irises peered from the darkness right in our direction and my heart pounded with more than stage-jitters.

“I’m serious,” I hurried. “There’s something over there.” I squeezed her arm.

She whipped her head around to me. “Jeeze, can’t you see I’m trying to scope out the competition?” The girl stepped down and the auditorium echoed with polite applause. Chrissie clapped her black nail-polished fingers together. “Now, what is it?” she demanded me, but I looked back to the corner and the eyes were gone.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, wringing my fingers in my green hoddie. Wow, I must have stage-fright bad. I’m even seeing things. I tried the deep-breathing techniques my mom was also promoting for emotion control. Calm, Valerie. Breath in and out. Slow. Be calm like a deep sea, a still lake surrounded with pines, reflecting jagged mountain cliffs— that’s where the yellow eyes lives. Whoa. What? Where did that come from? Panic started to wheel in my throat. My lungs demanded oxygen quicker and quicker.

“Chill out, Val,” Chrissie whined. “You’re making me even more nervous than my parents were when I hit puberty and it’s my turn in three more.”

I wouldn’t be on till the end, but what was with me? I had performed on stage before: solos in choir concerts, minor things like that, but I had never felt like this. That’s when I realized it wasn’t about being on stage at all, it was about meeting Simon, whoever that was, at the park tonight and the culmination of all the other weird things in my life that had me more freaked than an elk in hunting season.

A really pretty brunette who was just a sophomore got up next and her clear soprano voice rang like one of the chicks from Celtic Women that Mrs. Tanner always plays in the shop. Enthusiastic cheers erupted as she gave a humble nod of her head and exited.

“She was so good,” I exclaimed, my hands pounding together, but my heart sunk a little lower knowing that every stellar audition lessened my chances of getting the lead that much more.

Chrissie shrugged and put her Converses up on the seat in front of her. “Swine flu sounds better to me.” She was probably just jealous.

“Aren’t you up after this?” I reminded her.

“Oh, yeah.” Suddenly, her face seemed very long and pale.

“Go get ‘em,” I encouraged her with a slap on the butt as she faced her doom. She didn’t bolt like I thought she would, but gave a tentative, yet fairly decent rendition of “Edelweiss.” Good for her. My eyes shot to the far dark corner of the auditorium and still, there was nothing there but shadow. No tall black figure or yellow eyes. Breathe, Valerie. Concentrate on getting through these few minutes and worry about the rest later.

Chrissie wiggled back into her seat, giddy with pride. I gave her a squeeze. “You did so good.”

“Thanks,” she gushed, wiping her forehead with her sleeve. “That was so much easier than I thought. I’m sure I did better than that sophomore girl.”

“Yeah,” I pretended to agree, but the truth was that “chorus girl,” was written all over Chrissie’s performance. One after one, I watched mediocre auditions, some looked more like rabbits caught on the highway, some gave self-conscious smiles while their friends cheered them on. A few had surprisingly good voices, but I knew my audition had to be more than that. I had to own the song, own the stage, and sing every note like it belonged to only me.

Before I knew it there was just one last audition before mine. A very reverent silence fell over the auditorium. With his swoosh of jet-black hair and confident gate, Dave Lonsely took the stage. His white teeth flashed as he introduced himself and let out his strong baritone voice in a unique version of “Edelweiss.” His talent was obvious and his confidence was contagious.

That’s what I need to do, I thought, challenged to prove myself. Following him was frightening; like being asked to play after Mozart or Vivaldi.
The cheers died down and a very sickly quiet seemed to creep through the air as I rose from my seat, descended down the aisle and then plodded up the few steps to the stage. Confidence. Straight back. Remember to smile. Again, I looked to the corner where the yellow eyes were, but the spotlight was so bright, I couldn’t see beyond the first row of seats. Big breath.

“My name is Valerie Brighton,” my voice came out clear and carried well but my hands trembled slightly at my sides, so I gripped onto my jeans, “I’ll be singing “The Sound of Music.” I bowed my head then to collect myself. My heart was fluttering faster than a hummingbird and all time seemed to slow down. I even noticed the tiny dust particles in the spotlight falling down to the wooden stage floor. I found the note in my mind, and a sudden complete calm came over me. You were made to do this, a voice in my head told me. Yes, I am. I lifted my chin and put my right foot out to the audience.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music,” my tone was clean and carried well, “with songs they have sung for a thousand years.” Hearing my own voice ring back to me off the curved walls gave me more confidence and I soared into the next line. “The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.” I squared my shoulders, imagining the spotlight was a warm sun made just for me and danced into the final line. “My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”

A second’s silence followed the last ring of my voice and then the audience burst into an applause close to as enthusiastic as Dave Lonsely’s.

“Thank you,” Mr. Dunn said. It was over. I had done it. Robotically, I moved out of the spotlight and into the darkness beyond. My eyes took a minute to adjust and I could barely make out the steps. Just as I passed the thick, red curtains a voice said lowly.

“Nicely done.”

I jumped nearly a mile, my head jerking to the shadows beyond the velvet. Standing there in a low crouch, I could just make out the orange hair and green eyes of Brad Ferguson. I didn’t say anything but rushed down the steps truly creped out. Had he been there the whole time, or just my audition?

Chrissie rushed at me in the center aisle. “You were amazing!” Her blue highlights bounced as she jumped up and down. “I never knew you could sing like that.”
I didn’t either, I thought but couldn’t get out more than a weak, “thanks,” because my head was too jumbled up.

Chrissie wanted to go out for ice cream at The Firepit to celebrate and anxiously pass the time until we got the results of the audition, but I mumbled some excuse about having to get home and help my mom close up shop.

Grabbing my bag and sheet music, I rushed out of the school and into the chill early spring Montana air wondering what more this day could possibly hold for me.

"Shera"

Shera
Chapter One

It first started when I wanted to lick Brad Ferguson’s peanut butter smeared cheek. That’s right. Lick the orange streak right off his freakled skin and then slide my rough tongue up the tips of his ears and then the left side of his head so his reddish-blonde hair would lay flat. It wasn’t a sexual thing. I didn’t even like Brad Ferguson. He was part of the empty-headed, steroid-pumped popular pack and I was stuck somewhere between gothic chick and drama dweb. But there I was in Mrs. Webb’s lecture on late British literature slumped over the edge of my desk with my tongue nearly lunging out of my mouth to scrap the dimples of his cheeks.

I shook my head to try and get a grip on myself but my taste buds felt like sand grains and how I longed to lick something. I pulled a piece of my favorite watermelon-flavored gum out of my purse to hopefully satisfy this new impulsive drive, but my eyes were still riveted on the curve of Brad’s face and he finally turned to look at me and as he did, I found myself licking the back of the wrapper instead. Stop it, I told myself. Most of the 725 students of this hick High School already think I’m weird, and this will just give them another reason. He’s watching you, I told myself, but licking the fruity foil felt so good. Then I licked a bit of my hand, and soon my tongue was sliding quickly up and down my own salty skin.

A distant part of me was still searching Brad’s face for a reaction as I continued to frantically satisfy this urge. Instead of puzzlement, mockery or revulsion, there was a slightly bemused smile on his thin lips, and his pale yellow-green eyes flickered. He’s got the weirdest eyes I’ve ever seen. Except for maybe Richard’s: Brad’s best friend. They’re pretty strange too, like the kind of contacts you can buy at Hot Topic, except that I’m pretty sure they’re real. But I couldn’t see Richard’s orangish-brown eyes because his broad back was turned to me as he watched the last minutes of class tick down. But then Brad shot a spit wad at Richard’s arm and Richard glowered back at him. I swear Richard’s irises were more tangerine than brown. Who has tangerine eyes and why was I still licking my arm?

Later that night, as I sliced tomatoes into pretty little ovals for a dinner salad, and resisted the temptation to lick up the tiny bit of butter smudged onto the counter, my Mom asked me, “Valerie, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lied and scratched behind my ear with the back of my hand. “I just had a really weird day, that’s all.”

Mom dumped a pot of steaming noodles into a strainer, framing her dyed-blonde hair in a halo of steam. “Hormones,” she re-iterated her favorite diagnosis for her only child, now turned teenager. If a pimple showed up on my arm, or a Huggies Diaper commercial produced tears, or the moon stopped orbiting the earth, it could only be because of one thing: hormones.

Maybe she was right, maybe my new licking urge was merely the symptom of more feminine “changes,” but I was 17 already. You’d think my body had pretty much figured it out by now. Either way, I wasn’t about to confess it to my Mom who would probably take me to some sex shrink for unusual obsessions. But that so wasn’t what it was, or why would I get so much relief from licking a bubble-gum wrapper?

I chopped the tomatoes more madly this time, not caring to make each one symmetrical and just hoped that soon everything would be normal. Or as normal as life could be for a goth-girl who had no father, no siblings, a Mom who thought violet leg-warmers were coming back, and a best friend whose primary ambition in life was to take the lead of the Spring Musical right from me.

Auditions for The Sound of Music were in less than a week and I practiced “My Favorite Things” for the four-hundredth time in the shower the next morning, adding a few lines of my own.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. Eyeliner and incense, and silver skull rings. These are a few of my favorite things.”

“Why do you even want that part anyway, Val?” Chrissie, my best friend asked me as we walked through the melon-painted halls of Whitefish High between classes. She was trying to use the tactic of making what I want less than desirable so she could then go ahead and have it. The real thing was that the part was pretty much guaranteed mine: most kids around here were into calf-roping and the typical Montana ho-downs, not drama. Besides, I had the voice and decent enough acting skills, and Chrissie’s singing was more like a donkey in heat.

“I think it would be fun,” I tried to slough it off.

“But then you’ll have to be a Nun,” her tongue piercing showed as she over-enunciated the word like it was a rotten bit of apple. How I wish my Mom would let me get my tongue pierced. Chrissie knew that and seemed to show hers off every chance she got. “Nuns are so grouse.”

“I think they’re hot,” I came back at her. “Especially if become anti-nun at the end of the play, marry a rich captain and inherit a mansion.”

“I thought they had to climb the Alps after they got married,” Chrissie said in her winey voice as she tucked a strand of blue hair behind her ear.

She had a point. I needed a new tactic. “Well Dave Lonsley is most likely to get the part of Captain VonTrapp.”

“Oh,” Chrissie gave the usual sigh most girls gave at the thought of Dave Lonsley. If Brad Ferguson and Richard Alred were in Westpoint High’s elite class, then Dave Lonsley was the king. His ink-black hair, roughly cut cheekbones and olive skin made babies laugh, old women cry with joy and even Principle Whitler bat an eye if ever he missed class, which by the way only happened once in recorded history.

It was impossible to resent Dave either; if ever there was a Prince named Charming, his was named Dave Lonsley. Everyone loved him: from bubble-popping cheerleaders, to farm nerds, to pent-up-frustration-filled Goths, because he loved everyone. He knew all 725 students of Whitefish High by name, helped old Mrs. Daffiny with her gift shop on Saturdays for free, and always seemed more interested in you than himself. It was almost disgusting how his dimple-producing smile never seemed to leave his angelic face.

Rumor was, he was planning to audition for the musical. My musical. Of course he’d walk right into the leading role just as he excelled at soccer and chess and Mr. Personality of the Year.

“Well who wants a stage kiss from Dave Lonsley anyway?” Chrissie scowled but I could see the way she rubbed her strawberry Chap Stick lips together. My mouth salivated too, but I was just grateful that I didn’t have the urge to lick him. Actually, I hadn’t felt the impulse all day. Maybe things were back to normal.

“Look,” Chrissie whispered and squeezed my arm. “There’s Samantha Gray. Did you know she spent the whole weekend in a mental hospital?”

The news surprised me. Samantha’s family had a two-hundred acre ranch up near Whitefish Lake and she had always been so quiet and reserved. Watching several sophomores try to rope a couple of freshmen with cattle rope ahead of us, I knew who deserved institutionalization more. “Why?” I asked Chrissie as we dodged the sophomores.

“Not sure,” Chrissie shrugged. Suddenly, she ducked behind me. “Crap,” she whispered. “There’s Mr. Wilcox. If he sees that I’m not home with the flu, I can’t ditch class.” As he passed with his typical pointy-nose scowl, she hushed “See you,” and scampered off toward the Gym building.

Time to practice lyrics again in my head while I had a few minutes of freedom left maneuvering through the halls. I wished I could ditch with Chrissie, but my name had been red-flagged for having missed so much class and my mom threatened to ship me off to etiquette school if I skipped one more time. Chrissies parents were so laid back, it wasn’t fair. Mom blamed my rebellion because of my father, who walked out on us when I was four. That was why she moved us to this pathetic little town.

We moved around a lot for a couple of years and then my mom had this great idea to take this road trip around the country to take in all the sights there were. But then she took a wrong turn trying to get to Great Falls, Montana and our white Honda broke down on Hwy 93. An old weather-worn man toed us with his even older green pick-up to Whitefish and when my mom laid her eyes on the quant western town, she said, “Valerie, sweetie, I know where our home for now on is.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tanner let us stay the night in the apartment above their shop until the Honda was fixed, but my mom fell so in love with the warm hospitality of the people and they must have fallen in love with her too, so that when the car was good to go, we just stayed. The Tanner’s let us keep the cozy apartment as long as we helped out in the souvenir store a couple hours a week. So, in Whitefish we stayed, while the rest of the world melted away.

I never did see or hear from my father again. My mom was probably right about him being the source of my anger, but mostly I just felt angry at everything; especially this pathetic town where on any given day, the tourists quadrupled the town’s population of only 6,000 plus or minus a few babies born or old people dead.
Now, I was in a particularly sour mood that Chrissie was still trying to swipe the lead role right out from under me. Everything was back to normal.

I turned down the last hall to head to Algebra where I’d spend the next 45 minutes pretending to pay attention and try not to breathe the B.O. of the kid who always wore a straw hat in front of me and didn’t seem to know how to apply deodorant. At least there’d be no Brad Ferguson or Richard Alred there with their weird eyes. I maneuvered myself around a rather large senior shoving papers into his locker and joined the stream of students reluctantly plodding to class like a bunch of mechanical sheep.

My mind was inventing more lyrics for “My Favorite Things,” and half-thinking how my mom probably wishes she could trade me in on a new model like she finally did our old Honda after years of saving tip money, when my eye caught the purple strap of a backpack on some chick in front of me. It fell down to her knee and I watched as it swayed back and forth, back and forth. Very quickly, all my thoughts seemed fixed on the movement, almost like I was mesmerized by it.

The final bell rang and the chick sped up causing the strap to sway faster. My calves bunched together and my arms tensed as I squatted low, my eyes still riveted on the line of purple. My fingers curled in and suddenly I felt like pouncing. Back and forth it went over and over and I couldn’t resist it: I wanted to swoop down on the strap so bad. The small rational part of me wondered what I was doing, but it was like pure instinct had taken over my body. I pushed my hands off the floor and prepared to leap into the air when the chick turned right into her classroom.

Dang it. I wasn’t fast enough. What was I talking about? Shouldn’t I be glad that I hadn’t tackled her in the middle of the hall and became the joke of the day for Whitefish High? As soon as the strap was out of sight, the feeling was gone and only my disturbed paranoia remained. I shook my head and tucked my short brown hair behind my ear, disgusted by a straw of hay I found caught there. The halls were nearly empty now. Crap, I can’t be late. So I rushed off to class and tried to pretend the strap incident hadn’t happened for the rest of the day.

That was how it started. I thought it was just a weird happening but it got worse from there. The next few days I fought hard to keep from attacking a loose shoe lace, or from licking up my bowl of Fruit Loops instead of eating it. Sometimes the urge to lick and pounce happened at the same time: like in Gym class when I wanted to leap upon the volleyball, flip over onto my back and lick the rubbery surface. Times like that, it was best if I just fled to the bathroom.

All the while, Brad Ferguson and Richard Alred’s bizarre green and orange eyes seemed to be watching me. Life can be weird for any teenager, but this was more than acne or popularity or driver’s licenses; something terrifyingly more.

Query Letter for Agents

I'm in the process of querying literary agents to obtain representation. I'd appreciate any feedback on my query letter as this is the ONLY shot I have with them. Thanks and much love!

Dear ________,

Meta Blackwing has happily taken seven trillion souls to Hell, but now Satan wants her for himself and the young misfit angel must choose either alluring darkness or follow the hope of having a man that was never meant for her to have.

Angels are supposed to be cheery, light-loving seraphs with Shirley-Temple-blond hair but Meta Blackwing, with her long, ebony tresses and affinity for shadows, has never belonged among them. To her dismay, she must work with Sol, who thinks sneezing during prayer is a sin. Meta gags at his prudish, butt-kissing perfection, but after they get into a territory war over a dead mortal in a hospital room, her vomit reflex turns into an urge to kiss his pearl-pink lips. The mismatched angels plow halo-first into a quirky, often dysfunctional relationship. Weakened by her new feelings and still unsure of who she really is, Satan attempts to seduce her with promises of power and acceptance if she will join him. In a world where forbidden desires are paid for with your soul, young Meta must decide if she will be Satan’s right hand and risk losing the only other angel she has ever come to love.

I received the 1999 Illinois Young Author Award for my article, My Friend, My Father.

Having represented________, by____________, please consider my young adult fiction Meta Blackwing, complete at 108,000 words. Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,
Heather Choate

Dream Casting

Just waiting for dreams to materialize like dewdrops on the sand,

Straddling a precipice; wondering where my life will go,

Please, sweat summer rain wash these fears away,

Keep me sane long enough for the stars to finally show.


What are these talents for if they can’t be given away?

And what do I do with all of this waiting?

Just standing here waiting for dreams to dance into life.

Slice

If you've ever wondered how weird a wedding can get and what secrets can be kept- this is the story for you.



The bride is seconds from walking down the aisle and I’m fighting hard to not scratch behind my left ear where the tiny incision was made. Must not draw unnecessary attention to myself.

Peeling chords from the pipe organ start up and there she is: blonde curls piled up high on her head, flowing lace wrapped around the curves of her body. The white of her teeth as she smiles matches the white of her dress. Is DM smiling? My eyes dart up to where he stands in a fitted black tuxedo at the altar. Yes, he is smiling. His emotions appear: happy, loving. How can he do it?
I bite my lip; a nervous habit I have acquired. Perhaps I too have become more integrated.

Turning my head, the bride, Melissa Timber, is her designated name, is now beside my pew. Her eyes are on me for a brief moment, smile gone. Does she know? DM assures me she does not. Another second and she has moved on toward the altar and her beaming husband-to-be. Looking back at him, I wonder for the two hundred and fourth time how this will work.

But the preacher takes the microphone and they say their vows. The words seem simple and contrite to me but the weddings guests dab at their eyes, so I suppose the words have fulfilled their emotional purpose.

Later, I sit at a lavender-covered table in the overly-lavish reception hall, pretending to be interested in the spinach salad. Melissa’s sister and Maid of Honor, comes to sit beside me. Her face expresses friendliness, but I am certain her motives are interrogation.

“So, how do you know the groom, Damien?” she asks, while blinking her overly-large brown eyes more times than necessary for lubrication.

The training comes quickly and I answer, “We are foster siblings.” Deception is still unnatural for me though and the incision behind my ear prickles. “I am his closest thing to family,” I add and that sentence contains more truth.

“Where are you from?” she cocks her head.
DM, or Damien, as the humans call him is brushing Melissa’s check with his fingers as they dance close. An unidentifiable burning radiates in my chest and I almost want to answer her with the truth.

“Seattle,” I state, resorting to protocol. The truth would prove disastrous. Why would I have thought about telling it for even a second? Are my own emotions at the proper functioning level? A server in a black suit is coming around with glasses of Champagne. I take one. My understanding is that the alcoholic beverage is to be used as another ritualistic tradition in the celebratory ledger of the night’s events, but I drink the glass’ entire contents in one bubbly swallow. Liquor is the one commodity I have taken fancy too.

“Is that why you two are so pale?” the sister presses on and I wish she would cease speaking. DM is now kissing his new wife.

“That is correct,” I reply, looking for the server for another drink.

“You aren’t blood-related?” she continues.

“No.”

“That’s funny. You have the same pointy kind of nose. If he had long hair and legs like you, you could be twins,” she giggles.

Failing to see the humor in this, I stand. “I can assure you, we are not blood-related,” I state and walk away through the mingling crowds to a further corner of the room. Not wanting to engage in conversation, I fain interest in the photo montage of the happy couple playing on a screen. But there is a tap on my shoulder.

DM is standing behind me, his shiny black hair matching his tuxedo. His had is outstretched toward me.

“It is custom for the bride and groom to dance with their family members,” he informs me in his trained, smooth voice. Putting my small hand in his, he takes me to the center of the marble dance floor. Most of the guests are watching as the music starts up and I do my best to play the part of adoring sister. Melissa dances with her father nearby and gives me another hapless look.

“Melissa likes me no more than she did before,” I calculate then whisper, “You are certain this is the right course of action?”

DM smiles. “It’s a little late to change it now.” He flashes the silver ring on his left hand.

“But these things are not permanent for us,” I say lowly. “We could still leave, get a start with a new set of humans— one with less risk of exposing us.” My eyes bolt back to his human bride. How long can the deception be kept from her? Her knowledge of us would break command number one. We would be terminated. So would she and any other human with the same knowledge.

“RX,” he calls my name and gives a light laugh, “you still don’t get it. This isn’t just an assignment to me now. These—” he lowers his voice, “these humans— they’ve changed me. I feel like I can feel the way they do, actually know joy, fear, loneliness— love.” His words trail off as he gazes at the human bride. I do not comprehend the same emotions, but perhaps— loneliness? Then, he turns back to me and says, “I understand it’s not logical, but that’s the way it is.”

“No, it is not logical,” I confirm the assessment. I do not understand why we cannot complete this assignment, return to our home base, and— “What am I supposed to do?” I ask him, the odd burning getting worse in my chest. I gulp hard and scratch behind my ear at the little raised red line. “I cannot return without you.” We are like the heart and lungs of a human body— one cannot work properly without the other.

“RX,” he brushes my cheek the same way he did the human’s, “It’s going to be ok.”

I never understood that human expression until that moment but he was wrong: it was not going to be ok. The burning spreads to my throat as the song’s final chords are drowned out by polite clapping and RX returns to the human he loves. Why did you have to pick her? I want to shout. Why couldn’t you have found someone else— one of your own kind? But the words remain silent in me as the couple takes a silver knife in both their hands to the perfect wedding cake. Everyone is smiling and joyful around me, but I felt like that perfect cake, now ripped open and sliced.

Wrapped in Rain

Song Lyrics:

Wrapped up in rain,
Thunderstorms are calling,
Seeping out my skin,
Pouring out the pain,
Dancing now- wrapped up in your rain.

Ice melting off fingertips,
A crimson sun rising,
Makeup’s all running,
Like a hot roof on my lips,

In my dreams again,
You and crickets,
Swaying hammocks,
A clouded gray sky.

Here we are again,
Even if I knew you completely,
I never would have expected this,
Like an August kiss in January,
Being wrapped up in… rain.

Away- Song lyrics

Away

Sadness drapes over me like watery veils of silk,
When all the flowers turn to shadows in your hair,
You’re right here, but I can’t touch you, can’t speak a word,
Your blue-jay soul will flit away.

I grieve for my condition, because I can’t seem to find the answer
To all these yearnings, these empty pages and frozen hands,
Where is my happiness, when you’re my every joy,
And you’ve gone away?

Time’s too long to tell me how to turn back the hands,
Start a new beginning with you,
Carry us to a land that’s ever green and never gray,
You’ll never go away.

There’s a tripping frantic little girl in me,
Wanting to take your hand, whisper in your ear,
Tell you all my crazy dream secrets,
Make it so you’ll always be here,
Never to go away.

Miss me pretty little blue jay,
When all the flowers have turned to shadows in your hair,
The light is fading fast and you won’t stay,
Time to flit away.

Toes and Tears

This is a story I am entering into the Mormon Channel's short-story contest for Pioneer day. It has to be a fiction about the early saints and less than 800 words (so short!). I'd appreciate feedback before submitting it. Thanks for reading!



Toes and Tears

“Oh God, please let me keep my toes.” This was the silent prayer I uttered as I removed my stockings in the early gray morning light. The night had been cold- impossibly cold, and though Thomas and I did our best to keep warm, my naked toes that morning were a deep purple.

A month ago, I would have cursed the ice on my lips, the ache in every bone, because this was not my trek, and not my religion. But that was a month ago and things had changed.

If it had not been for the promise I made Mama to take Thomas West with the Saints after she was gone, I would have turned my petticoat around and headed right back to Nauvoo. I was barely seventeen, and after Papa died of the fever, it was Mama who believed the Prophet Joseph Smith and read their strange bible, not me. But we had to burry Mama next to Papa, the Saints were leaving, and there was only one group left. Thomas was only twelve and needed looking after though he was a bother more of the time than not.

“Marianne, my toes are as blue as rocks,” he called to me, holding his ever-growing foot in his hands.

“Mine are too.” I tied the boots and stood. “Grab some cornbread and let’s get going. You know Brother Jacobs likes to get an early start.” Brother Jacobs’ oldest son, Tanner, was watching me with brown eyes across camp, but he quickly acted like he was sharpening his knife instead.

“Tanner fancies you, you know.” Thomas nudged me playfully, making me spill crumbs on my dusty blouse. Blushing, I gathered my tattered skirts and spun around so neither Thomas nor Tanner would see.

Tanner Jacobs was the one who helped cause the change in me. The first weeks on the trail had been hard: our feet and hands swelled red blisters, our legs tingled with exhaustion as we pushed them further each day to avoid the winter approaching faster than an eight-hitch wagon, but none of the others complained. I could not understand why. One morning, I caught a reflection of myself in Sister Myer’s hand mirror: the creamy white skin of my nose and cheeks was spotted with blotchy freckles and I just broke down right there and cried.

“Your name is Marianne, correct?” Those were the first words Tanner Jacobs spoke to me later that night around the campfire when most of the others had gone to bed and my tears and finally dried up like the dry creek bed we had hoped to find water in.
Thomas was sleeping with his head on my lap so I nodded my head so as not to wake him, but Tanner Jacobs did not stop there.

“My mother tells me you are not a member of our faith?” His eyes were gentle, but I was terrified.

“She is correct,” I confirmed in a low voice, unable to look anywhere other than my brother’s mud-crusted head that I picked at.

“This journey must be even more difficult for you,” he stated, rubbing the rim of his black hat.

“I do not know why you all do this,” I admitted. Thomas was a believer and he tried to explain it to me, but as the company prayed, blessed their sick, buried their dead, and preached their doctrine, I still didn’t understand why people would sacrifice so much, a part of me wanted to, but Mama’s death seemed to have scooped out a big hole in my heart.

“Have you ever read this?” Tanner asked, pulling a Book of Mormon from his coat.

Again, I shook my head.

“Well, I would like to give this to you then,” he stated and set the small book into my hands. “Perhaps it will provide you more meaning.”

That night and every frigid, star-filled night since, I read the book. That is when the change started: the throbbing in my legs seemed to lessen, my understanding of Mama’s death became clearer, and the hole in my heart filled with the purest joy I had ever felt. I came to know, as the other Saints did, that this was the gospel of Jesus Christ restored in its fullness at last upon the earth. The Savior knew us and loved us as a Church and individually. He would not let truth fail upon these frost-ridden plains. That was why I journeyed with the Saints toward Zion now, because even if I lost my toes, I would never lose my faith.

City of Elite- Part II

The staccato click of my heels on the marble floors echoed the beating of my frantic heart as Jonas and I paraded into Benazir’s Palace. I wanted to thrust my hand into my bra to make sure the zip drive was still there, but there were too many opulent people milling about the lavish two-story sitting room sipping champagne.

“When do we meet Breyers?” I whispered to Jonas, while scanning the proud faces around us to determine which might belong to the gutsy reporter.

“Just after dinner,” Jonas hushed, his breath smelling minty.

“Can’t it be sooner?”I groaned, not wanting to be ogled my Sheikh pig-fiancé while trying to remember which fork to use.

“They’ll notice if you’re missing before,” Jonas explained while we bobbed heads to several British diplomats that smelled too strongly of lavender and Gray Earl. My stomach gave a walloping roll and I didn’t know if I’d be able to keep dinner down.

“Where are we meeting?” I gripped his arm a little tighter.

“In a private room upstairs,” he said with a wink of his big, brown eye.

“You and me sneaking to a private room after dinner? That sounds a little um—“ I blushed, “suspicious.” What would people think of me going off with the son of a tutor when I’m engaged?

“Better for them to be suspicious of that,” he squeezed my hand playfully, “than to know the real reason.”


True. A bell was rung and we followed the other guests to the long dining hall where hundreds of gold plates and carved crystal glasses were set like art. Crimson tapestries adorned the walls and the windows overlooked the lush palace gardens.
The sun was setting, causing the palm leaves to turn tangerine. My parents sat somewhere in their chairs like thrones, but I avoided them entirely by sitting near the servant’s doors.

An Arabian quartet entered from those doors carrying a lute, tablah drum, Egyptian harp and mijwiz and soon their haunting melody spilled into the hall as platters of spiced fish, curry chicken and a hundred other dishes were set steaming before us. Normally, my mouth would have salivated just at the thought of Benazir’s kitchen, but my stomach was twisted worse than a knotted cobra as Jonas pointed out all the secret service men overlooking the scene from the dark corners of the room.

His magnanimous Mohammed el-Tayyi paraded into the room adorned in navy silver-threaded robes and matching turbine. “Ugh. I can’t believe I’m engaged to him,” I muttered lowly. In a swoop, he bowed to his father at the head of the table and kissed his hand. After sitting himself proudly at his father’s left hand, his hawk-eyes swooped down the seats until they found me. I wasn’t sitting by him, which was ok, because it wasn’t typically custom for men and women to eat together like this, but Dubai isn’t really the most traditional place with all the western influence, and I’m sure the British dignitaries had something to do with the seating arrangement tonight.

Still, my fiancé’s black soul-less eyes made me squirm. I tried to cross my legs, but the magnum .44 brushed against my thigh and I thought I’d really vomit then.

“Steady, Tori,” Jonas whispered to me, and the hand he put on my knee was the only thing that anchored me to the room the rest of the meal.

“Come now,” his words brushed my ears as the final plates were cleared away and guests were moving to the ballroom. “While Mohammed hook-face isn’t looking.” His hand slipped down my arm, causing ripples of fire to light my nerves.

“Yes,” I took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”


Avoiding eye contact with any other person, Jonas stole me away up the grand staircase above which an ethereal blue and purple sky had been painted.

We stopped on the third floor at a carved alabaster door. Jonas knocked twice softly. The door was opened by a burly man in a dark suit- a body guard, I presumed.

“He’s in there,” the guard bobbed his head to the back room after the door was locked behind us. Two more dark-suited men stood as still as the room’s luxuriant furniture by the oval alcove at the back. I was admittedly impressed; this reporter sure came prepared, body guards and all.

In the alcove, at a small circular table a man in brown suit pants and blue pin-striped shirt was turning on a laptop. “Good to see you again, Jonas,” he said in a tone that was smooth and pleasant to listen to.

“You too David,” Jonas bobbed his head to Bryers. Behind him a camera man was setting up more equipment. My tongue felt like it had swollen ten times. I never was good with public speaking.

“And this must be Victoria.” The reporter took my hand free hand into his. “It is a pleasure to meet you. How much time do we have?”

“Before they notice I’m missing?” I twisted my mouth to the side. “Fifteen— maybe twenty minutes.” I wasn’t worried about el-Tayyi. He was probably making plans with some other woman for tonight right now, but my parents—

“All right then,” he clapped his hands together. “Let’s get going.” He motioned to two seats opposite his at the table. From the window behind him, the dark-navy night sky jutted out from behind the millions of city lights, it was like Christmas every day here. “Jonas told me you have some very important information.”

I coughed and scooted a little closer in my chair, wishing I could just bury my face into Jonas’s neck. But, Jonas nodded his head and gave me a reassuring smile which was all I needed to remember why we were here. “I do.” But where do I begin? “You are aware of the assassination of the Arab Embassy leader here in Dubai last month?”

“I am,” Bryers confirmed, his pen hovering over his notebook.

“Well, the people responsible for that are the same ones here in this palace tonight,” I hurried in a hushed tone, hoping that Bryer’s lifted eyebrow didn’t mean disbelief. “But it’s more than just that— it’s the Korean civil war, the Russians nuclear weapon development, the leverage used every day to influence the government of the United States and a hundred other nations that are indebted to them—”

“Hold on,” Bryers stopped me with a hand. “This sounds like a lot of conspiracy theory to me—”

“I have proof,” I told him. “Here.” Blushing slightly, I pulled the zip drive out of my dress. “This has everything you need. All my father’s personal files, emails, weapon designs, bank statements.”

Bryers green eyes studied the small zip drive like it was half-gemstone, half-bomb. “Whatever is on here, we need to download it onto my computer now,” he rushed. “We don’t know how much time we have.” Agreeing, I put it into his open hand, glad that the burden was now not in mine.

“They are going to blackmail half of Europe,” Jonas added as Bryers plugged it into his laptop. “It’s going to create a world war.”
“
All so they can keep their wealth and hold their influence,” I added. “My own father—” I started, but hot unexpected tears filled my eyes. Swallowing what felt like a softball, I tried to gather myself and continue, but before I could get out another word, there was a click of the lock opening. Dark suits whirled into motion, guns drawn and a scream bubbled in my throat. In an instant, the bodyguards had apprehended a single intruder whose face was pressed against the floor. Discreetly, the door was closed and sealed once more.

“What happened?” Bryers demanded in a low tone as he strode to the guards.

“He had a key,” one of them replied, pulling the key out of the man’s hands.

Something about the dark-green tailored suit was familiar.

“Father?” I asked, as the guards forced the man to standing.

“Victoria?” His face was red and swelling slightly from where it had hit the marble floor. “What on earth is going on?”

“What are you doing here?” I shot back.

“I saw you go upstairs with that—” my father’s light blue eyes turned to ice as they stared at Jonas, “young man. I couldn’t just let you— I had no idea, all of this was going on.” His gaze turned from Jonas to Bryers and his mouth twisted sourly. “I know you. You are that reporter.” His head snapped back to me. “Just what is going on her Victoria?”

Jonas put a hand on my arm with a look that said, “Don’t tell him.”

But my words couldn’t be stopped now, and soon he’d find out anyway. “I know what you’ve done father. I know everything.”

My father’s face was poker-smooth. “What are you talking about, honey? Why don’t we tell these people to go home and you and I can talk.”

“It’s too late. I’ve already told them and soon the world will know too.” I glanced back at the zip drive still plugged into the laptop. My father followed my gaze.

“Victoria, you don’t know what you’re doing. Whatever is on there, don’t send it.” But I was already on my way back to the computer.

“I’m not a child anymore father.” I refreshed the screen and saw that all the files had been downloaded, including the pre-recorded video I’d done earlier. Jonas came to my side, steady and solid.

“You’re going to destroy everything we’ve worked for,” my father exclaimed, lashing against the arms that held him.

I logged into YouTube though my whole body was shaking now. “You should have thought about that when you destroyed the lives of all those people.”

“That was unfortunate,” my father agreed in a nearly-sorrowful sounding tone, “but it wouldn’t have had to happen if there was any other way. Please don’t do this. You are going to ruin yourself. They’ll never let you get away with this. They’ll discredit you, shame you into silence, or worse—”

“Don’t pretend to care about my safety,” I nearly shouted. “You sold me off to the highest bidder as soon as you had the chance.”

“If this is about el-Tayyi, then I’m sure we can figure something out,” he pleaded, the lines of his face drawn down hard making him look ten years older.

“This has nothing to do with that.” The file was uploaded now. “You and everyone else in the City of Elite have been drunken with your own power for too long, it’s time to end it.”

“Please don’t,” he begged, his eyes that I had looked into for love and praise all my life, now filled with tears, “for me, please.”

My heart sobbed, my fingers hovering over the mouse. Was this the same man that used to put me on his knee and read stories to me? The same man who I had adored for the better part of eighteen years like only a daughter can. The same man who allowed thousands of people to be murdered to further his own agenda? But could I be the one to loop the noose around his neck?

“It’s time Father,” I said flatly and without another hesitation hit “send,” exposing the City of Elite and all its crimes at last to the world.

City Of Elite

City of Elite
Short Story by Heather Choate
Part One

I slipped a .44 magnum into the rim of my panty hose. There were 15 rounds loaded in the clip, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to use them. I’d never shot a gun before— at a human that is.

The teal silk dress fell to my ankles and easily kept my secret. The mid-June air of Dubai blew in hotly through the open window as I strapped on the pearl-white heals and fastened the last bobby-pin into my brunette hair. Looking into the mirror, I was stunning of course, but felt scared out of my Wonderbra, and it showed in my eyes. I smudged on a little more eyeliner to try and hide it. Who would have thought that I, Victoria Juliet Hannagan, just two days after my eighteenth birthday, would become a threat to international security?

Or supposed threat, I should add. The only threatening thing about me was that I knew too much and they knew it, but nothing would be done, yet. Tonight I had to expose them to the world, while I still had a chance.

I made sure the zip drive was still securely fastened to my bra. Jonas had another, just in case. He was supposed to meet me at the staircase and accompany me to the dinner at Benazir’s Palace as my “friend,” of course. No one should suspect that my pre-arranged marriage to his holiness, the Sheikh Mohammed el-Tayyib was in danger. What a sicko he is. By the end of the summer, I was to be his fair-skinned, Western arm-candy. This is a prime example of the politically-based psychotic nonsense that emerged from this place. Hidden in Dubai was the City of Elite, or the City of the Power-hungry deranged, as I like to call it, and I’d had enough. No more will these people, which I’ve lived my whole life with, be allowed to dictate behind closed golden doors what happens to the lives of millions of innocent people in this world.

All of that would be done away with tonight, the only thing to do now, was act natural through the dinner and social hoopla— but acting natural was proving to be the most difficult part. I would have much rather run through the streets with a big sign, “Take down the Elites before they destroy you all!” but that would have landed me in only one place: an unmarked grave as I’m sure my parents would have wanted. I thought I could trust them, at least my Mom, but clearly strings of diamonds around her neck and arms was more important.

The sick thing was, if it weren’t for Jonas, I’d probably be as naïve and brainwashed as the rest of them. Growing up in a place where the cushions were made of dove feathers, the ice cubes imported from Russian glaciers, and the chair your butt sits on dusted three times a day, it’s no wonder these people don’t want to give anything up, especially when it’s been handed down for ten or more generations. “It’s just the way things are dear,” Mother said while combing her hair with an ivory comb (yeah ivory, as in the tusk from a slaughtered elephant), “You can dream Utopia all you want, but there’s nothing you or I can do to change anything. Just be grateful for what you have.”

Running my fingers along the gold-plated brow of my vanity, knowing it would probably be the last time I saw any of this, I knew that none of the “things” I possessed would ever compensate for the cost with which they were bought. I took a deep breath, snatched a couple hundred dollar bills (the last thing I’d take from this place) and folded them into my purse with all my credit cards (unlimited accounts). Unplugging the cell phone with the secure line, I said a little prayer, “Please let this work,” and then plunged out of the room in a whirl of silk and perfume.

Jonas waiting at the base of the stairs, his usual unkempt hair, combed and even sprayed, made my heart trip a bit, but the house maids sneered at his presence in the illustrious palace and that was ok. No one would suspect anything between me and the lowly son of a tutor.

“Wow, Tori,” he held a hand out to me, and though he had put on cologne, he still smelled lightly of the leather-bound books he spent so much time with, “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” I bobbed my head in the customary fashion. Ugh, that’s going to be a hard one to break. “You look nice yourself. You sure you don’t want to become one of us?”

He lowered his voice, his lips brushing my hair and said, “I’d rather rot in Prince Mohammed el-Tayyib’s sewage tank, thank you very much.”

“I thought you’d say that,” I giggled, but my nervousness made the sound come out a little hysteric.

“Don’t worry,” he squeezed my hand as we stepped out of the foray and into the warm spring air. The native violet hyacinths were blooming and their exotic spicy scent was invigorating, but I was all hyped up on adrenaline and invigorating was the last thing I needed. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Mm-hmm,” was the best I could manage. Other citizens were perusing out of their luxurious homes and mansions, converging together to the waterways like a stream of Prada chiffon, Zejna suits and gemstones. They carefully stepped into the little canvas covered boats that took them upstream to the looming palace of Benazir.



Jonas and I got in our boat too and for a while the only sound was that of the hot wind rustling the plam leaves, the traffic of the city and the low churning of the boat engine. A few turns later and the exhorbant palace was in view. Tonight the bastion was particularly gaudy because it was the 65th birthday of dear Mohammed el-Tayyib’s father and all the crepe paper from China was imported to adorn the illustrious walls and cavalcades.

“You are sure Bryers is the right one for the job?” I said in a low tone as Jonas and I merged into the river of citizens and followed the flow upstream.

“Definitely,” he assured. “He reported on Darfur. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“Or killed?” I pressed. “That’s what he’s up against. These are the most influential people in the World, they’ll trample his career at best and trample his body at worst. They’re behind every war of the past four decades, they subdue Queens into passivity, blackmail Emperors to civil war, bribe Presidents, they…”

“I know,” Jonas shushed me with a finger to my lips. “That’s why we’re doing this.”

My mouth snapped shut. He’s right. I really ought to be more careful. Who knows how many bugs they have around here and who could be listening? The worst thing I could do is blow it now. I’ve already talked too much, aroused too many suspicions, but fortunately, my biggest flaw was also my biggest asset.

“You’re barely 18 darling,” mother told me, “barely able to vote, and you’re a woman. Who’s going to listen to you?”

“Because I’m a woman?” My chin jut out. “But there are plenty of influential women: Laura Chinchilla, Pratibha Patil, Mother Theresa, and…”

“And the fact is,” she interrupted, “you’re none of those. We may have named you Victoria Juliet after powerful women, but the fact is, the only reason why you or I, have the privilege of living here is because your father reached the multi-billionaire mark at age 28 and had to be recruited into the society because of his influence. It’s a man’s world, dear.”

Yes, and I know about father, I wanted to say but pinched my tongue with my teeth. In 2000 when the U.S. government refused to fund his latest weapons-technology, father sent a discreet amount of funds to Al Qaeda to help send a “message” back to those that refused him. That act alone resulted in the fatalities of 2,974 innocent American lives. And I had all the evidence on this Zip Drive.
The hundreds of Benazir’s Palace windows glowed like the stars of heaven against a fiery desert sunset ahead of us. Picking up my gown a bit, the .44 brushed against my legs, but I didn’t let that startle me.

“We can do this,” Jonas assured me as he helped me out of the boat and onto the stone paved walkway.

“Absolutely.”

It’s not just a man’s world, Mama, and if that is how it’s going to be, then it’s time to stir things up a bit.

*****
© Heather Choate 2010

Trailing Sister

This piece is admittedly one of the hardest I've ever written: one because I'm wanting to gather a greater audience and that is both terrifying and exciting- putting myself out there to be judged nearly makes my finger's freeze, but even more than that: this I wrote from deep within tonight. Not wanting my writing to be too surface, to have real depth and meaning and put a part of myself truly on the page.

Darkened heart scabs that prick at me within,
Writing from that squishy place is so hard but needed now,
The pains my soul bore are now passed on and born by another,
Sweet little sister, please don’t suffer any more.

I was there too, thought no one understood,
Could possibly understand what its like,
Barely coming to know who I am in this world of water and dirt,
So many faces, telling you what to be,
But the one you needed most is the one that brings the sting.

She is sick sister,
She doesn’t know what she does, how one word changes everything,
Her love is real, but her mind is broken,
Like looking through the shards of a shattered glass,
Build your own mirror now,
One that you can look in and always like what you see.

Cut Scenes

So I had to make a lot of revisions to my book and couldn't bare to let these scenes just go in the trash, so I'm going to post them here. They might be out of context, but at least, maybe they'll be read by someone!

“I want you to go to Preparation,” Sol’s voice says right into my ear as soon as I cross the threshold into the spirit world.

“Excuse me?” I choke. “Sol, didn’t I make it clear why we can’t see each other? How many times do I have to tell you before you get it through that concrete head of yours?”

“At least once more,” he replies. “I want you to go to Preparation.”
Preparation is the class that angels can take to ready themselves before coming to earth and receiving a mortal body, but mostly it’s for those angels too messed up to figure things out on their own. It’s more like a counseling session for the mortally-inept.

“Preparation?” I spit the word back out like an inhaled insect. “Preparation is the last place I would ever go.”

“And that is exactly why I think you should. You are afraid of what Nex and his devils can do, right? Why not do something they would never expect: come to earth and leave them to rot?” His simple question stops me. His plan is logical. It might even work, but I’m never going to earth, no matter how many monsters threaten me.

“Because preparation’s stupid, that’s why.” I wring the fabric of my dress like the throat of a chicken to try and suffocate my sheer fear at the thought of mortality. Trying to be calm, I force my twitching lip muscles to be still. There’s no way I’m going to let him see how totally petrified I am at the idea of being human. Mr. Perfect Sol doesn’t need to know everything.

“Uh, uh.” Sol shakes his ivory head. “Stupid is not a sufficient reason. Going to earth will keep you safe, Meta.” He emphasizes the word and the way he says it feels like a warm blanket dropping over my shoulders. “Besides,” he continues, “Regardless of the Quaver, I think it would be good for you.”

I sigh. “Sol,” my voice is soft but firm, “I’m not going to Earth, and I sure as hell am not going to some Preparation class.” Sol can be so dense sometimes.

“I know,” he says, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smile, as if he’s privy to some inside joke, “and that is another reason why I think you should.”

“Why I should?” I repeat. “Why are you so insistent on making me do something I don’t want to?”

He chuckles. “Not only will it protect you, it will be— a challenge. You like a challenge, right?”

Not a stupid one, I want to say, but bit back my retort.

He grins and his teeth flash like wet pearls. “You are pretty messed up too,” he adds.

I shoot him a burning glance. “That’s not giving you any happy points.”

He rolls his eyes, but under the jest there’s a fiber of truth in his request. He really believes that this will be good for me.

My voice is a mouse-like squeak. “You want me to?”

“Yes. And—” he adds, his eyes waltzing like two disco-balls, “then I will still be able to see you.”

Somehow, that makes all the difference.

*****

“If I were given a pink polka-dotted umbrella—hmmm,” I think as I try to ignore the poor excuses of angels seating next to me in the Preparation Class. This really is more of a therapy session for the idiotic and dysfunctional angels, like me, who are too screwed up to go to earth as they are. This is so embarrassing; I flush and lean back in my chair. I can’t believe I’m even here. How did Sol manage to get me to come anyhow? Under the pretense of protecting me, but this is nothing but painfully discomforting. Is that what friends are for, public humiliation? If that’s true, it’s no wonder I never wanted any friends before. Sol sure does this friendship thing well.

The counselor in her tightly-buttoned sherbet blouse is looking at me expectantly to answer. I want to make a run for the door, but I know that would give Sol bragging rights. And then there is Nex and the Quaver. I am safe from them here. If I am safe, Sol is safe. Blast him. Ok. Fine.

I think hard, trying to go along with the exercise. “If I were given a pink polka-dotted umbrella,” I repeat the cue phrase, thinking of any answer better than the, “I would fill it with daisies and sing songs to it,” answer that the girl next to me gave. None of the angels in this class have near the experience I have with real mortal life. This girl thinks that plants are sung to on earth just as they are in the gardens up here. Boy will she be in for a surprise when her neighbor catches her serenading her daffodils with Puccini.

“Ok, I got it,” I say. “If I were given a pink polka-dotted umbrella, I would scrape its shiny vinyl coating across a concrete sidewalk for a good half mile. Then, fill it with seawater— and shove it down the throat of the person who gave it to me.” Yeah, that sounded about right.

The wide, pale-brown eyes of the councilor widen further. She adjusts the hem of her skirt and proceeds to scold me. “That’s not a very nice thing, to do, Meta.” Her expression narrows as she emphasizes the word ‘nice.’

I cross my arms over my chest and slump into my chair. “It’s not a very nice gift to give someone,” I return. How on Earth is this class supposed to prepare anyone for Earth?

“No?” Her thin, blonde eyebrows almost disappear into her hairline.

“No,” I repeat. Why do I have to explain this to her? Doesn’t she know anything about human gift-giving, or do I have to educate them all? Her face holds the same ignorant surprise. “If you are going to give anyone an umbrella as a gift, why in all of heaven and hell would you give them one that’s polka-dotted pink?”

“So it is the color that you have a problem with?”

“Precisely.” Isn’t that apparent, cheese ball? “Now, if it were a black, dark-gray, or even a deep-navy umbrella, I’d have no problem with it.” Obviously.

“You are hostile toward pink?” I picture her blonde hair turning pink. Horrible color. Then, she does something that I hate. She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

Trying to steady my rising temper, I clench my fists super tight. “Call it what you want, but that stupid pink-polka dotted umbrella wouldn’t last for more than a millisecond even in my peripheral.” I fold my arms tight across my chest. All this talk about polka-dotted umbrellas suddenly makes me very irritable. I shouldn’t be here in this class, pretending to prepare for mortality when I won’t really go through with it. With the rising danger, I should be watching out for the Quaver and making sure Brett is ok. Stupid metaphor anyway. What significance could an umbrella possibly have on the eternal scheme of things?

The councilor scribbles something in her gold-bound book and then taps her fountain pen against it contemplatively. She’s analyzing me. Oh, like your work is “so important,” I sneer inside and roll my eyes. Try dragging souls to Hell and putting up with nasty threats from demons that would surely make you wet your pink polka-dot pants.

In her sweet sing-song voice, she points the pen at me and says, glances at her book and says, “So, you would, and I quote, scrape its shiny, vinyl coating across the sidewalk for a good half mile, then fill it with seawater and shove it down the throat of the person who gave it to you?” She blinks her eyes at me.

“That’s right,” I nod. Do I have to say it twice?

She puts the quill into her mouth, biting the end of it with her tiny row of snow-white teeth, and looks up at me with an intriguing expression. “And what if it came back?”

“What?” I ask. What’s she talking about?

“What if after you scraped it, filled it and shoved it— it came back?” She presses me with the firm line of her thin mouth and slanting creases between her eyes. Is she really that dense?

“I would destroy it some other way.” I spit, disgusted with the whole turn of this session. The thought of the pink-polka dotted umbrella suddenly having the ability to come back in this make-believe scenario makes me very on-edge. “If I destroy it, it’s gone,” I fume. “Period. End of discussion Miss Bleached Eyebrows.”

“I see,” is her only response.

Chapter Fifteen

“How was Preparation?” Sol asks me as we land upon the roof of Brett’s brick building. We have decided to come to earth again, despite the risk of the Quaver, to check on Brett. Ava arrived in Chicago almost three weeks ago and Sol and I are both anxious to see how our Cupid efforts have taken effect.

“Do we have to talk about Preparation?” I moan sitting down and spitting over the edge of the building. The wet ball of saliva plops on a man’s bald spot bellow. The bald man jumps, wipes it with his hand and looks up to determine the source, but of course he can’t see me and walks on puzzled. From the disgusted turn of his mouth, I know that Sol wants to say something about my expectoration, but he holds back. I admire his restraint; he must want to know about Preparation pretty badly. You would think that me spitting on an innocent bald man would give Sol plenty of information on what I thought of that stupid class.

“Ughhhh. Fine,” I moan. He really won’t let it go, will he? “One guy, Joe is his name I think, is afraid to come to earth because of the faucet handles. He’s all freaked out because he thinks he won’t be able to turn the faucet handles far enough to make the water come on and then if it does, he won’t be able to turn it back off…”

“Yeah, Joe,” Sol interrupts like they are old college acquaintances. “He was there when Ava was getting ready to come. Back then, he was afraid that the Vikings of the First Century were wielding axes in Times Square. He’s still there in preparation class?”

“Yeah.” I pucker up and spit again, hoping to annoy him. Won’t he back off? He pretends not to care. “Joe is a total nut case. And then there’s the foot tapper— a girl who won’t stop tapping her foot as if she’s keeping track of her last immortal heartbeats or something. She sits there tapping it constantly. It took all my effort not to rip her leg off.” I thrash my arms as if at an imaginary leg and tear its flesh off with my teeth.

“You are so self-composed,” Sol mocks and does his best to suppress a grin. “What about the councilor?” He tosses a small orange ball into the air, the kind they play racquetball with up in heaven, and catches it without looking. Show off.

“She’s the worst of them all. Nothing she says makes any sense and she annoys me to death.” I do my best to screw my face into a pinchy, scrunchy one like Miss Foot-Tapper has and kick, kick, kick my foot on the side of the building. Sol doesn’t seem to mind the way I’d hoped. My ankle starts to hurt so I stop.

“Annoyed you to life you mean,” Sol smiles and tosses the ball to me. I claw at it and finally catch it, but not as graceful as him, dang it.

I roll my eyes and say, “Oh, is that how she does it then: annoys you so bad, that you come to Earth just to get away from her?” I throw the ball back at him as hard as I can.

He catches it like it was made of cotton. “Something like that,” he laughs and pulls his hand back like a major league pitcher, ready to pelt the ball at me.

“We really shouldn’t be playing around, Sol,” I scold. “Who knows who could be watching us?” I search the dark skies above us, but see nothing.

“Do not worry,” Sol says, giving my arm a little nudge. “I am with you and I know to watch out for demons, Nex and oh yeah, witches. Nex nor any other underworld filth should not give us any further trouble.”

I try to give him a confident smile, and ignore the fear snagging my heart like a fishing hook.

Excitedly near the end!

Just about one more month and "Meta Blackwing" will be revised and ready to be read for feedback.

The END IS IN SIGHT!

Meanwhile, I'm working on another novel about a young widow whoes toddler son starts showings signs of extremely advanced development leading her on a mission to uncover the mystery behind her husband's life and death.

I'd really like to keep posting short stories and stuff here, but it's so hard for me to let too much "raw" material out because it's always so much better after I revise it!