So that was me Wednesday. My daughter is still sick, so the two of us sat around and moped all day. Then I worked yesterday and had to fill out paperwork to be able to start orientation for my old stomping grounds, and that brought me even lower yesterday afternoon. But I kept calm and have decided to carry on. This was only one contest and while the payout was the biggest I have ever seen, and absolutely free (Writer's Digest has a "Best Self-Published Novel" competition, but it requires a $100 entry fee...). There will be more contests, and now I can shop the book openly to agents. I'll have to do some endless self-promoting, and started to research the best places to promote self-published novels. None of the good avenues are free. But there's still hope. And most of the time, hope is all you need.
So, to those who have been following, thank you. No more countdown. I'll continue to share TSS and my views on everything else that has to do with writing when I can. I'm starting a new job next week and I may need a week or two to adjust to the new schedule (going back to working nights!). Follow my personal blog here. Tomorrow's Weekly Writing Prompt is fun and quick, writing poetry for the first time! Without further ado, here is page eighteen of TSS. Y'all have a great Friday!
"not even hear the wind. She tuned it out, tuned out the normal
rustling of leaves and branches to focus on the more important sound. That sound, the sound of a snapping twig under
an alien weight hit her ears, much too close for her comfort.
She was in the woods in a heartbeat, her
sneakers hitting the thick brush before the sounds of her fishing rod and
bucket bouncing on the walkway could chase her down. She did not scout out her route, did not look
to the direction of the sounds of snapping twigs and crumbling leaves, she just
ran. There were at least four intruders
behind her. She could smell them now. The thick smell of sweat and the stench of
evil. She ran as fast as she could. Her eyes sought out the obstacles ahead of
her, a root here, a low branch there, her marked trail to the left, which she
rounded and behind her she heard the sound of her trap door giving way and then
screams as one of her assailants found the sharp, deadly arrangement of spikes
at the bottom of the six foot trap. The
other three fell into a straight line now; they knew to follow her close, not
to veer off the path she cut. They were
smarter than she had anticipated. She
vaulted between two stretching oak limbs, the top thick with green moss and
lichen. As she passed it between her
left hand reached out and hit a slanted branch, removing the brace to the row
of short, sharp spikes that turned directly into the closest chaser. His screams were so close it caused her to
jump forward and dig deep into her strength to push herself harder. Her legs burned, she had never run so hard in
her life. She estimated that there were
only two left. She knew they were too
fast for her to outrun in the open field.
She also knew she just had to get to the moat. They would not follow her into the
water. And if they did she would take
them there. She just had to get to the
moat, but she didn’t think she had the speed, nor the energy left to carry her
across the hundred meters or so to get her there. She would have to face them out in the
open. She began to pull her machete from
her back as she emerged from the brush.
Big mistake.
She
was hit hard from the side. This
assailant was not like the four chasing her.
He lacked a solid stench. She
rolled" |
| The Historic Lighthouse on Tybee Island, GA. |
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