Since the start of this year, in an effort to spur myself toward action, I’ve been updating a word count tracking all my writing.
A bunch of coworkers and friends bought my fantasy novel and gave me generally positive feedback in person (as polite people are likely to do), and several asked, “When is the next book going to be out?”
I set a goal of Christmas–a lofty goal that I don’t think I can make.
March didn’t help. I didn’t even hit 10K, and far too many days (or streaks of days) had the total of 0.
Sure, I had a heap of work and flying, followed by a bout of flu that lasted over a week and had me pretty wiped out. I slept about 16 hours on the worst day, and then the next day, the military docs ordered me to 48 hours of bed rest.
It worked as a nice, short-term diet at least. I lost 7 pounds in 3 days, and had to tighten my belt another notch–a good problem for a pudgy guy like me.
Excuses, excuses. I managed to watch Daredevil season 2 during bed rest, so I could have managed to fit in more words.
So what does April hold in store?
Well, it’s Camp NaNoWriMo time, and I set a reasonable (I think) goal of 30K words.
I aim to finish the draft of PERDITION, my NaNo project from the 50K novel challenge in November. It needs several scenes, followed by extensive review and revision.
(For example, EMPs don’t work the way I originally thought they did. Oops. Yay for research and science! Boo for not doing it before creating several plot problems.)
I also have my WattPad project Echoes going, or more accurately, being frequently ignored by me. I plotted out how many scenes or chapters I need to close it out, and it’s in the single digits. I’d like to mark that one completed.
And there’s always the weekly Blog Battle, submissions for which comprise the majority of my recent posts. I really enjoy writing silly with Grant and Teagan, and my oldest son is a huge fan of those two. So I expect I’ll fit that in.
So where does that leave the sequel to Diffraction? On the back burner for this month. And that’s okay, because honestly I haven’t been connecting with it when I tried the last few times. There are some character and plot questions I need to get clear in my head before I can write what I hope is something compelling and entertaining with Lyllithe, Josephine, and the rest.
I plan to hit it hard when Camp NaNo is done, but I think April is a great month to re-focus and get a fresh perspective.
Onward and upward, in any event. Thanks for joining me on the journey.
After a week under the weather, and in an effort to get past the bit of flu / cold / plague still lingering in my gut, I went for a brisk walk today.
It’s 72 degrees and sunny. I have sunglasses, music, and a mug of coffee… plus I need some exercise anyway.
I walked past the house we lived in for eight years last time we came to Okinawa. It was alright when we moved in with a 4 year old daughter and almost 3 year old son. By the time we moved out, with four kids and two of them in double digit ages, it wasn’t quite so suitable.
But it had a grand tree my oldest kids loved to climb. Perhaps somewhere on a hard drive, but definitely stored in my memory, is the image of my son’s grinning head popping out of the top boughs of the tree (a good twenty feet up).
It also had a small hill down which the kids would ride their Tonka truck. They even tried “Okinawan sledding” by sliding down on flat cardboard. (I may also have tried these activities, but I can assure you they are not meant for grown-ups.)
The house is right across the street from a school with a huge playground. And as I crossed the street, three young children dashed across the open grass toward the swing sets and slides, laughing just like my littles used to.
The place most of my kids will remember as “the park” when they were little.
I remember making that trip with the kids, to chase them around the park in games of “Monster” –which was basically ‘tag’ with a lot of roaring and other noise, and it usually ended with me laying vanquished on the ground, a victorious child trampling on my back.
Kadena is a large base, with many different housing areas. When I was first stationed here, after my wife and I married, we moved into a house just on the other side of the same park. I walked past that house today too.
The whole base is full of memories. There’s hardly a road I can drive–or in this case, walk–down without thinking, “That’s where so-and-so lived.” I walked past the house where my oldest son’s best friend lived… past the house that once belonged to the alcoholic mom with the adorable but crazy toddlers… past a home where my wife (then just a friend) house-sat for an older couple while they were on vacation… and several homes of church friends or former co-workers… places where we’ve enjoyed Sunday afternoons of food and fellowship, or Thanksgiving dinners, or Christmas season get-togethers.
19 years ago today, I went for a walk with my then-girlfriend. We were both stationed here on Kadena, living in dorms by the gym. We would walk for hours, chatting, saving geckos in the streets during the day and star-gazing at night.
On that day, on a small concrete bridge where we liked to sit and talk, I paused to tie my shoe.
Then I produced the ring I had worn on my pinky and popped the question. “Will you marry me?”
I waited until April 2nd so she wouldn’t think it was a gag.
That was half my lifetime ago. Half my life, more or less, on this island and stationed at this base. Half my life spent with the lovely woman who said yes… and I’m glad I can look back with fondness, not regret.
Thanks, Jami, and my awesome kids, who have all put up with so much over the years.
The Adventures of Grant McSwain, Explorer of Exotic Locales, Finder of Forgotten Treasures, and Charmer of Classy Dames
Accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway and occasional fire demon
“Grant,” Teagan called from above, “Are you certain you’re fit for this?”
He hung on the side of a tall cliff, suspended from a rope wrapped around his leg and pinched between his feet. Waves crashed against the rock face far below, spraying white foam. Gulls called and circled in the blue sky.
With each arm-over-arm motion lowering him down the cliff face, Grant felt the sharp pain in his gut—his gunshot wound was recovering but not fully healed.
“Never better.”
A guard stood sentry duty on a metal observation deck twenty feet above the waterline. The man smoked a cigarette and leaned out over the railing, listening to the ocean. Grant counted on the calming noise to cover his approach.
Below the deck, the low tide revealed a small arch in the stone, the top of a much larger mouth to a submerged cavern.
This must be where the Twins stashed their submarine, a vessel mentioned in documents Teagan recovered from the plane wreck. The classified papers were marked “Betrieb: Leviathan” and pointed the pair to this secret Brazilian base.
He realized Teagan was right, and it struck him how frequently that was the case.
Grant hissed through gritted teeth to ignore his pain, and continued his descent toward the guard. He reached the end of the rope ten feet above the deck, then sprang toward the guard. Though the sudden impact shook his wound, his powerful elbow struck the man in the back of the head and knocked him to the ground, unconscious.
Grant changed into the guard’s uniform—just a little snug, he told himself—while Teagan shimmied down the rope.
She dropped to the ledge and laughed when she saw him. “That coat is stretching like pulled taffy. I feel sorry for those buttons.“
Grant folded his arms across his chest and heard a seam pop. “So let’s not get caught. If we do, the guards won’t be looking at me. You’re the prisoner the Twins want.”
“Vilhelm,” Teagan said coldly. “The other one—the one with the wandering hands—is dead.”
Grant picked up the fallen guard’s rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he pulled open the heavy steel door, revealing a hall cut into the mountainside. “Shall we?”
Deep in the winding maze of tunnels, they found a massive cavern housing a berth for the largest submarine Grant had ever seen. Dark hallways stretched into the mountainside where two armed men stood guard. The skin of the submarine glistened under banks of lights. Fuel trucks pumped diesel into the sub’s refueling ports.
“There’s your Leviathan,” Grant said.
“My God,” Teagan said, “that’s big. It’s like a couple U-boats smashed together.”
“Maybe you can call it a W-boat,” Grant said with a chuckle.
Teagan glared at him, oddly reminiscent of her time as a fire demon in the camp of the Atuachans.
Grant felt no regrets, and grinned broad at her ire.
A network of scaffolding and walkways hung suspended from the cavern ceiling. Grant and Teagan crept toward the submarine, careful to avoid the light.
But the underground base seemed practically deserted, and they reached the submarine with ease.
Grant opened the main hatch and clambered down a ladder, then helped Teagan down. “Operation: Leviathan,” Grant whispered as they moved through the cramped spaces of the sub. “What’s that even mean?”
“It comes from the Old Testament of the Bible,” Teagan said, “especially Job, chapter forty-one. ‘Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear. He beholdeth all high things: he is a king over all the children of pride.’”
Grant stared at Teagan, and she blushed. He shook his head and asked, “Why would you have that verse memorized?”
“I grew up in a devout Catholic family,” she said. “They viewed reading the Scriptures like eating a meal. In fact, some days we went hungry, but we never skipped our daily reading.”
They reached a pair of chambers with ornate décor, incongruent with the spartan atmosphere of a military submarine.
Teagan paused at the door. “So I always picked the interesting chapters, the ones that talked about powerful creatures and the end of days in strange, fantastic terms. The mystery and thrill of discovery attracted me even then. This looks like the Twins’ rooms. Shall we?”
Grant stepped inside and looked around. Exotic skins covered the bed and floors. Oxidized metal artifacts of ancient cultures lined the shelves. Tapestries with occult symbols hung on the walls.
Teagan gasped. “This is a treasure trove, a private collection with more than most museums. Is that the banner of Vlad Tepes? And what sort of creature has fur like a beast but a shape like a man?”
Grant began rummaging through the desk drawers, and directed Teagan toward stacks of papers and tied-off notebooks.
“What exactly are we looking for, Grant?”
“Operation Leviathan implies they’re going to do something with this sub. Uncle Sam will pay a pretty penny to find out what.”
Teagan held a notebook marked with Ixthacan symbols and flipped through its pages. Then she froze and stared, her face pale. “No, this can’t be right.”
Grant rushed to her side, even though he couldn’t make sense of any of that Ixthacan scratch. “What is it?”
“It’s a legend,” she said. “A tale of a ritual for summoning a destructive force from the ocean depths. I think they mean to—“
“I shoot you,” an angry German voice said, “you don’t die. You crash my plane, unt still you do not die.”
Vilhelm stood in the doorway, his scarred face flaring red, his Luger pointed at Grant.
“But as you Amerikans say, perhaps third time ist ze charm, ya?”
This went over on word count and I don’t have time to edit it down to fit the Blog Battle standards. But I had fun with it, and it made me do some writing. So here’s another installment of Grant and Teagan:
The Adventures of Grant McSwain, Man of Intrigue, Daring Do-Gooder and Fearless Explorer
accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway and occasional fire demon
—
This is the Caproni Ca.90, from Wikipedia Creative Commons license
A high-pitched whine pierced Grant’s ears and a constant thunderous rumble shook him awake. Strong winds battered his face, bearing a strange scent of lilac. He cautiously opened his bleary eyes, and found them safe behind a pair of pilot goggles. A leather cap with ear muffs strapped under his chin offered minimal hearing protection.
Far below him, snow-capped mountains formed a jagged horizon. Oh my God, I’m flying in an aeroplane.
A wide wing above and behind Grant shaded him from sunlight. On either side of Grant, four large piston engines hammered away, spinning propellers in front and behind their shaking frames. Centered above the cockpit, another pair of engines strained with effort. Several bullet holes riddled the engine on the left, and it sputtered smoke. The glass around the cockpit had broken in places, with spider-web cracks across what remained.
The plane lurched to the left, and Grant felt sudden discomfort in his stomach like a punch to the gut. Then a sharper pain struck, and he sucked in air between gritted teeth. Breathing brought agony. Something was wrong.
Teagan’s rough-chopped, wispy hair fluttered in the wind, the source of the lilac fragrance. Grant would never admit it, but the hasty haircut of the Atuachan savages gave Teagan a rather fetching new look. How she managed to cling to feminine refinements on their forays into uncivilized lands was beyond his comprehension. Why she bothered also fell in that category. Who wasted valuable space in a rucksack on perfumes and shampoo where a bottle of fine whiskey could fit?
The stabbing in his gut throbbed. He gripped his side and the pain intensified.
Teagan turned her head back and yelled, “Don’t touch it! You’ve been shot.”
A foggy memory filled his mind—the German twins laughing over him, the one with the scarred face holding a smoking revolver, the other clutching a satchel full of Ixthacan artifacts and Vallarte’s gold.
“He shot me?” Grant winced and shifted to a position he told himself felt slightly more comfortable. “That damn Kraut actually shot me?”
“My skill with medicine is minimal,” Teagan shouted. “But I believe you’re bleeding inside… and your intestines may have been perforated.”
“That sounds like a foul way to go.”
“It is. And excruciating as well.”
Grant squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, and felt tears well up. “Thanks for the ray of hope.”
“We can make it back to Caracas,” Teagan said. “Master Roquefort might be waiting for us. Otherwise, we’ll have to steal another plane.”
Grant opened his eyes. “…Another plane?”
“Look at the markings on the fuselage, you overgrown baboon.”
Grant craned his head to see the side of the plane. The black and white cross of the German luftwaffe shone proudly from the gleaming metal.
He settled back into his seat, surprised at a crippling wave of exhaustion from such a small effort. “The twins?”
Teagan struggled with some controls out of Grant’s view, then turned to answer. “It’s an Italian prototype, actually. Caproni C-A-90. Only one ever built. The twins’ exploits on behalf of the Kaiser earned them enough money to get their hands on it, and they’ve added the latest technology from various aeronautical manufacturers. Synchronized machine guns, variable pitch propellers…”
She said some other terms Grant couldn’t make out, and he stared at her through the blurry goggles. “When did you become an aviatrix?”
The plane shuddered and Teagan adjusted some levers. “I went with an RAF ace from the Great War for a couple years. Didn’t work out, but I picked up some things.”
Grant sat back with bemused chagrin and watched the thin clouds like stretched cotton floating past. “It’s strange, Teag, but I never considered that you had a life of adventures all your own before becoming my assistant.”
“Well that sword cuts both ways,” Teagan said. “You were delirious when I helped you hobble onto the aeroplane. You thought I was some exotic dancer from Batavia. Kept talking to me about a night of cavorting and revelry in the East Indies…”
Grant opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it. The plane shuddered again, and he checked the engines, unsure of what to look for.
“Teagan, is something wrong?”
With the rush of wind, he couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like she laughed. Then an engine sputtered and belched out black smoke.
Grant realized how much open sky sat between himself and the mountain peaks. At the same time, it hit him how little he knew about aeroplanes. “Should it sound like that?” He tried to keep his voice calm, but his white knuckles gripped the edge of his seat. “What’s the problem?”
“Several problems, in fact,” Teagan called back. “The cargo hold is too full, the radiotelephone is inoperative, and three of the six engines are damaged from gunfire. But really the issue is we don’t have sufficient fuel.”
“What?!”
“The crew was distracted with fueling operations,” Teagan said. “It seemed the perfect time to sneak you onboard and steal the aeroplane. I’m doing what I can to glide us to Caracas.”
She pointed at the smoking left engines. The four blades in back and two in front were turned parallel to the aeroplane’s course of flight, cutting through wind resistance like knives. “The Germans installed the newest in variable pitch propellers, so I’ve feathered the props to reduce drag.”
“Oh man,” Grant said, racked with another throbbing pain. “The twins are going to be peeved you stole their toy.”
“Scarface’s brother didn’t seem too happy about it after I got airborne.”
Grant spun—and suffered another stab of anguish for it—then checked the cargo hold. There was no sign of any other passengers. “Where is he now?”
“The cargo hold was rather over the weight allowance…”
Grant checked the rack of tightly-packed parachutes. None were missing. “You jettisoned one of the twins?”
Teagan gave a sheepish shrug. “My mate from the RAF was an amateur pugilist. It seemed like a useful skill to pick up.”
Grant shook his head in wonder. A few silent moments passed as he considered everything his assistant had done for him over their time together. “Teagan,” he finally said, “I’m impressed. I realize I’ve often overlooked your contributions to—is that flame supposed to be there?”
Teagan’s head whipped toward the left engine, with its plume of oily smoke.
“No, the other one,” Grant shouted.
Tongues of fire flashed out of the right engine, and a thick white smoke billowed behind the wobbling aeroplane.
“I have to cut that engine too!” She pulled a lever, and the high pitched whine and rumbling ground to a halt with a sound of metal shearing on metal. The aeroplane dipped toward the ground and twisted into a spiral, pointed at the snowy slopes of the mountains.
Old habits returned, and Grant shouted, “I thought you were an aviatrix!”
Teagan shot him a glare through her goggles. “I never said I was a good one!”
I had a great chat about my fantasy novel Diffraction with a co-worker today. A few days ago she joked about how she neared the end of the book and thought, “Holy cow, he has a lot of plot threads left to deal with if they all get resolved in this book.” Then of course she realized this is meant to be part of a larger series.
But that simple off-hand comment gave me a valuable reminder. I’ve written about seven chapters of the first draft of Diffusion, the next book set in the Bordermarches. But I hadn’t given enough thought to what questions a returning reader might have. This helped me go back and tweak the first couple chapters to not only provide a refresher on how various systems and mechanics work (like elemental magic, and the Gracemarks that give divine power), but it also highlighted moments where I could sum up what happened in the previous book to let readers know I’m aware some of their questions are as yet unanswered.
The other fun part of the conversation today was that I got yet another opinion on the setting, the magic system, the tweaks to old fantasy tropes, and the characters. One of my fears is that the female characters might come off as “ugh, this was so obviously written by a guy.” And thankfully, some key moments of interaction between two female characters were described as spot on.
All that to say, I’ll ask the same of readers that I asked of my co-worker. If you read Diffraction, would you be so kind as to post a review or at least a rating on Amazon or Goodreads? I don’t need flowery praise (but of course I welcome it). I’d love some honest ratings or reviews for no other reason than to show that people actually looked at this thing and came to some conclusion about the quality of the writing. If you feel it merits one star, have at it, and if you want to lay out all the things I did wrong, I’ll take the critique. If you’re willing to give it some stars, and maybe say what you did or did not like, all the better. I’d rather a customer see several honest assessments than only two or three. Anything is better than zero or only a few reviews.
If you know someone who self-published, I guarantee they’re interested in getting such feedback posted to primary sites like Amazon and Goodreads. Other than purchasing their book, nothing shows support and encouragement more than taking the time to post a rating or review.
If you’re willing to do so, I deeply appreciate your time. Thanks!
This comes from the quite-talented Blondeusk of http://blondwritemore.com
And it hits a little too close to home, as I wander between her version of the Bloggers Market, Social Media Square, and Procrastination Boulevard (which I’m pretty sure connects the two on any map).
Enjoy and give her a follow if you like what you read, because she’s always posting humorous and creative things like this.
—
For today’s post I have imagined that there is a place called Writing Town. It is where we all hang out on a daily basis. For noting – this week I have had a stinking cold (bedridden) and this post was written whilst I had a temperature / on heavy duty cold medication – […]
From the Adventures of Grant McSwain, Hero of Countless Tales, Harrower of Cold-blooded Villains, and Handsome Bachelor
accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.
Teagan blinked several times, trying in vain to clear away the stinging smoke and the fog of unconsciousness.
I’ve been drugged.
She moved to rub her eyes, but her hands stayed behind her back and coarse rope dug into her wrists. The crackle and heaet of a nearby bonfire flooded her senses, along with a sweet smell and sizzle like bacon.
Feral boar, perhaps? Do they raise swine in the mountains of Uruguay?
A chilling sense of foreboding told her no. She tugged on the rope, hoping for some give in the restraint. But she remained firmly held against a thick tree trunk.
“You’re not going anywhere, Teag,” Grant said. His dejected voice provided a small sense of comfort. She thought she could make out his bulky form, kneeling between two tribesmen’s spearpoints.
The tribe came into focus as tears from the smoke cleared Teagan’s vision. Several men in animal skin loincloths chanted around the bonfire. They wore carved bone jewelry on leather straps, and carried sharp spears that glinted in the firelight. Nearby a few men and most of the women tore at pieces of steaming roast meat laid out on a large round table. Like many tribes Teagan had read about, the uncivilized Aktuacha left more skin exposed than covered.
Grant’s wide eyes and red cheeks caught Teagan’s attention. He turned this way and that, as if unsure where to look.
“Surely you’ve seen a woman disrobe,” Teagan said, trying not to laugh. Their uncertain situation and the hostile growls of the Aktuachans should have stifled every bit of humor. But perhaps because of the danger they faced, Grant’s embarrassment at something so natural struck Teagan as hilarious.
Then she felt the breeze across her skin in places she ought not.
“Where the hell is my shirt?!”
“I think they tore it apart fighting over the fabric,” Grant replied.
“And where is Juancarlo?” Their guide claimed intimate knowledge of the mountains and assured them he could help find Vallarte’s gold mines. Moreover, they had to beat the twins dispatched by the German Kaiser before the desperate Weimar government could claim the treasure. This was an unacceptable delay. “When we get out of here, he’s dismissed for certain!”
“I think they’re tearing him apart right now.”
The aroma of pork. The sizzling fat.
Teagan vomited, involuntarily straining against the rope.
One of the tribesmen rushed toward her, shaking a bone fetish atop a staff decorated with feathers… and long red hair.
Teagan couldn’t reach her head, so she shook it back and forth but felt nothing on her bare shoulders. The slight breeze cooled her scalp far more than it had a right to.
“Oh my God, did they–”
“He thinks you’re a fire demon,” Grant explained. “Taking your hair gives him your power. Killing your consorts is necessary since we’re tainted by your presence.”
“I… oh God, what happens after that?” Horrifying thoughts swirled in her imagination.
“Well, frankly, I don’t care. Because I’ll be dead and eaten. So let’s stop that from happening, right?”
Teagan struggled once more with the rope, and felt objects in her trouser pockets and belt pouches. They hadn’t taken all of “the demon’s” possessions, just her dignity and pride. With careful effort, her long fingers reached into a pouch near the small of her back, drawing out a pair of metal cylinders.
“I’m sorry, Teag,” Grant said, voice cracking. “I can’t think of any way out.”
“I can.” She held the cylinders, one in each hand, and rubbed them together in motions as sharp and swift as the bonds allowed. “They want to call me a fire demon? I’ll oblige them.”
Bursts of pain and heat shot through her arms, but she let the fury urge her on, smashing the flint and steel together.
The tribe’s shaman approached again, taunting Teagan with the red hair fetish. Behind her back, the dry fibers of the rope loosened with a snap, then came apart.
She held the smouldering rope aloft in blistered hands, then kicked the shaman’s staff into the bonfire.
The man gasped and fell back, and the rest of the tribe followed his lead.
The fire demon they feared snatched a burning branch from the flames and howled with rage, dashing around the tribal village. As she passed thatch huts, she set them alight. When anyone came close, she shook the coil of burnt rope and makeshift torch at them with crazed eyes.
The forest and clearing glowed orange in the light of many fires, and the tribesmen fled Teagan’s wrath.
She dashed to her pack, next to Grant’s, and grabbed a fresh shirt along with her knife. Her curiosity burned for a moment, and she almost pulled out the compact mirror to assess the damage done to her luxurious mane. But there would be time for that once they were free.
She raced over to Grant and watched him rise to his feet, blowing on seared skin where he burned off his rope.
He stared back at her, and she became self-conscious, turning her back on him while throwing on her shirt. “I thought women in states of undress discomfitted you!”
“Not often,” Grant said. “And I’ve told you before, you don’t have much to be embarrassed about.”
Teagan whirled, mouth agape. “I do have a knife, Grant!”
He raised his hands in surrender and laughed, his wide smile disarming her anger. “Only jesting, Teag. I’m not one of these foolish savages.”
From Dave – many of you on WordPress know the Opinionated Man, Jason Cushman. He has often made his blog available to help those with smaller followings gain some free exposure. He is now using his large following as an opportunity to promote indie and self-published authors, myself included.
My experience with Jason has been very positive. He’s shown himself to be dedicated and eager to help others pursue success.
—
Please share this on! I am offering contracts to promote authors and their books. I know there are many indie authors and writers that struggle to get their books noticed! It is a tough and competitive business right now and everyone wants to write a book these days. There are very few opportunities to get […]
From the Adventures of Grant McSwain, Doer of Amazing Deeds, Dashing Explorer of Dangerous Locales, and Reclaimer of the Treasures of Antiquity…accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway
A Trace of Terror
Rickety stalls and wooden carts laden with produce or hand-craftedgoods blurred as Teagan raced past, and her heart pounded in her chest like a steam engine. Panting for breath, she kept her eyes on Grant and tried to ignore the burning sensation in her side.
Even with the noise and bustle of the Caracas market, she heard his angry voice clear as day. “I can’t believe you gave him the actual map!”
“He had a gun!”
Grant’s wide shoulders slammed into a rack of jewelry, sending beaded necklaces flying. He spun off the impact and regained his pace.
An old woman yelled a string of curses that made Teagan’s freckled cheeks burn. “Lo siento,” Teagan said as she dashed by.
“Why didn’t you do some of that sleight-of-hand, thief-y stuff?” Grant asked, seemingly unfazed by the exertion of their frenetic chase.
“He checked the map,” Teagan said, breathless. “And he knew… what he… was looking for…”
The small clusters of people moved for Grant as he barreled down the street. Teagan had to weave and elbow her way between bodies.
Grant paused at an alley, and Teagan caught up to him again.
“Dead end,” he said, and pointed at a distant warehouse between the wooden stalls and back doors of stores. He started down the alley, checking for any sign of the German thief and muttering to himself. “After all that work pulling the Corazon de Oro out of the water, discovering the topographical map etched into the ridges on the side…”
He left out the part where Teagan nearly drowned, and she wasn’t sure whether the omission was out of kindness or simply because it hadn’t crossed his mind.
He wiped his brow and stared down the alley. “Now that damn Kraut has the only lead to the source of Vallarte’s treasure.”
Teagan caught her breath and shot Grant a glare. “If only someone had a photographic memory!”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Just because I can remember the map you traced doesn’t mean I can find the hidden mines. They could be anywhere in the Carribbean.” He lowered his voice and his cheeks flushed. “And you saw that I can’t produce even a remote facsimile.”
Teagan stifled a snicker. She’d seen toddlers with better control of charcoals. The ‘map’ Grant drew only led to a headache if one stared at it too long.
They checked the shops as they moved down the alley, but saw no sign of disturbance. Then they reached the warehouse and found the doorframe busted where the lock had been forced. A heavy chain and lock held the wide shipping dock doors closed.
“I don’t see any other exits,” Grant said. He slipped inside and held the door for Teagan.
Dust motes floated in sunbeams shining on stacked crates of furniture marked for shipment to Europe. The room smelled like sawdust and wood polish. A nearby ladder provided access to a grid of walkways ten feet above the floor. Grant grabbed the rungs and ascended. “I’ll take the top, you take the bottom.”
Teagan opened her mouth to protest, but Grant had already disappeared. The floorboards above her creaked at first, and Teagan winced. Then Grant moved with unexpected stealth for his large frame.
Suddenly, the silence felt oppressive, and every noise sent a jolt of fear down Teagan’s spine. This is a terrible plan. She looked around for a makeshift weapon, and eventually found a crowbar.
White-knuckling the bar over her shoulder like a baseball player waiting for a pitch, she crept through the maze of boxes. With each squeak of a floorboard, with every scrape, she spun toward the sound and her heart skipped a beat.
“Grant,” she whispered. No response.
She hissed out his name a little louder. Still nothing.
By force of habit, she almost put her hand in her pocket, reaching for the Saint Nicholas medallion she always carried. But the crowbar provided an immediate and tangible sense of security, one she wasn’t willing to give up even for a moment.
The hammer of a revolver clicked into place behind her, loud as a gunshot in the silence. Teagan froze.
“Set ze crowbar down,” a soft-spoken man said, “on ze crate next to you.”
Teagan did as commanded and raised her empty hands level with her head.
The man behind her chuckled. “You couldn’t just let ze map go? Vas ziss treasure vorth your life?”
Panicked, Teagan’s gaze flickered around the crates in search of an escape route or at least some cover. But the German couldn’t possibly miss at such close range.
“A shame,” he said, “to kill a rather competent and intelligent voman. You showed promise. But my employer desires no vitnesses…”
He raised the gun toward Teagan.
Grant’s bulky form crashed into the thief from above, knocking his arm down and to the right. A gunshot echoed and the board of a wooden crate snapped. The men fell into a heap.
Grant scrambled atop the thief and smashed a fist into the German’s face before pinning the man’s arms beneath his thick legs. Teagan snatched the gun.
“Where’s the map?” Grant screamed, fist raised to deliver another blow.
The German laughed, coughing up blood that speckled his blonde hair. “Fools! I don’t haff it.”
Teagan waved the gun at the man, hoping it seemed threatening. “But you accosted me in the hotel and demanded my tracing of the corazon.”
“Did you know,” he said with a grin, “that I haff a twin brother?”
Grant chuckled. “Really?” Then he punched the man in the face again, knocking him unconscious.
Teagan gasped. “What was that for?”
“When we find his brother, we’ll be able to tell them apart.”
To be continued in Teagan Oh-Hair versus the Barbaric Barbers
…
After a 13 hour work day (with a 9.5 hour operational sortie), I wanted nothing more than to go to bed as soon as I got home.
Well, I guess that’s not entirely true… because I forced myself through a 30-minute bodyweight exercise workout, and now I’m sitting on my new indoor bike pedaling away against moderate resistance while typing these thoughts.
I’m mostly doing it because I know the Air Force still has PT standards and I still have a PT test coming up in 2 months. And I don’t think I presently meet the standards, so it’s going to take action to fix that.
How bad do I want to sleep? How bad do I want to avoid getting in trouble with the military? And how bad do I want to feel lighter, healthier, more energetic?
I know it’s possible… because a year ago I was in far better shape, and I felt great. How bad do I want that state back?
Throw the switch on the tracks of this train of thought, and let me think about writing.
Today I handed out four or five copies of my novel to co-workers and friends who expressed interest. One of them saw me signing a copy for someone else and said, “Hey, I’ll take one of those. I like your writing.”
I expressed surprise and asked, “What writing of mine have you read?” I forgot that he took a gander at a short story I’d written for a Blog Battle entry. And I realized that even though I work with a bunch of fellow nerds who love to troll and tease each other, some people genuinely enjoy my work.
When I handed a different friend his copy, I had another one of those “yes, you can look me up on Amazon” conversations. It felt awkward, as always. It felt cool, as always.
And today one of my first fans asked, “How’s book two coming?”
I had to stop and admit that the book two word count hasn’t moved in probably a week or more. I’ve been flying a lot, but most writers (and I daresay all amateur writers) have full-time jobs and real-life demands.
So how bad do I want to send a fan a link to Book Two? How much does it mean to me that people want me to sign a book for them? What do my actions say about what this hobby/job means to me?
Since I started out writing, I’ve encountered several intelligent and capable people who also express interest in writing. But almost all of them talk about it as a “what if,” or “maybe someday,” or “it would be cool to…”
Diffraction was my “maybe someday” for several years, until I cracked down, cranked out the work, took the lumps of constructive criticism, cranked out more work on revision, and formatted the manuscript.
On December 21st, 2015, “maybe someday” became “today.”
What’s your “maybe someday” dream?
How bad do you want it?
The home of David M. Williamson, writer of fantasy, sci-fi, short stories, and cultural rants.
