Slice of [my] Life

a writer's piece of the pie

Flirt Fest Scene

So I’m having technical troubles with the drive that holds all my goodies.I have everything backed up, but that’s at another location, and I don’t feel like driving out to mom & dad’s just now. The only scenes I currently have access to (that contain a bit of flirting) are a) Dark Goddess at her General getting groovy, and b) Kate & Caleb’s first kiss.

I’ve decided against the NC-17 rated scene I was tweeting about with some of you earlier. Call me a chicken, but I don’t think my Dark Goddess was ready to make her appearance just yet–and on a PG-13 blog, no less. Instead, I’ve decided to use Kate & Caleb’s first kiss scene.

And yes, I do love to write scenes specifically for blogfests (scenes that have nothing to do with the WIPs I’m working on), but if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a little preoccupied lately and completely ran out of time to whip up a good Flirt-Fest-worthy scene.

For a long moment, she didn’t think he would answer. She wouldn’t answer if their positions had been reversed. She would probably kick him out. Truthfully, she kind of hoped he would kick her out. At least then, she could stop thinking about him—and he’d stop looking at her like he wanted to lick every inch of her body.

As it turned out, she wasn’t that lucky. Caleb leaned forward to set his drink on the coffee table then shifted his body toward her.

“That you’re beautiful,” he finally answered.

And there’s that look again. He has the eyes of a predator—a very hungry predator.

“That I want to touch you,” he went on, raising his hand and brushing his knuckles over her cheek.

Holy freakin’ shit…is this actually happening?

“That I want to kiss you.”

I’m dreaming. I’m in a coma and I’m dreaming.

As he leaned closer to her, she felt the stirrings of heat and desire well up deep inside. She wanted him to kiss her—wanted to kiss him.

As his lips brushed hers, she let out a soft whimper and caught her breath when his fingers found their way to the back of her neck. She felt his tongue stroke her lips and, wanting more, she parted them, meeting his with her own. He kissed her deeply and passionately, one hand entwined in her hair, the other, slinking around her waist, both pulling her against him. Kate was melting, her body fighting to fuse itself with his.

Yes, yes…

Caleb was warm and hungry and everything she wanted. But he was also too much; his lips felt too good, his body too inviting—too real.

Abort! Abort!

The thought assaulted her, overwhelming her body’s reaction to this Adonis who held her so close. He was dangerous—she felt it down to her bones. Caleb’s embrace was too keen; his lips, too ravenous. He showed her passion that she’d never seen before and she reacted to his touch far more than she wanted to admit. No one had ever made her feel so wanted, so needed, and she had never felt that passion for anyone…until now.

Instinctively, she pulled him away as she fumbled to her feet. She had to get away from him—far away. If she stayed a moment longer, he’d destroy her. She didn’t know how he’d do it, but she had no doubt he would.

“I—I have to go. I’m sorry…I have to go,” she stuttered, not looking to him for a response. Before she could change her mind, she strode for the door. She could hear him stand, heard his footsteps as he followed her, but he didn’t respond or try to stop her.

Neither of them said goodbye. As she walked past the statue of Aria, she heard the click of the door as it was closed.

What had she been thinking? Caleb was too intense, too passionate. She should have known better than to get involved with him—not that she was involved. It was just a kiss.

An amazing kiss…

And she had known almost immediately what a mistake it had been. If she got any more involved with Caleb, he would break down every wall she’d ever built to protect herself from getting hurt again.

She didn’t do relationships. She couldn’t. Attachments weren’t an option; they left room for failures, disappointments…for abandonment.

That was what it all came down to. Knowing that her father hadn’t abandoned her was one thing, but it didn’t help the way she felt. His death had crushed her. For years, he had been everything to her, and then, in less than a minute, he was gone. She couldn’t go through that kind of loss again, it would destroy her.

And Caleb had what it took to get there.


May 16, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Critique_This Presents Flirt Fest

Pale_by_Ophelias_Overdose I love blogfests! I really, really do. What better way to test your skills than to write a scene specifically for a fest? They’re awesome, they’re fun, they’re BLOGFEST, baby!

My critique group feels the exact same way, so we’ve decided to host the Flirt Fest Blogfest on May 16th. Run on over to CritiqueThisWIP and sign your blog address to the sign up list.

Get your blogfest on and write a fun, flirty scene and post the scene to your blog on May 16th. See you there!

* Photo by Ophelias_Overdose   

April 21, 2010 Posted by | Blogfest, Critique_This | Leave a comment

In Which I Issue A Challenge

As many of you know, I’ve been slacking on writing new material for the past few months and only writing up a scene (or blog post) when a blogfest rolls around…sometimes. But no more! As of Sunday, April 11th, I have officially reopened Nightlings (AKA The Immortal Series) to do more than the occasional edit. Oh yes, it was a wonderful day and I finally after much downtime have finished a very intense, action packed chapter involving my two MCs, Kate & Caleb.

So, to mark my success and my journey back into the merry land of writing, I have decided to take “InkyGirl” Debbie Ohi up on her Words a Day Challenge. I’ve thought about doing this before, but life gets in the way, blah blah blah. So, just as a lets-see-how-this-goes kind of start, I’m going hit the ground running with the 500 Words A Day Challenge.


See! I even get a pretty badge to add to my blog to remind me each and every day to write at least 500 words in my WIP.

*Note: 500 words in my WIP means just that—500 words in my WIP. Blog posts, Tweets and IMs DO NOT COUNT.*

**2nd Note: That was more for my benefit than yours. What can I say? I like to bend the rules…**

So, because I like a good challenge, I’m extending this this one to each and every one of you, my lovely writer friends who should be writing and NOT blog surfing. So, run your butts on over to InkyGirl’s Words a Day Challenge and pick your challenge (grab your badge)! You can choose from 250wpd, 500wpd, or 1000wpd.

Once you’ve picked your poison, you can compete with me—because every good challenge involves a friendly competition. Tweet your progress on Twitter with #wpdchallenge.

What are you waiting for?! Challenge yourself to write!

250words_150w 500words-150w

April 13, 2010 Posted by | Word Count, WPD Challenge, Writing | 9 Comments

Point of View @ Critique_This


I’m blogging today over at Critique_This_WIP about Point of View. Come check out my feelings about writing a first person POV murder scene.

April 12, 2010 Posted by | Critique_This, Writing | Leave a comment

Murder Scene Blogfest

I just wrote this scene for Anne Riley’s Murder Scene Blogfest, from the point of view of a home intruder. I’d say “enjoy” but I don’t think that’s appropriate for a murder scene.

**I also wrote the murder scene for my critique group’s tandem story on our blog, Critique_This_WIP.**

Honest people don’t think in terms of dishonesty. They think any old lock from Home Depot will do; might as well buy the cheap one. A lock was a lock, right?

Wrong. Any thief will tell you they can pick any-old-lock, and most of them can even pick a decent one. But honest people just don’t think that way. They don’t expect to be the victim of a home invasion. Robberies happen to other people. They’ve got their guard dogs and a faux, home security sign posted in the window. They’ve got their flood light over the front door—a “deterrent” to keep away robbers.

Ha. These people don’t know the first thing about real safety. Bluffs, all of it.

I’ve been casing the place for three days, now, not that I needed to wait that long. I learned everything I needed to know on day one. First, those guard dogs were three, prized Pomeranians. I saw them in the backyard chasing squirrels around the swimming pool. Second, that Brinks Home Security sticker was from at least ten years ago. The corners had started to peel back from the window, but even if I hadn’t caught that detail, the residents of 722 Briar View Lane never paused long enough in their doorway to enter a code into a key pad. They were probably in too much of a hurry to bother with their alarm.

The flood light was the hardest part to get rid of, and even that was child’s play. I printed out some door to door fliers and slipped them in the doorjambs of all the houses on the street. When I got to 722, I made sure no one was looking, then reached up and unscrewed the bulb, just enough to cut the power to the light. Easy as pie, and two nights later, the bulb above the front door was still dark. Fools, they probably thought the light had burned out—if they even noticed.

But tonight was the night. I’d make a nice score off of 722. This was a wealthy mark; not too rich as to have the sense to buy a working security system or proper guard dogs, but wealthy enough to keep plenty of expensive jewelry around Mrs. 722’s neck.

Pulling the ski mask over my face, I said a prayer to the God of Thieves, then screwed an illegal silencer onto my 9mm pistol. After slipping it into a holster at my side, I grabbed the black cloth bag and slipped into my waistband, then slid from my van into the cold, dark night.

The lock was an embarrassment to Kwikset locks everywhere. I’d picked it in under ten seconds. It was so easy, I actually thought about trying to find a different point of entry, just to give myself a bit of a challenge. Poor 722; these marks were naïve, childlike in their trust of a fifteen dollar lock. Pitty. My next job would be tougher, I promised myself.

I entered the house and closed the door behind be, but no dogs awaited me on the other side. Of course, I thought, the prized Poms would be sleeping with mommy. I passed up the faux artwork on the walls of the living room, past the plasma screen TV, and made my way stealthily to the master bedroom at the end of a long hallway.

The dogs had heard me coming and were barking on the other side of the closed door.

“Jim, let them out to pee, will you?” Mrs. 722 groaned, sleepily.

“I told you not to feed them table scraps. Christ, my stomach can’t handle your cooking. Why would theirs?” Mr. 722, Jim, growled.

Mrs. 722 came back with an insult, but I couldn’t hear it over the barking of the dogs. Not wanting to wait any longer, I drew my pistol and opened the door to their bedroom, shooting a hole through the first little beast to lunge at my leg. It went down in a ball of bloody fur. The silencer’s pif didn’t scare the other dogs away like a loud shot would have, and the second and third dogs followed their friend to doggie-heaven in the next moment.

“Scream and I’ll shoot your husband next,” I threatened the wife in a cold, calm voice, as I pointed my gun at Mr. 722.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Mr. 722 demanded as he tried to jump out of bed.

That’s the thing with men; they don’t like another dog pissing in their food dish. They feel some kind of unstoppable need to muscle the intruder out. They always tried to get up, to negotiate with the person who’d just broke into his house and shot his three prized pooches.

As usual, I was ready for this insanely male reaction and fired a warning shot…right into his left leg. He fell to the ground in a scream of pain, clutching his injured leg. Mrs. 722 screamed with him, then jumped off the bed toward her husband. She let out a string of profanity directed at me, but I ignored it, giving them both time to absorb the gravity of their situation. After a few seconds had past, I cleared my throat and looked to the Mrs.

“I’m a good shot. I think I’ve proven that by killing your dogs and wounding your husband. But I’m not that good. I might have nicked his femoral artery—there sure is an awful lot of blood there. If I did, he’ll bleed to death in a matter of minutes. The faster you get me what I want, the faster I’ll be gone and you can call for an ambulance.”

“Just take what you want,” she spat. “Take it and leave and get out of my house!”

“No, I’m not doing the taking. You’re going to take this bag and go empty your jewelry box into it. Then you’re going to open that safe I know you have, and dump its contents into my bag. If you try anything, I will kill your husband, then you. Do you understand?”

She looked at me with a hatred I’d seen from others before her. It didn’t faze me; I didn’t care what they thought of me. They would cease to matter once my job was done…once she’d opened the safe. The wives always opened the safes while their husbands lay in a pool of their own blood.

In a matter of minutes, she’d done what I asked—had completed her task and was now, once again, kneeling beside Mr. 722 on the bloody carpet beside their king sized bed.

I didn’t warn her, didn’t tell her to say goodbye or tell her I was sorry. I’ve found, over the years, that it’s much more compassionate to just shoot them, not letting them know they were about to meet their maker. It had to be this way and I accept that.

Two shots later, Mr. and Mrs. 722 lay slumped in a heap on their blood stained carpet, a matching bullet hole in each of their foreheads. Now I’m free to move about, collecting the rest of the valuables in the house.

Question for the readers: Is the intruder a man or a woman?

April 10, 2010 Posted by | Blogfest, Snippets of [my] Work | 4 Comments

Blood, Sweat, & Ink


Writing is a craft. It is something that requires time and dedication…and more time. You must practice, learn, and eventually, you will grow as a writer.

It isn’t always easy. It will, at times, suck. But practice will make you a better writer and, in the end, you’ll be grateful for all of your hard work.

So, how does one “write better”? There are several ways. Some will have you shell out some cash. Others will leave your wallet intact.

Option 1: Join a local writers group. In the DFW area, we have this nifty little thing called Writer’s Workshop. Now, I haven’t exactly attended a meeting but Tiffany Neal and ChristaCarol Jones have, and they assure me, it’s worth the $100 a year, membership cost.

Option 2: Grab yourself a nice, grammar-wise Critique Partner. This is one of my favorites! Critique Partners, as well as Critique Groups, are invaluable. They provide help with plots, characters, writers block…oh yeah, even grammar. It isn’t always easy to find a compatible CP/CG, though. Sometimes,  it just doesn’t work out. Maybe your writing just doesn’t mesh well enough for your partner to properly critique your baby. Or, maybe you write different genres. Maybe (and this is a big one) your time/dedication differs from your partners. Do they have 5 kids, a full time job, and an weekly PTA meeting to plan? Are you single with nothing but your WIP to keep you busy? Yes and yes? Then you have a potential problem, honey.

When picking your partner, go in knowing that you might not be on equal footing. Remember to be patient and understanding. And remember that opinions are just that—opinions. Maybe your CP thinks you should leave out the part about your MC’s dead grandfather’s tragic demise, but you think it helps to explain why your MC is the way she is. Opinions, opinions.

Option 3: Instead of the tried and true “edit, critique, and revise” method, try a different way to perfect your writing: Writing Exercises. Exercises can help you to improve your skills while keeping your creativity active. Casey McCormick has some great exercises on her blog, Literary Rambles. You can also find more “creative excercises” at

That being said, I’ve saved the best for last. Blogfests. Yep, that’s right—blogfests. Here’s how it works: Some awesome writer/blogger puts out the word that they are hosting a blogfest. They tell you what you’re supposed to write about, and you sign up on their blog, then go off and write a scene based on the parameters of the blogfest. On the date of the Blogfest, you post your scene to your blog and *ta da* you’re done. People will see your name on the sign up sheet, then come to your blog to check out what you wrote, and leave comments telling you what they think of your entry. How simple is that? Did I mention it’s TONS of fun? True story.

So get to it, Anne Riley and Tara Fouts are hosting two Blogfests this weekend that are sure to be phenominal!

April 7, 2010 Posted by | Blogfest, Writing | Leave a comment

What— How could you have missed this?!

Ahoy there! Just ignore my absence—it’s nothing personal. I have a lot going on right now, sue me.

So, if you missed the memo (I know…what memo?!) my critique group has started a new blog where we talk about the how to’s, the dos & don’ts, and the ups & downs of writing. If you’ve missed out, shame on you! We’ve have some terrific posts—and, because we are all about our readers, on Fridays, we have a special treat for ya’ll called Friday Fiction.

Friday Fiction is (AWESOME) a serialized story we do on duh Fridays. Each week one of our group members writes a scene, and the next week, someone else adds to it. Because it was Margaret’s idea, she got to cut the ribbon, fire the gun, kick the donkey and write the very first scene of our Friday Fiction story. If you haven’t read it—well, I’m sorry. It’s fantastic (because Margaret is just cool like that) and you’re totally missing out on some awesomeness. All I’m sayin’ is, you may not be cool if you don’t read it… Just saying. So head on over to CritiqueThisWIP and follow*follow*follow check out the scene from today’s, first ever, Friday Fiction.

Hold up! I’m not done.  Like blogfests?! You’ll love these!

Anne Riley is hosting the first ever (at least to our knowledge) Murder Scene Blogfest on April 10th! Head on over to her blog and sign up using the Linky box on the right column of her blog. Again. I’m not sure if you like to be part of the in-crowd, but if you don’t want to be a complete outcast, sign your butt on up!!  😉

Hey there, I know you’re all excited to sign up for blogfest and to read the awesomeness that is Friday Fiction, but hold up!

Tara Fouts is hosting the Bar Scene Blogfest on April 11th! Seriously—a Bar Scene Blogfest…a Barfest, perhaps? I foresee many a drunken bar brawls coming up. And come on, who doesn’t like sitting back and watching a bunch of drunken fools fight for their manhood while smashing their way through stools, tables (WATCH THE BEER!), pool tables… Well, at least I do. So, what are you waiting for?! Run (or click, whichever you prefer) on over to Tara’s blog and sign yourself up for a kickass (literally) blogfest!

Remember, April 10th (Murder), April 11th(Bar Brawl). Can you imagine all of the blood, sweat, and tears that will be going down on this bloody weekend?! I can!

Now, dear readers, you may link-surf to your hearts content. Have a good weekend, lovelies!

April 2, 2010 Posted by | Blogfest, blogs, Critique_This | Leave a comment

Check it Out!

vancouver-fireworks My critique group, Critique This, has just started a new blog and guess what?! Today is our very first day of blogging!


I’m the one who gets to start it off with a bang! So run on over to our new group blog and check out my post about the pros & cons of pen names!

See you there!

March 30, 2010 Posted by | blogs, Critique_This, Writing | Leave a comment

It’s Okay—not everyone will like it

Sun_Rays_by_Hamrani When I wrote my Middle Grade PG Love Scene Blogfest post, I had an idea in my head. First off, I though, “when have I ever read a love scene in a middle grade book? Oh, that’s right. Never.” Would Judy Blume have her MC fall victim to uncontrollable lust and go bang her best friend’s brother? I should hope not—otherwise, Ms Blume would not be writing for kids 8-12, and I would have a few more of her babies on my bookshelves. So I tweaked the prompt a little—and came out with my entry. Overall, I was pretty happy with it. It was a little-kid-love-scene, and it suited me just fine.

Before I go any further, I’d like to tip my hat to those of you who write MG. In a way, it’s very simple—kids don’t read complex sentences, so when you write it, the simpler, the better. Emotions are raw and character behavior is almost animalistic. But for someone who usually writes for adults…wow. It sure ain’t easy to switch writing styles.

For my entry, I took a fairly common scenario, and put my story to it (in a format fit for ages 8-12, of course).  When I had finished, I asked J to read it over and tell me what he thought.

One paragraph later, J looks up and says “I don’t like it. It’s choppy…simplistic. Elementary. Nothing like your usual stuff.”

And I proceeded to panic. No lie; my first thought was I’m losing it! But then, in a rare moment of clarity, I realized that *ding ding ding* it’s okay. I’m writing a completely different genre than what I usually do. Of course it’s going to be different. And I’m writing for kids, so duh it’s going to be “elementary”.

So, is it a good thing that J didn’t like it? Considering he’s not a 10 year old girl, hell yeah it’s a good thing. He likes my adult, paranormal stuff, and this may be a stretch, but I consider it a success that my eleven year old protagonist didn’t resemble my two hundred year old vampire warrior that stars in Nightlings. Hurray! I think I can count the MG/PG Love Scene Blogfest as a successful writing exercise, because that’s what blogfests are—interactive, writing exercises.

It’s easy for us writers to remember that not everyone is going to love our babies like we do. In fact, it’s even harder for us to appreciate that fact. How do you take your criticism? What do you do to keep from letting it get you down?

March 23, 2010 Posted by | Blogfest, Writing | 2 Comments

MG/PG Love Scene Blogfest

Late as usual…here’s my Middle Grade PG Love Scene for Simon’s Blogfest. To view the other entries, check out the sign up sheet.

I’d like to apologize in advance for the grammar and spelling errors. I’m off my game today.

The rain pounded the bus from the moment they left school to the moment they pulled out of the Glen Eagle Estates subdivision. The houses here were huge, with pools and three car garages. The students, all popular, had brand new shoes and their jeans had designer made holes scratched into the denim. They didn’t worry about stepping in the mud or kicking puddles of water at their friends. If they got their clothes dirty, their parents would wash them. If they ruined their shoes, they would buy new ones. The kids of Glen Eagle Estates were rich. Hope Arnold was not.

Hope looked away from the window and down at her ratty jeans—jeans with holes made from falling onto the black asphalt on the playground. The jeans were too short, but Hope didn’t complain. Her mother wouldn’t like it if she complained about her clothes. They didn’t have money for luxuries, her mother would say.

Past her too short jeans, Hope wore her only pair of shoes, a pair of Keds sneakers. They used to be white, but now, they were so old that they had grass stains and rub marks from where her toes were straining against their bindings.

She heard the laughter from the kids in the back of the bus. Now that the Glen Eagle kids were gone, the bus had come alive and the poorer kids shouted and tossed paper airplanes from one end of the bus to the other. Hope could have gone to sit with them in the back of the bus, but she didn’t feel like it. She was tired. Ian had been sick with a stomach ache, and she’d been up with him for most of the night. The three year old had thrown up twice before her mother had returned her calls.

“Don’t let him puke on the linens, Hope, or you’ll be the one to wash them,” Mother had said, annoyed. “Give him extra cough syrup so he’ll sleep. I’ll be home after my shift.”

Hope hadn’t given her brother the extra cough syrup. Instead, she fed him saltines and water, and stayed up to rub his back until he’d fallen asleep on his own. Ian had woken up three more times before their mother came home from her shift at the diner, and by then, it was past five and Hope was running late for school.

By the end of the school day, Hope was dead tired and dozed as the bus made its way out of town and into the country. Thirty minutes later, it stopped at the entrance to the Shady Oak Trailer Park and the remaining kids stood up from their seats.

Hope was at the front of the line and so busy looking up at the sun peeking between the clouds, that she stepped straight off the bus and into a mud puddle. The mud shifted beneath her foot and she lost her balance. She started to scream as her mind flashed to images of mud soaked jeans and ruined Keds—her mother would be furious. But faster than she could fall, an arm shot out, grabbing her by the upper arm and hauling her backward into to the bus. She fell back against the hard steps, and against him—the only boy strong enough to have saved her. Shaun Preston.

“Jeeze, Hope, you know better than to step in a mud puddle in Shady Oak. They’ll swallow you whole,” he said with a laugh.

“I didn’t…see it. Thanks Shaun,” she said, staring at the mud covering her right sneaker in dread.

“Archie,” Shaun called to the bus driver. “You gotta watch where you park this thing. You know Shady Oak is full of pot holes. She could have broken her ankle just stepping off the bus.”

“Whole Park is a pothole,” Archie muttered and he put the bus in gear and pulled up another two feet. “Happy, kid?”

“Thanks, Archie,” Shaun said, helping Hope to her feet. “Come on, Hope, I’ll carry your backpack. We can hose off your shoe by the front office.”

Hope looked back at her muddy shoe before nodding. She wanted to get home to check on Ian, but she had to clean her sneaker before her mother saw it.

And she wanted to spend an extra minute with Shaun. He was the cutest boy in Shady Oak—maybe even the cutest boy in school. Even the Glen Eagles kids liked him. He was tall and tanned with blonde hair and blue eyes. Her mother said he looked like a young Brad Pitt but Hope didn’t think so. Shaun looked like…Shaun. He was cute and funny and really nice. Especially to her.

The other kids teased him when he talked to Hope or hung out with her in the park, but Shaun just smiled and told her that he’d rather hang out with her than with his other friends. He was a year older than Hope but he didn’t care. And whenever he looked at her, Hope got butterflies in her belly.

Shaun took her backpack and together, they walked to the front office to an old, ratty looking hose. Shaun helped her wash off her muddy sneaker and wiped the excess water off on her shirt tail.

“We heard Ian crying last night,” Shaun said, timidly. “Mom thought he might have been sick or something.”

“Oh, sorry. He wasn’t feeling good.”

“Didn’t you call your mom at the diner?”

“Yeah, but they were really busy…she couldn’t leave.” Hope said, feeling uncomfortable. Shaun’s mom was nice and worked during the day so she could stay home with her kids at night.

“My mom said that you can come over tonight, if you want…if Ian’s still sick. She said she thought you were up all night with him. Her room is close to yours and Ian’s so she hears him through the walls.”

“Oh, that’s nice of her. I think he’ll be okay tonight…”

“Sure,” Shaun said. “But if you need help, you know where to find us.”

Hope felt her cheeks heat up as a blush spread across her face. She looked at the ground so her hair fell down around her face. “Thanks.”

“Hope! Get in here now and get dinner started for your brother,” her mother yelled from their trailer in a gravelly voice, caused from a lifetime of heavy smoking.

“See you later, Hope,” Shaun said, handing over her pink backpack.

“See you later,” she replied.

Hope walked into the trailer and past her mother, to the small kitchen. Dropping her backpack by the table, she went to the pantry and pulled out a box of Mac and Cheese.

“Why was he walking you home?” her mother asked, coming into the kitchen as she tied a new red scarf around her neck. She was dressed up in a red mini skirt, black tank top, and high heels.

Must have a date before her shift starts, Hope thought.

“Shaun? I fell getting off the bus and he offered to carry my bag for me.”

“Hmph,” Mother sighed. “Boys are trouble, Hope, even boys like Shaun. Stay away from them. They only like girls like you for one reason and I’m too young to be a grandmother.”

“Shaun’s not like that, Mom. He’s nice.”

“Of course he’s nice. He wants something that the girls at Glen Eagles won’t give him, so he’s looking to you to scratch an itch.”

Hope ignored her mother’s lecture. Shaun wasn’t like the men she dated. Shaun was different. He was special.

March 15, 2010 Posted by | Blogfest, Snippets of [my] Work | 2 Comments