Tuesday Teaser

This is a small (and still rough) snippet from my WIP, Heartstrings. Enjoy!

Damn. She’d missed her chance to recover Berenice’s blasted journal again.

            Lydia had watched David and Emily King’s wretched daughter walk into the History building with the book and emerge without it five minutes later.

            Her keen eyes observed her young look-alike, wondering why she looked less depressed than the week before. The disheveled appearance, the greasy, limp hair, the puffy, tear stained face had brought Lydia pleasure, but also worry.

            If Elora and Honor decided to separate because of the prophecy, they would live.

            Agony clawed at Lydia, taunting her with the possibility she could lose. Again.

Elora King needed to die. David deserved pain.

            Today, Elora appeared different. She smelled of sunscreen and salty sweat when she passed Lydia’s hiding place, and Lydia saw the strap of a black swimsuit peeking from beneath her coverup. Elora moved with purpose, the dejected lethargy gone from her posture. Still, her face pinched with worry, small lines creasing the creamy skin above her nose.

            She no longer looked devastated, though. She’d shed the heartbroken air, replaced it with a glimmer of hope. What had gone awry? Were they strong enough to resist their heartstring?

            No.

She should never have left Berenice’s diary in his possession. Lydia cursed her forgetfulness; her blind hurry to distance herself from David had made her careless.

            Now Elora had unearthed the foul document and had it translated. Lydia marveled that she and Honor had enough combined brainpower to realize the impact Berenice’s words could have on their puny lives.

            They knew she could be beaten.

            Lydia tried to shore up her faith. Just because miserable Elora King and her drifter Honor Thompson knew defeating her was possible didn’t mean they could figure out how to get it done. Berenice had gotten lucky.

            Lydia tried to forget about Elora King and Berenice, focusing instead on her successes, the ones she’d destroyed with her words. Those memories seeped through her blood, offering comfort. She settled into her circus trailer, happy the caravan caught up with her yesterday afternoon. She needed work to occupy her hands and mind; the past weeks spent twiddling her thumbs in Conway nearly got the better of her.  

            Every once in a while, Lydia had found her gaze wandering from the Kings or Honor and landing on a potential mate. She worried over how much longer she could hold out. What happened if she couldn’t, if she broke her vow to beat the gods at their own game?

            Her bravado wilted and she gave in to the fantasy of death that crowded her thoughts with increased frequency.. Full-blooded mortals did not know their good fortune at being able to die in a timely fashion. Even sooner, if they wished it.

Death was a gift Lydia longed for.

            She’d seen empires grow and wither away. Watched people fight over the same pitiful pieces of land, debate meaningless religious ideals, kill each other for power, lust, pride and coin for thousands of years. Gods, hers and others, followed their own, always mysterious agenda. The human race would not change, nor would the divine.

            She grew weary of being the one perpetually caught in the middle.

Tuesday Teaser

I haven't done one of these in a while, and felt like joining in. I'm such a joiner. Below is an excerpt from the middle of In the Autumn. My vanity forces me to mention that this is still only a draft. Enjoy!

I don’t remember falling asleep, but that’s what must have happened. When my eyes open they meet dull, brown ones hovering six inches from my face. “Crap,” I yelp, rolling backward and onto the floor with a thud. “Ouch.”

Heart pounding, I glare up at Cadij. He smiles, and as I watch he transforms into Cadi. My mouth drops open as she crosses her legs at the knees and makes herself comfortable on my bed. She’s clad in soft, green pajama’s that engulf her small frame. She grins at me. “Sorry. Just having a little fun.”

“Fun? Oh yes, that was loads of fun. Next time could you just say my name, or tap me on the shoulder?” Getting up, I rub my sore butt before climbing in next to her. It’s weird, sitting together in my bed like this, but I’m glad she’s here. I have too many questions for an hour a day.

“Go ahead, Althea. Ask away.”

My brow scrunches and I nibble on the tips of my fingers. Cadi snuggles into my pillows and waits.  I want to know everything, but don’t want to leave Aimery out. “What are you, are you an Other?” It’s the first question I think Aimery won’t care about the answer. He doesn’t care much about Cadi.

“What am I? All this time in the dark about your own history, and your question is about me?” Her eyes well up with water again, and she looks at me like my fake parents do. With love. Whatever she and Koj are, the fact they care about us is clear. I just can’t figure out why.

“What’s the water in your eyes called? I get it, and Aimery got it before, but no one else does.”

“The humans call them tears. And they all have them, but tears are brought on by emotion. You and Aimery – and your counterparts – are the only humans with access to your emotions right now. When they come it’s called crying, or weeping.”

“Tears.” I try out the word, happy to have a name for the water. Also, a definition for one of the words in the strange, haunting book. “Okay. Now, what are you?”

She thinks about it for a minute, and when she meets my eyes Cadi tries to explain. “The gulf between our languages is vast. Your vocabulary is quite limiting.”

“Hey!”

She shrugs. “It is not your fault, Althea. The Others do not wish you taught Language or History.” She searches her mind another few minutes while I practice using patience. “I am an Augur. It is the closest definition. I am not wholly Other, but I am not human. I am from a planet called Sprita. We are not unlike your humans. We have emotions, the primary one being love. Our planet is…was peaceful, full of respect and happiness. No one stood to fight the Others, fighting is not in our nature. The Other’s spent many years on our planet before moving on. No one survived their habitation. Except those they brought with them when they left.”

“They took you with them,” I squeak out.

“Some of us, yes. My people have…had talents the Other’s wished to copy. We have a special relationship with the powers that grant Magic. They took a dozen of our women when they left and bred with them. Experimented with controlling our Magical genes. It worked, to an extent. I am an example. So is Koj.” She watches me through sad, resigned eyes. “Do you understand?”

Do I? “Not really. I mean, I understand what you are saying but not how it works. Could you show me Magic?”

“Sure. Let’s see…” Cadi closes her eyes and me heart speeds up in anticipation. She opens one eye, brilliant blue. “Close your eyes, Althea.”

I snap them shut at her request. Unsure of how long to remain that way, they stay closed until she asks me to open them. Cut off from my vision, the first thing I notice is the smell. Jasmine, fresh and in bloom, wafts beneath my nose. Honeysuckle. Roses. Next, a warm breeze tickles my cheek, a satisfying temperature. I hear water lapping gently, rhythmically. My insides turn liquid in the comfort and calm envelops me.

I feel a small hand on my arm. “You can open your eyes.”

When I do, the scene that greets them nearly knocks me off the bed. Wait. Looking down, I see that I’m no longer sitting on a bed, but in a boat. The floor is replaced by greenish blue water, and in front of me the sun sets on the horizon. Cadi and I drift lazily near the shore of a lake. The foliage is blooming, and the yellows, reds, pinks, purples, and blues dazzle me just as their scents do. The trees are green and lush, like the grass covering the ground underneath them. Amazed, I turn to Cadi. “What is this place?”

“It’s not an actual place, Althea. It’s summer. I thought you might like to see it?”

“How did we get here?”

“You asked me to show you Magic. We aren’t here, we are still sitting on your bed. I’m making it up. This is Magic.”

“I belong here,” I breathe out.

Cadi studies me with a sorrowful stare. “Yes. Yes you do.”

As I watch, she raises her hand and snaps her fingers. In the blink of an eye, summer disappears and we are back in my room. The air worming it’s way under the windowsill makes me shiver, and I climb under the covers next to her. “Cadi, why are you and Koj helping us? Why not just let the Other’s find us?”

Her eyes close, and a tear slips from underneath her eyelid. “You remember what I told you, about Sprita? About what happened there? We wish a different outcome for Earth. You might be the answer.”

 I feel safe, and love flows off of the strange woman and wraps its way around me. Whether she loves me, or just loves, is anyone’s guess. My eyelids grow heavy as she picks up a piece of my hair and twirls it between her fingers. Though a million questions still wait to be answered, fighting the drowsiness is useless. Cadi’s voice lulls me further away from consciousness. “Sleep, girl. You need your rest.”

Time Management - Or, Not Pissing Real Life People Off

I stink at moderation. When my mind is immersed in something, its all I can think about. My current WIP is demanding my full attention. I've written 25K this month. When I'm not writing it, I'm thinking about what comes next, plotting, and my characters. The real people (and dogs) in my life are getting sore.

This is when my time management skills are at their worst, when I'm really into a project. All I do is write, talk about writing, or want to write. And Twitter. Even when I'm not that into a project, like say, taking on a major editing job, I protect my writing time. I have a day job that uses up nearly 10 hours a day, all traveling, etc. included. I have a husband, a stepson, two dogs, a cat, my parents who live five minutes away, and a disabled sister. I have friends. At least, I used to have friends. Fun is currently relegated to Thursday nights for Grey's Anatomy. I have Twitter. I have my neglected blog and I write television and movie reviews for poptimal.com I don't have kids. I feel guilty enough about neglecting my dogs.

Basically, besides what writing I can squeeze in at work, I have an hour or so in the morning and a couple hours at night. Not nearly enough time to empty all the scenes and dialogue in my head onto paper. This frustrates me, so I spend hours on the weekends trying to write. Then I get complaints.

"When are we going to have some time together?

"Are we ever going to get in bed at the same time?"

"I haven't talked to you in two weeks."

"I haven't been on a walk in days"

"Squeak squeak...play with me!"

I'm still working on a balance, on some kind of schedule that sates the writing beast as well as the people who actually exist in my life. Its not easy. Sometimes I'm resentful, and I hate feeling that way. Other times I give up things I shouldn't - like eating something besides coffee, or showering. If you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear how you all moderate all the people and chores in your life with your writing time. If there's a way to stonewall the muse when she's in a mood like she is with me right now - screaming and impatient - please tell me your secret. Some of you have kids PLUS everything I've described and I'm particularly interested to know how your heads are still attached. Thanks for listening, dear readers and followers. Help me, if you feel so inclined.

I've Been Called a Tease Before...

After reading the awesomeness that is the teaser for Laurie's Blog, I felt inspired to share the beginning of my own WIP. Let me know what you think! PS. She also inspired me to revamp my blog, so look for those changes in the days to come.

Before I even crack my eyelids I know it has happened again. I’ve traveled. The oppressive, terrifying certainty that I no longer exist is a dead giveaway. The familiarity of the sensation does nothing to dull the roaring panic.

            “Breathe, Althea. You know you still exist.”

            I listen to myself a moment later, after my heart rate slows enough to ward off an attack. Daring to peer out between my lashes, I survey my surroundings. It’s early morning. It always is. I hear movement on the floor below and force my fists to unclench, releasing the garish orange comforter wrinkled inside them. The one I went to sleep under last night was green. Resigning myself to starting over, I swing my bare feet out from under the heavy down and settle them into the slippers waiting patiently beside the bed. Like I never left.

            Steeling myself, I creep across the carpet, kneel on the padded window seat, and peer out the clean glass. The trees are bright splotches against the brilliant blue sky, some crimson, others sunny yellow, with a few fiery oranges thrown into the mix for good measure. Autumn. I sigh and reassemble the rest of this life in my mind. Autumn means Connecticut and the Morgans. Althea Morgan. I chant the name in my head a few times and try and make it stick. It usually takes a few days before it does.

            “Thea, darling! Come and get some breakfast! You have to be at school in less than an hour!”

            Great. New school again. More kids who avoid me like the plague, a place where everything I say or do is wrong. Even when it’s right. Maybe especially when it’s right. Not ready to face the breakfast scene quite yet I head for the shower instead. I don’t find any more or less than I expect. The bathroom is stocked with the things that belong to me but aren’t mine. A robe, some makeup I’ll never wear, a toothbrush, towels…I’ll find similar provisions hanging in the closet and stuffed in the painted, white furniture. In my worse moments I want to rip everything to shreds. Today I can’t summon the energy.

            Stepping under the hot stream of water I pop open the bottle of homemade shampoo and take a deep breath. Jasmine. I can’t escape the scent no matter how hard I try. I’ve never smelled the flower in nature, of course. It only blooms in the summer. Shaking slightly and still battling the nagging fear of non-existence, I hide in the shower longer than I should. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a long sleeved, midnight blue t-shirt, I run a brush through my sopping blond hair and brush my teeth before closing my bedroom door.

            Flopping back onto the bed, I pull a necklace from underneath my shirt. It’s the only thing that travels with me, besides the clothes on my back. The gold chain is delicate, like I could snap it with no effort at all. A small, four-pointed star, no bigger than my thumb, dangles off the chain. It’s some sort of black jewel littered with gold flecks, and I handle it carefully as I pry it open and pull out of tiny, folded square of paper lodged inside. This is my ritual, on the day I travel.

            Unfolding the paper, rubbed soft by hundreds of handlings, my eyes caress the words I’ve read so many times before.

            Althea-

You feel different because you are Something Else. You are not alone, though. There are more, and you will find each other when it is necessary. In the meantime, trust no one.

                                                                                    Koj

            I have no idea who Koj is or why this note is scrunched inside my necklace. If it weren’t addressed to me I would assume it is a mistake. But my name is on it, and I do feel different. Sighing, I fold the paper up exactly like it was before, the only way it will settle back into the small space inside the locket. Reading it helps me feel less alone, even though that’s what I am. It also reminds me to hide the ways I am different, for they are obvious if I don’t work at concealing them.

            “Thea! Ten minute warning!”

            Gritting my teeth, I head down the stairs. Landing at the bottom, I turn left and walk through the doorway into the small, cold kitchen. I take my seat at the round, maple table across from Mr. Morgan. He smiles at me and I force myself to return it. There is nothing special about him, nothing that would never make you remember his face. His hair and eyes are exactly the same shade of brown, and a mustache sits on his upper lip.

            “Good morning, Thea. Have some pancakes. You’ll need to be out the door in eight minutes in order to make it to school on time.”

            Neither of them seems to notice that I’ve been away. I don’t know exactly when I was here last, but I think it has been a while. He just looks back down at his own plate, finishing off a stack of cranberry pancakes doused in honey. I have to admit, the cranberry pancakes are one of the better things about the Morgans. It’s one of their Markers. It could be worse. I scarf three pancakes, two pieces of turkey bacon, and down a glass of orange juice before standing up and carrying my plate to the sink. I’m not hungry. I eat because that’s what is expected. What’s normal.

Mrs. Morgan is washing dishes by hand, a white, frilly apron tied around her slender waist. I slide an arm around her and kiss her smooth, peachy cheek, a stray piece of graying hair tickling my neck. My lips smiles as my stomach heaves and the cranberry pancakes threaten to make a curtain call. I do the same to Mr. Morgan, and head out of the kitchen toward the front door. On the way I pass two shelves and a table full of family photos. All of the ones of me were taken in the fall. The Morgans never mention it. I guess they don’t think its weird. I don’t ask.

 My backpack waits on a hook next to the front door, worn and smelling slightly like stale sweat. I might have left it there when I got home last night. If I had been here last night. I grab it and slide it over my shoulders. It weighs nearly nothing, and I know it contains only identification and extra pencils. Everything else will be at the school.

Opening the front door, I breathe in the crisp, cooling air of the fall. The sun is out, but its rays are just lukewarm instead of hot, the way they were yesterday in the waning springtime. The temperature is pleasant in its own way, probably around sixty degrees. For me, it’s a bit chillier than I like and I wish I’d grabbed a sweater. I just can’t make myself turn around and go back in that house right now. Instead I turn down the sidewalk that will take me to the high school, where I suppose I’ll be a senior. Like it makes a difference. I have no friends at Danbury Prep School. I don’t have friends anywhere.

"I have made but one mistake."

In relationships, timing is everything. At least, that’s what they say. It’s probably true. Just ask Berenice. In hindsight, falling in love with the Roman general (soon-to-be Emperor) just after he sacked your country and killed close to a million of your people was probably not the best idea.  But since when has that had anything to do with love?

            The Romans were the victors in 70 C.E. As the ones left standing, it was their job to write down what happened. Unfortunately, what that means is only their versions of events remain. Several contemporaries of Titus and Berenice told the story of their affair. None of them referred to it as ‘love.’ The Jews were not in vogue, given the fact they had just instigated a lengthy and expensive war. As I stated previously, the Herods weren’t exactly Jews, but they weren’t exactly Romans either. Berenice actually gave large sums of money and threw around a substantial amount of influence to get Vespasian the job of Emperor. Her motivations were questioned and good will turned against her in the months and years to come.

            You might remember a woman named Cleopatra. According to Roman history, Cleopatra was a deceitful, conniving, power hungry, foreign woman whose female wiles nearly destroyed the moral fiber of Rome forever. Sound exaggerated? It always has to me. Disease, pirates, bandits, inbreeding, internal power struggles, and hundreds of armies were no match for the solid foundations of Rome, but one woman…she was going to ruin everything? It may sound silly, but the Romans in 70 C.E. were weaned on those stories of Cleopatra, and they harbored an inherent and intense dislike of foreign (especially Eastern) women. The attitude spilled over to Berenice.

            Shortly after Titus returned to Rome, Berenice and her brother followed. She lived with Titus in the Emperor’s palace, and by all accounts acted as his wife in every way. Cassius Dio (Roman History, LXV) even goes so far as to say she had been promised marriage by 75 C.E.  Several writers (aka, historians) of the time noted their relationship, and all agree it dissolved when Titus caved to political pressure and sent her away. Berenice returned one more time, perhaps at his request, when he assumed the throne after the death of his father in 79 C.E. She stayed only a few short months before he was again forced to send her back to Judea. His image and his effectiveness suffered due to her presence, forcing his hand.

Berenice was unpopular for all the same reasons as Cleopatra. In addition to long standing rumors she and her brother practiced an incestuous relationship, she was cast in the role of the power hungry woman who would stop at nothing to marry Titus and rule over Rome. Politicians, playwrights, philosophers, and cynics publicly slandered her character. It would have been nearly impossible for Titus and to recover and polish her image. Titus died unexpectedly in 81 C.E. after ruling for only two years. He is remembered, along with his father, as one of the most well liked Emperors in Rome’s history. His short two-year rule was dotted with major events. The eruption of Mount Vesuvius and destruction of Pompeii. A massive fire burned a large portion of the city, including important landmarks. He completed and opened the Coliseum, a project begun by Vespasian. He did his best, stayed cool in the face of adversity, put the people first, and knew how to kick back and relax. Berenice disappeared from the historical record after Titus dismissed her for the last time.

There is absolutely nothing to suggest Berenice was after Titus for any reason other than love. There is also nothing to suggest she wasn’t after him for his power and influence, like the Romans believed. Precious little information remains regarding Berenice at all. She was powerful in her own right, a fact attested to by her contemporaries. That a woman was mentioned in official record at all (especially by the always misogynistic Paul) is proof she was both influential and respected. So were the (all male) historians leery of her because she was a beautiful, powerful woman, or were their suspicions founded in fact? As a female, I know one thing. For all his admirable traits, Titus was the last man in the world Berenice should have fallen for. Historically, she was devoted to her people, and loving him was an egregious betrayal. Also, being rejected not once, but twice, smacks of real love. Especially for a proud and powerful woman used to having her own way. She had plenty of money, comforts, and influence in Judea. I just can’t see her going to him a second time for any other reason than actually needing to be by his side. Maybe I’m wrong. I’m not a power-money-prestige hungry woman myself, so perhaps you think I just don’t understand her. For some reason, though, I have always felt as though I do.

Titus’ last words were allegedly, “I have made but one mistake.” The historians (all men, remember?) believed he regretted allowing his younger brother to live after an ill-conceived assassination attempt. The romantic in me, the woman in me, wants to believe he referred to Berenice. That the only regret he had was giving in to the pressure, for choosing his country over true love. He wasn’t the first person to do so. He certainly wasn’t the last, either. After all, his actions seem to point toward real feelings as well. He knew how his advisors and the public felt about her. Why ask her to come back a second time? For what other reason than he needed her, missed her? It’s the never-gets-old-ill-fated-lovers tale. Romeo and Juliet. Heathcliff and Catherine. More recently, Edward and Bella (except they got the happy ending). Why does that story never get old? My guess is because most people can relate to it. If timing is everything, most of us have experienced a relationship that would have been amazing…five years earlier. Ten years later. If he wasn’t the Emperor of Rome. If he wasn’t undead. If his family didn’t hate mine. If he wasn’t a dense asshole (oops, how did that one get in there?).

I love the story of Titus and Berenice because it’s real. Even through the gauzy curtain dotted with sparse details, I can feel their pain. I believe it was real, their love. I can’t wait to keep writing so more people will know them and feel the exquisite anguish that must have been theirs. For poor Titus, whom I have always liked, but mostly for Berenice. After all, she’s had her mouth sewn shut on the subject for two thousand years. I can’t wait to rip those ugly black stitches out of her lips and give her a voice, a story, and the chance to finally tell her side.

(Look for a peek at my version of Titus and Berenice's beginnings in my next post)

Setting the Stage

           While deeply immersed in piles of research, I am overcome with resentment. Armed with my fury at the unfairness of it all, I scribbled down a defense of Berenice, a woman who is a historical character as well as one of the main characters in the novel I am currently writing. Since it is a subject I am passionate about, my scribbles went on for ages, and the piece refuses to fit into a proper blog-length. So I decided to break it into chunks, using this one to set the historical stage for my upcoming rabid, vociferous, defense of Berenice’s character.

            69 C.E. – Rome is engaged in a war with the Jews. It is not the first, or the last, but it will be the most bloody. A man called Vespasian is the general in charge, and is slowly fighting his way through Judea to the capital, Jerusalem. Back in Rome, the elite families that have been ruling for centuries, the Julio-Claudians, have run out of legitimate heirs. This leaves the job of Emperor up for grabs and the city in an uproar.

            Vespasian is from a family called the Flavians, part of the ‘new’ elite, one of many ‘common’ families that have risen in power and influence over the past four generations. The elite class is in desperate need of unpolluted blood, and families like the Flavians are going to be the answer. 69 C.E. will be known as the ‘Year of the Four Emperors,’ as different generals and their armies to attempt coup after coup. In the end, Vespasian is the one left standing, and he travels from the front in Jerusalem back to Rome in late 69 to assume power. He leaves his eldest son, Titus, in charge of finishing what he has begun.

            The rulers of Judea, appointed by Rome, are the Herodians. In 69 C.E., the King is Agrippa II, great-grandson of Herod the Great. He is not married, and he and his sister Berenice rule equally as King and Queen. This fact is attested to by numerous writers, including New Testament writer Paul. The Herodians were not terribly popular among the Jewish people because of their close association with the Romans. Both Berenice and Agrippa cared deeply for their people, however, and tried without success to get them to relent in their opposition of Rome. There were too many zealots, too many who urged their countrymen to fight, to not pay taxes, to never give in. On one occasion Berenice nearly lost her life to a mob outside of Jerusalem when she traveled there to try and speak out against the violence and rebellion.

            70 C.E. - No one could influence the Jews to stop in their fight against their perceived oppressors and occupiers and they went to war with Rome. Which, as we all know, is an ill-advised course of action. Titus stopped the import of food into Jerusalem, starving the millions trapped inside the walled city during Passover. When his army finally attacked, the people were weak. The Romans, fired up from days of waiting, let the bloodlust take over and killed approximately a million men, women, and children in a few hours. Berenice cropped her hair and dressed as though in mourning while she watched the wholesale slaughter of her countrymen.

            The Jewish Temple was considered one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Allegedly, Titus gave orders that the Temple be left intact, but lost control of his men and it too was destroyed in the heat of the moment. The war was over in a matter of days, both the city and the spirit of its people temporarily disabled. Titus swept through Judea, enjoying his spoils and annihilating smaller pockets of resistance before returning to Rome in triumph.

            My work in progress takes place partially during these years, and both Titus and Berenice are integral characters in my story. Sometime, somehow, during this year of upheaval, blood, death, and betrayal, Titus and Berenice managed to fall in love with each other. In my next post I will explore both the facts and popular gossip surrounding their affair, as well as the possibility that love can overcome us, even in a time of unimaginable hate.

(Photo is a bust of Titus)