Night Vision
June 30, 2024 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as paranormal, short fiction, writing
The night the eyes appeared in the window for the fourth time was the night Casie moved to the guest room, leaving Benjamin to sleep alone in the master.
He laughed at her the next morning. “You were dreaming. There’s nothing out there but a few deer, maybe a raccoon.”
She stirred sugar into her coffee and frowned. “They were glowing—the eyes.” She shivered at the memory, now running on a loop through her brain. “Our bedroom needs blinds or drapes—something to give us privacy.”
The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a dramatic hillside of wildflowers, studded with hemlock and pine, a captivating view during the daylight hours. But at night, the blackness beyond the glass made her uneasy.
“The eyes were … glowing?” He chuckled. “Some dream, sweets.” He drained his mug and shoved back from the table. “See you tonight.”
She noted that he’d ignored her request.
They both loved the light, airy feel of the house. The wood floors, the kitchen with its cute eating nook, the guest room tucked into the second story—every aspect said this was a place they would be happy in.
And they had been, over the last seven months since moving in.
Until the eyes.
Casie slept lightly on a good night, and tossed and turned on a bad one. Benjamin barely stirred on his side of the bed, even during fierce thunderstorms that had her wide-eyed until the last rumble receded.
A month ago, as summer burst onto the hillside behind the house, Casie saw the eyes for the first time. Benjamin had been out of town and she was reading in bed. She sensed that someone was watching her, but the darkness beyond the windows showed nothing; the shine from the bedside lamp masked any details. Switching off the light, she waited for her vision to adjust.
There, about four feet off the ground, a pair of golden eyes glowed.
With a yelp of fear, Casie fled the room. She spent the next three nights that Benjamin was away lying on the living room couch, the drapes drawn, willing herself to sleep. During the day, she struggled to sit for more than a few minutes at her laptop. She had an article to write, but couldn’t concentrate, jiggling her foot, pacing through the house, stopping to study the yard from the master bedroom’s windows. The hillside beyond was benign, peaceful, lush and green.
When her partner returned, Casie weighed how to tell him what had happened but ultimately opted to say nothing. She began to discount what she’d seen. Had there been something staring at her? Their property was far from any neighbor—that was one of its appeals. An animal—even a bear—posed no threat as long as it stayed on the other side of the glass.
Benjamin was back home for a week before she next spotted the eyes. They had made love in the dark, then turned away from each other to sleep, he facing away from her—and the windows.
She muffled a gasp at the golden eyes, this time positioned higher up, maybe five or six feet from the ground.
“Sweets, what’s wrong?” he mumbled, already drifting into dreamland.
The eyes held their position and slowly blinked. Casie pulled a pillow over her head and closed her eyes. It’s outside, outside, outside. She repeated the mantra silently to herself.
The third night she saw them, she woke Benjamin.
“Something’s out there,” she whispered.
“Where?” He propped himself up in bed.
The eyes, which had appeared only a few feet off the ground, faded away.
“Never mind,” she said.
Sleep would be futile that night, but she took comfort in Benjamin’s soft snoring beside her.
#
Over a dinner of chicken salad, Casie listened to Benjamin recount his day. When it was her turn, she sighed. Her stomach felt as tightly coiled as an overwound watch, with her jiggling left foot the ticking second hand.
“I got nothing done today.” She stabbed a chunk of chicken with her fork. “It’s the weird eyes—I am so freaked out I can’t sit still.”
He shook his head. “This is how you get me to do what you want about those damn windows, isn’t it?”
“I’m not making it up.”
He carried his plate to the sink. “Here’s what I’ll do. When we’re ready for bed, I’ll go out, scout around with a flashlight, make sure we’re safe.” The way he said safe carried a whiff of belittlement.
True to his promise, Benjamin made a show of traipsing through the grasses and wildflowers that grew near the house, while Casie watched from the bedroom. He swept a high-power flashlight across the area, then stepped back inside the room through the glass door.
“Not a spooky thing out there, sweets.”
“Whatever,” she said, resigned that he would never believe her.
At his suggestion, they traded sides in the bed that night; he would sleep closer to the windows.
Perhaps it was that switch, or the effect of her emotional exhaustion, but she fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.
When she woke later, her phone said it was nearly two-thirty. In the dimness of the bedroom, she grasped two things: Benjamin was not in bed, and the glass door to the outdoors hung open.
“Benjamin?” she called, but softly, now aware of yet a third thing: The glowing eyes were in the room with her.
The following anthologies contain some of Dianna’s short stories:
Update on my edits to the sequel to ‘Sisters At War’ called ‘Sisters of the Resistance’ by Jina Bacarr
June 11, 2024 by Jina Bacarr in category historical, Jina’s Book Chat, Paris, sexual assault, sexual violence, World War 2, Writing tagged as #sexual assault, historcal, Paris, sequel, sexual violence, sisters, women, World War 2Ah, yes, the notes to Sisters of the Resistance I wrote about last month — I swear I didn’t sleep for a week getting everything in place — fleshing out some scenes, etc, but I did it. And I slept for a week… well, not really, but it felt like it.
And what’s really wild is that I’ve been dreaming the ending over and over again! I was so pleased (and so is my editor) with how the story of the Beaufort Sisters wraps up, I can’t let it go. Much like that trip I remember to Disneyland for Grad Nite (remember those?) where you can’t get off the Teacup Ride. You just keep spinning round and round…
So, what is the next step?
Copy edits.
This is where your copy editor goes through your story and finds all the little things you missed and asks you questions to make sure you’ve got it right. This is especially important in writing historicals. It’s got to be accurate. (e.g. when were Jewish people forced to wear the Yellow Star in Paris? Why were people sent to Drancy Prison? Did the Nazis ever send deportees to Poland by regular train and not cattle car?)
The trick is, to add just enough ‘spice’ to the story without taking away the flavor (remember the running thread in “Meet Me in St. Louis’ where the Smith Family keeps tasting the homemade ketchup aka tomato sauce?). You want to satisfy the reader without adding too much.
Writing the sequel to ‘Sisters At War’ (Paris WW2 — the story of two sisters and how sexual assault on a sister by the SS affects both their lives),
It’s also the story of the women of the French Resistance.
Brave women who never looked back when it came to defending their homes, their children, their men. They suffered, they died… and they survived, too. Eve and Justine Beaufort are two such women.
On a personal note, I am so proud to bring you the story of the Beaufort Sisters — I’m more like Eve, the student, the scientist, adventurous. I always wanted to be like Justine — the glam sophisticate! And what I love most is the strong bond between the two sisters that makes them stronger even when they seem to be on different sides…
LINK to more info on Sisters At War and Sisters of the Resistance
Who are the Beaufort Sisters?
They’re beautiful
They’re smart
They’re dangerous
They’re at war with the Nazis… and each other.
BONUS The Orphans of Berlin in French coming June 19th!
Food and Fiction
June 10, 2024 by Tari Jewett in category Charmed Writer by Tari Lynn Jewett, Writing tagged as Beach reads, fiction, food, romcoms, SummerI’m working on a new romcom, and as the story unfolds, I realize that food plays an important role in all of my stories.
Not surprising as a former food columnist, and photo shoot ‘chef’. I raised three boys, four if you count Hunky Hubby, all who loved food. A lot of my life has been centered on cooking and planning menus. I think that in most cultures food is the center of family and friends. My childhood family sat at the dinner table together every night, and we did the same when we raised our boys. Holidays revolve around tables laden with foods, whether homemade, catered, or from a favorite shop or restaurant. And friends get together for Brunch, lunch, dinner…coffee.
So, as I write, I see and smell the food that my characters put on their tables. In the #HermosaForTheHolidays series, the main characters often meet at The Beach Break, a little coffee shop on the Hermosa Beach Promenade. The Beach Break is fun for me, because the owners are two brothers, who experiment with new recipes from time to time, which has me looking through my recipes, through my approximately 200 cookbooks (it used to be more, but I’ve culled each time I move), scouring the internet, and looking at restaurant menus for new ideas. This often sends me to the kitchen to try something new.
In Love and Mud Puddles cooking is the focus of the plot, and Hannah, the main character’s quest for the perfect Christmas Cookie. Hannah doesn’t bake, she doesn’t cook, her oven is another place to store things. But, Christmas cookies are so important, that she’s determined to learn…and maybe find love along the way.
You don’t’ have to be a chef, or even a home cook to love food, or to love romance!
If you’re looking for a summer beach read, I hope you’ll check out #FireworksInTheFog, part of the #HermosaForTheHolidays series to get you set for 4th of July, and summer romance.
And I thought I’d share one of my favorite summer potato salad recipes. I love it as part of a meal, but I’ll eat a bowl as a snack as well!
I’d love to hear your favorite summer foods, and feel free to share a recipe! And if you try this one, let me know how you like it.
Horseradish Potato Salad
1 ½ pounds red potatoes
1/3 cup mayonnaise (I use low fat)
1/3 cup sour cream (again, I use low fat)
2-3 tsp. prepared horseradish (not sauce)
¼ tsp. salt
½ tsp. pepper (or pepper to taste)
¼ tsp. garlic powder
½ small onion, minced
2 stalks celery, minced
Place potatoes in a large pot and cover with water. Bring to a boil, and cook 15- 25 minutes, or until tender. Drain, and cool.
Add mayonnaise, sour cream, horseradish, salt, and pepper to a mixing bowl. Stir until well combined.
Dice the potatoes, leaving the peel on and place them in a large bowl. Add onions, celery and dressing. Stir gently, until combined. Cover and refrigerate for 2- 24 hours to allow flavors to blend.
Serve.
Makes 6 servings.
0 1 Read moreTime To Revisit An Old Friend
June 5, 2024 by Tracy Reed in category WritingOMG! I forgot it was blog post time. I have been in the writing cave pushing to finish a book that should have been finished several months ago. I feel so bad about doing a repeat blog, but this one fits into something I’m about to do…reread one of my books.
How many times have you reread one of your books? When I reread my books, I discover things I missed. I also evaluate the progress of my writing. I challenge you to reread something from your backlist. You might discover glitches or want to make a few tweaks. As writers, we’re quick to change the covers but ignore changing the story. Read the oldest book on your backlist and ask yourself what would you change.
I hope you find this post helpful. See you next month.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
“HAVE YOU EVER REREAD YOUR OWN BOOK?”
Happy pre-spring. It’s almost time to shed the winter gear and replace it with light weight fabrics.
A couple of months ago, after I completed my Goodreads reading goal for 2017, I got the urge to read one of my own books as a reader…a fan. It was never my intention to “edit” it. But sixty plus pages into reading the print copy, I spotted a typo. I was all set to ignore it. But then I spotted another one. When I finished, I had eight typos. Crap.
I like the story and wanted to continue reading the series. The second book was worse. It felt like the typos wouldn’t stop coming. I couldn’t believe I released a book with so many typos.
This little exercise made me aware of something…not every book is free of mistakes. As a creative, it’s difficult to wrap my head around the fact that I could have been so careless…unprofessional…and a host of other adjectives I care not to use.
So here’s my question. Have you ever read your own book for pleasure? Did you enjoy the story as much as when you wrote it?
This wasn’t the first time I’d read one of my books, but it was the first time, I experienced this many typos. I have no idea how I missed the typos.
Something amazing occurred from this exercise. I saw my growth as a writer. Of course I’m going to fix the typos. But although it’s only been a little over a year since I wrote the books, I was tempted to go back and mature them up. By that I mean, I could have gone in and changed the writing style to be reflective of my growth as a writer. But if I did that, it could effect the tone of the book and the series.
Did I enjoy the story when I read it again? Yes, I immediately wanted to read the next book in the series, which I did. I can honestly say, it’s horrible. Because the story was written when I started writing. It’s filled with so many mistakes, it’s embarrassing. Here’s the sad thing, when I wrote it, I thought it was good. Fast forward and I couldn’t even finish reading it.
It’s been a couple of weeks since I finished reading the books and I am faced with the inevetible…end the series. Or re-write the book.
What would you do?
First Step
May 30, 2024 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as Feathers, First step, wings
From the fourteenth floor of Kaitlin’s apartment building, the view of the atrium was breathtaking, even gut-wrenching, especially if you were terrified of heights, which Kaitlin was. Because of that, she lived on the second floor, just high enough to feel the thrill of looking down onto the atrium’s floor, but not paralyzing.
Floor 2 was also safe enough for her son, Zeke, all of seven. He wasn’t a climber, so she didn’t have to worry about him falling from the overlook. He was content to peer through the balusters, or on tip-toe, peek over the top rail. Occasionally, he would beg her to take him up to the fourteenth, the top floor, so he could ooh and aah at the building’s lobby floor far below.
“We’ve already been up there once this month,” she said, when he asked for another look only a week after they’d ridden to the top that May. “Other people live up there. We don’t want to be bothering them, or the management will restrict who can visit.”
“Oh, Mom!” He pouted and ran to his room.
What she didn’t tell him was that she frequented the top floor during the day when he was at school. On a break from her home-based editing work, she would ascend to the upper floor and fantasize about standing on the top rail, spreading her imaginary wings and gliding down. In her dream-state, she pictured landing at the bottom with a whisper touch of her feet.
One morning, a woman with frizzy red hair surprised Kaitlin by appearing at her side without warning, making her jump. “You sure come up here a lot.” The woman was early fifties, with frown lines, freckles, and green eyes. “If you’re on a suicide mission, I’d rather you take it somewhere else.”
Kaitlin felt her face grow warm, in opposition to the coldness of the stranger’s voice.
“I just love the view,” she said, quickly turning to walk to the elevator.
“Well, so do I. That’s why I leaped at the chance to rent up here.” The woman watched her narrowly. “No pun intended. If you like it so much, tell management you want the next opening on fourteen.”
Not willing to admit to her acrophobia to this woman, Kaitlin opted for a gesture of friendliness. “I’m Kaitlin, down in 203.” She thrust her hand out and looked the woman straight in the eye. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your floor.”
The woman blinked at her for several moments, and the frown on her forehead smoothed away. She glanced down and then back to Kaitlin, and slowly extended her own hand to shake. “Chris,” she said. “You’re not intruding. We’re all tenants.”
Chris hesitated, and Kaitlin checked her watch. “I’ve got to run,” she lied. “My son will home from school soon, and I’ve got a work project to finish.” She would come back another time, when Chris wasn’t there to snoop.
Before she could turn again for the elevator, Chris stopped her. “Wait. I have something I think you could use. I’ll be right back.”
Kaitlin stood at the railing, idly running her fingers along the metal. She heard a rustle of softness and spun around.
“Here.” Chris held an armful of . . . feathers? The bundle overflowed her arms and trailed to the floor. Mostly grays and whites, but with flashes of teal. “I haven’t used these in several years. They’ll fit you; we’re both about the same size.”
“What is this?” Kaitlin reached out and stroked the feathers. They were synthetic and strong. “A costume?”
“Better.” Chris shook out parts of the bundle. “Try them on. I’ll help you.”
Together, with Kaitlin following Chris’ instructions, they fastened the pieces to Kaitlin’s arms and torso. When every bit had been strapped and buckled in place, Chris smiled, a sadness in her eyes. “They’re perfect on you. I want you to keep them.”
“To do what with?” Kaitlin felt awkward in the outfit, like a circus performer in a Big Top act. “Am I supposed to be a chicken?”
Chris laughed. “Not a chicken. More of an albatross or eagle, a bird with a broad wingspan. I could see it in your eyes. You want to glide down from here. This will let you slowly spiral your descent.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not a bit.” Chris straightened a section, tightened a strap. “Try them.”
Kaitlin’s stomach churned; this interaction couldn’t be real. “You’ve used these . . . wings?”
“Don’t worry. They’ll support you fully. The hardest part is the first step. After that, easy as pie.” She considered for a moment. “Watch out for the fountain in the center, though. Aim to land anywhere but that.”
A deep panic set in, and Kaitlin fought to calm her breathing. Part of her wanted to run for the elevator, ripping off the feathers as she went. The other part, despite the terror of free fall, wanted to witness the sensation. She had imagined this for weeks on end, and now it was happening.
“You’re sure these work?” Kaitlin half-hoped Chris would burst out laughing with a “fooled you!” response.
“Let me help you up.” Chris didn’t seem to have heard her. She stood at the rail, her hand out. “Remember to extend the wings fully, grip the supports firmly with each hand. Relax your hips and legs. Keep your head up so you can see where you’re going.”
Kaitlin took a deep breath and flexed her arms. “Got it.” Far below, the tiered fountain splashed and gurgled. A few tenants chatted at its periphery, unaware of the miracle poised to launch above them.
She stepped off and was airborne.
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