Tag Archives: love

“Boston Strong” – G&L’s 3rd Birthday

A lot of you might know that I’m from Massachusetts, so you can probably understand that I’ve been glued to the television recently.  The bombing at the marathon and the subsequent shootout and manhunt were hard to avoid, even in Florida.  They were everywhere.  Watching the news teams across half a dozen networks cross-checking with one another, getting things wrong, exaggerating, recanting, apologizing, re-reporting–it was nerve wracking.

Worse?

Waiting on Monday for the phone calls, text messages, and Facebook updates from people that I cared about was agonizing.  But you know what?  It didn’t get easier when I had everyone safe and accounted for.  The people that were affected telling their stories, sharing their fear, and, most of all, helping each other, only made it more important that I stay updated.

When the thousands of photos and video clips flooded the FBI, when people responded and pitched in, and went above and beyond what was called for, I wanted to know more.  I wanted to help.

I’m nowhere near Boston.  I should be, but I’m not.  It’s impossible not to feel helpless when you’re 1500 miles away from the place and people you love in a time like this.  What could I do?  I posted links to the Red Cross on Facebook and urged people to help.

They didn’t need the urging.  Seriously, I’m sure you’ve all seen the reports of people doing everything they could for each other, opening their homes to victims and police officers, feeding and hydrating law enforcement during the manhunt.  It was amazing to me what people will do if given the chance.  Being able to see the good in people in the face of such horror tends to lap at the cynicism in me just a little.

Now, for those of you who don’t think there’s much left to do, that everything is wrapped up and over, you’re wrong.  Those people injured and killed at the marathon are going to have incredible hospital bills, living expenses, and the like.  There’s this charity on InktothePeople.com and there’s one day left to order a “Boston Strong” t-shirt, $15 of the $20 goes to the victims of the marathon bombing.  Ready?

G&L’s three-year anniversary is on Tuesday, and I’m going to ask something of you.  If you’ve ever enjoyed Goggles & Lace, if you still read in spite of my sparse updates, or if you just feel like offering up a random act of charity, order a “Boston Strong” t-shirt.  I would be really moved if any of you ordered one of these t-shirts, a fantastic anniversary gift to G&L.

Be awesome, and pass the link along to others!  There’s one day left!  I already ordered two, one for myself and one for my mother.  I’m excited to be able to wear it around Jacksonville.  Take a lesson from Boston, everyone; it’s only $20.

Thank you all!

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Happy Birthday, G&L!

Today, two years ago, in my crappy apartment with the slanted floor, G&L was born.  At first, I didn’t really have a direction.  I had no plans to be anything more than a fiction dumping ground, and now I have readers and friends that have helped me down my road in writing and in life, and I’m grateful for every single one of you.

In this next year, I plan to have another series up and running, the contest in May finished, and G&L to be its own domain.  In fact, I hope to have all of those things accomplished within the next two weeks.  The year beyond that is a mystery, and I hope you’ll all still be with me as I uncover it.

Now, I want to share something really special with all of you.  This is a gift to G&L from a dear friend.  It made me cry, and I hope you all enjoy it.

***

Dear Goggles and lace,

this is probably the best time to admit that I’m not very good at coming up with decent presents. My family and friends long ago told me not to bother with it anymore. I tend to give people the worst things. Once, I gave my father a heart-attack by being born on his birthday. I’ve given my mother a son with a cracked skull on hers years later and my niece got my deployment letter for her 21st. The list with bad presents could go on with a hangover from hell, a broken heart and a bruised ego, but I think the message is clear as they’ve politely asked me to stop giving gifts altogether. Which is good, as it saves me a lot of hassle and bodily harm, but makes for a rather poor visitor on birthday parties.

What to give a website anyway? I’m not technical, not one bit, so I can’t give you fancy fonts, flashy pop-up messages or even a blog post to wish you a happy birthday. A website might not require such things, even. I think a website just wants to be looked at, to be smiled at or perhaps just taken notice of, and Lord knows I’ve done all of that already. A birthday present should be something unique, I think, hence I haven’t given my father a heart-attack again, nor did I crack my skull twice. Small favours, and all that.

Perhaps it would be best to give my present to your founder, but I think it might just get awkward if I were to stare and smile at Kit for a whole day and night.

There’s nothing I can give you, it seems.

That’s not sad.  It might not even result in Kit arching her eyebrow when I turn up empty-handed like my family and friends do on birthday parties, either. It might be fine, as she specifically told me she didn’t want any presents. But it makes me feel like a right tosser, nonetheless.

So, a gift. I’ve thought about writing you a short story about my life here, but they all ended in deserts, dreams and bouncy castles so that might not be the best idea, either. Instead I will give you this story:

People have said a lot of things about my hands, in days gone by.

When I was younger and far smaller than I am now, people told me my hands were made for metal. Gold, silver, copper, nickel and platinum. Strong hands, made to bend those metals into jewelry, like my father’s. Earrings, necklaces, wristbands and eventually even watches. It always made me feel like a million pounds, because when you’re seven years old, you want nothing more than to be just like your father. And my father was a watchmaker. 
I would observe him, endlessly, while he worked on pieces of metal until they somehow melded into beautiful watches. Some fanciful, worn by ladies down the road, shinning and blinking when the light would hit them just right. Others more practical, plain silver pocket watches, slipped into the breast pockets of gentlemen who walked the halls of parliament. Or so I always thought. 
People would pat my hands and nod whenever I told them I would be the best watchmaker in town. My father would grimace, as if in agony. His eyes told me:please don’t, while his mouth told me, you can be anything you like, boy.

Later, people told me my hands were made for mending wounds. Scrapes, gashes, scratches and torn flesh. Gentle hands, made to heal those wound, like Simon’s. The strong watchmaker’s hands became trained in gentleness. Needle and thread, stringing together those scrapes and gashes until there was nothing left but a thin line and later, a faint scar.
Endless hours of studying, perhaps more than my peers because I’m not unusually bright but instead willing to work hard. Doctors would lean over my shoulders, peering at my hands while they tried to be gentle. The doctors would smile at me, and they would tell me that perhaps I wasn’t a lost cause after all.Good hands, they said. There may be hope for you yet.
People were surprised when I told them I was going to be a doctor. They would blink and smirk, because my father was a watchmaker. My first nickname while in uni was Charity. Everybody knew my parents weren’t the ones paying for my degree, and I studied all day and night, and never managed to hold down a job because of that. It didn’t bother me. My father was the one who smiled this time, saying; yes. You will be a doctorThe best one in town.

Still later, people told me my hands weren’t meant to create things or heal, at all. They were steady, strong and precise. Wielding guns, grenades, blades and knifes. Doctor’s hands, covered in gunpowder.
Endless nights and days, filled with adrenaline and boredom. Hurry up, and wait. I didn’t need to study anymore. Instead I spend my days running a thousand laps, doing push-ups and learning every curve and nuance of my equipment. Gentle doctor’s hands on metal, once more. Gleaming, practical metal which always felt warm to my touch.
Sergeants would look at the picture of a man against a board, fingers tracing over the bullets I had fired into its head and heart, and they would smile. Good hands, they would say. 
Welcome aboard, private.
People were shocked when I told them I was going to be a soldier. They would look horrified and scared, because my father was a watchmaker, and I used to be Charity. My father was never horrified, and I don’t think he was scared, either. Instead he was weary and getting old very fast. His eyes would say; don’t. But his mouth always said; I trust you. Come home, when it’s over.

People have said a lot of things about my hands, in days gone by.

No-one has ever told me my hands were made for typing. That doesn’t bother me, not anymore. I’ve got good hands, steady and gentle, rough and strong. A bit callused on the trigger finger, and discoloration were I used to wear Simon’s ring .They’re nothing special, my hands. They mend wounds, wield guns and make mistakes. And in the middle of the night, they sometimes type.
Words, letters, dots and comma’s. Stringing together thoughts, sometimes at random, other times forming true sentences and even stories. Those stories are never plotted, they always just appear on my screen as if summoned by someone else. They’re full of mistakes, spelling errors and bad grammar, but they always reflect what I was thinking at the time, so that’s at least something.
I’ve never told anyone that I am going to be a writer, because I’m not. Everyone already is a writer, in my eyes. The kid who scribbles down notes in class, the man who writes a shopping list and the woman who fills in forms behind her desk all day. Everyone is a writer, and everyone has got a story to tell.

It hardly matters, what my hands are like. They don’t define who I am or what I do. You’re a writer in heart, mind and soul, perhaps, but not in the way your fingers hit the keyboard.

My hands are just tools now. It’s my brain that thought up this present, in the middle of the night, while I was traveling down a dusty road, in danger of buying yet another sheep. (It makes me laugh how you’ll be the only one outside of my world here, who’ll understand what I’m referencing to, just now.) The first draft of this gift is written on my arm, all wrinkly, wonky lines over faint scars from the times I still fell down stairs and off my bike. New over old, stark black ink over pale white skin. I rather like it.

In the end, that’s all I can give you, Goggles and Lace, and you, Kit. Wrinkly, wonky lines, the un-plotted story of my hands and a lot of spelling errors, bad grammar and mistakes. It might not be a proper gift. And if a proper gift, then a bad one. But sitting in the back of a van, or behind a desk, or in my bunk, a thousand miles away, it’s everything I have.

Happy birthday.

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Announcement & Call for Opinions

Salut!  I’m here for advice this time around instead of being the one to give it.  It’s a nice change of pace when I’m not pretending I know absolutely everything, right?  I feel like maybe this will make me more personable.  =P

No, but seriously.  G&L’s 2 year anniversary is coming up on April 22, and I want to put this out in ample time.  What do you think G&L should do for its 2 year anniversary?  I’m a little torn and kind of frazzled about the whole ordeal.

So, tell me, what should I do to celebrate?  The three best responses will be put into a poll on Febuary 14 (yeah, yeah, Valentine’s Day, I know.  But because I’m a barren old spinster, I’m not observing it) and everyone will be able to take a vote.

So, then, what should G&L do to celebrate two great years on the web?  Don’t be shy!  I love suggestions!

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The Staircase by Amino

A friend of mine from the Write Write and Write TinyChat room (where I spend most of my noveling Novembers, because my lovely acquaintances there explode with sprints and wars <3) took a post from my series, Writing Life, and wrote a short story from it!  =O  I do so love being useful.

Really, it’s fantastic.  She wrote the piece in about two hours, with a quick editing run-through.  For something so quickly put together, I’m surprised how well it reads.  The main character’s voice comes across as very measured and nostalgic, almost conversational, as if s/he is just so destroyed emotionally that s/he can’t help but be detached from his/her own life.

Beautifully emotive if a bit lengthy in some of the narrative, The Staircase is very effective in pulling empathy straight from your guts.  The pain and utter sorrow that this person’s loss instills is very easily felt through the bulk of the story.

Fans of true love and subtly-presented tragedies, this one is for you.

Visit Amino’s blog!

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Writing Life: Be the Author You’d Stand in Line For

No one likes a pretentious writer.

Scratch that… plenty of people enjoy reading the work of pretentious writers….  Unfortunately, those pretentious writers will eventually be roped into a book signing and have to meet their adoring fans.  I can promise you, being a condescending jerk (“Oh, you didn’t like that about my book?  Some people just wouldn’t understand it.”  “You think I write like ‘So-and-So’!?  Ugh…..”) isn’t going to win you any love, bro.  People like authors that don’t treat them like they’re incredibly stupid.  Funny how that works, right?

Let’s say you’re trying to promote your book, or your web series, or what have you… you generally want people to pick up the book and start reading, and, ideally, leave a glowing review on your Amazon page, blog, or website.  That’s how these things are meant to work.  In order to gain that favor, the first step is having an amazing, compelling, from-your-soul piece of fiction (or non-fiction, whatever tickles you), worthy of these people’s time and money.  The second step is to be a decent human being (or at least be able to play one on TV).  What does this entail?  Let’s have a list:

  • If they have questions?  Answer them.  Don’t explain your work in a behind-the-scenes kind of way.  Don’t act like they’re a moron for not “getting it.”  Just answer them in a concise and appropriate fashion.  (“I thought Jason’s last name was Stuart.  Why is it Aaron in Chapter 3?”  “If you read on, in the second half of chapter 3, it’s explained that Jason is adopted.”  That’s it.)
  • Don’t answer “You write like such and such an author!” with anything other than “Thank you” and a smile if you can’t say anything nice.  If that person is praising you, and you’re a dick about it, they may not read another word you write.  If they like James Patterson, and you don’t, it still doesn’t change that they feel they’re complimenting you.  Feel free to ask “What makes you say that?” if you’re curious, just rein it in, huh?  I reiterate: no one likes a pretentious jerk.
  • READ!  There are other struggling authors out there.  Authors just like you who have brand new work out or coming out and desperately need people to read and review them!  Do that.  You don’t have to be asked.  You can just pick up a book from a new author, read, and review it.  Give back what you get.  Taking without giving back makes you a jerk, and what don’t people like?

That’s right.  A pretentious jerk.  Good work.  =]

What are some practices that you take part in to be the author you’d stand in line for?

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LfBH 12: Stitches – revisited

Do you guys remember Stitches?  It was the first flash fiction I wrote involving Phaedra and Tully.  A Letter from Count Malrais was the first, and together, they sparked Letters from Blackford Hill.   I had to add and alter a bit, but here’s Stitches, revisited.  Enjoy. <3

~+~+~+~

“You haven’t even flinched.”

Phaedra’s eyes flicked up to catch a dreamy smile on her friend’s lips, before glancing back down again. The gash on her forearm pinched together at the top when Tully pulled the thread taut, tying off the third in a series of stitches.

“Would you rather I were howling in pain?” asked Phaedra, her voice soft as it always was, though for once a light humor crept into her tone. The woman was always so severe, Tully couldn’t help but worry for her sometimes.

“Of course not,” replied Tully, pressing the point of the curved needle through the split flesh. Still, Phae didn’t react. “I just… admire your strength.”

She was still smiling. Phaedra gave her head a light shake. Tully baffled her sometimes. It was a long fight to get out of that colony, free from the fences and the locks, and rifles trained on them every second of every day; still, Tully smiled. Even when they were captured, bound and carted off to that awful place, Tully still managed to smile. Fiona was left at the edge of the woods, lifeless. Phae knew Tully was pushing back the pain that dwelt there; the pain that exploded from her love when Fiona took that bullet. There were tears, tantrums, fury from everyone else, dozens of others all desperate for answers….

Tully tried to stay on the bright side.

Phaedra wasn’t aware of any bright side.

Their lives had gone completely out of control, all because they had chosen to share an inn room while Phaedra helped Tully find a cure for that awful cough she’d had. Fortunately, the cough was alleviated, but they had hardly gotten their things packed to go back to work at the bakery, when the door came crashing off the hinges—

Phaedra shook her head and sighed. Going back to the bakery seemed useless now. Would they go so far as to wait for Phae and Tully where they worked?

The small town they’d stumbled across in their escape had no knowledge of the horrors of Blackford Hill. They knew only that the government had a compound there, but were left in the dark about what was held within it. The soldiers made it clear that they would shoot anyone on sight if they came snooping around. Now, huddled in yet another inn room, together, though this time accompanied by Silas and Felix—two married couples on holiday? Could they pull that off?—Phae submitted to Tully’s pleas to stitch the gash in her arm, and rub balm on the bruises and scrapes.

It killed Phae to see the blond’s arm wrapped up in blood-stained linen. Tully deserved so much better.

“Done.” Tully started packing up her first aid kit, and Phaedra lifted her arm to look over the other woman’s handy work. The stitches were clean, and the cut wasn’t even bleeding through the gaps.

“Thanks,” murmured Phaedra, and grabbed a strip of cloth that had been torn from Tully’s underskirt, starting to wrap the newly-sewn arm. Torn and used clothing was suddenly a luxury she’d never appreciated before. “Where did you learn to do that, anyway?”

A sad smile was cast over Tully’s shoulder as she tucked her things away. “I wasn’t always a baker, Phae. Somehow, I don’t expect you were, either.”

Their eyes met, and a silence passed between them, understanding and steadying. Something in that silence earned a smile from Tully, and Phaedra’s eyes fell to the fabric on her arm.

“No. Not always.”

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The Economic Value of Writing Original Fiction ~ via Holly Lisle

I had a post planned for today, but I’m saving it for next week.  Let me show you why:

“The Economic Value of Writing Original Fiction” or “a reminder that what you write is never for nothing.”

I urge you to visit that link and read that article.  Not just fiction writers, but creators of all kinds deserve to know that, even if their creations are just a hobby, they’re contributing to their own emotional well-being, as well as the economy and lives of those around them.

What you do matters.  Never forget it.

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The Marvelous Misadventures of Mad Madigan!

BEHOLD, READERS!  The fearsome Mad Madigan!

Mad Madigan

She turns people to stone with her stare!

Fear her!  Safeguard your children!  Swords at the ready!

Fearsome Maddie

But, seriously, what's the point? Look at those teeth. You should probably just run.

Madigan spares no one!  (EventhoughmymothercallsherMaddie…. augh, cuteness. =_=; )  This is me giving you a head start.  Blood is hard to clean out of the internet, and Madigan is very messy when she slaughters the innocent. <3

Welcome home to Mad Madigan!

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LfBH 9.5 – Trials: Phaedra

Tully had told me to keep my head about me, but it was getting harder. Every time she came back inside, in pain, cold and naked—Every time I saw that look of terror on her face when they came in for her—Every time they came for her… I was just letting it happen. The treatments they gave me were different; I couldn’t even stand beside Tully, or with the other girls, young girls who didn’t do anything to deserve this madness.

“What to they do to you when they take you?” she asked one night, curled up in my bed with me. If we were being punished for being together, then we saw no reason to do something that determined we deserved it.

“The same things they do to you, I suppose.” I wondered if she felt me cringe at the question.

“They return you with similar injuries, but they never lead you toward the places they take us. It’s always the same routine… but they lead you toward the overseers office.” Those bright blue eyes turned up to me, and I tried to ignore the way they bore into me. Questioning. Insisting. “You’re lying, Phae. Why?”

I heaved a sigh, my body tight as I tried to keep the nonchalance as apparent as possible. “We’re in a detention camp, Tully…. What do you expect they’re doing to me?”

A pause, and finally she lowered her eyes. I relaxed as her head fell back on my chest. “It just seemed odd.”

I squeezed her gently—always gently—and twirled my fingers slowly through her hair. It was left at that, and I was grateful.

###

“Phaedra!” The bark startled me, and everyone else, from sleep, and I bolted upright in bed, eyes wide.

“It’s really too early for this,” I muttered, rubbing my bruised forehead as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Tully clutched desperately at my shirt, the fabric pulled taut as I tugged away. I heard the faintest, muffled sob, and I knew she was crying into the pillow. It had become routine at this point. No matter how many times I heard her cry, it never hurt any less to know I had to ignore it.

“Get moving,” the guard seethed, his words a growl, lips pulled back over his teeth.

“The overseer’s dogs truly are out in full force today,” I flashed him a smile, “Commendable.” The stars that flashed before my eyes were expected, the chain mail gloves he was wearing were not. I could hear Tully’s screams… somewhere muffled in the back of my head… My vision blurred and the stars cleared, and I realized I was on the floor. Forcing myself to my knees, I looked for her, searching in a disoriented sweep of the room. She was on the bed, Fiona and three other girls pinning her to the wall as she slumped against them, giving in to the restraint.

“She’ll be fine,” Fiona whispered, but Tully’s hysterical sobs didn’t cease.

Hauled to my feet by an iron grip, I felt the world spin beneath me as I fought to gain my footing. Not that I was offered much of a chance to do so before I was shoved forward by that same mitt-like hand. As soon as it released me, the floor slipped from under me, and I went to my hands and knees, hissing at the pain. My knees were already bruised, and now the heels of my hands would match them. Pushing myself up without any help, I staggered onward until my head cleared and I could walk without incident. It was a small victory.

Trudging across the boards that were laid over the muddy ground, I followed the trail to the overseer’s office, a gun muzzle pressed into my back. These games were getting old. These power struggles and taunting, the guns and knives, the screaming residents of Blackford Hill….

No. Not residents, victims.

There were those who deserved their place here, certainly. Rapists, child molesters, those sorts of people. A woman cheating on her abusive husband may have been a moral threat, but how could those who sympathized let her be imprisoned? Was she not entitled to happiness? And the men and women like Tully and me, what moral threat did we pose? We don’t breed like rabbits. There’s no “man of the house” to keep we “silly women” in line. No dutiful wife to cook and clean in a household with two men. The reasoning was asinine, and frogs would rain from the sky before I let them take Tully from me.

“Phaedra Trowden, bastard daughter of Lord Adrian Trowden of Kersa.” The overseer’s voice rippled through me, and I thought my skin might slough off. The chair turned, and a woman in her early fifties stared back at me. The day I’d met the Overseer, I was stunned that it was a woman who could commit such atrocities against good people—I had wanted a fight that day. But she didn’t say a word to me.

‘Take care of her,’ was all she said to my guards. The thought they’d break me. They thought it would be that easy. Since then, every beating and interrogation had been worse than the last. Even lying perfectly still hurt like hell at this point. Though I never let them get the better of me, and when I looked at the overseer, chin tilted up, she glared at me and stood.

“You don’t deny this?”

“Should I? Adrian Trowden has no part in my life. But I was his accident, yes. What are you getting at?” My eyes narrowed, and she met them with equal force, the hatred bubbling between our gazes had even the soldiers shifting uncomfortably.

The overseer stood stiffly and tugged the hem of her jacket to straighten the front. “Let’s not play childish games, Ms. Trowden. You and I both know that you have no claim to any titles, and yet you still carry your father’s surname. There are two reasons a bastard child retains the family name of the father: to be sacrificed as penance to the clergy, or to be sent into the guard. We both know you hardly fit the bill for a life of piety.”

My eyes rolled themselves in an involuntary criticism of her stupidity, and my hands found my hips. “You’re implying I’m an agent in the city guard? I spent a short time in the capital while I was helping my companion recover—“

“You mean your lover.”

“I mean my companion. She was ill. We live above a bakery in Shand, we work for the man who owns it. I’ve never been in the city guard.”

“The King’s guard?”

“No. Nor the local guard, the reserves, or the Holy Order.” My glare never faltered. I didn’t have to know this woman to hate everything about her. Even her eyes were hard. “Whatever reason my father had in giving me his name are unknown to me. I’ve never met the man, and I don’t particularly care to.”

The overseer drew a breath, hands tucking together at the small of her back. “Take her to her knees.”

I knew what was coming, but I didn’t fight it. The butts of two rifles struck each of the back of my knees, and I hit the floor, refusing to go to my hands. It took all of my strength to hold in the moans of pain that welled within me, but she didn’t deserve the satisfaction.

She saw that. And grinned. “You seem well trained to handle interrogation.”

“Am I? And here I thought I was acting out of spite,” I returned, my voice quaking just slightly.

“I want to know who you are, Ms. Trowden. This is your last opportunity to offer the information freely.” She began pacing slowly around me; I watched her feet taking slow methodical steps.

“Go to hell.” I closed my eyes when I spotted a soldier stalking toward me, rifle raised.

Not her head!” The blow didn’t fall. “I want her conscious for this, imbecile!”

I relaxed just slightly, and let my eyes flick open. The soldier had fallen back to his position.

“Apologies, Madam.”

A laugh burst from me, and I lifted a hand to cover my mouth. “Madam? Honestly?” She stared flatly at me, and I dropped my eyes to the floor as I snickered. “A ‘madam’ is the woman who runs a whore house, am I wrong? It does seem fitting, given the nature of this place. How many whores are here, exactly?”

My laughter was not going over well. The woman made one motion before clasping her hands behind her again. The same soldier came behind me and caught me across the back with… I glanced back, coughing, gasping, spittle coating my lower lip. The object was a short wooden club like night patrolmen carried. Outstanding. This was going to be a long session.

“You say you work in a bakery. What do you tell your employer when you have to take long absences?” She leaned close to my face, despite the fact I was still choking while my lungs tried to remember their purpose.

“For what?” I wheezed. The club hit me again, striking my side and I doubled over, clutching my ribs.

“You know.” She smiled. “You know good and well.”

“I work… in a bakery…”

“For an old man who doesn’t know which end is up most times, yes, Ms. Trowden, I know. I’ve done my research. I’ve been giving you the opportunity to be honest with me. And I also know the only reason you’re allowing these treatments—“

Beatings.”

“—is to avoid giving us motive to harm your—what did you call her? Companion?”

My stomach sank. It was only a matter of time before they would use Tully against me, I knew that. I was just hoping I could stall a little longer. They would hurt her. I knew they would. And not like they hurt me. Tully was disposable, but they had dug up enough dirt on me to make me interesting. If I was interesting to them, then I was worth torturing an innocent person over. Not that that was anything new.

“I’ll tell you everything.” My voice felt disconnected from my mouth. “But not yet. I want Tully’s injuries taken care of by a real doctor…. And I want three days to recover.”

An exasperated sigh sounded above me, but I knew she was contemplating it. “You’re in no position to be making demands, Ms. Trowden. Do you think this is a game?”

“Isn’t it? I’m not asking for much…. Full disclosure in exchange for three days and a doctor. You’re interested… because you know what I’m tied to…. you just need to hear me say it.” I shakily forced myself to stand, knees weak and wobbling, one arm protecting my ribs. When I was finally at her height again, I saw the amusement in her face, and the satisfaction that I was backed into a corner. “Kill anyone you want. I’m not saying a word without those three days and that doctor.”

She laughed. I wanted to vomit. “Fine. Take her back to her barracks and summon a doctor. Your friend will be tended. You have no right to the doctor’s services, so I hope you can recover enough in three days to speak. Once you’ve disclosed your little story… I reserve the right to beat that girl to a pulp if it doesn’t satisfy me. Understood.”

“Yes… Madam.” Still I afforded a grin…. and her smile disappeared as she gestured the soldiers to drag me out.

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New Stories, Offers, and Love for My Loves!

Salut!

For starters, everyone loves a new beginning, am I right?  Well, Goggles & Lace is premiering a new weekly series this Saturday called Talion.  Check out the synopsis on the new Talion page!  It’s heading into a weird sci-fi/fantasy cross, as far as I’ve planned it, so enjoy.  =]

Now.  I want to show my readers that I love them.  (Not like you kids didn’t know, yeah? =])  So, I’m currently working on a small compilation of short stories, both from the G&L archives and fresh from my brain, to put together into an e-book.  This very spiffy e-book will be offered to all new subscribers between today and October 31st.  BUT THAT’S NOT ALL!  My current subscribers still have the opportunity to receive my spiffy (as-yet-incomplete) e-book as well!  All you have to do is refer a friend to G&L, have them sign up for email subscription to the blog, and message me with their email address.  =]  You can use any of the media listed on my Contact Page to do this.  I’m hoping to have the e-book completed within the month.  I’ll keep tabs on everyone who subscribes between now and then, and email the e-book out as soon as it’s finished.

***NOTE:  I will never, ever share your email address or send you unwanted messages or spam.  I will use the email address that WordPress provides to send your e-book, and that’s it.  After that, they’ll just be automated messages letting you know when I post content.  You ABSOLUTELY have my word.***

If there are any suggestions you have for content that should be included in the book, don’t be shy about suggesting!

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