What if...a writer's passion

I love the game What if? To a writer it's the gas for our creativity. Finding that what if notion and.... 



 

Writing is an opportunity to be anywhere in the world with people I adore- the characters. My characters. After all, they are my babies. I gave them their physical appearence as well as characteristic traits that appeal to me. And if I'm lucky, to those who read my stories.

My novella, Night Bird, actually was inspired by a song. A haunting melody filled with beautiful lyrics about a woman who found a man down on his luck in New Orleans and she took him in. The words in the song claim she taught him how to fly. So, she must be paranormal, right? Part of the undead. And that's how my what if took flight.   :  ) 

 

The afterlife…or new life, as I like to think of it. And that got my writer’s muse considering all kinds of things that could be possible if only we believe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s an excerpt from the short story Night Bird.

 

 

 

A crashing wave knocked Emma off her feet and plunged her beneath the water, grains of sand biting her skin as the gushing tide tossed her upon the shore. She struggled to break the ocean’s grip, her sodden skirt throttling her ankles as she tried to stand. Another rushing wave pushed her to her knees. A heavy object slammed against her side and drove them both aground.

     A man.

     Foamy bubbles gathered in a small pool of water where his body lay indented in the sand. Her heart roared in her ears, drowning out the pounding surf. In the past, she’d witnessed countless felons jump ship rather than face the adversity of chains, starvation, and brutal prison beatings. Many saw the island’s wide cove as a passage to freedom and often died trying to swim across.

The dark shape lay unmoving beside her. After only a brief glance she knew he was different. He had strong, classic feature and a think robust body. She couldn’t squelch her curiosity. Who was this man? A ship’s captain, perhaps? Or a meager fisherman with a run of bad luck? Maybe he’d ignored the dangerous winds and threatening clouds, driven by the greed she’d seen in eyes of other men. Fishing boats of all sizes had been destroyed upon the deceptive coral reefs, led on by the tempestuous sea witch that lured them beyond the next horizon.

      Emma pushed aside the drenched charcoal locks covering the man’s eyes and revealed thick brows and a strong forehead. His cheeks bore stubbles of whiskers.

   The white tailored shirt, although frayed and worn, was that of a whaleman sailor, its hem floating up to expose heavy, coarse trousers. Suddenly, his fingers caught the fabric of her bodice and gave the slightest tug to draw her near.

      “Help me,” he pleaded, his voice barely more than a whisper as his arm dropped to his side.

       Moisture blurred her vision at the helplessness she’d heard, the desperation that filled his eyes. She blinked back tears. How much longer must she witness death? Emma was unable to actually save life, but could offer a brief reprieve for the tormented lost one. Usually the men she encountered were the blackest of the lot: convicts, murderers, and thieves were among those needing her most.

         But this man’s appearance didn’t seem to be that of a weak or starved convict. Instead, his body looked firm, reasonably fit. Perhaps the made his living on the water. Lately, she’d witnessed many Yankee whalers drawn to the Pacific, all eager to fill their casks with valuable sperm oil.

     His breath came out weak and unsure as his chest labored and fell. A strong will to survive etched deep across his face and the vulnerable expression played on her heart. He was someone’s son, perhaps a father, but clearly a man unable to let go. With each painful gasp, his eyes pleaded, asking the impossible.

    But she knew…death was inescapable. It was the after life she hoped to change.  Already the icy water had stiffened his body, his breathing faltered. Emma measure each one his last. Even if she did manage to warm him, he would die of fever, the life-taking chill never leaving his body.

      He’d asked for her help…but was his need to survive strong enough to carry the burden to eternity?

    Precious seconds passed. The uneven rise and fall of his chest warned her it was nearly too late. Is she didn’t decide soon, he’d be left to face the judgment he’d earned in life without having the chance to reconcile whatever desperate burdens were holding him back.

     Emma lowered her head. No breath came from his lips, his eyes faded as death stole over him. Swiftly, she pressed her lips against his neck; a metallic taste filled her mouth when she pierced his skin. It took only seconds to exchange his blood with the substance flowing in her veins. The wind howled in protest and sprayed them with a mist of salt-drenched water while the waves crashed around them.

     It seemed forever and then…he moved.

     “My crewman. Where is my crew?” he whispered.

    Although his eyes shone with gratitude, would he still be grateful after learning the conditions of his survival?