Louisiana Snowflake Excerpt #Nanowrimo

Last July, the writers worked on two Dime Store Novel stories. Neither one is quite finished, so they are back at it for the November Nanowrimo. 

Rachelle Reese is working on Louisiana Snowflake a story that takes place in 1905 and 1906. That time was one of the happiest times in my life. However, a dark peril faced New Orleans during that time and my best friend Dylan Worth's future was in jeopardy as 1906 began. 

Here's a short excerpt of what she wrote this weekend:

The creature on the throne just stared at her with unblinking eyes that flitted between her face and her growing belly. A deep throated noise rose from the creature, unintelligible except for one word – unborn.

“Jumbl-iya is pleased with your offering, Seth,” the vulture said. “Come forward and she will reward you.”

The panther slinked forward to the beast on the throne. Sue-Li took a slow step toward the door.

“Stay,” the vulture squealed and rose up, flapping its wings. It was behind her in an instant, its long talons pressing into her shoulders.

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

The talons dug deeper.

The panther sat on its haunches and extended a paw. The creature inserted a syringe under the panther’s fur and pressed the plunger. The panther slunk down to the floor and lay still for a moment.

“Retreat to your room while the pleasure is with you,” the vulture cawed. 

There's a lot going on in Louisiana Snowflake, so I hope you'll check back periodically through the month for little teasers. 

Don't forget, the Dime Store Novel series starts with Rips in the Weave. You can get Rips in the Weave FREE right now at the following retailers:

• Smashwords
• iTunes
• Kobo
• Barnes and Noble (Nook)

Never Disturb a Fairy Ring

Duncan O'Malley

Thanks to my best friend's daughter, Regan Worth, I'm here this St. Paddy's Day to share a warning with you all about the dangers of fairy rings. I felt it only right to pass on the warning I gave my daughter...the same warning my mother gave me, albeit most likely too late. Now some will tell you that a fairy ring is just a fungus that ruins the lawn. Gardening folk will tell you to dig them up and destroy the ring. I will tell you different. Leave them be.

It was a spring day and I was still a lad, living on my parents' farm in Ireland. I was a light-hearted boy and I loved to explore the bog. That's where I saw my first dead body, but that's a story for another day. The day I learned of fairy rings was a rare sunny one. I followed my mother  down to the bog when she went to fetch the butter. I was a wee lad, maybe three or four.

I skipped along beside her, singing:

O-ro the rattlin' bog, 
The bog down in the valley-o
O-ro the rattlin' bog, 
The bog down in the valley-o

I was young enough that I couldn't remember the order of all the things you see -- tree, limb, branch, twig, nest, egg, bird, feather, flea -- so Mum sang along with me. We were on the verse about the bird in the egg when she stopped singing.

"Don't you do that, son."

"What, Mum?" I asked. I saw she'd grown pale and was staring at the ground.

"See those mushrooms?"

"Sure I do. Can we pick some?" I loved mushrooms, even then.

"Not those mushrooms. Those belong to the fairies. If you disturb them, they'll come after you."

I stared at the nearly perfect circle of mushrooms -- perfect except for where I'd kicked one away. It lay there broken and sad. "Do you think they saw me?" I asked.

"Let's hope not." Her voice was stern. She took me by the hand and led me to the bog. "Let's tiptoe the rest of the way so we don't wake them."

And so we did. It might have been that night the nightmares started...or sometime soon after. They have never left me, only changed as time went on. I was still a mostly carefree lad and I never saw a fairy in the bog, but I have to wonder sometimes if they didn't see me kick that mushroom. How else can I account for the bad luck I've had and the things I've seen?  Not that it was all bad. I wouldn't trade my luck in finding Maggie Bloom for all the pots of gold in the universe.

To celebrate St. Patrick's Day, my daughter Mary has asked me to give away copies of Angels in Hell's Kitchen, the story about the first day I met Mary's mum. All you need to do is fill out the form.

I also need to tell you that High Rollers is only 99 cents today through Wednesday. That's a 66% discount from its regular $2.99. By the time High Rollers happened, I had gone on from the physical realm, but I think you'll like the story anyway. Many of the people I loved through life are in it.

Well, I guess I'm off. Thank you Regan for helping me tell my story. I hope a lot of people buy your story this week. It's a great price for a fun tale. Of course, I wish I had been there to help solve the crime, but a ghost can't be everywhere.

Enjoy the rest of the blog hop.I'm sure you will -- It's All Things Irish, so who wouldn't?

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Remembering My Father

Mary O'Malley

This time of year is tough for me even all these years later. First comes Memorial Day when everyone is decorating graves and thinking about the dead. Then comes Father's Day and right on its tail, comes the day I lost my own father, Duncan O'Malley. It was 1925 and I was barely 20. In some ways I blamed myself for what happened...if I hadn't seen that damn mouse...if I hadn't gotten sick. I know now that there was more to it than that...forces at play that I couldn't control...that no one could control. But that's another story for another time. I'm not ready to tell it yet...not in May when June is lurking just around the bend. Instead I'm going to tell another story about my father, about the time I gave him a Gillette razor for his birthday.

Daddy had always shaved with a straight-edge razor and he prided himself on keeping his cheeks whisker free. I loved to feel his smooth face against mine. I had our artist create his portrait and I think he did him justice.

Duncan O'Malley

Anyway, when I was seven years old, I had a nightmare about Daddy shaving with his straight-edge razor. I still remember the nightmare as if I was there. Daddy was standing over the sink, shaving. His eyes were closed, which might sound strange, by that's the way Daddy shaved. With his eyes closed. As he ran the blade across his cheek, a white-gloved hand grabbed his wrist and pulled it down, slicing deep into his neck. The blood spurted out and spattered the mirror. The face that belonged to the hand smiled wide in the mirror – a lipstick painted smile in a clown-white face. Daddy collapsed to the floor and the clown's mouth opened to let out a loud guffaw. I saw a glint of gold – fangs, not teeth – and woke up screaming.

Mother ran into my room and held me as I sobbed out my story. It was her who suggested getting him the safety razor, so I saved up my allowance. I had the man at the drugstore tie it up in comic papers and tie a bow around it. I was so proud and knew Daddy would be happy. Well, he opened the package and made a show of being pleased. But the next time I watched him shave, I noticed he was still using his old straight edge. So I asked him, "Daddy, why don't you use the razor I bought you?"

"A razor's like an old friend, Mary," he said. "I'm not quite ready to part with this one yet. But I will use yours. I promise."

"Please, Daddy." The tears came even though I tried to hold them back. "I don't like that mean old straight edge."

Daddy stopped shaving and bent down comfort me. "Why not, Sweetie?"

The soapy scent of shaving cream rose off his face. I wanted to tell him about my nightmare, but it seemed so silly under the bright vanity lights. "I just don't," I finally answered.

"Okay, my Wary Mary. If it'll ease your mind, I'll put away my old friend for a time."

And he did – for one shave at least. But Daddy hated shaving with the safety razor. It didn't shave close enough and for the first time in a long, long time, he nicked himself. Not one nick, several. He came out of the bathroom, his face covered in tissue paper dots. "Whoever decided to call this bloody thing a safety razor needs a lesson in safety," he muttered.

Me and mother couldn't hold back our giggles. Daddy put that new Gillette back in its box and put it on a high closet shelf, grumbling the whole time. I found it up there after his funeral. The strange thing was, the blade was stained with blood – much more than would be caused by simple nicks. I always wondered whether that blade was used by someone else...for something.