Story Bytes & Flights of Fiction

My blog has moved to FictionMeetsLife.Wordpress.com

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 15:33:00 +0000

It's been a while since I've been able to keep updating my fiction blog. As part of my renewed commitment to you, my readers, I will be doing more to make this site more awesome.

This weekend, I've decided to completely redesign my blog to make it easier, faster, and prettier, which means it has moved over to WordPress.

It has also been renamed, "When Life Happens," because the focus of my novel and short stories is essentially about life, and how we are faced with difficult decisions, hardships, and changes all the time, whether we're ready for them or not. I am also hoping to create more ways for users to comment and participate in discussions in the future.

Thank you for continuing to support my fiction career by following my blog here. Please be sure to follow my fiction blog at the new location: www.fictionmeetslife.wordpress.com.

Living a Life of Purpose ... on Purpose

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 05:41:00 +0000

Ryan, since you’re so loyal to my blog, I have to give you a shout out today. Ever since we had drinks and thought-provoking conversation last Wednesday, the wheels of my creative brain have been turning about the ideals of having “purpose” in life. I feel it is a strong case for the characters (current and future) I intend to shape. Change is such an incredible force that comes with finding purpose, and I think the effects on the supporting characters will be the most compelling of all.

There are many times, and many individuals, who consider “a life of purpose” a luxury. Growing up in a town like Springfield, MO, I learned quickly that some communities operate like clockwork, ensuring that everyone has a job to benefit the whole. A small city built on the foundations of local trades and the notion of “keeping the business in the family,” there is only room for living in survival, or the most basic, mode – fulfilling only the most basic human needs. But is this really the “purpose” – already laid out by generations of tradition and repetitive lifestyles?

Finding purpose often can mean great isolation and loneliness for one person. If your purpose is not shared by the moral principles (or understanding) of your friends, family, or even society, can you have the resolve to walk the path alone? And when do you consider yourself successful? When everyone understands the meaning behind your work, and is able to believe in the rewards of your path?

Some may think becoming a politician is a powerful purpose. Or perhaps, it’s writing a book to influence and/or change public perception and action. Simply living a life that’s your own, undeterred by societal social rules, family expectations, and religious boundaries, could generate a ripple effect larger than a single person could imagine. I think immediately of “American Beauty,” a deep and realistic telling of a man’s path to purpose. By deterring from his old life and discovering a strange, new objective for his life, he inspired only a few (probably more the audience) and left his loved ones confused, resentful, and resistant to the changes that he’d inflicted on them. I believe that’s a strong character on a journey, being able to live in his own enlightened way, and being so completely disaffected by other forces.

If you knew me as a writer, you'd have me committed.

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 03:41:00 +0000

The writer’s blessing and curse: his or her own writing process. Trust the process. Believe in the process. But truly, if anyone else knew the process of a writer, they’d have you committed. It’s completely unlike any other way of life out there. Even in my days as a copywriter, writer’s block leaves me banging my head on the desk or pulling out my hair until the right words formed. If you cracked open the mind of a writer, you’d be shocked and probably corrupted to the core. And there’ll be no going back.

Tonight, I watched “Adaptation,” and fell in love with how much it reminds me of the trials of being a novelist. It’s the excitement in capturing that completely genius plot twist by paper or tape recorder. Your voice climaxes as the words leave your mind and formulate into existence, finally. It’s even more evident with voice recordings for me.

A year ago, my work commute was one hour each way, leaving me with too much time on my hands. I started getting lightning ideas halfway home, and soon I had no choice but to start recording my thoughts in the heat of the heart-pounding moment. Palms sweating, eyes widening, thoughts growing frantic with each second, I unloaded my brain’s incessant babble and thoughts – often still unprocessed and jumbled – into the small device in the palm of my hand. Everything surrounding me was blocked, distant from any concern. The only noise I heard was the sound of my own rambling voice, as I discovered the key that would unblock my story roadblock. It was brilliant, simple. After the first 10 minutes of scrambling random words that made no sense, the rest seemed to create its own logical pattern that would solve everything. My characters, sitting idle in my head until I could continue typing the next chapter of their lives, would find their purpose again soon.

Everything is perfect. Until I get home that evening to replay my notes. Something’s gone wrong. Is this my voice? What the hell was I thinking? The expression of horror on my face is frozen, and I’m mortified that there is evidence of these ideas. My instinct is to erase the file, as if the thoughts never existed. I resist the urge to stash my recorder into the depths of the back closet, buried under the less desirable items hidden there already. It will only be minutes before I have to fight back the sensations to tear apart my manuscript, take a sledgehammer to the computer with which I’ve trusted my files.

In my office, evidence of bad ideas and juvenile writing is a deadly sin. But I still mourn the loss of my first poem, which was part of a collection published when I was 12. All I recall is that is was about the lonesome tales of a traveler leaving home and exploring the world. It wasn't until around four years ago that I began to understood the true beauty of the story, which was lost on me for many years.

It took me years before I could force myself to stop destroying my documents. My writing notebook (actually, it was just one spiral notebook, but has grown into four different notebooks), which contains bits of my manuscript and endless notes and thoughts, is not readable. Call it my own secret writing code, I truly doubt that if stolen, my notes could ever be put together and determined logical. This is where my bad ideas belong, so that they’re never unearthed by accident in future brainstorming.

“It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance … and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.” (Max Eastman, American journalist and published author)

Trust the process.

Struggling with Endings

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 15:37:00 +0000

Since I was a young student, I've always had the hardest time writing beginnings and endings. With my writing process, I usually save them for last, as the meat of the story will usually inspire the perfect way to shape both ends of the puzzle.

I struggle with how endings are formed in many movies, TV shows, and books. In multi-season TV shows, I often see that the ending is compromised so that the audience is appeased. Before polling and blogging enters the picture, there is already a plot conclusion taking shape. In movies, I feel disappointed with forced happy endings, like everything must end like a fairy tale, or idealistic world where right and wrong are obvious - like "Oliver Twist."

I shutter at the thought of taking art and disguising it, or hiding it behind a brick wall - especially such a crucial piece of the story, the ending. Probably 99% of the time, I don't like happy endings. I want the ending to my novel (as well as all the stories I write) to have truth and honesty, as naked as possible. Often, there is the audience who wants a happy ending leaving them warm and fuzzy by bedtime. Justice prevails over villains, distant lovers live happily ever after, and broken relationships healed and forgiven. I want the chaos of life unleashed, and an ending that will leave a stinging impression of the parts of the human condition we choose not to discuss or acknowledge.

But then, maybe the biggest puzzle piece gone is hope. I have never been good at giving my characters hope. In all the suffering that we endure, there must be hope somewhere to hold onto. Change is always inevitable at the end of any story, something that makes it impossible for the central character(s) to go back to life as it used to be. And then also, there are characters who will make mistakes again after all that's happened, and those who will be too afraid to move outside of old patterns or familiar situations.

Monday Morning - Aug '08

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 16:57:00 +0000

Picture This! Archived Feature #2

My hand slipped down to make room on the metallic pole

coated with the warmth from a hundred strangers.

The dull lights by the side flickered to remind me

that I was staring too long into the bleakness of the wall.

I never dared to glance around to the faces around me

perhaps to meet the gaze of someone I would know or even

a friendly smile to warm my thoughts for a brief second.

All that was clear was the impending fate lying ahead

All I could remember is the place I could not escape.

The machine that held me captive for too many years,

its spirit always daunting, always too close next to me.

Desires had escaped me long ago and left me nearly bare

With nothing left but the same end point to meet

in the same hollow halls, under the same diminishing light

Launching Blog #2: Our View through Tinted Glasses

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 15:03:00 +0000

I've tossed and turned over my vision for this blog, and last night came my answer. I strongly desire an online presence as an author, but writing snippits about my thoughts and my stories don't seem enough.

I happily decided to start up a second blog, called Our View through Tinted Glasses. With this blog, I intend to write about many of the key issues for which all of my fiction work is intended to raise awareness: domestic violence, child abuse, women's equality, relationships, personal growth, dysfunctional families, and mental health.

While my fiction blog will help my readers keep up with my work, my second blog will allow me to discuss a lot of the topics occurring today, which are raised in my novel and other published works. I picked this curious title because I think that we miss a lot going on around us due to our view on the world, affected by a number of barriers - the "tinted glasses" that make us believe that everything is just fine the way it is.

Thanks for stopping by, and I will definitely be keeping you posted more often on both sites. Please come back soon!

NEW! Updated sneak peek at my novel

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 06:10:00 +0000

A work in progress, of course, but here's an updated preview of my novel ...

Where do you turn when the only world you'd ever known falls apart? This is the story of two families living in the Midwest, whose ties have always been unbreakable until one terrible evening that will change the course of their lives forever. As they all come face to face with the horrible truths they want to forget, they'll desperately try to piece together any hope or comfort that is left.

This is the powerful tale of returning to the place once fondly called "home" in your heart. Follow Meg as she journeys home during her first semester of college, searching for the same warmth and welcome of childhood. Will there ever be a way to go back to the life she remembered or the family she left behind? As she tries to put together the pieces of her life, she must deal with the harsh realities and choices she had never been prepared for.

A gripping story of two cousins and very best friends, this will take you through the most cherished childhood stories and secrets of Meg and Sara as they survive high school. Faced with the pressures of growing up, fitting in, meeting parent expectations, and anxiously anticipating their future, they have experienced life's biggest challenges and most unforgettable moments - side by side. But can the strong bonds of family and friendship survive the biggest trauma to ever hit their small town? Where do you turn when the world around you seems to fall apart?

This is a novel about growing up in the Midwest, the strong ties of family and traditional values we all hold dear to heart, and the extraordinary childhood friendships we'll never forget.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE!!

Latest Travel - Shenandoah Valley

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 04:42:00 +0000

Finding Inspiration in Luray, Virginia

Beautiful rolling valleys, lush green trees on both sides, soft singing of local crickets, and very southern hospitality ... what more could you ask for? In addition to beautiful surroundings and the peace I was hoping for, my Labor Day weekend to Shenandoah surprised me with a burst of creativity and writing energy than I imagined.

Originally, I had planned this trip to (a) kick back and relax and (b) use an excuse to write/sell a travel piece or two on the region.

But it also inspired some new ideas and ways of thinking for my novel. I was actually taken by surprise to find how similar Virginia (below the DC region) is to my hometown in southern Missouri. Just from the two-hour drive and short stops on the way to our bed & breakfast, I was overcome with many of the same sights I'd grown up with in the Midwest. It has only been four years, but central Virginia reminds me so much of the slower lifestyle, local way of thinking and planning, friendly small businesses, and casual attitude. I'd almost completely forgotten about how different socially it is here in Washington, DC than the small city I came from. It's actually quite amazing to compare even the smallest changes I saw when I came to the area.

Meet My Characters! Dan Atherton, Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 04:12:00 +0000

Dan Atherton
(Two years ago)

I grew lost in my thoughts. The fantasy of what might have been haunts me. Her eyes had been still like the night, beckoning me for answers I didn’t have. In a flash, she drifted farther from me until I could no longer reach for her. And no matter how hard I strained my ears, I couldn’t hear her beautiful sounds any longer. The silence swarming around me began to strangle me slowly.

The tender touch of her tiny fingers had faded from my memory by now. The fever started to run through my body like I’d never felt before. Was she thinking of me at this same moment? So fragile in my arms, she was too young still. She couldn’t possibly know my face by heart or look up at the empty doorway in the hopes to find me there each morning. My little baby girl, she’d never know how much I searched for her face everywhere I would go. Or understand the sleepless nights that took over, when I dared not stop watching the front door.

I sat in the darkness of the early morning hours, just waiting. The redness invaded my eyes, sweat beaded across my cheeks as I waited in despair. If I closed my eyes for a mere second, I could already see her mother towering over me. Mora’s knuckles would be clenched until white, her lips sealed in her bitterness. Without any words, I could already feel her hatred passing over me like dark clouds before a hard rainstorm. Just look at you. Look at how pathetic you are.

Mora. She’d never let me forget what I desperately wanted to leave behind. Her shrill voice was recorded forever in my mind. The pulsing fear of seeing her again paralyzed me. For days and then weeks, I couldn’t step outside my front door. Her poison ran through my veins with a lasting effect. Broken glass and the stink of spilled beer and milk still lay scattered across my living room. My entire house stayed dark and frozen from their last visit, completely unmoved by time. What the hell kind of father are you? Every time I glanced at the far wall, I could watch Mora slamming her right hand across the wooden table, sending everything crashing down to the floor. My mouth didn’t seem to work, I couldn’t form the right words before she took my daughter away for the last time.

Fuck it. Fuck it. I opened my refrigerator, sweeping my arms back and forth on the two frosted shelves. Whatever sad jars, bottles, and takeout containers were left standing got wiped out. I fell on my ass on the cold tiles, knocking the back of my head on the cabinets behind me.

I’m no father, I never should’ve been. The words resonated so naturally through every inch of my body, there was no denying it. The hope of what could’ve been left long ago. The only thing that remains is survival. My legs fumbled beneath me, and I awkwardly stumbled onto my feet. I snatched open the freezer, grabbing the ice-covered glass neck sticking out of the icebox. Not much time passed before I found myself in a daze, slowing drifting in and out of consciousness.

My baby drifted far from thought, her face became a blur. I was not her father. I was nothing more than Dan.

Lessons from ABC's "Lost" - PART ONE

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 04:52:00 +0000

I'd have to say that in the past few years, I've pretty much sworn off TV shows altogether. Why, you ask? Perhaps I've either gotten a lot pickier in my "older" years (I'm only 26, so that is a pretty weird excuse) or maybe it's TV that has lowered its standards? Well I'll save that lovely topic for a much longer posting, as I have MUCH TO SAY =)

Other than HBO drama series like "Sopranos," "Big Love," and "Tell Me You Love Me," I really have turned my nose at every concoction attempted by the networks. I have to say that the show "Lost" really grabbed my attention like no other series has in years - but I admit it's mostly just the first three seasons I'm thinking of. The character development concepts were what really jerked my attention in the initial storyline, particularly by the style of storytelling via flashbacks (and only in brief sections).

The whole painting of good v. evil (very gray instead of black v. white) fascinated me. As a writer myself, I LOVED to see other people's reactions about certain characters. I have to say that as far as strong characters go, Sawyer was my hands-down favorite ... of course, until they turned him into a PG-rated character with dumb jokes and an overly done jump out of his old character. From the first get-go, I LOVED that Sawyer was so despicable, so "bad." Before the end of my career, I hope to successfully create a "bad guy everyone loves to hate." When I saw the first few episodes of season 1, I absolutely hated Sawyer. But whatever I thought of him stuck around in me so much, it drove up so many negative feelings, that it completely fascinated me to analyze my own reaction. So I find it so interesting to talk to friends who STILL hate his character on the show!

One of the most incredible things I learned from watching the early seasons of "Lost" is the ways that we writers can effectively draw in readers with mystery. It's so incredible the way their writers intentionally played off several types of audiences' assumptions about characters based solely on their background, physical appearance, family social status, ethnicity, and what they do for a living. In particular, Sun was my favorite surprise at the beginning of season 2 - especially because I also come from an Asian background, I can easily see the assumption that she is the dutiful daughter and wife. But her acts of manipulation, her many secrets reveal that you never know what she is capable of. And they do this same kind of flip with other characters as well, and I enjoy that a lot.

Stay tuned for later thoughts and comments on storytelling/plot lessons from "Lost."

A tale of five strangers - Feb '08

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 04:29:00 +0000

Picture This!
(Archived Feature #1)

The sun rays grew sharp on the already hot path. The brisk music of traffic swarmed around the park, repeated wisps of wind wrapping its visitors with its playful force.

Laughter burst out at once as old college roommates circle the pathway again, reliving old memories and dreams long forgotten.

In the near distance, a man glances up slowly to meet the wondrous gaze of the love he once forgot.

One skip, two, then three, a girl and her brother pass the time with old games, unaware and without care of the world around them.

Strangers for an eternity but, for one point in time, they share something unspoken, an essence of the here and now that will be kept in fondness.

Why I'll Never Buy Another Greeting Card Again

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 22:01:00 +0000

Earlier this year, I made an important decision as a consumer: I will never buy another pre-written greeting card from the store again. After more than 20 years of receiving these types of cards, which are intended to convey how people feel about me (and are written by some anonymous author), I refuse the convention in my personal life (if I can help it).

I feel convinced that many people use pre-written cards as a crutch - because either they cannot convey their own sentiments or perhaps they have nothing to say. As a writer, I can appreciate this type of writing that freelancers out there may take up regularly...however, the problem I have is that often, the messages often typify and make broad assumptions about relationships. Is there only one way to feel about a mother, a father, a brother, or your hairdresser? For those who haven't discovered so yet - there is at least 1,001 different kinds of mother-daughter, son-father, brother-sister, granddaughter - grandfather, etc relationships. And what about those of us who choose not to have "traditional" relationships? I can't tell you how HARD it had been to find my boyfriend Mike a decent card that's not prefaced to "my husband".

Why is it difficult for us to break into honesty instead of asking a "faceless stranger" to define the things we value in the people who are in our lives? After having the same message on every holiday, it has certain grown into an empty, numb reaction. And hey, how about a "holiday" card that is not completely created for the Christian audience? Is it really accurate to assume everyone is a Baptist or Methodist? I feel like these "cut and paste" messages have been used for too many years - it's almost to the point where phrases like "I love you" and "thank you" are recycled too much to have the same impact it once did.

I would absolutely applaud the revolutionizing of the entire way we write, sell, buy greeting cards. This is not a call to action for every consumer to abandon the greeting card aisles. I can appreciate that this is a convention that works for some people, maybe it is a better alternative to an wordless card when there's nothing to say to people. But as a creative writer myself, I don't think it works for me to box and label my relationships now or ever again.

Where My Stories Come From ...

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 21:21:00 +0000

Intrigued and bewildered? Welcome to the inside world of my imagination - may it never find itself bound by logical thought or sensibility by any means.

As a reader, I love a great variety of books for entertainment, education and enlightenment. The past few years have created a fond fixation on science fiction and fantasy for me - which actually started in my childhood, but discouraged greatly as I was growing up in the Midwest.

I'm a passionate writer of contemporary fiction, dealing mostly with topics including dysfunctional families, women's issues, and the dilemmas of traditional values many of us hold dear. I find it interesting to see that much of today's world is shaped around a traditional mindset, particularly idealisms of family life and the often unspoken expectations that bind us.

I'm currently hashing out my first novel, and hoping to be done by the end of year, leaving all of next year to rewrites, critique groups, and querying agents. There's more to come, so be sure to check back here for updates. What's it about, you ask? Here's a little something to chew on for now:

In less than a year, one event will change the course of the strong bonds holding a family together. Thriving on the comforts of old traditions, close ties and familiar times, the foundation of a family living in the Midwest will unravel, and that which has been held true to heart may be lost forever. This story will journey through the secrets of one family and the relationships that define them, and how many of them struggle with the past - and a future that is diminishing by the day.

Broken up into three sections, this novel will reveal the story through the eyes of three main characters as they experience the events leading up to and following the "occurrence".

Meet My Characters!

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 00:11:00 +0000

Susanna Page

The cold snows of bitter winter were nothing next to the past two years of servitude. Even as Susanna stood there towering over the old woman’s dead body, she felt nothing but the same numbness she had every day spent with her. The same expression of discontent frozen on her still face, even her arms appeared clenched closely to her body. And every detail of her hair, the familiar blue cotton dress, and heavy brown shoes seemed meticulously planned, as if the caretaker had sensed she would somehow be watching her own memorial service.

And was she watching now? A cruel chill embraced her at the idea, but indeed it seemed possible. Certainly the old woman’s expectations of her own funeral were not met today. Susanna was already swimming in the same feeling of failure and hopelessness as she looked around the room.

Susanna stood hovering a few moments longer, feeling certain she would sit up and snatch her wrist, shouting, “What have you done!” She could already feel the clammy hand on her, the same piercing, cold touch the old woman had in life. Susanna stumbled back quickly, of course, just in case. With no further delay, she snuck her way out through the side door.

It was those cruel, black eyes that frightened her since she was a child. Relentless and unforgiving, they followed her everywhere, she could just feel it. Where are you going? What are you trying to do now? No matter how far she went, the old woman always could pull her right back to her side. Rather a disappointment than a daughter, she had mocked. Then mocked Susanna more with each passing year.

Too much sunlight blinds her still, being kept up in the dark fortress she longed to leave and never return – time and time again. Everything was quite as she had left it, the same lace-lined curtains hung uniformly on all of the windows and each floor draped in shaggy, coffee brown carpets. Light beamed in the main living area in the afternoon, but had filled Susanna with detest. Her days were often spent like when she was a child, reading her books in the dark, damp basement. A haven of as much peace and solitude as she could manage, it was the one place the old woman did not follow. But the sound of her cane banged through the floor, her shrill screams brought great dread.

STAY TUNED AS THIS MYSTERIOUS TALE UNRAVELS ...

Meet My Characters!

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 00:52:00 +0000

Enjoy my third character feature for Meet My Characters! Want to find out what's going to happen? Are you wondering more and more about his past? Stay tuned for more to come ...

Dan Atherton

The growing warmth enveloping his chest awoke him. Shaking off his sleepiness, Dan twisted the air vent just above his head, allowing more cool air to blow in his face. He reached up to his tie, jerking it loose from his sweating neck. A large sigh escaped his lips gradually. Pressing his eyelids together, he wished he was in New York by now.

A soft, little figure graced his fingers as he dipped his right hand inside his suit pocket. He smiled slightly to himself as he pulled it out and placed it into his right palm. Covered in pink fuzziness, it was just the size of a quarter. Loosely attached to the back was a silver clothes pin, which had gotten a little tarnished over the years. He could still remember the day she placed it in his hands. It had only been a brief moment shared between them with few words to say. Not a feeling of sadness or the realization had hit him that this could be the last time he would see her. It was difficult to recall, what day was it, what were his last words? Did his little girl cry as he left? The ferocious words from Mora were the only thing that never left him.

He slipped the little trinket back into his pocket as the flight attendant stopped the drink cart right next to his seat. Sitting back up, he managed a smile in her direction. No doubt a very attractive woman, he admitted, his attention fully taken by her presence. Looking closely for a couple seconds, he realized she was just a kid, maybe 21 years old.

“Good mornin’ to ya!” The young girl’s affable greeting was quite overdone, her Irish accent sharper than he had expected at first. She tucked a couple tendrils of red hair behind her ear. “Somethin’ to drink?”

Dan hesitated, taking his time to consider it. His mouth was expectedly dry from his long slumber. Something to drink, perhaps, before I have to meet them at the gate. His mouth opened for a split second, but then he changed his mind. Second chances, he said to himself. This is the only one you get. “No. Um, no thank you.” He smiled again, and then looked away towards the uncovered window as she moved on to the next row of passengers.

Until now, he hadn’t thought of the looming meeting he’d have with Mora. Her heart held no forgiveness, not for him. Her face appeared in his mind, he saw her eyes narrow down at him. Nothing could possibly matter to her, not what he had been through or the things he wished he could take back. “Nobody can really change,” she said to him more times than he could remember.

“I changed my mind,” Dan grabbed the stewardess’ arm gently. “I’d like a few Absolut.” Falling into his lingering gaze, she traded a small handful of miniature bottles for the folded cash he offered to her.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

Meet My Characters!

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 19:53:00 +0000

This is the second featured story for Meet My Characters. Stay tuned to find out what happens next!

Lana Willow

More than a dozen Lucky Lotto! tickets lay fanned out on the table in front of Lana. Her fingers rummaged the stack as her eyes checked each series of numbers. This is it, she thought. My lucky day. It has to be.

The clock read 4:50 pm. It wasn't time just yet. She stepped up off the futon, pulling her jacket tighter around the front. Lynn could be home soon, but she could never be certain anymore. They didn't spend much time together lately, not since Michael's farewell a few months ago. That night changed a lot of things, and now they seemed like strangers to one another.

In a quick pace, Lana entered the kitchen and flicked the light switch up. Without further thought, she snatched up a warm Diet Pepsi can and a bag of Saltines. Snapping open the package, she pushed a short stack of crackers onto a small plate. Each one was smeared with a glob of butter and arranged side by side. Grabbing up her snack, she strode back to the living room with only a minute or so to spare.

Settling into her usual spot, she gingerly placed the plate of crackers and the worn remote control next to her on the futon cushion. Seconds ticked a little slow, her mind was overcome with growing anxiety. This week would be different. For more paydays than she could count, the other tickets were duds. It had to be her time to win by now.

The top news stories blared in the TV screen, she chewed on her fingernails to pass the time. The outside lights grew dim as sunset approached. The darkness surrounding the room did not seem to grab her attention. In small motions, she sipped her soda a couple times. Her back straightened up as soon as the plunky keyboard music came on for the Lucky Lotto. The flashy lights glowing in her eyes, she reached out for the tickets before her.

"Today's Lucky Lotto numbers are," the announcer paused in anticipation, "12...49...1...7...50...33..." He raised his eyebrows, grinning with eagerness in creating a slight moment of suspense. "And, folks, the final winning number is 19."

Lana's eyes darted left to right as she grabbed each ticket, picking through the numbers quickly and in caution. With her heart pounding and fingers numbing in the excitement, her eyes fell upon the ticket at the far end.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

Meet My Characters!

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 04:31:00 +0000

NEW! My blog will feature a special section dedicated to new characters called Meet My Characters! Each posting will be an excerpt of a character's story - be sure to check back to find out what happens next.

Ana Maria Vega

Ana forcefully dumped the chef salad into the garbage. Her arms locked as she grabbed the edge of the counter top. Moisture clouded her eyes, she tried to blink it away quickly. It wasn't the angry woman who bothered her more, she admitted. Everything else around her seemed to be slipping out of her grasp.

She jerked the ties of her apron, pulling tight. Looking up once again, Ana sucked in a full breath of steamy air from the kitchen, pushing down her frustration with her might. "What do you like?" She spoke with all the composure she could muster.

"I want the turkey swiss sandwich," a young blonde woman spoke as she illustrated with large hand gestures. "No tomato or mayonnaise," she announced loudly. Her glance was met awkwardly by Ana, who was used to this treatment. She didn't even bother to verbally acknowledge her, keeping her head down to her work. First the bread topped quickly with a handful of turkey slices and lettuce. Ana pressed the top bread slice on top, using her left hand to guide the knife diagonally down the sandwich. Paper wrapping was guided around the product, bagged and slapped onto the counter in haste. "Next," she firmly called out.

Another woman stepped up towards the counter, pulling her black peach-shaped sunglasses down from her face. Her big, round eyes intently looked forward, her hands left calmly by her sides. A white, wool coat draped around her slender figure, allowing a few extra inches of a bright red skirt to show. She stood in great confidence and grace, and her flawless skin glowed under the fluorescent lights. Ana instantly felt stirred by the sight, staring back into the woman's deep brown eyes.

It had been years since, but Ana knew the traces of her smile quite vividly. In the few moments of silence that stood between them, she looked upon her in search of the right words to say. The time had come and gone for her to say the things she had much longed to speak to her.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

My Favorite Places - NEW!

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 04:10:00 +0000

I'm also starting a new section - My Favorite Places, which will spotlight little story sketches focused on some of my favorite vacation spots, local places, hideaways, etc. Keep checking back for new favorite places, as I intend to continually build this section!

Bimini (Bahamas)

I closed my eyes as a thousand small breaths of wind brushed against my face. The mist from the trickling rain dribbled down to my lips and left me thirsty. The thoughts that clouded my eyes once before now seemed to fade. All I was left with was a blanket of peace that hid me from the world. The back of my head rolled against the grainy wall as I slowly opened my eyes and turned to the crashing of the waves below. The water grew softer as it fell down closer to the shore. I looked below the ledge that held me up, and I saw the salty foam fade away on the wet sand.

I needed nothing in the lingering moments by the beach. Each breath of sea air filled my spirit with a surprising sensation I had not known for so long. Silence filled the scene, not a voice could be heard. My eyes glanced over my shoulder, intently watching the flickering lights across the sleepy town. If only this moment could never end, I thought. If only I would never have to face him again or think of him one second more. If only I would never need to return.

A Little Bit about Me

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 03:52:00 +0000

Who am I, you might ponder? Call this just a little "sampling." I am passionate about writing, an artist in any other way I can be (music, photography), and as quirky as they come. I will always prefer dark and dreary before sunny days, and my random quips and jokes are not made for everyone.

I was born in the small town of Springfield, MO and moved to the Washington, DC area about four years ago after graduating from Missouri State University. I'm a professional marketing/advertising writer during the day, and retreat to fancy flights of fiction every other chance I get. I love working in travel so far, but nothing could ever top the personal satisfaction in writing my short stories and my soon-to-be-revealed masterpiece (novel).

Writing is all I think about from when I wake up all the way through my dreams. Every twist and turn that life throws my way finds its way in my works. I'll even confess that I whip out my little black book in between stoplights on my hour-long journey to/from the office.

Announcing Picture This!

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 03:10:00 +0000

I'm quite excited to be launching the special feature Picture This! Each new month, you'll find a new photo and mini story featured on the right side of my main page. This is a great introduction into my writing that I hope you enjoy. Please feel free to post any comments about them!

I'd like to personally thank Kevin Johnson, my friend and amazingly artistic photographer, who has contributed all of the photos. A lot of his work has been great inspiration for a lot of my ideas, which is how I decided to create a place for it here.

As each new featured photo/story is posted, I will be archiving the previous ones under the Picture This tag in case you may miss any of them.

Curtains! Lights! Cue the Music!

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 02:35:00 +0000

Welcome one and all to the exciting debut of my fiction work! Pull up a seat, stay a while … it is my great honor and pleasure to invite Web bloggers everywhere into my world, where fiction and reality blend into one. I hope to humor, entertain, and entice your minds with my little bytes of fiction, daily quips and random ideas. I hope you enjoy my blog, and I’d love for you to post responses and give feedback on the things that interest you.

I created this blog to kick off publishing my fiction writings every way I can. I am currently writing a contemporary fiction novel and also working on getting my short stories and some creative nonfiction published in literary journals/magazines. For the past eight years, I’ve been building a strong career as a creative marketing writer (right now I work in travel), and I have aspirations to focus on my fiction.

Writing has always been my greatest passion for as long as I can remember – in my professional and personal life. I look forward to gaining an active audience soon, thank you for visiting!