What's in a Face? February blog hop for Write.Edit.Publish Now.

‘What’s in his face?’

‘Shrapnel.  Was it really necessary to throw him through the window, Bill?’

‘It was self defence.  No. I mean can you read him?’

‘Not until I clean him up.’

He lay still on the gurney.  His eyes closed, though he was fully conscious.  The voices above him faded for a few moments.  When they returned they were accompanied by a burning sensation on his cheek.  He sucked his breath in sharply through his teeth.  It hurt more than the wounds he had gained during his flight through the glass panel.

‘Oh, you’re awake.  Good.  Open your eyes, Sam.’

‘But…’

‘Just open your eyes.  It’s important.’

When he obeyed, the light pushed sharp pains through his head so he closed them again and placed his hands over his face.  It was then he knew his trial had been successful.  Under his hands, the face was not his own.  The experiment had worked.

‘Remove your hands, Sam, please.’

He opened his eyes slowly this time, taking time to adjust to the harsh laboratory lighting and to learn the muscle control of his new physiognomy.

‘Julie, do your stuff.’  Bill said.

The female appeared above him.  She scanned his face and then peered into his eyes.  Her cheeks flushed and her eyes softened as they met his.  Her lips of damask rose, her mouth open slightly.   The choosing of this face had been an unseen advantage.  The way she looked at him.  So Sam meant something to her.

She looked into his face for a long time and then frowned before she gasped and disappeared from his view.

He had read her too.

Julie Harrison,  26.  Level 5 Psych.  Reader.  Three years on the force.  Jogged two kilometres this morning.  Will choose a poppy seed muffin and latte in twenty minutes on her scheduled tea break.  And then there was Sam.  If he could make her thoughts of him real, well…  He smiled to himself.

Julie was stuttering in the corner.    ‘It’s not Sam.  I couldn’t read that man.  I don’t know who he is.  It’s not him.’

Then she was in his face again.  ‘Why do you look like Sam?  What have you done with him?’   She paused.  ‘And why can’t I read you?’

‘I blocked you.’

‘See.’  She was addressing Bill.  ‘I should have known that.  I can’t even discern a simple block with this … this….  What are you?’

‘A mystery,  an enigma, a paradox.’    His enjoyment of her confusion was interrupted by a thumping at the door and muffled voice from outside.

‘Jules, Jules.  Open up.  It’s me.  Open up.’

Footsteps, the hiss of the piston at the door, and the clear accusation as his doppelgänger entered the room.   ‘He’s a shape shifter.’  

Bill laughed.  ‘Shape shifters don’t exist.’

‘Are you sure?’  Julie said.  Then she came back to the gurney and was above him again.
‘Is that true?’

‘Shape shifters don’t exist.’  he said. ‘But I have developed some techniques…’

“Oh, you have, have you?  And does that include knocking me senseless and ripping off my face against my will?’    He didn’t need his psych powers to read the anger and confusion on the real Sam’s features, his features.

And he didn’t need his psych powers to read the love and concern on Julie’s face as she took Sam’s head in her hands and pulled her face into his, gluing herself to it with those rosy lips.

Yep, Sam Ogden’s face had been a good choice.    

(590 words)

New beginnings: The first few hundred words

This months' writing challenge at  http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com.au
is about new beginnings.   I love them.  I love starting something new and I have discovered over the years that I am very good at starting new things -  it is the completion, the seeing it through, that I find a challenge.   I have had some association with Christian Romance writers.  Perhaps to really get something new going, I should try my hand at the genre and see if it fits.  So here is a beginning of perhaps a new story for my contribution to this month's challenge.

Shelby Cole hurtled toward her future at six hundred and fifty two miles an hour.  

From thirty thousand feet she hoped the view of the unknown would be clearer, but all she could see before her was the shaking back of the seat in front.

She turned to the leather bound book in her lap and scanned the dense page reading familiar words which at this moment took on a whole new meaning.  ‘In the beginning was the Word…’   

It became her new chapter, her unwritten page, waiting, anticipating, lying open to receive …

The shudder of deceleration woke her a few hours later and she peered through the clouds to watch the new world rise up to meet her with an offering of lush vegetation. The tall palm trees also waved their welcome.  

As she claimed her luggage from the carousel, she scanned the crowd for a familiar face.  

Someone shoved a pig under her nose and spoke through red and broken teeth in a staccato pidgin; another pushed a basket of a hairy yellow tubes at her.    The fragrance rising from the swirling crowd was a greasy mix of coconut and body odour.  Shelby delighted in it.  She let it reach her expanding heart, knowing this was the new beginning she had chosen.   

Oh, and here he came now, the one who had chosen her.  

‘Bradley’, she croaked through her sudden thirst.  He waved from above the crowd and arrived with a bunch of fresh tropical flowers.   

‘This way’.  He said taking her hand.  

Shelby Cole’s future struck her with a blast of humid air as she stepped from the terminal.  It sucked at her lungs, toyed with the moisture from her body and then abandoned it to remain on her skin where it turned to glue.  It plastered her hair to her cheek and adhered her blouse to her back and arms. . . 

Would you like the challenge of continuing this story or should we leave Shelby at the hot and sticky entrance to her new life?   New beginnings are like that too,  unwritten.

Article for Golden Pen

OVERCOMERS FOR GOLDEN PEN  November  2013

Living with intellectual disability and autism and distressing behavior, has been a challenge to being an overcomer.  But in a recent post by Jeff Goins
goinswriter.com
I found some points about journeys and what we can learn from them.
Jeff wrote the post after a trip of his own did not go as planned.
I have related what he said to our sixteen-year trek with our son, Garrett.

Here’s what I came up with:

1.  No journey is perfect.      Ain’t that the truth.   Our family’s journey with intellectual disability, autism and challenging behavior, has been a voyage into a whole other world.   We take encouragement from Psalm 37:23: The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord and he delights in his way.

2.   The destination is not what we expect.
Someone once described having a child with disabilities as booking a holiday to Italy and finding yourself in Holland.    The destination is always unknown.
As we prepare for life post-school we trust our unknown future to a known God.
Psalm 31:15:  My future is in your hands. . .

3.  Get rid of what we think we deserve.
Don’t we all deserve regular, normal kids?  After nine months of discomfort and ten hours in the labour ward, surely we deserve the best outcome?   Like the disciples’ mother who believed her sons should have places of honour, we pridefully believe that we deserve something else than what we have.

4.  Inspiration is everywhere.   Some days I see it, some days I don’t.  And one thing I swore I did not want to write about was this very subject!   That’s why I write fiction.

5.  Pay attention to what’s around you.    While most of us can tune out to extra noises, the child with autism not only hears everything, but reacts to it too.
 I’ve learned to be aware of everyday sounds – a lawn mower, the neighbour’s muffler, the garbage collection – all of which can trigger an episode.

6.  Don’t travel alone.  Thankfully, I travel with a supportive husband without whom I could not do what I do.  We have a caring church community and other formal supports.   And of course in spiritual terms we are never alone with the Holy Spirit as our comforter.

7.  Art helps.  We love movies, music, and the theatre once our boy is at the respite centre.  And we have our own creative outlets.  (I hit 31 thousand words of my work in progress recently.)   Being able to pursue my writing interests is keeping me sane.

8.  Gratitude.  Okay.  So I need an attitude check.  When everything else is out of control, the one thing I can control is my attitude.   I am thankful for those who care with meals once a month and others who provide regular respite.
Hebrews 12:28.

9.  The best of journeys have a purpose.  Still working through that one.  Did Romans 8:28-29 come to mind?  Like I say, still working through that.  What I cling to from these verses is the fact that I am called.

10.  If you accomplish nothing, take heart.  You have changed.  
 How changed?  As someone who prefers to work to a plan and be organised,
I have learned to take each day (sometimes its down to the half hour) as it comes.    I have been to bed fully dressed so I was ready for anything next morning and who says dessert has to come after first course or that socks have to match?

On two recent bad days, the Lord gave me great encouragement.
One evening I said to the Him:  Please give me a word for such a day as the one I just had.
I got nothing then but my waking thought the next morning was:

“It is of the Lord 's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.
They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.
Lamentations  3:22-23.

Another day a friend posted Paul’s words from 2 Corinthians, chapter 4.
8 We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; 9 Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed. 

Taking heart from these words and from Him who I know has overcome.

FOUR PART STORY

This idea came from Sunday morning's sermon.  The preacher was talking about God's story in terms of the Creation, the Fall,  Redemption and Restoration, which we all know as the gospel:
God created, the creation fell, our relationship with the creator was broken; we are redeemed by the sacrifice of Jesus and we're restored to the relationship through belief.
Pastor Stewart then went on to say, we each have a creation, fall, redemption and restoration story of our own.  We have a story of our origin, of a time we realised we had fallen or sinned, when we realised we needed a saviour and when our lives were restored, even though each of our testimonies is different.
This got me thinking.

In his essay, ' The Religious Meaning of Comedy,'  Nelvin Vos argues that it is comedy that most accurately embodies the Christian message.  He goes on to say the Comic Plot is U- shaped:  descending in to tragedy and rising again to end happily.  He says the upward movement from misery to happiness is essential to the plot.  The Comic hero assimilates into his society, while in Tragedy, the hero is isolated.   (The Christian Imagination, Essays on Literature and the Arts - Leland Ryken, 1981, Baker Book House.  p.241)

I have been involved with the characters of my fantasy novel for some 12 to 18 months and I thought  What if  each of the characters had that same four part  story also?
It might just work.   Here are some examples:

	ELIZA BENNETT	DARTH VADER
CREATION	family of origin	immaculate conception through special mitochondria in his cells.
FALL	becoming friends with Mr. Wickham/ her prejudice	begins when he murders the sand people while trying to rescue his mother
REDEMPTION	visiting Mr Darcy's estate/being told the truth about Mr Wickham	Luke Skywalker saves him - believes there is good in him
RESTORATION	Mr Darcy gives her a second chance which she accepts	seen with Obi Wan and Yoda

Try them with your own characters.

ABUNDANT LIVING

For the Christian whose attitude should be the same as that of Jesus Christ, what does abundant living look like?
It would appear there are two aspects to our living:  physical and spiritual.
Most of us live cluttered lives with an abundance of stuff.  Images of the Tv show 'Hoarders - Buried Alive' come to mind. While we would reject the idea of hoarding to such a degree, what else are we accumulating?
Recent articles in the Brisbane Sunday Mail were related to the idea if simple living.  The article portrayed people who had removed or relinquished anything that did not sustain them on a basic level.  People who chose public transport over owning cars or reduced the amount of clothing they owned.  Even secular society is questioning its consumerism and acquisitiveness.
As Christians our abundant life is lived in the spiritual.  We have access to the abundance of grace, peace and the promises of God through Jesus but from Philippians 2: 6-8,  Jesus himself chose to make Himself nothing, to leave the abundance of heaven for the sake of the Cross and for our salvation.
No matter what our physical lives may be, abundant living is about living in connection with the Spirit of God and I suspect that the opposite of physical abundance is how we are to live our lives abundantly.

House of Horrors for Romanticfridaywriters

For this RFW challenge, I have an emerging character for whom I am planning lots of adventures.  For an introduction to Olivia Kent find Plausible Deniability in the archive for May.


My Demon, My Lover.

‘Helloooo.’  Charles Baxter followed his ghoulish welcome with a cackle and ushered Olivia Kent and her adult nephew, Nick, into the gathering.   Crime writer and challenger for the position of matriarch at Baxter’s Publishing, Angela Connolly, greeted them.   ‘Lilly, you look just like your heroine.  Is that your real hair?’  Tidy, middle-aged Olivia Kent usually wore her shoulder length grey hair in a neat bun.  For the themed launch party of her latest novel, she had untied it, let it out and coiffed it.  Angela herself looked like Cruella De Vil.   ‘And Nick darling, aren’t you the demon.’   Nick’s snarled response was in character though Olivia was sure there was more than a touch of honesty in it.   Kelly, her personal assistant slid in beside her with her permanently attached Blackberry pinging.  ‘So Miss Kent, Charles will launch at ten.  Mark O’Grady from ‘People’ will be here at ten fifteen for photos and then you’re signing from eleven.’
‘Thank you, Vampira.  Now please go and enjoy yourself.’
The girl giggled, ‘Isn’t it fun?’ before blending into the otherworldly crowd.  As Olivia moved through the congregation acknowledging fans and colleagues, she thought she saw someone she knew; someone she had tried to forget, but honestly, some days he was everywhere.  What would Jason be doing here?  She could not be sure but the tall frame and strong jawline were so familiar.
A death knell clanged and she came to attention with the rest of the company.   ‘Demons and lovers all, may I introduce our guest of honour, Miss Olivia Kent.’  Charles led the applause and for the most part the crowd clapped politely though some who were really in character howled or smacked their lips.  Olivia climbed the podium. ‘Thanks for coming out of your hovels and lairs all of you to be here this Halloween night to help launch ‘My Demon, My Lover’, my thirteenth novel.’  Jason’s face was morphing before her, but when it faded into the crowd again, she was not sure what she had seen.   ‘Thank you Charles and Baxter Publishing and thank you fiends.’  There was a spatter of laughter from the gathering.  ‘Please buy my book for a special price tonight and I’m here to sign it for you.’
From somewhere in the crowd there was a shocking scream, followed by a ripple of uncertainty.  Was this part of the show?  Olivia looked to Charles whose panicked look back to her told her this was real.  The mob knew then also and scattered in fright.  Angela Connolly lay alone and still, her two-toned wig bloodied from a head wound.   Nick grabbed Olivia and dragged her from the stage.  ‘Come on Aunt Lilly.’  Together they followed the crush to the exit.
‘Stop.  Nicholas Kent, you are under arrest.’
Olivia watched as Nick ran headlong into Jason who pointed a gun and began firing at his attacker.  Olivia’s knees collapsed under her in shock and there was something damp at her hip.
‘Livvy!  No!’  Olivia smiled with dizziness and remembrance.  Jason was the only one allowed to call her Livvy.  The colour drained from her face and leaked from the hole in her side.  The floor rose to meet her and everything went dark.
Jason held her pale head on his knee and rocked her sweetly.   ‘No. No.  Come back to me Livvy, please.’   In the motion of his tenderness Olivia was at the beach by her house standing in the waves watching a man and his dog.  She stirred in pain and opened her eyes.
‘Jason is that you?’
‘Yes my love.  I’m here.’
‘Why?’  She winced with physical suffering and emotional confusion.
‘I’m here to arrest Nick.  He’s wanted for questioning about a disappearance.’
Olivia raised a bloody hand to brush Jason’s cheek.  ‘You disappeared, Jason.  Always disappearing. . . ‘  Her voice faded and her hand slid away as she drifted back into the cool waves.
On the beach the man played with his dog.  As Olivia watched, the scene became Jason and Nick fighting to remove each other from the world.  Conscious again, she moved toward them sliding painfully, the blood from her wound streaking the floor as she went.   As she crawled past Angela’s still unmoving body she wondered if she were living one of the writer’s twisted storylines.
‘Stop. Stop.’  She tried to speak but her tongue was thick in her dry mouth and the pain in her side moved up her body to explode in her brain.  Jason and Nick’s sickening rumble came to an end.  Nick was handcuffed and stood pleading down to Olivia who lay with agony and questions interchanging across her face.  Jason marched Nick before him and they exited.
‘Don’t move Miss Kent.  The ambulance is coming.’  Kelly sat beside her.
‘Efficient Kelly,’ said Olivia as she weakly patted the girl’s arm.  She looked over to where Angela lay unmoving and alone even now.  Kelly followed her gaze.  ‘Oh Ms. Connolly is dead.’  The ice in Kelly’s words sent a shiver through Olivia.  ‘I have been very efficient.  Angela Connolly will write no more.’  Her face contorted and her mouth twitched into laughter.  The ensuing shriek was lost in the sound of approaching sirens.
On the beach Olivia watched the tide go out.

Word count   880

Romantic Friday Writers Challenge: Birthday Madness

The word count was a challenge on this one.  I originally wrote more elements conspiring to destroy the celebration but they say don't work with children or animals.  For those who wanted more of Maxine, her hot husband Blake and her beautiful friend Lola, here's this week's RFW challenge.

‘There she is’.   Blake waved, took my hand and we entered the fancy garden party.   I shrank at the sight of the decorated table laden with glowing gifts.  Our tray of Guylian suddenly looked pathetic and thoughtless beside new champagne flutes, boxed jewellery and perfumes named for celebrities.

‘I’m so glad you could come.’  Lola greeted Blake with a creepy air kiss then slipped her arm through mine.  She led us to the food marquee where she unashamedly flirted with the caterer before she forced a platter of appetizers under my nose.  The smell of crustacean and asparagus combined to send my head spinning and the momentum of my retreat was so forceful, the whole well- crafted arrangement crashed out of Lola’s hands and down to the decorative tiles.  My own projectile response then splashed to the concrete combining with the already destroyed hors d’oeuvres to create a random collage of modern expressionism.   As if in sympathy, the sky finally carried out its threat, dropping large splashing drops to herald a drenching shower.  A gust of wind picked up all the cowering fancy people and herded them indoors.

‘I’m sorry, Lola.’  I offered.  ‘This is your birthday and I’m sorry it’s turned. . .’

‘It’s always you, Maxine.  It’s always about you.

‘Me? But you’re the one who. . .’

‘You have it all.   You have your perfect life with perfect Blake.  You have everything,’ she spat.

Inside now, we were standing under a chandelier, paintings by the Dutch masters hung on the opposite wall, I could feel the carpet pile at my ankles and I had everything? 

 ‘What about your promotion?’ 

‘I screwed Tom for that.’

My ire rose to meet that shiny chandelier while my jaw fell to the lush carpet.

‘Why you nasty little tramp.’   They were my thoughts but not my words.  Fiona slapped Lola so hard she toppled and fell into the profiterole tower.  The air filled with pastry and the caterer’s expletives.  Covered in custard, Lola rose like a painted warrior to wrestle with Fiona before Tom took charge.   ‘Presents.  Let’s open your presents, shall we?’   The uncomfortable guests were thankful for the diversion.   I found Blake.  ‘Honey, can we go?’ 

‘Are you sure? 

‘I’m pregnant.’  At his excited whoop, the crowd turned in unison.

Poor Lola was right.  It was all about me. 

Word count:   390