Writing a Scene You Love

Do you ever read or write those scenes that you just love?

A few months ago, I rewrote my novella Rescuing Rita and turned it into the novel, Rewriting Rita. Rita is now twice as long. But since Rita is technically the sequel to Stealing Mercy, and since Mercy was my first self-published novel, I decided to give Mercy another read-through before re-publishing Rita.

I've learned a lot since I first published Mercy nearly six years ago. But one thing I haven't quite figured out is how to make every scene magical. If I could somehow recreate that flash of a really great idea with every scene, I'd never have to stare at a blank computer screen again.

I remember exactly where I was sitting when the idea for this scene came to me. I couldn't wait to get home and capture it. Rereading it all these years later, I still love it. Here it is: Stealing Mercy, chapter 13.

The bell tower struck three as she hurried down the path with the tarts hidden beneath a cloth in the basket she carried over her arm. The May sun burned warm, clouds skittered across the sky with the light breeze, for once there wasn’t a hint of rain. It would have been a lovely day for a carriage ride, but if Mercy’s plan worked, as she hoped it would, Eloise would not spend the afternoon in Mr. Steele’s carriage.

Standing on the porch, Mercy fought back her worry. She rapped so hard on the front door that she bruised her knuckles.

Laurel, Eloise’s maid, opened the door and curtsied. “Good afternoon, Miss.”

“Good day, Laurel.” Her voice sounded steady. Grateful wracking nerves were inaudible, Mercy took a deep breath to steady herself and asked for Eloise. She trailed after Laurel to the sitting room.

Mercy glanced at the portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Carol hanging above the fireplace mantle and took a seat on the divan. In her imaginations, she felt the cold gaze of Mr. Carol. You should be thanking me, she told him.

She’d learned from Eloise that Mr. Carol, a man with stern set to his lips and a rigid jaw, had uncompromising views on womanhood and marriage and Eloise’s inability to choose a suitor and settle down had caused such a frustration that after Eloise’s third broken engagement Mr. Carol had shipped his only daughter off to live under her brother’s eagle eye. Mercy prayed that Eloise wouldn’t choose Mr. Steele for her next fiancé, but, just in case God wasn’t listening Mercy’s prayers, Mercy had made tarts. Tarts that would ensure Eloise would spend the afternoon in her bed. Mercy knew proud, arrogant and filled with self-importance Mr. Steele wouldn’t take kindly to being stood up. The Lord helps those who help themselves, she rationalized, but she wasn’t sure if the Lord would approve of friends drugging friends.

Mercy jumped to her feet when she heard footsteps in the hall. Her heart sped when she recognized the voices.

“She’s a pretty little filly,” Trent said. “Long legs. She may be more temperamental than you’d like.”

“Good teeth?” Miles asked.

Horses, Mercy breathed. They’re talking about horses. She tucked the basket behind her, the tarts were for Eloise only. She tried to sit still so that the men wouldn’t notice her. When the front door opened and then closed and the two men’s voices floated through the open window, she let out a sigh of relief. Please let them go far away, she prayed.

“Mercy?”

She whirled to see Eloise standing in the doorway. Her friend wore a green cotton dressed piped with a yellow silk trim and a trying-to-be-polite-expression on her face. Mercy took note that the men’s conversation had stopped when Eloise had spoken her name.

“You look so pretty,” Mercy said, hoping her tone could convince Eloise she had not come to restart last night’s argument.

Eloise’s stiff back didn’t loosen an inch.

Mercy took a step forward. “I brought you a tart, two actually, to sweeten my apology.”

“Apology?” Eloise lifted an eyebrow and looked skeptical.

Mercy nodded. “I know I shouldn’t listen, or spread gossip…It’s wrong and I’m sorry.”

Eloise sniffed and looked a little mollified. “You wouldn’t even tell me who had told you those lies.”

“You know the saying, a cruel story runs on wheels, and every hand oils the wheels as they run.” Mercy lifted the cloth off the basket and released a warm, fragrant puff of air. “I didn’t want to get gossip-oil on my hands, but, I know you’re bright, intelligent, and completely capable of forming your own judgments. I’m sorry I tried to sway you.”

Eloise took a step closer, licked her lips and looked into the basket at the two tarts. “Are you going to eat also?”

Mercy shook her head. “I’ve had plenty. They were something of an experiment.” She thought of Tilly snoring in the sewing room, her head slumped onto the table and nestled in a pile of blue surge cotton.

Eloise looked down at her dress. “Maybe I should wait until after my ride.”

“Oh please, they’re so much better when warm. Just one bite,” Mercy said, knowing that one bite would almost certainly lead to another. “It’s a new recipe I’ve just made and I’d like your opinion.”

Although, Tilly had enjoyed her tart.

“Perhaps if I’m careful not to get crumbs on my dress,” Eloise murmured as Mercy used a piece of linen to draw out the tart. Golden brown fluted crust, blackberries swirled in a creamy pudding--Mercy cradled her creation in her outstretched hand. It looked and smelled like edible heaven.

“Please take one,” Mercy said. “Then I’ll know that you’ve truly forgiven me for being a bossy, nosy gossip monger.”

“And a preachy priss,” Eloise added choosing the blackberry. “Oh, it’s still warm.”

“Fresh from the oven, because this preachy priss loves you.”

Eloise took one bite and then another. “I love you, too,” she sighed, her eyes rolling in delight.

Mercy wrapped her arm and around Eloise’s waist and led her to the divan.

“This is so yummy, are you sure you don’t want some?” Eloise asked, settling down and looking up at Mercy.

“So sure,” Mercy said.

“But you brought two.”

“Because I didn’t know if you preferred blackberry or rhubarb.”

Eloise touched her fingers to her lips. “You’re almost as sweet as this tart.”

Almost, Mercy thought.

A door opened and footsteps in the hall signaled the return of Miles and Trent.

Eloise patted the divan with one hand and ate the tart with the other. “Sit with me?” she asked with blackberry stained teeth.

“No, sweetie.” Mercy listened to the men’s footsteps and voices moving down the hall. As much as she wanted to stay to ensure the oil from the snapdragon seeds worked their magic, she didn’t want to meet Trent, Miles or especially Mr. Steele. “I told Aunt I’d only be gone a minute.”

“But you just got here. I need a hen chat.”

“Tomorrow, on the way to the ball you can tell me all about your drive with Mr. Steele.”

Eloise leaned back into the divan, her eyes dreamy. “Hmm, Mr. Steele.” She gave Mercy a lopsided grin and Mercy smiled back, wondering if she should tell Eloise that she had a smear of blackberry cream on her chin.

“Miss Faye?”

Miles stood in the hallway. Disappointment mingled with relief when she saw he was alone. Trent had gone. She despised being muddled and Trent made her feel upside down. If she didn’t want to see him then why was she so disappointed to find Miles alone? After a moment, she decided that she didn’t want to see Trent because she knew that he could ferret out her plan. If he knew what she’d done, he would think poorly of her. He had a knack for seeing through her.

The guilt returned and Mercy mentally argued it away. What should I have done? I could not tell Eloise I have a previous history with Steele nor could I stand by and watch her throw herself at him. Mercy sighed while the guilt twisted. She picked up her basket and turned to face Miles. She didn’t worry that Miles might suspect her laced tarts.

“Miles,” Mercy said, coming toward him. “How lovely to see you. I wish I could stay longer, but as I was just telling Eloise, I’m afraid my aunt needs me at the shop.” She’s sound asleep and there’s no one minding the store. After one last look at Eloise, who sat on the divan, touching a linen napkin to her lips, Mercy brushed past Miles on her way to the door.

“Perhaps I could walk you,” Miles offered, falling into step beside her.

“Oh.” Mercy thought for a moment. “But, won’t you need to be here when Mr. Steele arrives?”

Miles opened the front door and frowned. A breeze blew in and circled the foyer. It carried with it the scents of a late spring afternoon and Mercy itched to be on her way.

“I’d be happy to drive Miss Faye home,” Trent stood on the porch, to the left of a pillar, backlit by the sun. When he spoke, Mercy tripped over the threshold and landed wrong, her foot twisting beneath her. Trent caught her arm and held her for a moment against him. He smelled of leather and something she couldn’t define. After letting her go, he bent to retrieve the basket that had fallen to her feet.

“Mr. Michaels, you startled me.” She could see him assessing the basket that she took from him and crooked over her arm. She held it tightly against her body, shielding it. On the street, she could see his chestnut colored horses tied to a buggy. They pawed the ground and shook the reins that held them to the hitching post. “I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way,” Mercy hedged.

“Not at all,” Trent motioned toward his buggy.

Mercy shot Miles an apologetic glance over her shoulder as Trent led her to the front gate. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the ball,” she told Miles.

“Until then,” Miles replied, looking huffy as he followed her to the buggy. She let him hand her up and she settled beside Trent and tucked the basket beneath her skirts.

Since she’d be riding as opposed to walking, the threat of passing Mr. Steele vanished. Perhaps the extra time would allow her to double check on Eloise, to ensure the snapdragon oil had safely put her to sleep. Compared to Tilly’s girth, Eloise was a tiny thing and more susceptible to the drug, but she really wanted to make sure.

“Oh dear,” Mercy sighed. “I believe I’ve forgotten my wrap.” The guilt raised its head and Mercy disliked how easily the lies, fast and furious, came to her lips.

Trent moved to jump from the buggy.

Mercy stopped him. “No. Let me. I’ll just be a moment.” She climbed down and hurried up the front walk. Through an open window she could see Eloise sprawled on the divan, her head rolled back, her mouth open, and her eyes closed. Satisfied, Mercy returned to the buggy.

“You know, I just remembered I’d left my wrap at home.” Lies, lies, lies. At this rate, she’d need to speak with Pastor Klum. She looked up to find Trent standing beside the buggy, his hand outstretched, waiting to help her up. And then she noticed it…the unmistakable scent of rhubarb.

She let him help her up while watching his face for signs of duplicity. Once seated on the bench, she nudged the basket with her toe. Empty. She looked to make sure.

Her back stiffened with the horrible conclusion. “You ate my tart.” The words blurted out of her. She covered her mouth with her hand, equally horrified at her rudeness and the potentially awkward situation she now faced.

“Your tart?” He slapped the reins and the horses moved down the street.

Her voice sounded strangled. “I made tarts for Eloise.”

“Did she enjoy them?”

“She enjoyed one. The other is missing.”

Trent chuckled. “Are you seriously accusing me of stealing your tart?”

Her mouth fell open. “You must have!” she finally said.

“I promise you, I wouldn’t take your tart without your permission.”

She sniffed. “But—” Knowing she sounded insulting she fixed her lips together and leaned back against the cushion and watched Trent as he guided the horses down Olympic hill. “I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t take my tart.” Another lie.

She looked at him through the corner of her eye. His teeth looked clean. He gave her a quizzical look and she flushed. What would he think of her staring at his mouth?

More importantly, what would she do if he fell asleep before they reached Lily Hill? She imagined him slumped against her, his head lying in her lap. She watched him handling the reins. He held all four in his hand, loosely, and the horses trotted obediently along. She’d never driven a buggy, never ridden a horse; it didn’t look difficult. But, Lily Hill lay on the other side of town. They’d have to pass through the business section, where she’d have to navigate around wagons, buggy’s, pedestrians, perhaps children or small animals that could dart beneath the buggy’s wheels. She couldn’t very well parade through town with Trent dozing, his head on her lap.

“Thank-you for your trust,” he said, his mouth a straight line, not a trace of rhubarb scent on his breath.

“You’re welcome.” She watched him, looking for signs of sleep.

Would You Like to Read Melee in Exchange For an Honest Review?

I'm excited because I'll finish the third and final book in my Menagerie series this week--although I won't be publishing it until August. It's always a rush of accomplishment (although a little sad to say goodbye to my characters) when I finish a series. If you would like to read Melee in exchange for an honest review, please email me at kristyswords@yahoo.com and use the word REVIEW in the subject line.

Of course, you might be a little lost if you haven't read the first two books in the series, but Menagerie, the first book, is only .99. You can get it here: MENAGERIE

It is during the wee hours when our most immense dreams come to us.

Jean Arp

From Lizbet’s Studies

CHAPTER 1

As sunlight touched the eastern sky Declan sat up, shivering. Brushing twigs and leaves off his naked skin, he crawled to huddle behind a huckleberry bush to make sense of things. His whole world tilted as he tried to process what had happened. He had spent the night in the woods. Naked? How could he have forgotten something as important as his clothes?

Beyond the woods, Lizbet’s house. Only the barn stirred with life. Horses nickered, goats bleated, pigs snorted—all were waiting for their breakfast, and Declan knew who would provide it. Lizbet. He couldn’t face her. Not like this. After shooting a quick glance at the house, wondering if anyone was awake to witness his streaking, he ran for his car.

The keys. Where were they? In the pocket of his jeans. But where were his pants? Crouching behind the Mercedes, he spotted them—or what was left of them—at the edge of the woods. He commando crawled through the tall grass, snake-like, flinching as twigs and pebbles poked and pierced his skin. All his clothes had been ripped to shreds, but thankfully, his keys were still in the remains of his pocket. He scooped up the cottony threads of what had once been his clothes.

His shivering accelerated as he pressed the key fob, crawled back through the grass, avoiding anything sharp or dangerous looking, and lifted the car’s door handle. Inside the Mercedes, he started the engine and turned up the heater full blast. He glanced in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see a furry snout instead of his nose and unshaved chin. He looked exactly like himself, but…he gazed at his arms and chest…different. He studied the wolf bite on his hand. A few hours ago the puncture wounds had been a bloody mess, but it had since healed to a pink line. Strange.

By the time he arrived at his grandfather’s house in the University District, he had practically convinced himself that it had all been a bad dream.

But his shredded clothes told a different story.

He collapsed onto his bed just after dawn and fell into a restless sleep.

#

Lizbet addressed a crowd of gathered animals. “I really appreciate your willingness to put aside your animosity to fight our common enemy. As you know, a pack of wolves has been terrorizing our community. There have even been some deaths.”

Chattering, growling, and murmuring rippled through the crowd.

“It needs to stop,” Lizbet said. “And I believe it can. But only if we all work together.”

A crow fluttered to perch on Lizbet’s shoulder. It whispered in her ear and she stopped and slowly turned in Declan’s direction. He thought about hiding, but realized he could never do so from the birds.

“What are you doing here, Declan?” she asked, her voice hard.

He stepped out from behind the tree, amazed to find he was almost as scared of Lizbet as he was of the bear. “What—“ His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What are you doing?”

She twisted her lips together and scowled at him. He could tell she was battling between the truth and a lie. Finally, she said, “I’m going to catch a werewolf.”

Drenched in sweat, Declan bolted up, kicking the covers off his bed. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He willed his heart to stop racing. It’s only a dream, he told himself. But it was more than that. It was a memory. A painful one.

And if it was a memory, it meant that the other, more terrifying dreams could also be memories. He padded over to his computer, sat down in front of it, and turned it on. He typed “night terrors” into the search engine.

Episodes usually occur 1 to 2 hours after going to sleep and can last from 1 to 30 minutes. The victim will look like himself with open eyes but his expression will be vacant, if not horror-struck. Waking a victim will prove difficult, if not impossible. Upon waking, he or she won't remember the incident, no matter what terror he has endured.

During an episode, it is typical for one to exhibit intense fear or agitation. They may be violent. They will not be cognizant of their surroundings. Their breathing may quicken and their heartrate increase. They may perspire profusely. They may scream and try to fight demons that only they can see.

Night terrors are different from nightmares. Nightmares are frightening dreams that can often be recalled the next morning in vivid detail. Night terrors leave no trace in the memory.

That was it. Night terrors. Although, according to this article, victims of night terrors were usually under the age of twelve. But Declan wrote off his experience in the woods as night terrors—a phenomenon brought on by the shock of Lizbet’s revelations. For that, of course, he couldn’t manufacture a rational explanation without engaging in a losing argument with her—and maybe a bear or a skunk. No sense in picking a fight he had no chance of winning. But as for his own personal nightmare—he didn’t need to revisit it.

He hoped.

It was only a little after six. He could sleep for another couple of hours. But could and would were two very different concepts. Silently, he crept from his room and down the hall and peeked through his mom’s ajar bedroom door. She slept curled in a ball in the middle of her king-size bed, the bedclothes wrapped around her legs, her arms tucked under her. He tiptoed across the long stretch of carpet, passing through a swath of early morning light streaming through the window. In her bathroom, he found her collection of medicine in the cabinet. He grabbed four bottles, and after another glance at his mom, he took them into her closet and closed the door before flipping on the light.

The sudden brightness stung his eyes. It took a moment for his vision to clear. Surrounded by his mom’s power suits, silky dresses, and shoes, he scanned the medicine labels before selecting the one that read, For relief of sleeplessness when associated with pain.

He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he rationalized away his guilt. He told himself emotional pain was just as real as physical pain. He swallowed the pills dry.

#

Elizabeth stood in the far corner of her garden waving her cane at a flock of sparrows.

“Something wrong, Grandma?” Lizbet asked, coming up behind her.

“These dad-gum birds are eating all of my grapes!” Elizabeth groused.

“They have to feed their families, too,” Lizbet said gently as she eyed the small, hard green balls that had weeks to go before being palatable to anyone other than the sparrows.

Elizabeth blew out a sigh. “You sound like you’re on their side!”

“I didn’t know there were any sides,” Lizbet said. “I’m just pointing out—”

“Ugh. You sound like Josie!” Elizabeth sloshed through the muddy garden patch. “She’s always trying to get me to sell this place.”

That was not only unfair, but it was also untrue. “I don’t want you to sell the ranch, and I know my mom doesn’t either.”

Elizabeth sniffed as she moved between the corn stalks. Some had already grown past her shoulders while others barely reached her waist. A few of the taller stalks had baby ears of corn and sported puffs of silk.

“This place is my life,” Elizabeth said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I had to vegetate in Josie’s condo all day.”

Lizbet trailed after her grandmother. Because she was a good five inches shorter than her grandmother, some of the stalks touched her hair and threatened to poke her in the eye with their floppy leaves. “No one is asking you to move in with Josie.”

Elizabeth made a harrumphing sound. “We’re going to have to make some salsa out of these tomatoes,” she said. “If we can keep the deer out of here.”

Lizbet took note of the hundreds of nearly ripe tomatoes. Only a few, that she could see, had deer bites in them. “I think the critters have shown a lot of self-restraint,” Lizbet said.

Elizabeth turned and gave her an are-you-insane look.

“Come on, Grandma,” Lizbet said, taking Elizabeth’s arm. “Let’s go and make some lunch.”

#

When an invitation to Nicole’s going away party coincided with the first night of August’s full moon, only a niggle of warning flashed in the back of Declan’s mind.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Declan asked Lizbet as they browsed the bookstore for used textbooks. He would be a freshman at the University of Washington at the end of September and Lizbet would start classes at Queen Anne Community College a couple of weeks before that.

“Sure, why not?” Lizbet flipped her curls over her shoulder and gave him a smile that sent him over the moon.

“Well, it’s not as if you’re friends…”

“But she’s your friend, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Come on, it’ll be good for me. I’m trying to be more social.” She bumped him with her hip before moving down the aisle. She glanced at her list of required books for the upcoming semester.

“You’re plenty social.” Declan trailed after her, but stopped as a title caught his eye.

The Meaning and Translation of Dreams. He pulled it off the shelf and flipped it open.

People who are anxious or overtired are more likely to sleepwalk or experience sleep terrors. A relaxing bedtime routine paired with an early bedtime can help prevent sleep disturbances.

Avoid sleepwalking injuries by making the bedroom and house as safe as possible. Consider the following precautions:

Make sure there are no sharp or breakable objects near the bed.

Install gates on stairways.

Lock doors and windows.

If psychological stress contributes to disordered sleep, counseling may help. Both children and adults may benefit from hypnosis or biofeedback.

In some cases, a doctor may prescribe short-acting sleep or antianxiety medications to reduce or eliminate episodes.

Seek professional help if:

Episodes are frequent or severe.

The sleepwalker gets injured during episodes.

The sleepwalker leaves the house.

Nighttime episodes are accompanied by daytime sleepiness.

Stress, anxiety or other psychological factors may be contributing to sleep disturbances.

Sleepwalkers occasionally injure themselves or others. But most episodes of sleepwalking and sleep terrors are brief and harmless.

Lizbet glanced over his shoulder. “What’s this?”

He slammed the book shut. “Nothing.”

“You having problems sleeping?”

“Not really. Just that one night.” He slipped the book back onto the shelf.

“What night?” she pressed.

He shrugged her question off. “Listen. It makes sense. Talking animals, werewolves, and were-Schnauzers. Anyone would have nightmares. It was a lot to process.” A sudden memory assaulted him and he closed his eyes, trying to tune it out.

Hunger burned the back of his throat and tightened his gut. He padded across the forest floor. A carpeting of pine needles and soft soil muffled his footfalls. Above the trees’ canopy, a smattering of stars glistened, pale against a cloud-filled night. Mist shrouded the round, full strawberry moon.

He sat back on his haunches and lifted his head toward the moon. Snatches of conversations drifted by. Apprehension surged through his blood. He gazed at his paw…so foreign. How had he transformed into this creature? Standing on all fours, he loped through the woods aimlessly, fighting the hunger that zinged through his veins.

“Of course.” Lizbet looped her arm around his and pulled him into a sideways hug and out of the memory. Hallucination. Nightmare…whatever it was.

“It’s amazing that we’re both not bonkers,” she said.

“Bonkers,” he murmured. His gaze landed on another book, Mental Health for Dummies.

He needed help.

#

Music thrummed through the open windows. Someone had hung a disco ball from the dining room chandelier and shafts of multicolored light sparkled on the dark lawn. Kids in jeans, T-shirts, and UW hoodies lounged on the front porch. Lizbet wanted to belong, but she still felt like a poser. This was Declan’s world, as foreign to her as the moon.

She picked out Baxter, Declan’s oversized friend, Maria, her friend and neighbor, and McNally, another friend of Declan’s from East End High’s basketball team all standing in a tight circle just inside the double-wide doors. She tightened her grip on Declan’s hand.

He wore jeans, flip-flops, and a Twenty One Pilots T-shirt. Trying to fit in, she’d chosen a nearly identical outfit, but her T-shirt and jeans couldn’t hide her curves…and nothing could tame her curls.

As if sensing her insecurity, Declan dropped a quick kiss on her temple.

“Who’s that with Nicole?” she asked, nodding at a guy with a Cross-Fitter’s build leaning against the porch railing, his eyes trained on Nicole, a lithe blonde with flushed cheeks.

“Jason Norbit. Her old squeeze. They broke up a while ago.”

“You mean when she applied to Duke?”

Declan dipped his chin. “He’s going to UW on a football scholarship.”

Lizbet bit her bottom lip as she followed Declan up the porch steps and through the doorway. She had her own theories about why Nicole had applied to Duke.

Nicole was beautiful in an ice-queen way. Her home had the same understated elegance—the disco ball being the notable exception. Someone had carried the dining room table out through the French doors to the back patio and people danced on the hardwood floor beneath the spinning lights.

“Want to dance?” Declan asked.

“No.” The thought horrified her. She’d never danced before in front of a crowd. Her thoughts flitted back to the first time she had ever danced…with Declan…in the moonlight. Dancing had turned to kissing. That had been a first for her, too. “Do you?”

He shook his head, grinned, and put his hand on her shoulder to steer her outside to his cluster of friends surrounding the food-piled dining room table.

Nicole waylaid them. “Hey, Declan. Any second thoughts about ditching Duke?”

Declan shook his head. “Sorry, Nicki, you’re on your own.”

Jason pulled himself away from the wall and draped his arm across Nicole’s shoulder. “Not quite on her own. There’s only about three thousand in the freshman class.”

Lizbet wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a flicker of irritation in Nicole’s eyes.

McNally appeared at Declan’s side and elbowed him. “Yeah, now that you’re going to UW, have you thought about playing intermural basketball?”

“Basketball?” A girl Lizbet didn’t know broke into the conversation. “That’s no fun. What about ultimate frisbee?” She flashed Declan a smile full of perfectly straight, bright white teeth. “That’s co-ed.”

 “How about you?” Jason nodded at Lizbet. “Where you headed?”

“Queen Anne Community,” Lizbet said. “Staying local.”

Jason’s gaze swept over her and lingered on her lips. “Me, too.” He lifted his soda bottle as if to clink her invisible goblet in a toast.

Lizbet sent Declan a quick glance, but he was lost in conversation with McNally and the unknown girl, debating the virtues of basketball and ultimate frisbee.

Jason leaned forward, placing his hand on the wall directly behind Lizbet and making her feel pinned. “What’s your story?”

Lizbet knew he wouldn’t believe her if she were stupid enough to tell him. She tested him. “Well, last month I killed a werewolf. How about you?”

He laughed as if she were joking. “So you’re like Buffy? A vampire slayer?”

“No vampires,” she said in all seriousness. “I tend to stick to creatures.”

He nodded and a glint she didn’t like filled his eyes.

“Seriously,” she said. “I’m auditing a mythology class from Professor Madison at the University of Washington right now.”

“What are you going to do with that? Kill more werewolves?”

“I’d rather just scare them away.”

He snorted. “You’re a tiny thing. It’s hard to believe you could scare anything.”

She blinked at him. “You’d be surprised.”

“You’re like a werewolf warrior?”

She wanted to smile to show him his invasion of her personal space wasn’t making her crazy, but the closer Jason pressed, the more uncomfortable she felt. She looked over his shoulder for Declan, but couldn’t see him. Everyone else had deserted the porch and gone inside. Annoyance flashed through her. She spotted a cat sitting on the windowsill, watching them with slit eyes. She crooked a finger at the animal. He responded by twitching his whiskers.

Jason flicked a glance over his shoulder before turning back to Lizbet. The cat stood, arched his back, and batted a dead moth out of the corner of the window toward Jason’s crotch. Surprised, Jason jumped out of the line of fire.

Lizbet’s lips twitched as she escaped. “Thanks,” she whispered to the cat as she went to find Declan. She didn’t see him with his friends in the backyard, in the mass of kids huddled in the kitchen, or in any of the circles of conversation in the living room. She thought she heard his laughter floating up the stairwell that led to the basement, but before she climbed halfway down, someone turned off the lights and plunged the basement into inky darkness.

“Everyone close your eyes,” a girl said.

Lizbet froze on the stairs, unsure where to go or what to do. She risked tripping in the dark in either direction.

“Vampire, open your eyes and select your victim.” Someone switched on a flashlight and a girl giggled.

Lizbet hurried down the stairs.

“Stop! Intruder!” Someone turned on the overhead light amidst groans.

Lizbet swallowed hard, suddenly aware that somehow she’d inadvertently pooped on the party.

The girl who seemed to be in charge pointed at Lizbet. “State your name and business.” She had a severe haircut and wore I-mean-business glasses, a black turtleneck despite the warm summer night, and a pair of painted-on jeans.

“She’s Lizbet and she’s with me.” Jason came up behind her and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “’Scuse us for interrupting. Mind if we join you?”

A couple of people made groaning sounds, but most murmured a welcome. The lights were doused before Lizbet even got a look around the room to see if Declan was in the crowd.

Jason tugged at her hand and she fell into a cross-legged position beside him. “I don’t know this game,” she whispered as she disentangled her fingers.

“It’s easy. You’ll catch on.” Jason’s warm breath fanned against her cheek. “As a werewolf warrior, you’ll be a natural.”

In the darkness, he seemed closer than she would have guessed. She inched away from him and bumped someone next to her. “Sorry,” she hissed and held herself very still so as not to touch anyone else.

“Night has fallen…again,” the game-master girl began. “While the villagers sleep, the vampire works the wages of death. Vampire, open your eyes and select your victim.”

“Keep your eyes closed,” Jason whispered, and he squeezed Lizbet’s knee.

Moments later, the game-master girl flipped on a flashlight. “Everyone open your eyes.” She flicked the flashlight at the faces of the twenty or so kids seated on the basement rug. When Lizbet saw Declan wasn’t in their number, she wanted to leave, but she’d already interrupted the game once and didn’t want to do it again.

“In the dark of night, a vampire stole into the home at twenty-eight Reynolds.”

“Yeah! That’s my house!” a redheaded kid with a smattering of freckles said.

The game-master girl slid him the evil eye.  “While Carl slept, the vampire sucked his blood and left his lifeless body on the library floor.”

“I have a library. Cool,” Carl said.

“Yeah, like that’s going to do you any good seeing as how you don’t read,” someone said.

“Hush!” a girl in a vintage Van Halen T-shirt hissed.

“You can’t talk,” a guy with hair like a hedgehog said. “You’re dead.”

Carl looked as if he wanted to argue, but he bit his tongue.

“I’m not sure I want to play this game,” Lizbet whispered to Jason.

“You better be quiet, or else the vampire will kill you, too,” Jason whispered.

“I’d be okay with that,” Lizbet returned, “seeing as how I don’t want to play.”

“Silence!” the game-master girl called out. “Villagers, who among you executed this dastardly deed?” she asked as she flashed the light into the blinking faces of her friends. “Who is the vampire?”

Speculations and laughter flew. Lizbet tried to be a good sport, but with Jason’s thigh pressing against hers, she felt increasingly uncomfortable. The guy sitting on her other side had excessive arm and leg hair so that every time she bumped into him she felt like she was touching a fur ball. Plus, he had onion breath.

“Okay! New round!” The game-master girl stood and flipped on the overhead light, illuminating the orange shag carpet and plaid sofas pushed up against the wood-paneled walls. “Everyone turn in your cards.”

Lizbet had missed something.

Declan, Baxter, and McNally followed by Nicole and a couple of girls trooped down the stairs.

“Hey, can we join in?” Baxter asked. Lizbet had observed that because Baxter was so big, people rarely told him no. The circle widened to let him in while Declan inserted himself next to Lizbet.

“What brought you down here?” Declan whispered in her ear.

“I was looking for you.”

“Hmm, I was looking for you, too.” He kissed her lightly on the lips.

“Not yet, Lamb.”

“Sorry,” Declan said, sounding not in the least repentant.

Nicole, who had wedged herself on the other side of Jason, rolled her eyes.

The game-master girl hit the lights. “Villagers, close your eyes! Night has fallen in the village of the doomed. While the villagers slumber, the vampire stalks his prey.”

Someone dropped in front of Lizbet and planted a sloppy wet kiss on her lips. She struggled and pushed him off.

“Yeah! That’s the game!” Jason said.

“Sorry, I…” Lizbet jumped to her feet. “I told you I didn’t want to play.” Embarrassed, she crawled over people in the dark until she found the stairs and felt her way out of the basement. In the kitchen, she realized that Declan had followed her.

“Ugh.” She covered her face with her hands. “That was awful.”

He laughed. “Don’t let Jason hear you say that.”

She shuddered. “Can we go?”

“Sure.” He draped his arm around her shoulder. “It was just a game.”

“I know. It wasn’t a big deal.” But it felt like it was.

Witch One

When Evelyn Marston is offered a shot at writing for Hartly High’s newspaper she’s thrilled. The only stipulation is she has to attend the school dance as a reporter, so when a trio of guys claim she asked them to the dance, she loses her cool. Literally. And burns down the science building.

Evie learns a few things:

1.       There are witches in every school and in every situation.

2.       A fire isn’t the scariest thing that can happen in high school.

3.       Sometimes the most frightening thing of all, the most terrifying to face, is yourself.

Witch One is the short story prequel to the Kindle Scout winning novel by Kristy Tate.

Witch Ways

The prequel to the Kindle Scout Winning novel, Witch Ways

© 2017 Kristy Tate

Witch Ways is only .99 cents for a limited time!

When emotions run high, sparks can fly.

How a High School Dance is Like the Courting Rituals Found in the Animal Kingdom

By Evelynn Marston

The animal kingdom is rife with courtship rituals. These are generally initiated by the males who attempt to woo female partners.

Some animals, like the bowerbird, will collect a tower of objects to impress his love. The great grebe, who mates for life, has a series of dance moves to perform throughout the mating season. If, for any reason, the pair is separated, they will each bust a move when reunited. The male peacock spreads his tail feathers and struts around.

The praying mantis literally risks his life for a night of love. If his lady dislikes his performance, she bites his head off.

A male nursery web spider will present a little bundle of food wrapped in pretty white silk to the female as a request to mate. If the female likes the present, the two will mate while she unwraps and eats the meal. Sadly, sometimes the male will try to bring a wrapped twig. When this happens, the relationship is dead in the water.

It might be thought that courtship only occurs in the kinds of animals that have fairly complex brains, such as mammals and birds. This is not the case as the school dances at Hartly High clearly demonstrate!

Mr. Cox put down my essay and wannabe newspaper article and smiled with a gaze that glittered with excitement. "Are you willing to attend the dance--not as a participant, but as a spectator?"

"Absolutely," I said.

"This is the hallmark of a true journalist," he told me. "You must be able to put aside your own desires. As a reporter, you cease to be an individual with your own petty goals. Your function is to be a communication vessel--a transmitter to the world."

I nodded, mute with happiness.

#

"You agreed to what?" Bree asked at her house later that night.

I pushed my hair off my forehead and looked across the kitchen table at my best friend. Studying at my own house, where there was no one but Scratch, our bulldog, and the sound of Uncle Mitch's lab rats scurrying in their cages to interrupt us, was quieter and therefore boring compared to hanging at Bree's.

"I'm not going to the dance, per se, as a person." I had expected this conversation and had prepared for it. "I'm going as a journalist."

"So you are going and you can get me a ticket."

"You know only upperclassmen can go."

Lincoln, Bree's little brother, burst into the room wearing nothing but his tighty-whities. "Where are the cookies?" he demanded. His pale skin stretched across his bony chest.

"I don't know anything about cookies," Bree told him. "And go and put your clothes on."

Lincoln scooted a kitchen chair up to the counter for a quick cookie-surveillance and took note of backpacks, textbooks, novels, scribbled-on bits of paper, a baseball card collection. His eyes lit up when he spotted a half-eaten chocolate bunny, probably left over from Easter.

Bree ignored her little brother. "But the Blazing Blizzards!"

"Norfolk High will probably have a great band too."

"That's so not true," Bree said.

"The guys at your school are hotter."

Lincoln stood on his chair and nibbled on one of the bunny's ears.

"What makes you say that?" Bree asked.

"Well, they don't have to wear Hartly’s uniform, for one thing."

In the living room, the front door opened and Bree’s older sister Candace walked in with a friend wearing a chicken suit. A cold breeze circled the room until the door slammed shut.

"What the quack?" Lincoln asked.

"It's 'what the cluck,'" the girl in the chicken suit corrected him with a giggle.

Candace’s friend had masses of blond hair tucked into a hoodie covered with yellow feathers. She wore the beak on top of her head like a rhino horn.

"You look stupid," Lincoln told her.

"Thanks," the girl said.

"What are you supposed to be?"

"I'm a chick," she told him right before she lowered the beak over her nose.

"But why?" Lincoln demanded.

"You'll see," the girl said. The beak bobbed up and down with her muffled words.

"School play try-outs already?" I asked Bree in a hushed tone as soon as the chick and Candace ran up the back stairs.

"I don't think so," Bree said.

"Are the dogs outside?" Candace called from upstairs.

Lincoln jumped off his chair. "Why?" he demanded. "They have just as much right as you do to be in here."

"Just take them out!" Candace called back.

"They're not here," Bree yelled.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know," Bree answered.

"Well, keep them out."

"Why?" Lincoln asked.

The smell of fried chicken fried wafted down the stairs.

"What the...cluck?" Bree pushed back from the table and went into the front room.

I followed.

Candace and the chick were dropping a trail of chicken nuggets that started at the front door and ran up the stairs.

"Nobody step on these," the chick demanded.

"Does Mom know you're doing this?" Bree asked, her lips curled in disdain.

"She won't care," Candace said as she dropped chicken nuggets on the floor.

"Uncle Mitch would," I said under my breath.

Bree nodded. “I don’t think Mom is going to like it, but the dogs will."

"Bree," Candace called. "Come help."

I trailed up the stairs after Bree and followed the nuggets into the bathroom. The chick lay in the bathtub and Candace stood beside her with a roll of plastic wrap in her hands. "We're going to make it look like she's swimming in nuggets."

Bree gawked at the large tinfoil baking pans. "You must have spent a hundred dollars on nuggets!"

"Three hundred and twenty-five dollars," the girl announced from her prone position in the tub.

"But why?" Lincoln pushed into the room.

Candace nodded at the sign hung on the white tile above the tub. It read, "Josh, you'd be a clucking fool not to go to the dance with this hot chick."

Lincoln bolted and waved his chocolate bunny in the air. "I want nothing to do with this!" he yelled over his naked shoulder.

I hoped Josh, Bree’s older brother, would feel the same. "I gotta go," I said, hating that I was following Lincoln's lead.

"Don't you want to be here when Josh sees this?" Bree asked as she helped Candace drop nuggets into the bathtub.

"Not really." I headed out, taking care not to step on the nuggets. I pictured how the rest of the evening would go. Mrs. Henderson’s lips would be tight with anger over the greasy spots left on the carpet. The dogs would scarf up as many nuggets as they could before any of the Hendersons would realize that the overload of chicken would make them sick. The dogs would barf and then there would be more than oily stains on the carpet. And Josh…he’d have a date to the dance.

I didn’t want to be there when any of that happened.

#

Melissa Blankly cornered me the next day in the cafeteria. "I know what you're doing," she said, poking me in the chest with her red bejeweled fingernail.

"What are you talking about?" I swatted her hand away and all her bracelets tinkled in response.

She gave me her best mean-girl smile. "You're just reporting on the dance so you can get in."

"Uh, no."

She narrowed her eyes, making her fake lashes look like centipede legs. She opened her mouth to utter another bit of stupidity but closed it fast.

I looked over my shoulder to see why.

Robbie Fisher, the editor-in-chief of the Hartly Herald, strode our way. He placed a large, heavy hand on my shoulder. "Hey, I read the article you submitted to Cox. Good stuff!"

"Thanks!" I responded, flushing from his praise and nearness.

Robbie was one of the few guys who could wear the Hartly uniform without looking like a dweeb. In fact, with his towering height and broad shoulders, he looked better than most of the males at Hartly, faculty included. "I can't wait to read the rest of it," he said.

"Well, I can't actually finish it until after the dance," I told him.

"Yeah." He nudged me as if we shared a joke. "I got that."

Melissa fluttered her eyelashes at him, but as soon as he left, she ramped up her glare. "Have fun at the dance." It sounded like a threat, but what could she do?

#

The Hendersons’ van pulled up in front of my house the next morning, and Josh tooted the horn. I snagged a muffin off the kitchen table, called goodbye to Uncle Mitch and waved at Mrs. Mateo, our housekeeper, on my way out. After settling in the back seat of the van beside Bree, I gave Josh sitting behind the steering wheel a glance under my lashes. Football had changed him from the lanky kid he used to be. "Is he going to the dance with the chick?" I whispered to Bree.

Bree nodded. "You really should have stuck around. It was pretty hilarious."

"Shut it, Bree," Josh growled without looking at her as he put the van in gear. His voice had also dropped an octave in the last year or so.

"One of the twins let the dogs in," Bree continued.

"Oh no!"

"Yeah," Lincoln piped in. "That was before Josh got home."

"And then Penguin started vomiting," said Gabby, Bree’s baby sister.

"Oh no!" I repeated as if I was surprised. Which I wasn’t.

"So basically, Josh followed dog vomit up the stairs," Bree said.

"Mom was so mad!" Lincoln said.

"Shut it, Lincoln," Josh growled as he shifted the van into second gear.

"Josh has to pay for the carpet cleaner," Bree told her.

"Oh, that's not really fair," I said. "I mean, it wasn't his idea--"

"We had to all clean our rooms before the Magic Carpet people came," Gabby said.

"And there isn't even a real magic carpet," one of the twins said.

"Yeah," the identical brother chirped. "It's dumb because it's just a name. They don't fly or anything."

"They don't even pick up stuff--we had to do that," Gabby huffed.

“So, we all pretty much hate that chick,” Lincoln said.

I caught Josh's eye in the rearview mirror. His cheeks flooded with color before he fixed his attention on the road.

Later, in my history class, while Mr. Benson talked about the bubonic plague, I thought about how I would ask someone to a dance. I wouldn't spread chicken nuggets around, and I definitely wouldn't call myself a hot chick. I also wouldn't wear a chicken costume. I almost felt sorry for Josh because how could he say no to someone who had spent hundreds of dollars on chicken nuggets/dog treats?

The bell rang before I could come up with my own clever, inexpensive, and not barfing-bad way to ask a guy to a dance.

Troy stood beside my desk and blinked at me through his glasses. The lenses were so thick, they distorted his eyes, giving him a Yoda appearance.

"I'd be honored to go to the dance with you," he said.

We had never actually spoken before, and the normalcy of his voice surprised me. Almost as much as his words. "What?" It was my turn to blink at him.

"The dance," he said. "Thanks for asking. I'd be happy to take you."

"But...I didn't ask you to the dance."

He started to stutter. "Y-you wrote me a letter." He fished in his backpack.

"It must have been a different Evelynn," I told him.

"You're the only Evelynn I know," he said.

I thought about pointing out that we really didn't know each other at all, even though we'd been going to the same school since kindergarten...well, since I was in kindergarten and he was in second grade since he was two grades ahead of me.

He slapped a handwritten note on the desk separating us. Sure enough, it had my name on it, and above that was an invitation to the dance.

"I got the same note." Harrison stood beside Troy and his chin sank to his chest, coming just inches above the Justin Bieber pin fastened to the lapel of his navy blue blazer.

"You did?" My voice squeaked. I cleared it and tried to sound normal.

"I knew it was too good to be true," Harrison said as he scrounged through his leather book bag. Moments later, he pulled out an identical note.

"You could go with both of us," Troy said hopefully.

Harrison looked up and met Troy's gaze. They seemed to come to a silent agreement. "I'd be okay with that."

"But...I'm sorry. I didn't write those. I can't go with a date to the dance. I'm going as a reporter for the Herald."

"I thought only upperclassmen could be on the paper," Troy said.

"Sometimes Cox lets sophomores write guest pieces so he can know who can make the paper as juniors," Harrison told him.

"If you go with us, you don't have to write the article," Troy said.

Harrison straightened his shoulders. "Yeah. We're both upperclassmen, so we're your ticket in."

Troy gave him a high-five.

"But I want to write the article. I want a ticket onto the paper, not to a dance."

The guys both seemed to deflate.

"You can find someone else to go with." I gathered up my books and headed for the science building.

"Yeah? Like who?" Troy demanded, trailing after me.

"I don't know. Who do you want to go with?"

"You," Troy said.

I blew out a breath. "I'm not going to the dance with you! Either of you! I'm sorry!"

"You don't sound sorry," Harrison said before shuffling away in the opposite direction.

"I think you're going to change your mind," Troy said, matching my stride. "When we get to the dance, you're going to feel awkward and alone--being the only sophomore there and all. You'll be glad for my company."

"You better go to class." The bell rang before I could add something mean. I knew the guys weren’t to blame. This situation reeked of Melissa.

Troy gave me a determined smile before trotting down the hall.

In biology, I took my usual seat near the window. Most of the class were already in their chairs, but Mr. Beck hadn't arrived yet. Just then the four Lounge Lizards, the barbershop quartet who frequently serenaded students in the cafeteria, positioned themselves in the front of the room directly across from Chester the rat's cage.

"Dance with me when the sun is high," the Lounge Lizards broke out in four-part harmony. "Dance with me beneath the stars."

"Yes, you, Evelynn Marston!" Frankel, a squatty tenor, pointed a finger at me and winked.

Sniggers and laughter broke out around the room.

I bounced to my feet. "What are you talking, huh, singing about?"

Frankel jumped onto a table and wailed, "Let me be with you when the moon is bl-u-e."

Laughter surrounded me and thundered in my ears. Chester the rat squeaked and scampered in his cage. The flames warming the Bunsen burners turned blue and crackled. The electricity in the air fizzled and I felt it lifting my hair off the back of my neck. Heat crawled up my spine and flushed my cheeks. I held out my hands to beg Frankel to stop. The Bunsen burners flashed. The air sparked.

Just then, I was seven years old again and my parents were yelling. My father called my mother a whore. My mother called my father a controlling oaf. The mirror in the hallway shattered. Shards flew around the room like dancing bits of stars caught in a wind tunnel. Stunned, my parents hushed.

"And now we're throwing things. Very mature, Sophia," my dad said.

"I didn't throw anything," my mom said.

Both my parents looked at me.

Screaming shook me out of the memory. Students trampled to exit the room now shimmering in silver smoke. Flames crept up the walls. Colors flashed around me, and I fell to my knees.

Someone grabbed me and lifted me up. I couldn't see her face, but she was small, wiry, and reminded me of my mother. "Mom?"

"She's delirious," a deep voice said.

"Crazy," said a girl's voice—Melissa’s. "She'll do anything for a newspaper story."

My knees buckled as I stumbled outside. All around me, kids stood huddled in groups--girls holding each other, boys trying to hide their shock. Teachers yelled at everyone to stay back as the fire consumed what had once been the science building.

A small cheer went up as a kid ducked out of the building holding Chester the rat's cage over his head. Sirens sounded in the distance.

I braced myself against a tree and watched the chaos around me. This is what it's like to witness an ending, I thought. Just like the broken mirror had marked the end of my parents’ marriage, I knew that with the destruction of the science building, somehow my life at Hartly would never be the same. It wouldn't be just a matter of new microscopes, desks, tables, chairs, periodic tables, Petri dishes--although all those things would have to be replaced.

Everything would be different now because people would treat me differently, even though I would still be, basically, the same person.

Or so I thought.

The End

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