October Flash Fiction #7

by 

TJ Marshall

Small. Fluffy. Adorable. 

These words were used to describe the terror that struck my home. Oh sure, at first, I thought the same things.  How could I not? The little demon even came with its own ball of pink yarn. But that was before…  No, I think I better start at the beginning and let you decide.

“Can we keep her, Daddy?” Brittney’s eyes sparkled as she hugged the tiny yellow ball of fur which appeared on our front doorstep that morning.

I looked at her then the cat who mimicked my daughter’s plea.

I shook my head. “Baby, we can’t afford a kitten right now.”

Tears filled her hazel globes.  My will crumbled. “Oh, all right. But you have to promise me you will take care of her.”

“I will. I will. I will.” She hugged me, the kitten smooshed between us. “I love you so much.  I’m going to name her Tabitha.”

Tabitha quickly became an extension of my daughter.  Wherever she went, the cat was never far, even in her bed.

One night, as I tucked my daughter in and was about to give her a kiss, the kitten growled.  It wasn’t one of those cute “look at me, I’m a ferocious kitten” growls, but a deep menacing rumble.  Her eyes were narrowed, her ears laid back, and her sharp pointed fangs were bared. 

I stepped back, stunned. The cat sat her rump on Brittney’s pink pony blanket and licked her paws as if nothing happened.

I bent to finish my bedtime ritual when a sharp pain crossed above my brow.  My hand went to my forehead and found it wet. I looked at my reddened palm then back at Tabitha.  She lay curled up, purring at my daughter’s side.

“Daddy, your head.” Brittney sat up. “What happened? Are you OK?”

“I… I’ll be fine, Sweetie.” I returned my hand to the wound. ”Goodnight. Sleep tight.”

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” She giggled and scooted back under her blankets.

I rushed to the bathroom and turned on the light.  The vanity revealed three long, narrow scratches. They started at the center of my forehead and disappeared into the hairline just above my ear. I bandaged it , but the unseen attack kept me awake for hours.

Later that night, I was woken up from a crash in my room.  My heart leapt, sure there was an intruder.  I rolled out of bed. My hand found the baseball bat leaning against the wall. I stood in the dark, searching the shadows. The house was deathly still. 

My attention was drawn to two silver dots glowing above the bureau. Tabitha stood still as a statue in the center of the dresser. She stared at me.  I waved my hand at her. “Shoo.  Get out of here.”

She hissed and barred her fangs.  Her hair stood on end.

I poked the bat at her. “I said get!”

She jumped to the floor and padded toward the hallway.  At the door, she turned her head toward me and narrowed her eyes. 

I watched shocked and amazed as the tiny cat ran, with its hind end hopping, toward my girl’s room.

My hand found the toggle and light flooded my room.  I approached the bureau, noticing right away the portrait of Brittney and I laid flat. The glass protecting the picture was shattered; the cracks spider webbed out from the center of my face.

A few hours later, I cooked breakfast.  Saturday was Pancake Day. I had just flipped a mouse head shaped pancake when a scream rose from upstairs. My heart thrummed.  I’ve never heard such an ear splitting sound come from my daughter. 

I ran up the stairs, turned to Brittney’s room and smashed through the closed door.  My eyes widened. My baby lay on the bed with the kitten on her chest.  The cat’s mouth was open directly above hers.  A green light flowed from my daughter’s mouth to the feline’s.  Brittney’s rigid arms and legs convulsed.

I sprang to the bed and backhanded the kitten.  It was thrown across the room.  I heard a thump as I cradled my daughter in my arms. I turned to the door. 

The kitten stood blocking my way.  I kicked at it.

It jumped to the side then pounced toward my face.  I fell back onto the bed with a ball of yellow fur blocking my vision.

She bit my nose, scratched at my ears.  With Brittney still in my arms, all I could do was turn my face.

The cat’s eyes met mine.  The once deep brown irises were now emerald green.  I tried to look away, but felt my body go rigid.  I was paralyzed.    

Tabitha opened her mouth, revealing rows of sharp, pointed teeth.  A hiss formed from her open jaws.  It reminded me of air escaping from a punched tire. The jaws closed in on mine.  Sharp pain rose from my chest as my breath was stopped.  My sight blurred and tunneled. I could hear nothing.

A brown shape crossed in front of my head. I gulped in a breath of air.  The cat had disappeared. 

A rhythmic thumping came from the corner of my daughter’s room.  I stood on shaky legs and looked toward the noise. 

Brittney had the baseball bat in her hand.  She raised it above her head and slammed it down as if driving in a stake.  Red coated the wooden bludgeon and splattered against the once pink walls.

I went to her and saw the remains of Tabitha laid on the floor. Exceptionally and definitely dead.  I grabbed my daughter from behind as she raised the stick for another attack. She wilted in my arms and cried.

She turned and hugged me tight.  After a moment, she looked up at me with tears in reddened eyes. “That was a bad kitty.”

I stroked her blonde hair and tried to comfort her. “Yes she was, but you took care of her.”

****

TJ Marshall is a father of two adorable girls, a career soldier and a writer of fiction.  His first novel, Jacob's Call is a fantasy adventure in the editing stage and is due for release as an Ebook in November 2012.  It will be the first installment of The Finder's Tomb trilogy.  TJ just entered the world of writing in January 2012 when he enrolled in the F2K creative writing course.  Since completing the course, he has gone on to join Writer's Villiage university and plans to participate in this year's NaNoWriMo where he plans to work on the second book in the series.


Facebook page:

https://www.facebook.com/FourPostsAuthor 

October Flash Fiction #6

by

A.R. Von

Twas the night before…

Duh, wrong holiday! Halloween, that’s the ticket!

What does one think of when the holiday approaches it’s time? I’ll tell you! Witches, ghosts, goblins, vampires, werewolves, trolls, fairies, zombies and so many others thought of throughout time. Some go straight to thinking of the carving of pumpkins, candy corn, trick or treating, parties, dressing up and so much more and all of it is fun!

            Me? I personally think about something that happened and has haunted my mind for some years now, every day and night. A dream or apparition that came to me one Halloween eve at 3:13 a.m., has continued to do so ever since. Soon to be 6 years ago, actually in two weeks exactly from today it will make the full 6 year count.

What I remember from the first and each occurrence since is…

            I was trapped, could not move, breathe or speak. Inside the house was quiet. The dog was asleep at my feet as always. This time she was on top of the blanket instead of burrowing beneath it. I heard the neighbor’s car doors close, three doors to be exact. The neighbor at the left side of my house had the floodlight on; it’s so bright shining through my window. I felt like squinting as I would for the sun.

I glanced down the length of my body and took into account I had my left hand placed on the lower part of my stomach; my right hand rested on my upper chest. I felt as if someone was holding me down. My arms were stuck in place. I could not scratch the itch on my nose, ugh! I believed I was awake because I was fully aware of my surroundings, each and every one of them. I tried to focus more in front of me and that’s when I saw a shape of sorts.

 It seemed as if it was a person, yet not. I could not be sure. Slowly it came into better focus, as if it was solidifying right before my eyes. I continued to just stare at it, trying to determine the gender or species. Is it a man or a woman and WHY COULDN’T I MOVE?

Suddenly I was able to make out that it was wearing a shirt. It was a button down shirt with small shapes all over it, flowers. Yes, small flowers decorated the shirt in its entirety. My heart was pounding like I’ve never felt before. The blood was rushing to my head and I heard the pounding of my heart as if my ear was against my chest. I was in such a panic; I wanted to scream “NO!” But I could not move my mouth, could not even blink. I tried so hard to say it, to make any type of sound from my mouth, but it refused to come out. My eyes are burning from the strain. Tears are pours down the sides of my face in a study stream.

 My breath was wheezing out of my lungs. I was screaming in my mind at the top of my lungs “Please, help! Stop! Get off of me!” As all of this was going through my mind the pressure was growing on my chest, a weight that was immovable. Like an iron grasp or some type of force was holding my body its captive. I was panting breathes just then. No longer able to take a complete breath to satisfy my lungs its requirement of oxygen needed to live.

 “What the hell is going on?” Still my words were nothing but a thought. I was unable to speak to this entity or thing that was just staring at me with empty eyes, soul less eyes, void of all emotions. It did not speak, it just stared. I did not see a mouth, nose or any other orifice except those eyes. It made no sense, what was happening!

 I noticed the pressure was very slowly letting off me as I continued to stare into its dark depths. I was finally able to open my mouth; I made sure to take advantage, take a breath and try to scream “NO!” It came out as if I was whimpering. I began to thrash and flail with all of my might. I finally was able to move, but it was still there, staring almost as if it’s measuring me, judging me. What did it want from me? It looked as if it was fading away, disappearing before my eyes just as it had appeared.

 “You’re not real!” I screamed and closed my eyes only to open them again and its eyes were as close as possible to my face. I closed my eyes again and chanted my very own mantra over and over in my head “not real… I’m dreaming… It’s just a dream...” I’m not sure how long I stood that way but I finally felt brave enough to reopen my eyes and took a peek. It was gone. I glanced all around; my dog still lay in the same exact spot as before. As if nothing at all has happened. Flustered I sat up and scanned the room slowly with my eyes finding nothing, no one… My clothing moist from sweat; a lingering feeling of pressure, suffocation and fear of something I’ll never be able to name.

What a memory to have for what use to be my favorite holiday of the year. It’s always the same. Not one detail differs in any way shape or form. Fear still holds me back from actually living the way one with a life actually should. The questions still linger in my mind. Who was it? What was it? Will it continue come back? Is it a dream or is it real? My only Halloween tradition since that date is to stay awake. No more sleep on Halloween Eve, ever!

****

My name is Ava. I'm a 39 year old mother of two entertaining teen boys (as well as a lovely fawn Chihuahua whom I consider my furry daughter) and a wife to a delightfully handsome and amazingly funny man beast. I'm an avid reader of many genres I also love to exercise, hike, listen to music, cook, write (tidbits nothing published), dance and write reviews. I’m currently a reviewer at Romance Book Junkies, Satin Sheets Romance and BTS emag. I also beta read for various authors when needed. Oh how I love books!

http://www.facebook.com/ava.vongiebelsantagada

Twitter: @AVonGiebel

October Flash Fiction #5

by

Dixie Barnes

As soon as Jill sat in the driver’s seat, the feelings of alarm crept up her spine, making the hair stand up on the base of her neck. The cold, darkened parking garage, eerily quiet, sent shivers down her spine. She saw nothing, heard nothing, but something obviously signaled alarm to her senses. The garage smelled of grease, and rubber tires, nothing to be alarmed about.

           As she turned the key in the ignition, she looked in the rear view mirror. She could see the row of cars behind her, all dark and quiet. Her sense of alarm grew stronger.

           Jill steered her car around the circles of the garage to descend from the third floor, while she continued to look for reasons for her fright.

           “I’ve been watching too many Halloween movies,” she said aloud.

           “Just my imagination,” she mused.

            Suddenly, she felt something bump into the back of her driver’s seat. Startled, she looked in the rear view mirror.

            ”Scott!” She slammed on the brakes, causing the car behind her to swerve and honk as they sped around her. The next car also blared its horn as it went to the other lane to avoid smashing into her.

            Scott chuckled as he pressed a cold gun barrel against her neck.

            “Now, now, my precious,” he sneered, as he pulled the hammer back. She heard the click and swallowed hard, but no spit existed in her dry mouth. She trembled and looked back at the road ahead. 

            “W-what do you want, Scott?” Her voice quivered as she stammered. Her mind was racing. What would he do to her? Their divorce was almost final. She had not asked for much. What else could he possibly want?

            “That’s simple, Jill. I want you dead.”

“Why?  I’m no longer in your life.  As soon as the divorce is final, you can have all the women  you wish.  I no longer care.  Now get out of my car.  My dad’s waiting for me.”

“No, no, that’s now how this is going to play out.  Not this time.  Your daddy’s not going to rescue you this time.  You’ve been a thorn in my side for years.   But now, I finally have it all figured out.”

“W-what do you mean?” 

“Do you remember that life insurance policy we took out right after we were married?  The one that names me as beneficiary in the event of your death?  If we are divorced, the policy is null and void.  Remember?”

“Scott..that policy can be changed.  We don’t have to end it this way.”

“It’s too late now.  Now, put this car into drive and go where I tell you.”

Jill began driving, following his directions.  She tried to remain calm.  Fear was making her stomach burn with pain. 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You know that sandpit out on Phillip’s Road?  Where we used to skinny dip when we were kids?  There’s a cliff on one side.  You’re going to have a nasty accident, Jill.  In fact, your body may never be discovered.  They say that sandpit is so deep that no one has ever found the bottom.  This car will sink to the bottom, wherever that is, and you’ll be buried at sea. Isn’t that neat?”  Scott chuckled at his joke, and then pressed the gun to Jill’s neck.

Jill prayed quietly as she drew closer to the sand pit.  .

“So why can’t we change the policy, Scott?  Why do I have to die?”

“Because, if you are dead, the children’s share of the insurance money will come to me as well.  If you are alive, I get nothing.”

“Scott.  We can change the policy, cash it in.  I can get money from the business and pay it to you.  We don’t have to do this.”  Jill’s tears ran down her cheek and dripped off the end of her chin.

Jill slowed the car and turned right, as Scott demanded.  Her mind was racing, trying to find a way out of this situation.  She thought about crashing the car into a tree.  But that might not hurt him enough to knock him out.  Her seat belt was fastened though.  Maybe that would work.  She had to act now.

Suddenly, she turned the steering wheel sharply, and stomped on the gas pedal.  The car bounced through the ditch and headed toward a  huge oak tree growing on the other side of the ditch.

Scott yelled “You lying bitch! Damn you!” and swung the pistol at the side of Jill’s head.  She ducked and the strike missed. 

The car struck the tree at a high rate of speed.  She heard a snap as her left wrist broke, and felt a sharp pain. 

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.  She felt the pressure of the car seat slam against her from behind, and Scott’s body flew over her head in frame by frame slow motion as he crashed through the windshield.  At that point, she lost consciousness.

The light beamed down upon her hospital bed as she awoke.  A nurse stood over her, checking her IV.  Across the room, her dad sat in a chair, tears running down his cheeks.  He glanced up, saw her watching him, and came to stand by her bed.  He grabbed the hand without an IV and kissed it.

“Oh my God, Jill. I thought you were dying.  Thank you, Sweet Jesus!”  John sobbed, and patted her hand.  She winced, her broken wrist was tender, even with the cast protecting it.

“You’re in the hospital, dear.  The kids are waiting outside in the waiting room.”

“Scott?”

“I’m sorry, dear.  Scott didn’t make it.  What on earth were you doing out to the sandpit?”

The memory of the night came flooding back to Jill.

“Just tying up some loose ends, Dad.  But it’s all over, now.”  She hugged her dad and smiled.  “Everything will be ok now.”

****

Dixie Barnes has been writing short stories since she was ten years old, when she wrote a story about a family moving by covered wagon to Oregon.  She loves writing young adult fiction, historical fiction, poetry, and essays.  She has written a cookbook “Down Home Cookin – Favorite Recipes” and has two novels in progress.  She worked as assistant editor for her local newspaper during the 1980s.  She lives in Clyde, Kansas with her husband and two dogs.  Her three living children and nine grandchildren all live within fifteen miles.  She claims photography, arts and crafts, and computers as her hobbies.

October Flash Fiction #4

by

Debbie Seko

Foggy headed, blurry eyed, head pounding, coffee in hand I stumbled to the bathroom. "My God, my eyes!" Coffee spewed onto the mirror. I blinked; then blinked again. "What the…?" I grabbed a bottle of Vision. Dousing each eye, I watched as the huge, bloody, pulsating veins began to diminish leaving me fixated on ebony black pupils that yesterday were as blue as the ocean.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus. What had happened at that stupid party? Goose bumps prickled my arms. Shivering I opened my eyes to discover the bathroom had become engulfed in an icy haze. A demonic ethereal chant echoed about the room, "You are mine; you are mine." The walls vibrated and the echo altered into a depraved cackle. I shrank against the sink, hands shaking, eyes darting, "Who are you… where are you." I mumbled.

"You are mine; you are mine. You will do my bidding."

My heart threatened to rip through my shirt as I wrenched myself from the sink and bolted from the house. Like a mad woman, I raced about the yard searching for anything, anyone to explain what was happening. The fiendish laughter followed. I tried to scream. I tried clasping my hands over my ears. The laughter continued.

"Who are you… what do you want?" I pleaded.

"I am in your head; I am in your heart. Tonight is Hallo Eve. You will do my bidding."

An uncanny warmth assaulted me and I began to thrash about like an epileptic out of control. Then as quickly as the siege started, it stopped. I felt refreshed, fearless, energized. I stared blindly around unable to recall why I was outside, until I spied the hatchet. Ah, my costume prop. Yanking it from the stump, I trotted back inside my mind racing with thoughts of tonight's Halloween festival.

I had just finished teasing my hair to resemble a lunatic ax murder when Zerchonia arrived. Dressed in a blood drenched, white shirt, she sported a ghoulish red gash around her neck that looked so real it made me shiver. "Wow, great costume."  

She giggled. "Not bad yourself, you look like a guy. The black contacts add a nice touch."

Pulling at the ace bandage I'd wrapped tightly around my breast, I gave Zerchonia a scowl. "I can't believe I let you talk me into binding my breast."

"Oh, quit whining, here let me fix it. There, how's that?"

"Better."

"Where's your axe?"

"On the table."

"Aha, a real one. What, no blood?"

I handed her a tube of fake blood. She grinned, covered the blade and handle with the sticky goo then took my right hand and did the same.

"Okay, all set, let's ride."

We arrived and headed for the bonfire. An eerie familiar voice fluttered in my ear. "At the stroke of 10 you will strike."

Grabbing my hand Zerchonia pulled me toward the activities. "This is going to be fun. Almost as entertaining, as last night when Derek put that silly spell on us and dared us to dress up in these stupid getups. We need to find him. You do know he thinks we'll chicken out right?"

I grinned. "Well, the joke will be on him, won't it?"

Neither of the girls saw Derek lurking at the edge of the woods, nor did they see the smug, wicked, smirk that curled about his lips.

I linked my arm in hers and smiled. "Come on let's have some fun, we'll find Derek later."

Several hours later, laughing so hard my sides ached; I nudged Zerchonia with my elbow. "Hey let's take a break." She nodded, pointing toward a log about 20 feet from the fire.

"Did you ever see Derek anywhere?"

Zerchonia shrugged. "I was having so much fun, I forgot all about him."

We both jumped when Derek appeared from the woods behind us, his phantom costume ominous in the flickering glow from the fire. "You girls looking for me?" 

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that." His devilish grin sent a shiver down my spine. "Where's our $50," I waved my hand over my outfit. "As you can see we fulfilled our end of the bet."

"Yeah, big shot, with your spooky spells and crazy bets, it's getting late. I need to be getting home. Cough it up Derek."

Derek winked at Zerchonia then glanced at his watch. "My wallets in the car; come on ladies follow me. A bet's a bet."

We started down the footpath, single file. We were almost at the end of the trail, when a fiendish howl began ricocheting through the trees, "You are mine, do it; do it now!" My body shook, my eyes rolled back in my head, then all was still.

"Zerchonia stop!" I screamed.

She turned, giving me a quizzical look. "What?"

"Get down, now!"  

"Why - -"

"Just do it, now," I demanded.

She knelt, eyes darting up and down the path, her fear evident even through her ghastly makeup.

"Where's Derek?" she whispered.

I scanned the narrow path withdrawing the hatchet from the sheath around my waist. "Shhh. Lie flat and close your eyes."

"You're scaring me," she said, but obeyed.

My hatchet sliced through her neck like a butter knife then disintegrated. A familiar haunting laugh echoed through the rustling trees.

The next morning two cops stood at my door, badges in hand.

"Miss Deviln."

"Yes."

"Were you at the Halloween Festival last night?"

I nodded.

"What time did you get home?"

"What's this about?"

"We're questioning everyone who attended the festival last night." The men glanced at each other then looked her dead in the eye. "There's been a murder."

"What!" Stumbling backwards, I grabbed the back of a chair, clutched my robe in my fist, and prayed I wouldn't faint.

"Who… who," I stammered.

They stepped into the room, and shut the door. "Do you know a Zerchonia Watson?"

I nodded, then everything went black.

****

Debbie Seko is a freelance writer, mentor, blogger, and creative writing instructor. She received her first by-line in 1995 for a short story inspired by her mother. She is a member of Writers Village University, Helium.com and in 1993; she appeared in Outstanding Authors of America. As an aspiring writer, she admits her biggest hurdle is finding the time to write, which she believes is universal to all aspiring writers. Currently she is working on several short stories and a romance novel. When not writing Debbie spends her time teaching, caring for her aging father, and visiting with her grandchildren who are the light of her life. Debbie resides in a small town in Southern Georgia with her husband and Toy Poodle, Sassy.

http://www.helium.com/users/332260

October Flash Fiction #3

by

Leila Smith

     My old master has moved into his new home now.  I still don’t know why he didn’t move me in with him. I’m a very good mouser and have always waited patiently for him when he came home at night, ready to start purring and rubbing his leg for attention.   People called him Stan and he liked to listen to his old beat up radio in the kitchen.  About two months ago, he was listening to some silly man say that our land is doomed and that all ‘true patriots’ need to go underground to save their lives and liberties. Master soon spent all his time listening to that man on the radio and decided to make a special house in our backfield to live in.  It’s underground and has locks on the inside and it locks from the outside with a sliding bolt.  He put all kinds of food and water in it and his special toys that he calls guns.  Master uses those to hunt for food and once he gave a little bite of meat to me. It was so good!  Maybe he was going to use his toys to give me some more since he didn’t put any of my special food in his new house.

       Master also quit petting me and kept putting me outside, where I got fleas.  According to him, I would cost too much to keep alive once our country collapsed. He even told the neighbors he was moving away so no one would come to his special house for help. I still tried to be good though and kept bringing him presents but he would stomp his foot and run me off.  I guess he didn’t like field mice in his boots. On the morning I ran out of my food, he got upset at something the man from the radio said and decided to go to his new house that day. He said that the end was coming and everyone was on their own now. I didn’t like how he was looking at me when he said that.

       All that afternoon, he was moving his clothes and more food and water to his special home.  Master kept rambling on about how it was all going to the pits and at least he’ll survive the government takeover.  I didn’t know what he was talking about and kept trying to get his attention.  Rubbing his legs and purring wouldn’t work, he just glared and stomped his foot at me. When Master was going into his new home, he kept pushing me away when I tried to follow him.  Why? What did I do wrong? I must have done something to make him mad; he threw a rock at me when I almost got inside.  I just wanted to be with him. When I cried after the rock hit me, he just shoved me out of the way and shut the door to his new house. I tried to cry some more to let him know he forgot me, but I guess he didn’t hear me. 

       Crying for several hours until my throat was gritty with pain; I kept pawing at the door until my paws bled.  Why would Master just leave me here when I loved him so?  Wait! I could see the sliding bolt on his door! Maybe I could open the door that way and master would  be good to me again.  My bloodied paws had gotten cold since the bolt and the door were metal but I did manage to get the bolt in its little holes. Master heard the bolt slide across the door and started to scream at me to stop so I cried in response for him to open the door.  He rattled the metal door and screamed some more but we were so far out in the field that there were no neighbors around.  Bang! Bang! Master had brought one of his toys out and tried to bust the door open! It was made of something he called bulletproof so the door still wouldn’t open though.  All night, Master kept rattling the door, but his voice kept getting hoarser.  Maybe he was getting thirsty like I was.  I pawed again at the door, but it wouldn’t budge.  Since I could do nothing more, I curled up outside the door and went to sleep, shivering in the cold.

       I was getting weaker and was in pain but didn’t want to leave master behind. Eventually, I had no choice.  Staggering weakly from thirst and hunger, the neighbors down the road scooped me up when I wondered into their yard.  With loving pets and all kinds of yummy table scraps, I began to feel better and my back didn’t hurt so much from the rock that hit me.  Their little girl even let me lie next to her when she went to sleep.  The next day her Momma took me to a doctor to check my back and get rid of the fleas I had.  Since I had no collar, the doctor gave me a bunch of shots and a new tag for the nice woman to make me wear. If master doesn’t come get me, I think I’ll stay with them!  However, after a week had passed, I did try to get back to master. I would cry for him to answer me when I visited, but he would just hoarsely start sobbing and rattle the door more.  After that, I quit going to his special home when I started smelling the bad smell.

****

Leila Smith lives in Tennessee with her feline muse and enjoys reading, creative writing, and music listening. She loves writing unusual stories with a sci-fi or supernatural theme, but hopes to write various kinds of genres. One day she would love to be published too, once she lights a match under her butt and actually finishes something. Happy Writing!

An Interview with Author Fierce Dolan

Please welcome yet another lucky interview winner from the 20,000TH Hit Giveaway events, erotic author Fierce Dolan to Unwritten! Let's just get right to it, shall we?

Fierce, please tell us a little more about yourself. Where are you from, and what do you do when you're not writing spicy stories?

Thanks for having me, Mysti! I’m right-coaster, though I consider myself a world citizen. I like to travel far and wide, and can never get enough of seeing new places. When I’m not writing erotica, I’m writing all kinds of other things. I’ve been a career writer for 22 years, in technical documentation, articles for journals, magazines, also nonfiction, poetry and gentler fiction—all under various names.  I really never stop writing, even when I stop.

On your website, you describe yourself as a mezzofiction writer. For the more clueless ones among us *ahem*, what is mezzofiction, and how did you get into it?

I came up with that term about sixteen years ago to describe my quirky style of writing quasi-believable stories. MezzoFiction is my way of describing method acting, not for the stage but for the page. The term doesn’t describe the validity of the stories, but how I write them. I work with trance states, and “mezzo” means middle, or medial. I go into trance when I write, sometimes not even remembering what I wrote until I look back. So, mezzofiction is about not just me thinking up things and writing them down, but sensually going into those spaces and feeling them, being them. Probably a little weird, but all in context… Giving it a name helped me to grow into it as a technique, and I use it for writing nonfiction as much as fiction.

I found this quote on your Facebook page: 

An editor asked me what led me to write erotica. I replied, "A dirty mind, excess words, and an overactive sacral chakra."  

I think most of us would agree that writing erotica is not only challenging, but often controversial, particularly when it comes to homosexual themes. Have you experienced any opposition to your work, and if so, how have you handled it?

You know… I’ve not had an opposition to the GLBQ aspect of my writing, though there was sort of a trip up on the “T” part of that not too long ago. Someone reacted very emotionally to my statements around being gender-neutral in how I identify in my life and in my writing. I was very surprised by that, though it’s a reminder that a lot of people still think in two genders, only. And if they can make assumptions around that in my writing and how I choose to present myself, it makes me wonder what assumptions they make about gender vs biogender in their everyday attitudes. In this particular instance, my choice to be presented as gender-neutral in open correspondence was targeted as a marketing device to draw in more readers. Well, my writing speaks for itself. It draws readers, or it doesn’t. I just was stunned that someone would get angry over my choice to reflect how I view myself and how I choose to hold gender as loosely as possible in my writing.

Buy it HERE!

Let's talk about your latest release, Traveler Through Darkness. What's it about, and what inspired you to write it?

Thanks for asking! I’m really excited about it because it’s part of Decadent Publishing's The Edge series—stories that are quite short, focused on tight plots and brief interludes, with intense heat levels. This story is interracial gay erotica. I like to write stories featuring Middle Eastern characters fusing into mainstream western romance tropes, particularly when it comes to breaking taboos.  In Traveler that fusion is front and center in multicultural erotic collisions.  Particularly, I like making Middle Eastern men romantic leads. 

In Traveler Tarik is an Arab Muslim, though he’s been in the western world long enough to have established a bountiful life in the United States. Wo, a young Navajo man, is proudly out but on the fringe, himself. They have a chance meeting the night of Tarik’s bachelor party that leaves them both changed forever.

Several well-known authors have been caught paying for book reviews. What are your thoughts on this? Since I doubt this development is anything new, do you think the "revelations" may be just another publicity ploy?

I think you’re right—I don’t think it’s new.  I know that big agencies and publishers pay interns, etc, to plant positive reviews for their authors. I guess it’s just part of the indie progression for authors to do that, themselves. I’m sure it’s in part a PR move, perhaps for the author at the center of it, but also for the industry to say, “See? Indie authors aren’t legitimate.” We focus on where digital technology fits into the production and distribution process of publishing, when in reality we don’t know how it fits into the afterlife of a publication, either. It’s still a very new frontier in a lot of ways.

Everyone I interview gets a random question. Here's yours: What's the most neglected room/area in your house?

Ha! I don’t know if it counts as a room, but the attic.  I’ve not been in my current space long—just a few years. I was thinking yesterday of how when I first moved in, it was all shiny and new. Now every flat surface stays covered and it’s a constant struggle to beat it all back. The attic, though, was empty, completely empty, upon arrival. Now I have to step over things up there to keep from tripping.  *sigh*

Would you be so kind as to share a short excerpt of your work?

“I am so sorry–” Tarik began.  

“It’s okay. It was an accident.” The words were rushed as he pulled the soaked sweatshirt from his skin and fanned the dripping tablet. Black smudges coated the fingertips and heel of his left hand.  

“I've ruined your work,” Tarik lamented, motioning toward the pad.  

“Oh, no. It's just a sketch. I was fascinated with the moonlight on the harbor.” He flashed a charcoal rendering of the midnight water. A long, shimmering black strand fell forward of the band securing his hair, lighting just at the edge of his upturned mouth. “No masterpiece here.”  

Piercing umber eyes met Tarik’s, and the gentle smile relaxed his shoulders. “You were in the ballroom earlier.”  

“Mmm. The bachelor party.” Tarik pursed his lips, nodding once. “I’m staying in the hotel. Allow me to get for you a clean shirt.”  

“It’s fine. I don’t have far to go.”  

“In this cold, with no jacket, you will freeze. Please. I insist—” 

 “What's your name?” the younger man asked. 

 “I am Tarik.” He bowed.  

“I'm Wo.” He nodded. “Thank you for your kind offer, Tarik.”

~*~*~*~

There's also a 'Reader’s Guide' highlighting wee details in the story's context on my site:

http://www.fiercedolan.com/TTD-readersguide

Thank you so much for being here, Fierce! I wish you a ton of success!

Thank you!

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