Tag Archives: Author’s Notes

His Pitfall

02 Sunday Dec 2018

Posted by in Fantasy, M/M, Short Story

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* * *

Considering this is going to be my last scheduled short story (I will likely have others I publish in the future, but they’re going to be more related to novel publications than random ideas) I thought it fitting I go back to the very beginning.

His Pitfall is a story I began writing at the same time I started writing in this genre/shortly after starting this blog. It was, in fact, the second MM story I ever began writing (the first is where the idea of the Merandin Empire spawned and thus I can’t publish it as a standalone). But I look at this story as one that speaks to that beginning time frame.

It’s been re-written heavily, but you can still get the old feeling of my writing style creeping in all over the place. I’ve grown a lot since I wrote this story, so I know had I simply started it over entirely rather than re-written it, the story would be even better. But for some reason, this old thing holds a strange place in my heart, like a reminder of moments when I thought it impossible to write full-length novels. 

Most likely because the characters of Traice and Fiar feel very much like the precursors to Caliebb and De’vii from The Wilds Duology.

* * *

A shadow stood above him. Far above him.

For a few seconds, Traice struggled to claim his bearings, his body aching from the fall and weakened branches cracking under his weight. He squinted against the sunlight pouring around the darkened figure of a man, then cursed under his breath as the shadow shortened to a crouch, only a spear left straight and tall, the weapon seeming to pierce the canopy above.

Then came a droll voice. “I’d been hoping to catch something worthwhile today, but that’s out of the question after that howl you gave when you fell. Scared off anything within the vicinity.”

Traice ignored the teasing as he gingerly touched the side of his head. He took stock carefully, but it seemed he’d managed only scratches and sores sure to blossom into beautiful bruises come this evening.

“You okay?”

“Fiar,” muttered Traice as he sat up, popping the brush under his boot heels and crumbling dirt when he reached for the pit’s soil wall. He stood slowly before looking back up.

Vision now clear, he could see all of Fiar. The man, almost eight years Traice’s elder and boasting a sleeveless, dirty shirt and thick camouflaged pants, crouched at the edge of the pit, the butt of his spear resting upon the ground, the shaft resting casually against his shoulder.

Traice sighed, trying not to note the way Fiar’s skin shone in the afternoon sun. All gorgeously tan from being outside day after day. And that hair…a little bit of length up top and cut closer around the sides, was always a plethora of shades of brown from natural bleaching. Fiar’s eyes, too far away to see clearly—though Traice knew them to be a gentle green—bored into Traice in amusement.

“You going to help me out or just stare at me?” asked Traice.

“You can unravel a demon, but you can’t get out of a trap?” Fiar laughed and then leaned closer with a concerned expression. “You feeling all right? Break anything?”

Traice paused, pressing a hand against his side, then shook his head. “No, I’m good.”

An evil smile spread across Fiar’s face causing Traice to curse inwardly at his own stupidity. Continue reading →

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All Language

04 Sunday Nov 2018

Posted by in Fantasy, M/M, Mini

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Attn: Pabron qu Aheren, Chief of the Wakeguard

We have spoken once before, if you recall, when you relayed an incredulous tidbit about a certain someone. A lass of general, though not great, renown who had gone missing. Do not worry, the details of the event in question are not the reason I write to you, merely my method of nudging you into remembering.

No, instead I seek the truth of another matter. Now normally I do not care whether stories told to me are completely truthful, for the sake of the story is what matters. The more fanciful, the better. But in this case…

I have been accused, even by you, of using underhanded techniques to get my stories, but I have never tortured, never beaten and certainly don’t bribe. I merely show interest in people begging for attention, make them feel as if I care, which, in turn, make them believe me to be trustworthy.

Men and women both have used me as a confident, confessing secrets and sins to my ears. And every word, every ounce of character, both kindly and cruel, have been recorded somehow, in some way, in my journals. I purposeful write out of order, leaving blank pages for another time and no dates to speak of, for I know them by heart.

This particular story interests me a far great more and for little reason that will make sense to you.

This man, of whom I will withhold the particulars, he claims to listen to things no other man can hear. He speaks so sincerely, with no mocking in his tone or humor in his smile, that I honestly can say I believe him. He’s asked his name to not be recorded and I will honor that request for dual purposes. However, I will note that he speaks with a coastal accent and uses phrases such as “by the swelled sea” and “like a gull’s cry.” He also bears a gouge on the palm of his left hand, of the sort one would get if wielding a scaling knife in the right while not paying attention.

I think you can see where I’m going with this, for does that not remind you of yourself in some part? Growing up where you have?

This man, he is not attractive in the classical sense, his features not entirely even, the left side of his face more amiable while the right seems to draw down, as if remembering some horrible past event. However, he carries no extra pounds, owns a calm and respectful manner and seems a steady presence, not one prone to outbursts. He avoids drink, even in social settings, and has the most intense considering gaze, one I could stare at for hours, wondering at what he might be wondering at.

These are his words, as best as I could jot them down as he spoke… Continue reading →

Across That Ocean of Sand

05 Sunday Aug 2018

Posted by in Fantasy, M/M, Short Story

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“You don’t get seasick, do you?”

His attention remained on the leather harness rather than on me, yet I heard a rather interesting lilt in his tone, as if he were remembering some past bloke who couldn’t hold his breakfast.

“It’s a similar feeling, a rocking, swaying with the muscles of her neck bunching between your legs. A different sort of barren landscape underneath.”

I swallowed against an instinctual bile rising to the back of my throat and neglected to answer for I’d never stood foot aboard anything large enough to sail the seas. “Have you ever been on an ocean?”

My curiosity was merely an attempt to distract myself from the wyvern clawing at the ground and sniffing at the dusty air, her focus pulled toward the erg filling the world to the east. Ruins of a distant time jutted from beneath the sandy layers nearby. Crenellations lingering long after the city had been claimed by the encroaching dunes.

The man snorted and patted his vest before tugging free a pair of hide-covered binoculars. “No, but wind-surfing the dunes sparks a similar feeling I’ve been told when you’re on the down side, a dropping in your gut, and I’d dune-surfed a few times in my youth.”

“Who told you they were similar?” I asked.

I had my doubts, as I’d dune-surfed as well and didn’t think it could possibly be comparable to being wyvernback. Not at all. On the sand, I had control of that board. Up there? I’d be at the beast’s mercy. And there was a whole lot farther to fall if I lost my balance.

“And old flame,” he muttered in answer as he scanned the horizon, then he passed the binoculars to me. “We go south, over the sinkholes, stop at the Ribcage for her to rest and then head on to Hollow Heights near dusk.”

“That long?”

“Longer still if we don’t get going.” He patted his girl’s neck, gloved fingers scratching at beige-scaled hide. The man himself, face leathery, short beard unkempt, clothes worn, yet clean, seemed content to merely stand there though. He’d been paid half already. I reasoned, if I backed out now, it’d been an easy payday for him even without earning the other half.

And backing out seemed more and more attractive the longer I stood there hesitating. Couldn’t seem to move myself closer to that wyvern, my heart beating a rapid rhythm and my mind tricking me into thinking I was in danger. Sweat broke out on my neck. My legs screamed for me to run.

“Her name is Preen. Likes compliments and jewelry. To a girl’s heart.”

When I didn’t move, his eyebrow quirked and a resigned smile that held a hint of irritated empathy flickered across his face. “She’s a nableclaw. Small, swift and friendly to boot. You’ll be in safe hands.”

My chest squeezed, the air so dry I felt as if could feel my lips cracking. “Give me a moment.”

The words came out sharper than I’d intended, but I didn’t correct myself as I spun abruptly and strode away, needing to be out of reach of the wyvern, my fear an animal in its own right, clawing up my spine, ripping through my skin, pouring from my pores like burning magma.

Along the edge of the rocky mound, I paused and leaned, staring longingly to the northwest where the plateau around Springhaven stretched. The small city—home—couldn’t be seen, not from this height, not from this distance, but I knew it to be there, hidden beneath the plateau.

The man’s boots scuffed the rock behind me. “You’re not a dune crawler or a wyvernback. What’s in the Wastes for you to do this?”

What indeed. More like a who. A man I wasn’t even sure would be happy to see me.

I knew I could convince myself of the uselessness of this trip easily enough. I also knew I’d forever ask myself what if…

What if I hadn’t let this fear stop me from going to him? Hadn’t let it be the end of us. Continue reading →

In the Darkest Hours

03 Sunday Jun 2018

Posted by in Contemporary, M/M, Short Story

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I lay in that bed. The sheets cold. The heater off. Winter at its depth. A chill seeping in through the bottom of the door. A whistling outside the window. The stars beyond covered with clouds. And the light from the streetlamp creating a glaze upon the glass, a frosted smudge.

I lay there. Waiting. Wondering if he would return. My mind too focused on that question, as often as it seemed to come.

There’d always been a swath of feeling when that doorknob finally turned. When the keys jangled as he cursed the fact they were stuck once more and wouldn’t turn without much coaxing. Even now, I wondered at it. Had it been relief? All those times. All those hours, waiting, wondering, unable to sleep until I heard him arrive home.

He’d been warm when he entered the bed. A heater. A furnace. And even though I hadn’t been cold, I’d turned into him. Felt the hair upon his arm tickle against my shoulder. Hear his annoyed grunt as he shifted away from the stubble on my chin. We never stayed like that. Never woke up entangled in each other’s arms. Always broke apart sometime in the darkest hours before dawn and never found one another again.

I wondered if that was where this feeling crept from. The darkest hours before dawn. Waiting to see if this time he wouldn’t return. If this time, he kept his foot on the pedal, drove past our building, onto empty highways that would lead down a different path.

And for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out if the feeling that swept over my body, tingling through my veins when that doorknob turned, wasn’t relief after all, but disappointment. Or even dread. That I would hear his irritated sighs. His exhausted groan as he turned over in the sheets. The blanket tugging, feeling far colder than any empty bed.

I thought back to when we’d first met. When I’d been working on the corner. Serving food and drink in the evening hours after classes. When I’d hide flashcards in my apron and study as the hours grew long and the tables empty.

He’d come in, like clockwork. Thursdays. Always Thursdays when the beers were cheap and the smoke lifted above the bar so thick it was visible from outside the windows.

Work meetings, he claimed. His fellows were coworkers and the conversations easy and comfortable. Networking, he murmured later with an exhausted smile and lips that held the scent of spicy wings I’d served earlier. We’d speak, at first just small talk. About the weather, hot and cold. Him asking about the classes I took and wondering over job openings he saw. That was how we got to working together. Me, grabbing a hold of his offer to toss my resume to hiring managers in his office.

How long had he been planning on wooing me? How long until I finally realized what he was after? How long until I’d wanted him in return? Continue reading →

You have the thirst

20 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Poem

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You have the thirst
though not the power
You claim the courage
Yet waste your hours

You have a dream
But not the will
You live a life
Yet aren’t fulfilled

You have tomorrow
but lost today
You see the goal
But not the way

You find your voice
When no one hears
You face your faults
But not your fears

You’ll wake too late
To live your dream
If all your time
Slips through the seams

So take this day
Shift out of park
And through the years
You’ll make your mark

© EMMI LAWRENCE (2.1.2018)

~ ~ ~

There was this moment, over a decade ago, where I went from ‘someone who wanted to write’ to ‘someone who writes.’

We talk a lot about things we want to do, things we’re going to do, but so few of us actually get to doing them. And every so often, even if we’ve conquered these moments in the past, we still need reminding to stop talking and start doing. Reminded me of that awesome Shel Silverstein poem. Hopefully I can post it here without getting into trouble:

All the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
Layin’ in the sun,
Talkin’ bout the things
They woulda-coulda-shoulda done…
But those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
All ran away and hid
From one little did.

© Shel Silverstein

Sunday Stories Update

03 Saturday Mar 2018

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Most of February was spent in short story mode, which made me do a lot of reflective thinking for the coming years. While I love writing short stories, love how some of the ideas I get for them end up within my novel-length projects, I don’t like how much time they take away from me completing longer projects.

During times when I’m working on shorts, I’m heavily distracted from those longer projects I need to be finishing. Jumping back and forth ruins productivity because then I’m not steeped in just one project and must constantly be looking things up and re-acquainting myself with plot lines and character developments.

I thought I could solve this problem my merely limiting my blog post stories to only flash pieces I could knock out quickly. Unfortunately, after striving to do this in the past month, I’ve come to the conclusion that a story’s length is just whatever it wants to be.

So I’m making the announcement now that come 2019 I shall not be publishing short stories every month on my blog anymore.

This does not affect this year’s plans, as I already have a number written or in stages of being written, so 2018 there will still be a short story published the first Sunday of every month. Including tomorrow! (I’m excited about tomorrow’s because the picture for the prompt was sooo pretty and it’s one of my favorites that I’ve finished so far this year!) :)

I’m toying with a few other ideas, but I really want to focus on novel-length output, so I’m not announcing anything just yet. I want to have time to consider different options because while I like giving free words, I also know most of you are generally more interested in reading extra bits about characters you already know and love rather than newbie characters introduced and forgotten about within the space of a few short words.

So there’re possibilities, but I can’t promise anything just yet because I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

If you’ve stayed with me during this long post, I’d like to add that Pup Games is on sale for this weekend only for .99$! There are a lot of other Fantasy and Sci-fi titles also available for .99$ a piece, so if you’re a fantasy lover with or without romance, you can check out the promo here:

~Emmi

Loud & Clear

04 Sunday Feb 2018

Posted by in Fantasy, M/M, Short Story

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I did not mean for him to read my mind but sometimes there are just people you look at and wonder…why has no one hit you over the head yet? The fact he heard me as if I’d spoke out loud was regrettable.

“I can explain.”

“Explain that you want to murder me?” Eyebrows up and if I wasn’t mistaken…was that a possibility of an HR complaint glittering in his gaze?

Oh, I hoped not. I certainly didn’t want to murder anyone. Though now if someone else were to have done it, I wouldn’t have been averse.

“As if that makes it any better?” His expression became even more consternated.

“Stop reading my thoughts!”

“I’m not. You’re practically screaming them. As if you wanted to make damn sure I heard how much you despise me.”

“I don’t despise you. Hell, I don’t even think—” No, I couldn’t say that. It would be a lie.

He shook his head and backed up, waving a hand dismissively. “Forget it. I don’t need your help. Get back to whatever important report you were working on. I’m going to fill this out myself. Try to keep your thoughts a tad quieter please.” He started to turn, then added, “Or at least less murderous.”

He strode off, papers still in hand, slacks tight around his ass. A very nice— Continue reading →

January ’18, Briefly

01 Thursday Feb 2018

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A Couple of Announcements

— I’ve recently finished a poem called ‘Ode to Coffee’ to give you an idea where my brain’s been recently —

— The publisher for my DaSunder Chronicles, Loose Id, has announced they are shutting their doors come May of this year. This means that at that point both Shatter by Glass and Murder in Color will have a short period where they will no longer be available. I have begun work to make sure to keep this time frame as short as possible and plan to have paperback versions also available upon republication —

— Paperbacks of Those Bloody Christmas Elves, Haunt of the Wilds and Song for the Wilds are now available. I’m in proofing stage for two more. This was one of those projects that kept seeming more and more impossible until I actually did it. And then, it was super easy, especially now that I have a template created for the formatting. –

–I’ve been in blog-prep mode lately. Scheduling out posts ahead of time so I can focus on my longer projects. Still knee-deep in this mode with about half a dozen shorts in some sort of progress from outline to editing —

Hope your resolutions are still going strong!

World shaper

21 Sunday Jan 2018

Posted by in Poem

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These stairs we climb
their metal aging
beyond the clouds
we walk forlorn
In our own world
our trust is fading
yet hope still lives
we might return

One day we’ll find
the road leads nowhere
the steps below
overgrown and worn
Temptation calls
and if we answer
no hope’ll remain
of our return

Tear down the rose
the petals shower
on years gone past
to dull the thorns
We reach the edge
of the endless tower
so hope breathes for
our safe return

There worlds unfold
each one created
by whom came first
who’d then discerned
to shape the world
of their desires
If hope holds true
we won’t return

~ ~ ~

I originally wrote this from a picture prompt while using the song Fare Thee Well, Northumberland as the rhythm, so maybe this is more of a song than a poem.

November ’17, Briefly

01 Friday Dec 2017

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Holiday season is upon us! I’m already exhausted and I haven’t even started to wrap presents yet. Actually, I’ve only barely begun on decorations, if a table runner can be called a beginning.

November’s accomplishments and an announcement:

First half of November was spent conjointly finishing up a couple of things for Those Bloody Christmas Elves and working on Lost Isle. However, instead of this novel being set up for sale in December, I’ve set up Pup Games. The reason behind this is two-fold.

The first is because during the beginning of the month when I was working on finishing up the last few chapters in Lost Isle, I came to a difficult dilemma. I realized that in order to write the story I wanted to write I needed to toss the outlined ending I had in store and add another two plot-threads. This meant that instead of having a shorter 60k novel that I thought it would be, the novel is going to be closer to 100k. Which was something I wasn’t prepared for.

This change would also create a cliffhanger-type ending within the romantic arc rather than the HFN that was originally intended, which was the second problem because I don’t want to publish a cliffhanger without the second novel shortly following.

So I’ve made a swap in the schedule, exchanging Pup Games for Lost Isle. Pup Games is now set up for a December release since it’s a standalone with no cliffhanger ending. While Lost Isle will be released in the spring, closer to when it’s sequel will come out.

PUP GAMES
(A Houndmaster Novel)
December 21, 2017
Pre-order Now

There’s a time for games…

No crush compares to reality. That’s what La’vii learns when the pregnancy of one of his dogs puts him in close proximity to his unrequited puphood crush. Only, instead of being worse than La’vii’s dreams, reality is far more intriguing than he’d ever imagined.

Co’mil is strong and sure, a steady presence that is everything La’vii’s ever desired. And at this moment, with a litter born and wreaking havoc in his pack’s collective mind, he can use all the support he can get. But Co’mil’s friendly, though reserved, behavior is confusing, his interest evident, but his rejection firm, leaving La’vii conflicted and desperately wanting more.

As his puphood crush dissolves, La’vii finds himself caught in the throes of a far more real emotion that seems as if it’ll never be reciprocated. By the time he discovers what Co’mil truly needs, La’vii isn’t sure he’s the houndmaster for the job or whether the reward is even worth the challenge.

A houndmaster coming of age novel set in the same world as The Wilds Duology.

I hope you all are having a lovely holiday season :)