No Perfect People

Today, I would like to take a moment to talk about this beautiful painting.
It's one of my absolute favorites.
A picture of the Savior holding a crying young woman.
The first time I saw it, it hit me hard. Because there no such thing as perfect people. Look at the woman. If we're going by stereotypes, she's not perfect. Far from it. It doesn't matter though. The Savior comforts her.
Sometimes, we forget that we can get comfort, no matter what, no matter when. But we can. He is always there.
This gospel is not for perfect people. It's meant to bring us together. It's meant to bring our gifts and talents together in a way that can help all of us get closer to Christ.
And, really, if you think about that, it's kind of beautiful.

Short Story #5: THE CHILD

THE CHILD

It’s the first day of second grade.

Mom drops me off at school, waving with the usual “be safe and make choices” she gives me every day.

I ignore her and walk into school. Well, trudge, really. I’ve never liked school very much.

For the most part, it’s a normal, boring day. Class, lunch, friends. Easy enough. Couldn’t be more boring. I just want to play outside.

Of course, a kid like me could never go a whole day without something happening. A kid like me never makes it through a day without getting in trouble.

And it’s the kind of trouble that gets kids like me sent to bed without dinner.

Or dessert.

I’m about ready to run outside, to find Mom’s car. I stop. Listen. Sneering voices, laughter, sniffling.

I turn the corner, peer down the hall. Three third graders and one second grader. He’s in my class. I can’t remember his name.

He’s the quiet one. The teacher’s pet. The kid I usually steer clear off. Too smart to have fun.

The scene is like something out of a Saturday morning cartoon. The smaller kid getting pushed around, three big bullies laughing.

I hate bullies.

I always have. Not for the usual reasons. Not because I’ve been bullied or because I used to be a bully or because I had a sibling that was pushed around.

I hate bullies because wimps are the only kids that bully other kids. And it drives me crazy. What’s the point? What’s it going to do for you? Why is that going to make you feel better about yourself?

“Hey!”

I step in the hall, make my entrance. The bullies stop, the small kid from my class looks surprised. He knows who I am. I’m the loudest kid in class. Not easy to forget.

“Who’s that, Chancey?” one the third graders mocks, shoving him. “Your girlfriend.”

Gross.

I walk forward, step right up to him. We’re about the same height. I’m tall for my age, tall for a girl, tall for a second grader.

“Knock it off,” I say.

The bully is laughing. He thinks this is funny. He thinks I’m kidding. He thinks I’m just a silly girl.

Fine.

I bring back a tight fist, punch him in the nose. That gets his attention. It should. He just got punched by a girl. A girl a whole year younger than him.

“Leave him alone.” I’m glaring. “I don’t mind beating up a group of boys.”

They’re staring, glaring, sulking off, and I turn my attention to the kid they were picking on. Chancey, they called him.

“You okay?”

I grin. “Good thing I don’t care.” I pause. “I’m Kate, by the way.”

“Alec,” he says. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Nerd.”

“Alec,” he corrects.

“Hey, I just offered to beat up a kid for you. I can call you whatever I want.”

He rolls his eyes.

“So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Nerd.”

“See you, Kate.”

I walk off, run outside, meet my mom in the parking lot. I hop in the car and she starts to drive. “What took you so long?”

“Nothing. I just had to help a friend.”

*****Okay! So that was the last of the short stories. Next week, the collection will be available as an ebook. Stay posted for details! Thanks guys!*****

Book Trailer: TRAPPED

Okay, thanks to the amazing Naomi Bergstresser, I have my book trailer for Trapped! Click on the link to see it on Youtube or watch it right here in this post!
Trapped Book Trailer: Youtube

Thanks guys! For more information on Trapped, check out my website tab: Published Books!

Powerful Women, Powerful Heroines

I want to take a moment to be a little passionate.
We all have our passions, our beliefs, the things we feel very strongly about. For me, that's creating powerful female leads in a story and showing women their own power.
Now, I'm not sexist or anything. I'm not saying men are useless, I'm not saying men aren't important. They can be heroes, just as easily as women. But I do believe it is more common for women to see themselves as victims, as damsels in distress.
What a very mistaken concept.
Women are powerful creatures. It is rare for us to believe it, but we really are. We have the strength, the compassion, the courage to do the right thing, even if we stand alone. In the words of Albert Einstein, "The woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before." That's an intimidatingly beautiful idea. Don't be afraid to stand alone, don't be afraid to be the heroine of your own story. It will take you further than being saved by a knight in shining armor ever would.
A lot of the time, women wait for someone to save them. We are often drawn to the idea of being a princess so we will be saved by the knight.
Be your own knight.
This is a theme in thousands of stories. Thousands of heroines are created every day, heroines who stand up for what is right. Tris in Divergent, Melanie in The Host, Juliette in Shatter Me. Headstrong women in stories fill our world. Why? Because we want to like them. We admire strong women.
This is exactly why I write female protagonists. Women need to know that they are not the victim. Take the examples of Edgeshifter and Nissa in Segolia. Nissa is a young princess that goes from reluctant hero to a legend in her world. Edgeshifter's compassion makes her a heroine.
Be the hero in your own story. Don't wait for someone to take control. You are strong, beautiful, and independent.
Let that incredible strength shine.

Short Story #4: THE RUNAWAY

The Runaway

My mother left when I was five years old.

Sometimes, in a drunken rage, my father will talk about her. He says it’s my fault. He says that if I hadn’t been such a difficult child, she would have stayed.

 I know better.

It was my father that drove her away. It was his scorching temper, that tendency to react with violence. She could not take it anymore, the constant danger of being in her own house. So she left.

What I will never be able to understand, never be able to forgive her for is leaving me here. Heartless. She left me behind, letting me deal with father all on my own. Selfish. Why didn’t she take me with her? Cold. Didn’t she love me?

I grew up in that cold empty house, locking myself in my room as often as I could. But sometimes, avoiding my father was impossible. And spending time with my father usually meant a couple bruises, whether he was drunk or not.

This is the case today.

Looking the mirror, I can the see the purplish blotches painted across my face my arms my neck. A long-sleeved shirt and wintry scarf to cover my arms and neck. Nothing strange about that. It’s bitter cold in Zaraysk this time of year. I dab makeup on my bruised face. I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding my injuries. No one knows about the abused life I live.

I look in the mirror when I’m done, fluffing my hair. I stare back at the mirror. This is the girl everyone sees. Serious about her studies, fun to talk to, living an absolutely perfect life. What they don’t know is that girl is a lie.

I grab my bag, tiptoeing past my father passed out on the couch. Classes will be starting soon and I can’t be late again. I’ve been beat before school before, making me late. Then, of course, when my father gets a phone call about me being late I get a few more bruises as punishment.

 It’s a fairly uneventful day at school. I put on my usual bubbly face, laughing and flirting and being the Tatyana Galerkin everyone knows and loves. It’s not until the end of lunch that things get a little more interesting. There’s a table set aside for strangers in the cafeteria. I tell my group of friends to go on without me.

“What’s this?” I ask, putting a hand on the table.

The woman standing there smiles. “The Verona Modeling Agency is looking for new talent. We need new, young models, girls your age.” She hands me a brochure. “We’re holding auditions in Moscow on Saturday. Would you be interested?”

Yes yes yes yes yes. Totally and completely interested. Take me with you. Save me from the terrors of Zaraysk. Take me away from this place.

“I don’t know,” I find myself saying. “I don’t have any experience as a model.”

The woman smiles. “Well, come and see, you’ve got the body for it. You might be surprised by how well you do.”

She gives me a card with all the information on auditions and I smile before walking away. Tears prick but I push them back. No crying, not where people can see. I didn’t realize until now there was any sort of desire for something other than escape. But I want this bad. I want to be a model, I want to be loved, I want the freedom. I want it all and I don’t see how I could ever get it. My father will never let me go to Moscow. I’ll never get there. There’s just no way.

That night, I do something stupid. I mention Moscow to my father. I try to tell him that it would be good for me, that it would be an opportunity for better money, that it makes sense. He wouldn’t hear it.

When I go to room tonight, it’s with sore beaten muscles and a split lip. It’s enough to send me over the edge.

I pack the essentials, plus anything a potential model might need. Makeup, hair products, clothing, all the money I’ve been saving for years. I grab the keys to my father’s black Yamaha. He’s not going to be needing it anytime soon. He got so drunk tonight. He won’t even think I’m gone until tomorrow night, let alone notice that I stole his motorcycle.

I swing my bag onto my back before getting onto the bike. With a rev of the engine, I’m gone.

*****Okay, only one more short story to go! Look for THE CHILD February 27th!******

Short Story #3: THE HOSTAGE

The Hostage

Chicago is on fire tonight.

My senses are alive with the heat, the spicy aroma of cayenne peppers, the fire rising from the pan as alcohol drops into the sauce, the ordered chaos of chefs and waiters shouting, the commotion of pots and pans ringing through the kitchen.

I grab my apron, stepping into the confusion. I stride over to a woman, who tastes a sauce before shaking her head.

“Hello, Miranda.”

“Jay, what do you think this needs?”

I smile. Miranda has never been one to waste time on pleasantries, like hellos and good mornings. I grab the spoon, wrinkling my nose as I taste the soup. “It needs something sweet.”

Miranda snaps her fingers. “Like honey.” She lets a couple drops of honey fall into the sauce. “Can you make a sauce for Fettucine Alfredo? It’s crazy in here tonight.”

I start gathering up ingredients. “It’s crazy in here every night, Miranda.”

As Miranda’s sous chef and a saucier in the kitchen, I spend the night making sauces. The kitchen remains a madhouse for the rest of the night. There are endless amounts of dishes going in and out of the kitchen, endless amounts of orders. The night seems as though it will never end. But then it does.

Slowly, the other chefs leave the kitchen, their work shifts ending. It’s not long before it’s just me and Miranda, closing up the restaurant.

“Well,” Miranda says, leaning back against a counter, “Looks like we’re done for the night.”

“Well, isn’t that handy.”

Miranda and I both turn. There are three men standing in the kitchen, none of which belong here. Not only that but they are all armed. Each holds a handgun and they all look like they know how to use it.

Miranda takes a step forward. “If it’s money you—”

“We aren’t here for any money,” one of the men says. “We’re here for you.”

Miranda tenses. I do, too. What’s going on? What do they want with Miranda? Is she in trouble? Am I in trouble? I don’t know what to do or what to say or how to act. Terror is sinking in, as usual, turning everything into illogical paranoia.

“Of course,” the man says, toying with his gun now, “The kid’s got to die.”

Everything starts moving too quickly for me to really understand what’s happening. There’s a gun in my face and I’m staring into the barrel of a gun and I’m not ready I’m not ready I’m not ready I’m not ready to die.

I think the trigger is going off and suddenly I’m pushed so hard I fall onto the tile floor. There’s a loud sound, deafening, and I let out a yell.

There’s no agony, no blood, no bullet. Why? What caused me to fall if not the powerful blow of a gunshot?  

I look around, sitting up slowly. And that’s when I understand. That’s when I see. She’s on the floor, too. Blood everywhere. Tangled limbs. Fading breaths. She pushed me out of the way. She took the shot meant for me.

The man that shot her curses. “We’ll have to take the kid instead,” he decides. “He’s scrawny but it’s better than nothing.”

I’m too shocked to fight them as they drag me out of the kitchen, leaving a dying Miranda alone on the floor. They drag me out into the street and I let them, not sure what else to do. They’re murderers. And if there’s one thing I know about cold-blooded killers, it’s that they don’t care how many people die.

Miranda is proof of that.

*****Thank you for reading THE HOSTAGE. More than halfway there! Only two short stories left. THE RUNAWAY is available on this blog the 20th of February! Don't miss it!

Short Story #2: THE SPY

The Spy

“Why do you want this job?”

I take a deep breath. I've waited so long to get here, spent my whole life preparing for this day, this hour, this moment.

It feels that way. Like this has always been my purpose in life. Even if it hasn't. It was the Catastrophe that brought me here, that realized this was the job I wanted, the job I needed.

“I’ve always wanted it,” I say. I've always been a good liar. The trick is making yourself think the lie is true so everyone else thinks it is, too. “I want to protect people in this country,” I say. “Not as a soldier, not as a police officer, but as an agent. I remember 9/11. I want to make sure nothing like that ever happens again.”

Even if it kills me.

The interviewer fingers paperwork. “It says here that you lost a brother in that attack? Is that why you’re here?”

Not just a brother. Not just an attack. A twin. A massacre.

I’ve tried to forget about it for so long, tried to lie to myself for years, try to imagine that I never had a brother. It never works.

“He was there when it happened.”

The interviewer nods. Approval. “A good reason to want to join.” He starts shuffling papers. “However, we cannot overlook certain qualifications you do not fulfill. We don’t accept anyone under the age of 18 or anyone without a college degree. I’m sorry, Mr. Rothstein.”

I sink. I knew this was coming, I knew they’d never say yes. I don’t know what I was expecting. They only gave me interview so I would leave them alone. What was I thinking, expecting a different answer than the one I got? That the CIA would let a fifteen year old kid join their ranks, let him drop out of high school? Stupid.

“Thank you for your time.”

His face is a blank slab of stone, no guilt, no regret, no pity. He doesn't care if I've worked every minute of every day for this. He doesn't care that I've spent hours training my mind and body to be the best applicant he could have asked for, despite my age. He just cares about getting the job done.

I stand. “Thank you,” I say evenly. Too evenly. The lie comes far too easy. It would have been a good quality for a spy.

I shake his hand, leave the room. I want to be angry but I’m not sure how. I’m shocked. I knew the rules, I knew I needed a college degree, I knew I needed to be a legal adult. But I’d hoped, I’d fantasized that they’d overlook it. If it weren't for my age, I’d be the best spy they could hire. I could have done a lot of good if they had let me.

I pause, standing in the hallway, glancing across the room. A man leaning against the wall, wearing a black suit, hands shoved in his pockets.

“So,” he says, “They didn't accept you.”

I grit my teeth, clench my fists. It’s starting to sink in. My failure. Zack. I failed him, I failed to become the one thing that could prevent deaths like his.

I’m walking away and the man calls after me. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I did what I could.”

The man runs, catches up to me. “What would you say if I told you I could help you be an agent based here in Chicago?”

I stop. “What do you mean?”

He’s smirking a little now. “There’s an organization founded by a CIA agent meant to fight crime in Chicago. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“Are you offering?”

He grins. Hands me a black file full of paperwork. “There’s everything you need to know in there. If you decide you’re interested, I left my contact information inside.”

I glance down at the file. A red dragon embossed on black. Swirling across the space of the file, smoke rising from its nostrils.

“Who are you?”

The man smiles. Holds out his hand. “Garrett Kingston. Head of the organization known as The Dragon.”

*******Thanks for reading! As the schedule goes, next Friday, February 13, I will release a short story called THE HOSTAGE.********