Get Me Started #4

*From lisadidio's first sentence.*

I had no idea how far from the center of my world this path would take me, I only knew I had two choices: walk or die. The tip of the sword pressed against my neck, biting into the soft skin below my right ear, gave me little choice in the matter. I could either follow the terse directions of the sword-wielder, who was covered head to toe in black--and didn't that just smack of unoriginality?--or I could get an instant lobotomy.

Obedience isn't really my thing, but I discovered I liked the idea of keeping my brain safely inside my skull enough to make a token effort.

"Hurry up," the sword-wielder snapped out in guttural tones that sounded vaguely familiar.

I slowed down. "It's dark. I can't see where I'm going."

The sword tip pressed hard enough to slice skin, and a small trickle of warm blood wound a sinuous path toward my collar bone.

I lapsed into silence and picked up my pace. A little.

I was trained for this sort of thing, of course. Every D'Janu princess was. I knew to alter my habits, making it hard for my father's enemies to pinpoint any exact routine. I kept a retinue of bodyguards, burly men whose single mission in life was to kill anyone who threatened me. Should they fail, I knew how to react instantly--running if I could, attacking if I couldn't. I'd learned at an early age how to neutralize any foe long enough to get a solid head start.

Except I'd never seen this one coming. One moment, I'd been returning from an impulsive trip to the marketplace, pleased to have snatched up a few end of the day bargains. The next, my bodyguards had vanished. Literally vanished. And I'd felt the cold kiss of steel against my neck.

"If it's ransom you want, you'd better leave my head on my shoulders. My father will never pay for the return of my dead body." The tremor in my voice had more to do with the fact that I now recognized our destination than with fear of death by sword.

There are worse things to fear than death on the end of a blade and I was walking into one of them. An icy fist clenched in my stomach and the spit in my mouth dried into sawdust as the gray clouds scudding across the surface of the moon slid away to flood the landscape with silvery light.

"No ransom, Princess." The man spoke roughly and I caught the hint of mockery surrounding my title. "Now move. Clock's ticking."

The path before us twisted sharply into a tangle of black-barked trees covered in long strands of wet clinging moss. Bare branches stabbed the sky and damp tendrils of crimson-edged fog crawled along the ground.

"That's Briony's Woods. We can't go in there!"

The man laughed and despite the cruelty now wrapped around his amusement, I recognized the sound and stopped in my tracks.

"Kai! You stupid oaf. You scared me to death. When Father hears of this, he'll--"

"Father will never hear of it." My brother made no attempt to disguise his voice this time.

Fury burned through me, turning my fear to ash. "Oh, yes he will. You aren't negotiating your way out of this one."

"You have nothing to barter with, my dear sister. Now move." The sword bit deeper into my neck and I cried out.

"The joke's over, Kai. Finished. You got me, okay? Now stop it. We have to go back. We're already too close."

"Are we?" He asked, unpleasant cruelty still lacing the amusement in his voice.

I began to tremble as rage drained away in the wake of foreboding. "It's Briony's Woods. No human ever comes out alive!"

"Not a problem for me, Princess."

He was serious. I didn't bother trying to wrap my head around the cost of his foolishness. I needed all of my focus on keeping myself from going with him. Lunging forward, I dropped to the ground and rolled to my left, confident that Kai always took an extra second to react and I would have the head start I needed. Before I could flip onto my feet, he was on top of me, the sword pressed mercilessly against my throat.

I'd never seen him move so fast.

"Kai. Please." I was panting, breathless spurts of panic constricting my lungs.

Holding the sword steady with his right hand, Kai lifted his left to his face and stripped his black mask over his head.

I gazed into the ravaged face and blood red eyes of the thing that used to be my brother and screams ripped through my throat, coating my mouth with the raw bitterness of terror as he leaped to his feet, grasped my foot, and dragged me into the heart of Briony's Woods.

Windy City, Here I Come!

1. Hubby and I leave early this afternoon for a quick trip to Chicago on someone else's dime.

2. Our assignment: see Jersey Boys tonight at the theater so hubby can talk about it on air.

3. Our true goal: cram as much Chicago into our systems as possible before boarding a plane tomorrow night at 7.

4. Paul and Kelly, showing the kind of fortitude usually reserved for those serving in the Marine Corp, have bravely volunteered to stay with our kids.

5. Yes, Juan Pedro is in hiding.

6. Regular blog readers know that our family has a tradition around Christmas time of making gingerbread poop cookies.

7. This is what happens when you have boys.

8. This year, I whipped out the gingerbread, handed out dough to the kids, made my own cookies, popped the entire thing in the oven and then promptly forgot about them.

9. Thirty minutes (give or take a few) later, Starshine wandered up to me and asked if the poop was ready yet.

10. I ran to the oven, opened the door, and hauled out pans of scorched gingerbread bricks.

11. Starshine ran to the stairs and said something I doubt anyone else in the history of the world has ever said.

12. "Hey guys! Mom burned the poop!"

13. Even the dog had a tough time gnawing his way through one of those cookies.

14. I don't think we're taking a laptop with us to Chicago, so I'll be back online Sunday to give you all the gory details.

15. Hopefully no over-zealous airport security person tries to abscond with any of my lip gloss again.

16. That nearly caused on international incident.

17. Reader Question: What's an unusual (or meaningful) holiday tradition you share with your family?

*Blech*

Last night I had one of my Really Fun episodes of insomnia. By the time hubby's alarm rang at 3:30 a.m., I still hadn't slept a wink. I informed him of the problem as he was getting up. Something in my tone (I get ATTITUDE after I've been awake most of the night) had him reaching for solutions.

Yes, this is the same man who suggested I drive with my left foot. But, I digress.

First he commiserated. That was nice. But unless his commiseration was going to be followed by a magical "go to sleep" knock on the head, it didn't do me very much good. Next, he suggested just taking 1/2 of a Tylenol pm. I vetoed this idea because we all know I can't tolerate pain pills and I needed to be awake at 6:30 to get the kids ready for school. Three hours is not enough time for my body to burn off even 1/2 a Tylenol PM.

So, scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to plausible methods to fight insomnia, he suggested I take a swallowful of rum. You'll all recall my incredible intolerance for alchohol. One mouthful of margarita makes me sleepy for an hour. I decided his idea had merit.

He brought me a small cup with one fairly large swallow of rum inside it. Now, I should pause the story at this point to tell you that while we have rum and Everclear in the house, both are used for cooking. The Everclear, you may recall, facilitates the spray on food coloring used to decorate hubby's cakes, and the rum is used for his incredible Bananas Foster (yes, he lights it on fire to the delight of our children who love to add bananas to the list of things they might someday light on fire when their mother isn't looking).

We don't actually drink the rum. Ever. This was a maiden voyage in the whole rum-tasting experience. While I hoped my inner pirate would come roaring out, I felt it much more likely my jaw would clench, my throat refuse to swallow, and then I would end up expelling rum through my nostrils. My hubby sniffed the cup and told me just to toss it back, avoiding my taste buds at all costs.

Another idea that had merit.

I tossed the rum back, swallowed as soon as it hit my throat, and promptly gagged. It was like swigging some dollar store cologne or maybe chugging straight from a bottle of Lysol. I can't believe anyone drinks this by choice. It burned all the way down my esophagus and I imagined the offended tissues forming committees, electing representatives, and drafting strongly worded memos along the lines of "Do this again and we shall kill you 'til you die from it."

My hubby, of course, thought the whole thing was hilarious. This is because he wasn't the one swallowing rum without benefit of sugar, bananas, and butter. That can be rememdied, however. He's a very hard sleeper.

He left for work and I settled back against the pillows, fully expecting to feel the post-alcohol wave of sleepiness hit me at any second.

It never did.

The one time in my life where my intolerance to alcohol was a welcome occurance and it failed to materialize. I finally fell asleep twenty minutes before I had to get up and get the kids off to school.

Turns out when Elizabeth told Captain Jack rum was a vile drink, she was telling the truth.

Query Holiday

Firebrand Literary Agency is taking a Query Holiday and wants to read your first chapter instead! Check out the details here. (Must be submitted between Dec 15th and Jan 15th)

In Which C.J. Learns She Does Not Qualify For The Job Of Going Postal

As many of you know, I hurt my right foot a week and a half ago. Sprained the tendon in the arch. Not only did this make walking and standing difficult, it made driving nearly impossible. Turns out the tendon in your arch is the one you use when you press on the accelerator.

When I mentioned to my hubby that driving was extremely painful, he suggested I drive with my left foot. Like the mailman does.

I had my doubts.

My sense of coordination is awkward at best. It took me long enough to learn how to ease onto the gas or brake with my right foot without sending anyone into the dashboard. I had little faith mastering the task with my left foot would be any easier.

The morning after my hubby's brilliant suggestion, I got into the 9-4, applied my right foot to the gas, and--as pain turned my entire foot into one searing cramp--decided maybe he was on to something after all. Twisting my body to the side so my right leg pointed toward the passenger seat and my left foot had all the room in the world to access both the gas and the brake, I eased my foot onto the gas and shot down the driveway like I was auditioning for NASCAR.

This was not a good development. Worse, however, far worse was the fact that by twisting my body to accommodate my insane hubby's suggestion that I could drive with my left foot, I'd rendered myself unable to use the rear view mirror to its full capacity. Plus, I was turned in such a way as to make regular, normal, non-hazardous steering virtually impossible.

I lifted my foot from the gas, aimed for the brake, glanced in the rear view mirror and saw...my mailbox.

In the category of Things I Don't Want To Hit With The 9-4, the mailbox ranks right above trashcans and right below the UPS truck. I wrenched the steering wheel in my own little off-center way, following insane hubby's wretched little suggestion, and careened across the lawn. Backwards.

I forgot all about easing onto the brake. There are trees on my lawn. Trees are ranked right above the UPS truck and just below cows. I did not want to hit a tree. I slammed on the brake and slid to a halt, parallel to the mailbox, perpendicular to the driveway, with one tire hanging over the curb in a clear effort to find the road again and end this nonsense.

Honestly, I don't know why none of my neighbors have to yet to install a motion-activated camera aimed at my house. They'd be rich by now. Or at least own a few insanely popular viral videos.

Deciding I was much safer driving in pain than trying to follow my hubby's ill-advised suggestion, I readjusted, put the 9-4 in gear, and drove across the lawn and onto the road with my right foot firmly in charge of my destiny.

Chafing the Kiester

1. Yesterday, I learned a valuable lesson. Two, actually.

2. The first lesson: Always examine the passenger seat of my hubby's Explorer closely before sitting down.

3. Doing so will avoid the interesting predicament of having a man you don't know come up to you at church and tell you "You have a sticker on your kiester."

4. Kiester.

5. Oy.

6. I took my now sticker-less kiester into the three year olds Sunday school class we teach and learned valuable lesson numero dos: Always examine the floor in a 3 yr. old's classroom before sitting down to lead song time.

7. This cannot be over-emphasized.

8. I settled my kiester in a puddle of water. (Yes, I checked the dubious substance once I realized my error just to be sure it wasn't another, more offensive, organic substance.)

9. Of course, I didn't know I'd sat in a puddle of water until said water soaked through my heavy denim pants and rendered me damp all the way to my skin.

10. Can you say "chafe"?

11. Good times.

12. Here's a devilish little link for my fellow writers: write or die.

13. While I've yet to hear any reports of actual deaths, this program allows you to set a timer and then you must WRITE for the entire length of time you've set for yourself. If you pause too long between words, it begins to delete your words. There are different settings (from relaxed to kamikaze) and different levels of consequences (from forgiveness to pure evil) so you can customize your experience.

14. Some of us write well under pressure so this would work. Others would be reaching for Tums, Prozac, or the nearest blunt instrument.

15. I happen to be one of those (to my own surprise) who writes well under pressure.

16. Tonight my hubby and I have BOTH company Christmas parties. We'll start off in downtown Nashville and make our way south to mine after his dinner is over.

17. Hopefully, both companies will show the good sense to keep the long-winded Yay Us! speeches to a bare minimum.

18. Today I will subdue the laundry. Or burn it. One of the two.

19. Yesterday, the boys and I finished shopping for hubby's gifts. One of these years, I'll be making enough money from publishing to buy him season tickets to the Titans. Until then, he gets whatever goodies I can scrounge up from Target.

20. Reader Question: (idea shamelessly stolen from a fellow Pixie) Tell me a book (or two, three, whatever) that WOWed you in the last six months.

LOL

Hey Guys! Want to stay out of the doghouse this Christmas?