Fiction Friday NaNo Edition 2

And on a Saturday; I’m aware. 😉

Winner, winner!

Winner, winner!

 

Fifty thousand words in 28 days!  That’s including days taken for being toxed brain dead and ill earlier this week.  I’m so pleased. 

My beta readers (alpha readers, depending on who you’re talking to) love it.  The feedback I got was great!  Like this comment from V:  “Already a junkie for this story. Please tell me you’ll finish it even if you have finished nano.”  Plus constant demands from the Val:  “now give it to me!!!!!!!!”

😀 That’s the best kind of feedback. 

I love making addicts of my readers.

Now, I get to start on my research for HW4.  That’s good, eh?

It’ll be a lot of work, for sure, but I’m looking forward to it.  I’m also hoping that the research will give me a greater idea of the plot.  

Oh!  And this:

Wolfman: First Camp is in April?

Me: Yes but I think I’ll only do one. I have hw4 to write still.

Wolfman: psml  If I’m doing triple, so are you, madame.

Me: *narrows her eyes, considers a protest, then sighs*  As you wish.

Piffle.  He’s lucky I love him.

So I’m writing horror in April. Anyone got any tips?  I’ve never done it before.  Violence and the occasional mind fuck, sure, but never horror.  

I am going to go for a walk now.  Maybe find my way to some reward chocolate.  (Since I forgot to hit ‘publish’ before I left, I can tell you now that I found some reward chocolate: A Cadbury bar called Flake.  It’s lovely.)

Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!  

Muah!

 

Fiction Friday (on Saturday) NaNo Edition

Good Saturday morning!

It is November and of course you know what that means!  It’s time for National Novel Writing Month.  

For those who don’t know, NaNoWriMo is a challenge for writers, long time writers and first timers alike, to write 50 thousand words in 30 days.

I spent most of September and October planning a story, developing characters and settings and my characters threw almost all of it away on the 30th of October.  Even my protagonist is no longer the protagonist, not alone anyway.

I was tearing my hair out but you know what?  Their idea seems to be working, even if, in editing, I’d probably throw a third of it out.  I’m already sailing past 13k!  Can you believe it?  I’ve had a couple days of brain-dead-ness too where I only got a few hundred words written.  

I am enjoying the stories and my Alpha readers are too.  It’s supposed to be a thriller and there’s definitely excitement in it.  But Rebecca and Ted seem to be falling for each other.  I suppose romance can develop in the midst of terror but we’ll see.

I need to get back to writing.  I’ll leave you with the prologue and first two chapters of this (ridiculously named) NaNo effort.  Keep in mind that this is first draft drivel. *laughs*

Enjoy your weekend!

Muah!

PS Damn, the formatting didn’t stay.  The blank spaces are bits and pieces of the letter, redacted as they’d be in the completed book Rebecca is writing.  Here, I’ll mark them with a {} so that it’s not so odd.  I have no idea if these letters from the US Marshalls Service (WitSec in particular) happen, or like that, but since I don’t have any intention of publishing this particular book, we’ll leave it.  

Terwilliger vs Churchward

Prologue

 

December 20, 2012

Rebecca A. Loveless

{} St {}

Springfield, {}  

{}

Re: Case number  { }

Ms. Loveless,

We are writing to inform you that Misters {}   and   {}    are now deceased.  The department cannot disclose any information about the case at this time, however, we can inform you that any backlash from your testimony at their trial for the murder of your parents and brother is no longer a concern.

You may move on with your life now and live it in any manner you see fit.  Live it well.

Sincerely,

Anne {}

On a personal note, Rebecca, all of us here enjoyed our service with you and we truly enjoy your books.  If we may make a suggestion, the case of Terwilliger vs Churchward is a fascinating one. A~

 

Thirty-two year old Rebecca Loveless tossed the letter onto her kitchen counter, scarcely able to believe what she had read.  She made a small sound, something between grief and relief.  Her dog, a Chihuahua named Wendy, raced up the small, wide-tread ladder Rebecca’s WitSec team had made for her to get to the counter.  She sniffed Rebecca’s face and licked the tears off with a small whimper.  When that didn’t make her beloved owner pay attention and get out of her funk, Wendy let out a small, sharp bark.

“Oh my God, Wendy!  We’re free!  We can do book tours now.  We can go home and see Mother and Father and Alek.”  Rebecca had never been allowed to go to their funerals, never been able to pay her respects with nothing more than candles lit in a church every week.  She scooped her dog up and danced around the kitchen, laughing while tears rolled down her face. 

She paused long enough to scoop up her cell phone and dial the woman who had become her sister.  “Buffy!  Oh my Gods!  Did Dad tell you?” 

On the other side of the call, Buffy Loveless smiled.  She remembered when Becca, two years younger, had joined their family. Buffy’s father, a WitSec agent, had taken the heartbroken, angry eight year old into their home then picked up and moved all of them – Buffy, her mother and this hard faced little waif – across the country to Springfield.   “I heard.  Mom and Dad are so happy for you.  She wants everyone for dinner tonight, to celebrate.  She promised to make lasagna and black forest cake.”

“Oh no!  Not the cake.  Please get her to let me bring it.”  Rebecca thought fast.  “Tell her I want to contribute something and my favourite cake is just the thing.”   Buffy laughed and agreed.  They hung up as Rebecca sat down on her couch.  Wendy snuggled close and Rebecca’s mind went back to the last night she had her family.

Becca and Alek were in the front room arguing over post-homework television, she wanted to watch an hour of The Rugrats and he wanted Batman The Animated Series.  He was a year older than her and they agreed on most things, except which main character was better – Tommy or Batman.  The argument stopped and the remote clattered to the coffee table when they heard the rattle of the garage door.   They ran into the kitchen, slowed to a speed shuffle when they got the “no running in the house!” glare from their mother, and ripped open the door between the kitchen and boot room, where they would wait to greet them.

They waited eagerly, words about their day wanting to spill from their lips, impatient to hear the corny joke of the day, and wanting their hugs.  To the outside world, {their friends), they were far too cool for these displays but they both loved their parents.  Their dad rushed in, dropped his briefcase and grabbed their upper arms in bruising grips as he dragged them into the kitchen.  “Mindy, quick, we have to go.  Now!”  He shoved both children towards her as car doors slammed outside and shouting started. 

Mindy shoved the children deeper into the house just as the kitchen window exploded inward and breathtaking pain spun her around.  “Fire escape plan two!  Becca, Alek, run!”  A red stain was starting to bloom on her chest near her shoulder and her arm hung uselessly.

“Mommy!  You’re hurt!”  Becca rushed toward her.

“Go!”  Mindy screamed the word as the living room window exploded too, showering glass all over the room.  She shoved them to the floor as something burned into her again, this time in her belly. 

Alek shoved his sister ahead of him to the stairs, which were by the front door.  They scrambled up them.  They’d just reached the top and thrown themselves around the top post when the door shattered and some dark shadow loomed into it. 

“James!” The voice was as dark as the shadow.  Gravelly and loud it boomed into every corner of the house. 

Becca whimpered and Alek pushed her down the hall; they had to get to the attic.  He put his mouth close to her ear. “I’m going to open it up and you’re going to run up.  Just like practice, remember?  You’re so good at it.  Throw the ladder to the ground but let’s go across the roof.  Sally’s house is close enough.  Her dad probably called the police already.”

They could hear noises downstairs.  Their mother was screaming, sounds of pain that would haunt Becca forever, and their dad was yelling something about money.  She nodded at Alek and took a deep breath as he stood up to slap the hidden button that would open the attic.  The door in the ceiling was almost invisible and she knew if they could get up and get the door closed, they’d be safe. 

It seemed to take forever to descend.  Alek pushed her into starting the climb before it was all the way on the ground.  She glanced behind her to see that he’d gotten on the ladder and pushed the button again.  It was starting to close while they scampered up and she breathed a sigh of relief.  She stood on the attic floor and reached back for her brother.  “Come on, Alek, hurry.”

He slapped her hand in his just as a big, meaty hand wrapped around his ankle.  Both children screamed in fright and she wrapped her hand around his arm and pulled.  The hand pulled back.  She braced her feet and tried as hard as she could while her brother looked at her.  Suddenly, Becca could see acceptance in his eyes.  He raised his finger to his lips in the universal symbol to be quiet then let go of her.  He slid through her hands and she jammed her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming. She whirled around and ran for the dormer window at the end of the house.

Becca threw the ladder out then scrambled up the roof, trying to be quiet.  She reached the apex then stood there in indecision.  The houses in the neighbourhood were close together, only a few feet separated one from the other.  The backyards were lengthy and she figured she’d never make it to the back gate.  She also knew that if she went to Sally’s her dad would protect her but that might get them killed too.  She had to get as far away as possible.  She ran over the roofs, jumping from one house to another until she was a block away.

Rebecca woke from her memories with a start as Wendy licked the tears from her face again.  She buried her face against the little dog’s fur.  A Chihuahua isn’t what most people would have chosen as a therapy dog, she supposed, but Wendy was perfect for her.  The dog was fiercely loyal and fiercely protective.  She was an absolute affection hound with the people she knew and loved, she was smart and had been easily trained. 

Rebecca drew a long, shuddery breath.  She’d finally a chosen a house and gotten some help.  She’d learned later that night that her entire family had been killed by the Russian mafia.  At some point, she had also learned that her father was the accountant for the mafia.  Investigations had turned up the fact that he was embezzling from the mafia and had been for some time.  The investigators speculated that he had been trying to get them out and away from the lifestyle.  They’d found fake IDs and a deed to a house in the Caymans.  For a long time, Rebecca hadn’t known how to feel.  In the end, when she had all the answers they could give her, she’d simply grieved for the family she’d lost, giving little thought to the reasons for it. 

 “It’s a turning point for us, Miss Wendy Darling, let’s make the most of it, shall we?   Starting with dinner at Grandma and Grampa’s.  You like them.”

Wendy’s entire body shook with the force of tail wagging at the sound of two of her favourite words, Grandma and Grampa.

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

From: Rebecca Loveless

Sent: Thursday, January 3, 2013 8:51 AM

To: Joe Hillman, agent extraordinaire

Subject: Book idea!

TvsC

Hey Joe. 

Happy New Year!  I hope Christmas went well for you and your family.  I know Ally was really looking forward to it.  Did you end up getting her the Barbie car?

I have a great idea for a new book!  I decided that I want to write about a recent crime.  I can travel now, do interviews.  (I can also do a book tour!)  I know that The Atlas Vampire Case, The Tamud Shud Case, and Villisca Ax Murders were immensely popular, more so than most true crime books, but I want to step away from history for this next book.  Let’s call it a celebration of my newfound freedom. 

I have had dozens fans writing me suggesting cases but the one that Anne suggested, Terwilliger vs Churchward, peaks my interest the most.  I can do in person interviews, truly get inside these people’s heads instead of just making educated guesses.  You’ll find my preliminary notes attached.  What do you think?

Give my love to Jean and Ally.

Rebecca A. Loveless

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.  Stephen King

 

From: Joe Hillman

Sent: Thursday, January 3, 2013 9:46 AM

To: Rebecca Loveless

Subject: Re: Book idea!

 

Good morning, Becks. 

Happy New Year to you as well; here’s to a shiny new life and a lot more freedom.  Don’t abuse it! 

Ally definitely got that car, she loves it!  Jean’s parents caved in to all her begging.  That girl is lucky she’s so adorable.  Christmas was wonderful.

The book sounds like a good idea.  I do have to caution you not to get to close to the subjects though.  I know how in depth and connected you get to your research.  I looked the case up and Robert Churchward is a very dangerous man.  He’s in prison still and will be until he dies.  Don’t let him get attached to you. 

Write up the proposal and I’ll pitch it to the publisher.  I’ll have Stephen and Grace give you their answer directly, alright?

Joe Hillman

Need an agent? We are the best in the biz.  Take a look at what we can do for you at HillmanandMaattravers.com

 

From: Rebecca Loveless

Sent: Thursday, January 3, 2013 10:36 AM

To: Joe Hillman, agent extraordinaire

Subject: Re: Book idea!

 

That’s fantastic!  Thanks, Joe, you’re the best. 

I know that Robert is dangerous.  His injuries from his time in Afghanistan have left him… lacking in compassion. 

Don’t worry so much about me!  I have Wendy and I have my training.

Rebecca A. Loveless

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.  Stephen King

 

From: Joe Hillman

Sent: Thursday, January 3, 2013  11:04

To: Rebecca A. Loveless

Subject: Re: Book idea!

 

I mean it, Rebecca.  BE CAREFUL.   All your training in self-defence and weapons isn’t going to do you much good against a military man with no emotions.   Maybe you shouldn’t do the book.  Or let me do the interviews with Churchward.

Joe Hillman

Need an agent? We are the best in the biz.  Take a look at what we can do for you at HillmanandMaattravers.com

 

From: Rebecca Loveless

Sent: Thursday, January 3, 2013 11:25 AM

To: Joe Hillman, agent extraordinaire

Subject: Re: Book idea!

 

I will, Joe, I promise.  I can handle the interviews.  After what I’ve been through, little scares me.

Rebecca A. Loveless

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.  Stephen King

 

From: Joe Hillman

Sent: Thursday, January 3, 2013 12:02 PM

To: Rebecca A. Loveless

Subject: Re:  Book idea!

 

That’s what scares me.

Joe Hillman

Need an agent? We are the best in the biz.  Take a look at what we can do for you at       HillmanandMaattravers.com

 

Rebecca viewed the last email with a smile of affection and turned to the tiny dog that lounged in the bed on Rebecca’s large desk.  “He worries too much, don’t you think?”   Wendy sneezed.  Rebecca laughed and got to work on the proposal. 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

Rebecca received the go ahead, and a substantial advance, at the end of January and by the first of February, she was making her first contacts.  She decided to start with Ted Terwilliger’s best friend, Carlos Montalban, of Mexico’s intelligence agency, SEDENA. 

She called the intelligence office and, in Spanish, explained who she was.  “My name is Rebecca Loveless, I write true crime stories and –” she was interrupted here.

“Holy Mother Mary!  I know who you are!  I have read all of your books.  The one about the vampires was inspired!  I can’t believe you got them to reopen that case and find the killer!  That was amazing.” The woman in the reception desk gushed then switched from Spanish to English.  “Your books helped me to learn English better.”

Rebecca smiled and answered in English.  “We can speak in English if you’d prefer.”

Sí, por favor.  What can I do for you, Señorita Loveless?”

“I’m thinking about writing about Theodore Terwilliger and it is my understanding that Carlos Montalban was his best friend.  I wish to speak with him, if at all possible.”  Rebecca held her breath, waiting.  She knew that death was a sensitive subject for many and the death of a friend who was like family was hard.

Sure enough, the woman shut down, and switched back to Spanish.  “I am sorry, Señorita Loveless, but I cannot give you any information about Señor Montalban.  I will pass on your message.  If he chooses to contact you, he will do so in his own time.” 

The phone went dead and Rebecca stared at it, bemused.  “She’s right, you know,” she said to Wendy.  “He will or he won’t.  Meanwhile, I should decide whether or not to contact Mrs. Terwilliger.  That woman was right about another thing too, though she didn’t say it aloud.  People will heal in their own time.”  She stood up and Wendy popped to her own feet.  “Time for a walk, I think.”

Wendy raced down the special ramp tucked against the desk and headed for the front door.  When her human didn’t move fast enough, Wendy grabbed one of Rebecca’s shoes and started tugging it down the hall. 

Rebecca grabbed her cell phone and keys and chuckled as she turned into the hall.  “Impatient, aren’t you?” 

They weren’t more than a block away when her phone rang.  Wendy rolled her eyes and set about exploring the patch of lawn, (and garden but she wasn’t advertising that part too loudly), while Rebecca answered the phone.

“Hello, Rebecca Loveless here.”

“ Hola! ¿ Cómo esta?  This is Carlos Montalban.  I understand, Ms. Loveless, that you wish to write a book about my friend Theodore.”  His voice was deep, measured, dangerous and somewhat disapproving.

Rebecca allowed to herself that she might be imagining the last two.  She swallowed a spat of nerves anyway.  “Hello, Mr. Montalban.  I have been looking for a – No, Wendy!  You know better!” She tugged lightly on Wendy’s leash, which was attached to a body harness.  “My apologies, Mr. Montalban.  I was recently given a new lease on life, and I thought I would try something new, turn the direction of my writing just a little.”

“By picking on my friend?”  There was definitely a dangerous note this time, Rebecca was sure this time.

“Ah… no… Not exactly.  I want to tell the truth about what happened.  I know that the media twisted things.”  She stooped and scooped poop and slowly turned towards home.

“The receptionist here is very fond of your work.  I shall have to think on it.  Meanwhile, do not contact his family.  Wait for me to get back to you.”   The phone went dead, again, and she stared at it.

“Well, hasta luego to you to, Señor Montalban.”  She looked down at Wendy.  “These people are not very friendly.”  Wendy yipped.

For the next two days, Rebecca researched another case, The Eyeball Killer.  Charles Albright was very bright, multilingual and an all-round good guy…who hunted prostitutes and cut out their eyes.  On the second day, the doorbell as she was preparing dinner for herself, (enchiladas, inspired by her conversations with the people in Mexico).

Wendy raced her for the door, barking ferociously as she did so.  Rebecca didn’t shush her, letting the dog inform the visitor that there was a guard dog in the house, as she checked the electric monitor of the security system.  She saw the top of a dark head and, assuming it was a child, opened the door.  “I’m sorry, I don’t want to buy anything.”  Her voice trailed off at the end as she realized the man standing at her door was fully grown, if a Dwarf. “Oh!” Her face turned bright red.

The man grinned and offered his hand.  “I am Carlos Montalban.”

Rebecca’s jaw dropped and then she turned an even darker shade of red as she realized what she was thinking, imposing all kinds of limitations on him because of his dwarfism. 

While she sorted out her embarrassment and impressions, Carlos crouched down and made his acquaintance with Wendy.  He offered her a small bone shaped cookie treat.    Wendy sniffed it suspiciously then took it delicately between her teeth.  Carlos stood up and waited patiently. 

Rebecca automatically stepped back, allowing Carlos to come in.  She closed the door as she tried to force herself to say something.  Anything.  She looked him over.  She guessed he was just over four feet tall.  His head was large, and his forearms and thighs were short.  He was slightly bow-legged. He was handsome, with chocolate brown eyes, a strong jaw with lips just a shade on the too thin side. 

“Ms. Loveless, I am used to being stared at and if the fact that I am a highly trained spy and assassin and a dwarf with an eyepatch didn’t come as a surprise to you, I’d probably have to kill you.”  Carlos chuckled.

“I-I’m so sorry.  I’m rarely speechless nor so rude.  Please, forgive me.  I’m about to have dinner, would you like some?”  She bent down and scooped up Wendy who, having finished her treat was sniffing Carlos as high as she could reach. 

“What are you having?”  Carlos had learned quite a bit about Rebecca and he knew that she was on a strict schedule, using timers and calendars, and he knew that it was dinner time.

“Enchiladas.”  Rebecca smiled as he chuckled again.

“It sounds delightful, even the way you Americans make it.”

Rebecca gave him mock offended.  “This is an authentic recipe, thank you very much.” 

Carlos climbed on to the bar stool at her breakfast bar and settled onto it.  “I can hardly wait then.”

They had dinner together and settled in the living room with coffee.  “Why do you want to write this story, Rebecca?”

“For the same reason I write the rest of them, Carlos, justice.”

They talked for another hour or two before Carlos left.  Rebecca felt very much like she had just been grilled but, after making her sign a non-disclosure agreement of a sort, he’d given her one vital piece of information – Theodore Terwilliger was alive.

“I have discussed your proposal, and your books, with him and he agreed that you would do the story, well, justice.  However, you are to contact him before you attempt to talk to any other member of his family.  Is that perfectly clear?”

“Of course, Carlos.”  She nodded vigorously, even as she stared down her traitorous dog.  Wendy was curled up in Carlos’ lap, nearly purring with the attention he was giving her.

Now, alone, Rebecca let out a whoop that Wendy echoed.  Rebecca sat on the floor and hugged her dog.  “We get to write the story!”  It didn’t even occur to her to ask how he had acquired the proposal she’d sent to the publisher, she was just happy.  She called her sister.  “Buffy!”

“Becca!  You interrupted bedtime.”

“I’m so sorry!  I’m just so excited!  You wouldn’t believe what just happened!”

“I can tell you’re excited; you’re speaking in exclamation points.”

Rebecca chuckled.  It was a joke from their childhood.  Whenever one of the girls had gotten too excited over something, happy or angry, their parents had taken to asking them to stop speaking quite so much in exclamation points and try a period or a question mark.  “I’m sorry, I can’t help it.  I have permission from the people involved in the Terwilliger-Churchward case to pursue it as a book!”

“That’s wonderful, for you.  The rest of us will continue to worry.  Does this mean you’ll be travelling?”

Some of Rebecca’s joy dimmed.  Her sister was very good at the guilt, very good.  It could go almost unnoticed by a body, you just knew you went away from the conversation thinking about changing your mind about whatever it was you were going to do.  “Yes, it means I’ll be travelling.  I want to interview people face-to-face as much as possible.  Don’t worry so much about me, Buff, I’m not that kid you met anymore.  You know how rigorously Dad has trained us in self-defence and in making sure that we don’t get into trouble in the first place.”  She listened as her sister sighed and knew she now had an ally.

“Okay.  Just be careful.  Love you.”  One of Buffy’s five kids howled in the background, making her growl in frustration. 

Rebecca knew her sister was already looking to the screen to disconnect the call and she was unlikely to be heard but she said her good-bye anyway.  “Love you and the brat pack.”

Oh my, oh my!

{{For the love of Pete!  I totally forgot to hit publish, distracted as I was by the Canadian election results.  Here you go. *laughs*}}

 November first is in TWELVE days!

That’s right, dear readers, NaNoWriMo is coming up quick!  Don’t know what it is?  Check it out here.

I was drawn to the website this morning.  There is information I need.  I am not quite sure what it is that I need, it being 5:37 in the morning, but it’s there.  I know it is.  

I went there, I think, because I need a title and a synopsis, even a bare minimum one, from which to build a plot.

Or is it that I need a plot built in order to create a synopsis?

Either way, I found myself in my NaNoMail.  I’ve been overlooking that just a tad – there were 32 emails in there.  That’s quite a lot for such a place.  Buried in there, in the folder labeled “Pep Talks” I found a wonderfully amusing pep talk from Jim Butcher.  I haven’t read a lot of his work but I’ve come across personal essays and things like this pep talk of his before.  I quite like the man.  If ever I was to have a writing mentor, he’d be one of my top three choices.

(Of course, I’d better read his work first, eh?)

He reminded me, in this pep talk, that I’m not going to get anything done next month if I’m not writing every day now. I have been writing some.  I finished the background of my villain.  His name is Robert (always Robert, never Bob) Churchward and he is ex-military.  He’s a nasty piece of work but it’s not entirely his fault.  I will share him with you later.  

My goal over the next few days is to develop the plot, find a title (actually, that’s partly the goal for today), get all my research done, and get to the point where I can put fingers to keyboard and begin.  

Here’s hoping!

Well, actually, here’s planning.  If I look at it as a plan, act as if it’s a plan, (and isn’t it?), then it will get done.  If I look at it as a dream, it’s much less likely to.

And with that bastardized random nugget of Universe wisdom, I leave you.

Muah!  

P.S.  I am considering fundraising for the Office of Light and Letters again this year.  I haven’t done it for a few years and I really do think that literacy is a vital part of the world today.  Nearly everything we do is connected to the written word and I despair of the way those words are being written.  Funding to teach our children to enjoy reading and writing seems, to me, critical to ensuring their future is bright and productive.  

I haven’t decided, as yet, (and I’d better SOON), because The Boyfriend reminded me that the world is inundated with fundraisers for this and that and one more may just be the straw that breaks the camels back.  

However, this is literacy we’re talking about.  

I will let you know.  

Have a wonderful day!

 

 

 

Fiction Friday Week 32

I know, I know!  It’s Saturday.   Yesterday kind of got away from me (chores, moving my air conditioner out of the window…recovering from moving the air conditioner *laughs*).  However, I am here now! 

The last couple of weeks have seen a serious lack of focus that has made it difficult to complete the mini character profiles of the people in Ted’s life.  A thriller requires peripheral characters that the protagonist can rely on and, potentially, be betrayed by so I have been trying to add people to Ted’s life.  

So far, I have Carlos, whom I shared already, and I have Anthea, Ted’s mother, his sister (barely), Ted’s overseers, some ranch hands, and the people in his lab.  The last two groups are pretty much in name only though.  

Now, finally, I get to develop the villain.  *cackles*

For now, I am going to get dressed, feed my Man and get set to try to help him move today.  

I will probably end up doing more work on my computer than lifting and shifting boxes. 😉

Have a great day and for all you Canucks:

Happy Thanksgiving!  Don’t forget to count your blessings and enjoy your friends and family around you.  I, for one, am grateful for everything and everyone that allows me to keep writing and for those who love me and support me. 

Muah!

 

Other Characters

 Mother:  Anthea Terwilliger

  • Widow of five years, lost husband to a drunk hunter
  • A rancher’s wife, involved in every aspect of the business from the very beginning, from their first mare
  • She raised Ted and 3 sisters, two younger and one older, with her husband doing almost as much of the work. Children are 45 (Clarissa), 43 (Ted), 41 (Abigail), 39 (Stephanie)
  • Ranch started small and grew as the breed’s reputation, and that of their feed, grew
  • Ranch started as 15 acres, two for living and their first small stable, 5 for pasture and ten to grow feed. It is now 500 acres at 3 sites (250, 100, 150), the original 15 is still the homestead, 400 acres is devoted to growing the best
  • They have a dozen brood mares in 3 breeds (4 per breed), two studs per breed
  • One location has a lab to help with genetics of both horses and feed
  • Involved in the lives of all her children, though she doesn’t quite understand her son
  • Youngest daughter (Stephanie) lives at home, her and her son, Trevor, who is the oldest grandchild of five grandchildren
  • Heads the state fundraising chapter for MS research, got involved when her oldest daughter was diagnosed with MS at 20

Appearance:

Anthea is 5’6”, trim and with definite curves.  Her hair is a steel grey and falls just past her shoulder blade.  It’s usually in a French braid so that it’s out of the way and still fits under her hat.  She has nearly flawless skin, despite decades working in the sun, it is the colour of cream.  She has brown eyes I can only describe as warm maple syrup.    Every time I’ve met her, she’s in denim and a soft shirt.  She dresses with practicality, works hard, often doing what is traditionally described as “man’s work” – riding, roping, breaking.  She toils in the fields, mucks out stalls and delivers her horses’ babies.  But she never fails to be feminine in her manner or her appearance. 

History:

Anthea was a high school cheerleader who fell in love with the quiet boy in the 4H program.  Luke was from a small ranch.  His mother died when he was small and his father was a drunk.  They had one horse and a few sheep left when he started high school.  It was his efforts, before and after school, that kept the ranch moderately solvent.  And it was luck – a lottery ticket purchased by Anthea for his 18th birthday – that helped them purchase the ranch out from under his father.  

At 17 years old, after Luke’s father gleefully took the money and took off, Anthea married the love of her life.  Together they took stock of the ranch and took a risk, sinking almost all of the lottery winnings into improving the barn and the stock.  They laid in the best feed seed they could buy and hired an experienced hand. 

It took them years to build a reputation as the breeders of the best work horses in the U.S.  The ranch expanded along with their family. 

Arguments, screaming matches, family dinners, love, constant affection and encouragement made a family that was strong, loyal and devoted to one another.  Luke’s tragic death shook them to the core but made them tighter. 

Luke was out riding the range, checking on the fences, during hunting season.  According to the ranch hand that was with him it was over in seconds.  Second one:  Luke was astride his horse, laughing at a joke.  Second two: an arrow was protruding from his chest.  Second three: he was on the ground. 

For almost three months, Anthea had all four grown children and their families in her home.  One by one she kicked them out.  Stephanie and Trevor remained behind when Anthea discovered that Steph’s husband was abusing both.  Anthea used her not inconsiderable wealth to make sure the man was left with nothing of Steph and Trevor, including parental rights. 

Anthea is the only one in the family aware that Ted did not die in the fire.  She thinks it is cruel to let his sisters grieve for him but understands the need for secrecy. 

Horse Breeds:

Horses.xlsx  (this links to a file about various breeds of work horse like the Ardennais)

 

Constance “Connie” Vargas

 

  • Large animal veterinarian
  • Conversely, a collector of anything related to pygmy animals – art, books, statuettes when she can find them
  • Met Ted when one of his horses tore a ligament (a Type II Lesion in the Superficial Digital Flexor Tendon) and he needed a vet in a hurry
  • The ranch was still being established, the injury occurred during transport from Tennessee
  • She was insulted when he did a full background check not only of her credentials but of her (she finds out when he mentions something she thought buried in her past. What?  “well, I had to know my new vet was actually as good as you appear.”)
  • Invites her to dinner to make up for upsetting her
  • One thing leads to another
  • “That first night was… rough. It was Ted’s first time with a woman.

Appearance:

5’5”

Curvy, apple-bottomed with generous hips, breasts and broad shoulders with a narrow waist

Near waist-length auburn hair, somewhat sharp features, long nose.  Not beautiful but prety

Half Dutch (mother), half Portuguese (father), takes after her father mainly in appearance. 


 Rayna and James Morin

 

Ranch overseers.   Rayna looks after the barns and ranch hands, James looks after the house and grounds around it.  They came to Ted when they learned that someone was buying up land and looking for an overseer.  They were bold enough to tell him they were a team – ranch and house – and that they were damn good. 

He asked them why they’d left their previous position – a place in Alberta – to come to Ontario.   Then he checked out their story.  (they lost their children in an accident and, knowing that their children’s memories lived with them no matter where they were, they sought a new start, trying to repair and rejuvenate their marriage)  He hired them on the spot and then checked them out, totally anti-Ted. 

Rayna is 5’11”, all lean muscle with a gentle curve in at the waist.  Long arms, long legs, far stronger than she looks.  Dark blonde hair is kept chin length for practicality.  Blue eyes, thin upper lip, full lower, strong jaw and chin.  She was raised with horses, riding before she could walk, knows everything about them.   And she knows how to handle the most chauvinistic of ranch hands.

James, never Jim, never anything but James, is 6 feet tall, green eyes, kissable mouth, strong jaw, long aquiline nose, dark hair, usually scruffy looking – always a 5 o’clock shadow, hair slightly unkempt like he’s been running his fingers through it – and yet it serves only to make him look sexy.  He is lanky.  Like his wife, he is long and lean, though not quite as muscular, long arms, long legs.   He was an executive chef and operations manager at their previous position.

Previous position:

The large ranch in the central-western Alberta butted up against the foothills of the Rockies.  The Triple Star Ranch raised and trained horses for movies.  It contained a full wild west town and a large herd of horses.  There were two main buildings – the very large barn and a very exclusive hotel.  The hotel was James’ domain.  It contained four large, well-appointed suites (bedroom, ensuite, sitting room), and two separate cottages.  Their jobs were both glamorous and extremely taxing; they loved them. 

The incident:

Their children – both boys, Thompson and Bryant, 12 and 10, totally fearless – snuck out very early one late October morning, near their mother’s birthday, saddled horses and went for a ride.  They got lost, too deep in the foothills.  Investigators speculate that the boys were on the ground, possible with reins in hand, trying to find their way back (James says they’d have been looking for tracks) when the rockslide happened.  Rocks and boulders from the size of a soccer ball to a 60s VW Bug were found around the boys’ bodies.   Thompson had a broken leg.  Horses bolted, boys couldn’t move, they froze to death overnight.   Evidence of Thompson trying to keep Bryant warm.  Two days before they were found, snowed  (show police report?)

Other Ranch hands:

Mahdi Hussein, Derek Evans (co-op student), Robert Guilfoyle, Claire Keating, Kevin Hindley, Alan Jones

Lab techs:

Dr. Doreen Barrell (Supervisor), Stephen Coons, Eric Dowling, Alishia Moore, Tami Bedford

 

 

Fiction Friday Week 31

Good Friday morning!

How’s it going? I’ve had a quiet, relatively good week.  I’ve gotten things done, despite being sick.  I’ve gotten on the elliptical and done my yoga four days out of five this week.  

Monday was a day of rest, a total donada day.  I’d spent the weekend helping The Boyfriend clean the cottage.  We moved everything out that was unnecessary to us, (and really stinky); he vacuumed and washed the walls and floors.  I packed up the dishes and cutlery we’ll never use – which means I packed up about 90% of them.  The landlady hoards dishes, I swear it.  It makes sense, given that it’s a rental in the summer and sleeps 7 or 8, but man oh man, there are a LOT of dishes.  *laughs*

I scrubbed the cupboards inside and out, the counter tops, and washed the dishes that were left – 6 of everything, because that’s all we need.  

And I did all that work while getting sick.  So it was understandable that I made the decision to do squat on Monday.  It was quite the debate with myself but I managed to choose to look after me.  And then The Boyfriend backed it up with the donada order.  

(For those of late to my blog unfamiliar with the ‘donada’ thing, I’ll explain.  I have several chronic illnesses – fibromyalgia and multiple chemical sensitivities just to name two – that sometimes overwhelm me and on those days I am to do nothing, nada, zilch, zero.  It usually came across as an order, just like that.  It got shortened to ‘do nada today’ then to ‘a donada day’.)

This week I have been working on Carlos, Ted’s best friend.  It’s taken some doing because I’m not familiar with the Mexican culture and Carlos is my “Mexican super assassin dwarf with an eye patch”, as per Wolfman’s stipulation.

It took some doing.  The Secretaria de la Defensa Nacional is not exactly a font of information.  I finally decided to wing it since I’m not actually having him perform any operations.  So, Carlos is in black ops so deep they don’t have an official name.  They are known in some circles as los lobos locos.  There are reasons why but they’re not important.

Since I have stuff to do – chores and whatnot – I shall leave you here.  

Say hello to my little friend!  Oh, wait, Tony was Cuban, not Hispanic. 😉

Have a fabulous Friday!  

Muah!

 

Carlos Montalban

 

Age: 42

Nationality:  Mexican, born and bred

Occupation:  Government assassin, working for a deep, dark part of SEDENA (Secretaria de la Defense Nacional) military intelligence. 

Appearance:  Carlos has Achondroplasia, a form of dwarfism that means he is nearly perfectly formed, but smaller than the average human height.  At 4’4” he is the smallest military man anywhere on the planet.  He has a large head typical of the gene disorder, shorted forearms and upper thighs.  He is slightly bow-legged.  Carlos is an attractive man with chocolate brown eyes, black hair and a medium tan colour to his skin.  Strong jaw, thick eyebrows and lips that are almost too thin.  He has no discernable marks save for a tattoo of a wolf’s head, done in the swirling light and shadow of the Mexican tribal style.

He wears an eyepatch to hide the bionic eye he was fitted with at the age of 23; most often the patch is a match for the colour of his skin.  He is fit, dresses most often like an American cowboy, goes unnoticed by the world at large, unless he wishes to be seen. 

 

 

Carlos ended up in the military because he kept getting caught with guns as a child.  And if he wasn’t getting caught shooting stuff up, he was found getting into locked buildings and stealing stuff.  He could get in without a problem – never tripped an alarm, never made a sound.  However, he had problems getting back out sometimes. 

He was an orphan, living on the streets, abandoned at the age of 8 when his parents tired of dealing with the special issues raising a dwarf caused. 

When he was caught trying to leave a building he’d broken into for the fifteenth time by the time he was 12, the judge decided Carlos needed a more focused education.  He let him stew in a holding cell – one the judge had emptied so that Carlos would be in no real danger.  However, Carlos could be seen by, and hear, inmates in other cells.  The night was terrifying, even for a boy with such bravado and ego as Carlos.  He was taken down a few pegs that night and reduced to a scared little boy.

The following morning, the judge had Carlos called to his chambers.  The boy was fed, cleaned and dressed and brought into the room.  He ran to the judge’s desk, eyes filled with tears, and begged the judge never to send him back.   “Please, please!  I will never do anything wrong again.”

The judge watched him for a long moment then looked to the man standing in the shadows.  “What do you think?  Will he do?”

Carlos screamed in surprise and whirled around.  He scrambled around the edge of the desk away from the other man.

“Aside from the fact that he didn’t notice me, yes, he’ll do.  I think he’ll work out very nicely; his instincts can be honed, refined.”  The man crouched down and crooked a finger.  “Come here, Carlos.”

After looking at the judge and getting a brief nod, Carlos approached the man.  He stopped just out of reach, making the man smile.  “What do you want of me, Mister?  I refuse to have sex with you.  You can’t make me.”  Carlos crossed his arms across his chest and glowered.

The man stifled a laugh and gave the boy a very thoughtful look.  “Has someone tried?”  He frowned when the boy nodded.  “What did you do?”

“I took the man’s knife and stabbed him in the leg.”

“It takes a lot of bravery and strength to be able to stick someone with a knife, even to save your own skin.  How did it make you feel?”

Carlos shifted from foot to foot and stared at the silver and turquoise clasp of the man’s bolo tie.  “I was scared.  But I was determined to get away.  I felt sick when the knife went into him. I knew that he would kill me if he got his hands on me so I pushed the knife all the way in.  I ran away as soon as the knife stopped moving.”  He met the man’s eyes.  “I never looked back and I would do it again.” His voice was fierce.

The man nodded.  “Good.”  He held out his hand.  “My name is Francisco Montalban.  I would like to give you a home.  My friend here,” he gestures at the judge, “says that you have no last name.  No family.   How would you like to have my name, be a part of my family?  You’d have a bed, food, clothes, an education.”

Carlos’s eyes lit up but he gave Francisco a suspicious look.  “What do I have to do in return?”

“You have to stay within the letter of the law.  Study.  Train.  I will turn you into the world’s greatest spy, if you let me.”   When Carlos grinned broadly at the thought Francisco patted him gently, carefully, on the shoulder then stood.  “My wife is waiting outside, Carlos, she would very much like to meet you.  Her name is Carlita.  I will sign some papers my friend, Juan, has and we will become a family.”

“Can I see the papers when you are done?”

Francisco smiled, pleased.  “Absolutely.  We will not call it final until you approve them, alright?”

“Yes Sir,” Carlos said.  He ran for the door.  As he opened it he turned.  “Thank you both, very much.”

Francisco, as Carlos learned later, waited until the boy had left the room before pulling papers out of the inner pocket of his jacket.  “His parents were found.  They were persuaded to give up their rights to the boy.”

“How much did it cost you?” Juan asked.

“Only about three thousand pesos.”  He dropped the papers on the desk.  “They were wise in taking the money.”

“Indeed.”  Juan pointed to all the signature spots in the adoption papers then made copies of them.  He handed Francisco the originals.  “Good luck.”

Francisco smiled before he opened the door.  “I do not need luck, my friend.  I now have wolf cub in my corner.”

From that moment on, Carlos was devoted to Francisco and Carlita.  He was equally grateful for his new home and terrified he’d do something to lose it, or that they would throw him out as his birth parents did. 

Francisco did indeed train him.  He taught Carlos how to trust his instincts, how to improve those instincts.  He taught Carlos weapons, technology and people.  Carlos went to post-secondary school in the U.S. and earned a doctorate in neurobiology – the study of the anatomy, physiology and diseases of the brain and nervous system.

When he was 18 and conscripted into the army, Francisco’s influences put Carlos in the infantry and, eventually, officer’s school.  Carlos’s proficiency with weapons earned him a spot as a sniper.  SEDENA, Mexico’s central intelligence agency, and the place Francisco worked, recruited Carlos. 

Finally, Francisco had Carlos where he wanted him all along.  Carlos was put into the deep black ops program.  It was so deep that it didn’t have a name.  It had a motto:

              Somos los lobos en su puerta en la oscuridad de la luna.

We are the wolf at your door in the dark of the moon.

SEDENA is much like the CIA. And, like the CIA, they do their part in controlling world military endeavours and politics. 

Carlos met Ted when he and Ted were chasing the same pair of drug lords.  One cartel was Mexican and the other American.  The cartel heads had teamed up to expand their businesses in each country.  They’d gotten big, too big, and it was upsetting the balance of drugs and peace in both countries.  Ted was sent to hunt the two men leading these cartels and bring them to justice.  Carlos was sent to kill them.

In the end, after a long hunt and huge battle that killed dozens, Ted and Carlos killed the men.  That the second-in-commands were killed too was a coincidence. 

The SOG man and the black wolf became fast friends.

 

 

Fiction Friday Week 30

G’day, eh!

It is Friday!  Today is a day of recovery for me – yesterday was group therapy, individual therapy AND shots.  I’m totaly whipped.  This is the weekend we get the cottage back so we will be busy.  Moving, cleaning and more cleaning.  We gotta scrub that baby from ceiling to floorboards.  We need to rid The Boyfriend’s home of all the scents of summer visitors and cleaning service chemicals.  

We need to move all the knick knacks out, put the safest furniture in place and take out everything we don’t need.   There are only two of us, we don’t need 15 dishes, 40 spoons and 65 cups.  

Okay, exaggeration.  But the point stands.  We have a lot of work ahead of us this weekend.

Speaking of work – and passion, because writing is a passion for me – I have here a bit of character development for NaNo 2015.  

Ted decided he wanted an interview.  And, of course, he started the interview in the middle. This interview is done from the perspective of an interviewer who knows a little about her subject.  She knows that Ted stopped [whatever the conflict is] and she wants to write a book about him.  Ted is quite the guy. Take a look:

This is my interview with Theodore “Ted” Terwilliger.  He is an intriguing man.  I was so taken with him that I forgot to turn my recorder on until part way through the interview.  I will, therefore, back track some later in the interview. 

 

What were you in a former life?

Plainly put: I was a bounty hunter for the US Government.

What does that mean?

I was a US Marshal who hunted criminals that the local types can’t find, or don’t have the jurisdiction to hunt.  Sometimes I worked in tandem with them.

Oh I see.  And now you own a ranch here in Ontario?  Where did you used to live?

[He arches a brow, looks almost defensive but not quite] Yeah, I relocated.  So what?  My wife, Cilla, and my son, Paulie, had a home in Portland, Tennessee.

Where are they now?

[His face closes up.  His whole body stiffens.]  Dead.

I’m so sorry.  What happened?

I don’t want to discuss it.

Please.  I need to know to write about you accurately.

[His face fills with fury, vein throbbing at the temple] Someone blew up my house.

Do you know who?

Not yet, but when I do… [The vibe coming from him makes me shiver.]

If you’re still looking, why are you in Ontario?

It’s for the best.

[I decide to leave this alone for the moment]  Okay, Ted.  What else can you tell me?

That scar on my ass?   That was from when I was about ten.  My brother and I –

[I interrupt.  Totally unprofessional, I know, but I was surprised.  Nothing in the minimal info I have about him mentions a sibling.]  I didn’t know you had a brother.

[The look he gives me is… well, reprimanding.] “Had” is the operative word.

Um… okay.  I’m sorry.

My brother and I went to an estate auction with our parents.  Momma went inside to look at jewelry and dishes and whatnot. Sam and I went with Daddy to look at the farm equipment.  [He holds up a hand to forestall my question.]  Yes, I was raised on a ranch.  Sam and I were goofing off, as boys do.  He shoved me and I stumbled, straight back onto an old combine header, the kind with the spikes. 

The skinny, sharp spikes.

Someone caught me but not before one of them damned spikes tried to lift my left cheek off my body.

End of auction for the family. 

Beginning of months of chore lists as long as our legs. 

Forty stitches in my ass, by the way.

Wow!  I bet that hurt.

[A wry smile]  The chores or the wound?

Both.

Ye-up.

Tell me about Sam.

[The sadness in his eyes makes me want to hug him.]  Sam was my twin.  He died when we were seventeen.  By then we’d begun hanging out with different crowds.  We were never far from each other but… different tastes in everything.  I was a 4-H member of long standing and Sam was a hair band aficionado.  He drank and experimented with drugs.  I rocked with country music and a good girl who liked to dance in my truck bed. 

I was with her the night Sam and his friend decided to steal the friend’s dad’s truck.  They robbed a pharmacy…

Security guard was shooting at them as they were fleeing.  He hit Sam in the back and the bullet’s path ended in Sam’s heart.  [His eyes get distant, unfocused.]  The guard shot himself in the head while he was awaiting trial.  He couldn’t live with killing a kid.

Is that why you went into law enforcement?

No.  I went wild that year.  Skipped school.  Started smoking.  Ignored my duties to my parents.  Dad just about disowned me.  I tried the drugs my brother took.  Boosted cars, lookin’ for the thrill.  One car belonged to the local mob boss.

He turned you in?

No.  He offered me a job.  But he said I had to go to school, he couldn’t have a drug addled, ignorant schlub finding information for him.  He paid half my college tuition, called it a scholarship to my parents.  He and I discovered that I loved justice but not the law.  He said I could only change it from the inside and sent me to college, pre-law.  I went to cop college halfway through when it turned out being a suit didn’t…well, suit me.

What did he have you doing for him?

Finding information.  There was never anything illegal.  Research.  A meal here, sittin’ near a guy whose picture he’d given me.  Chess games in the park with old men and some not so old, though they seemed it.  They talked to each other over my head.  All I had to do was tell him what I’d found and heard.  Sometimes I had to interpret it for him.

What happened to that job?

He fired me when the US Marshals recruited me my first year as a flat foot.

Why did they recruit you?

I was very good at sticking my nose into things.  My first Sarge gave me a cold case file to try and restrain me.  I solved the case AND found the perp.  It was high profile, attracted attention.  I went straight into the Fugitive Operations division.  I didn’t have the degree they wanted so I went to night school while they trained me to hunt assholes who thought they could outrun justice.  Became so intimate with the law I might well have been sleeping with Lady Justice.  I rose through the ranks quickly, became Deputy US Marshall Supervisor in five years.  I moved to the SOG – the USMS special forces. 

Sounds like you were good at your job.  Why’d you leave it?

Because some asshole blew up my goddamn life. 

There is much more to his back story and I’m getting there.  For now, this is a good start.  I know what makes him all dark inside.  I’m working on what makes him light and good.  

I think it has a lot to do with the love he carries – for his parents, his brother, his wife and his son.  No matter how hurt he is by her death, his eyes and mouth still soften when he talks about her.

Next week!  More about them.  Cilla (short for Priscilla) and Paulie.  More about the relationship with his parents.  And introducing his best friend and the woman he calls a friend and shares the occasional night with.

Have a great Friday everyone!  

Muah!

Fiction Friday Week 29

Good Friday afternoon!

How are you?  I am whipped.  This week has been physically and emotionally exhausting – two days of the outside world (including a 3 floor library!  Totally orgasmic), and a fight in the family that cut me to the quick.  

I plan on doing mostly sit-down work today and I really want to put my feet in the lake.  The weather is incredibly hot and humid this week and it’s draining.

 

google image find

google image find

It is only 57 days to NaNo! 

I mentioned way back before June that Wolfman challenged me to write a thriller. The challenge came with the following criteria:

  • No paranormal anything.  
  • Can’t go back any further than the cold war.
  • It must include: an ex-bounty hunter cowboy, ninjas and a Mexican super assassin who happens to be a midget with an eyepatch.  

The last is his payback for me making him include pink and penguins (and ships but that’s normal, eh?) in the challenge I gave him.

I have never written a thriller.  I’ve written violent, erotic romances with some thriller elements but an actual thriller?  No, not if you look at the definition.  

thrill·er
ˈTHrilər/
noun
 
  1. a novel, play, or movie with an exciting plot, typically involving crime or espionage.
    ~google

 

And:

  1. Thriller is a genre of literature, film, videogame stories and television programming that uses suspense, tension, and excitement as its main elements. Thrillers heavily stimulate the viewer’s moods, giving them a high level of anticipation, ultra-heightened expectation, uncertainty, surprise, anxiety and terror.

~google

According to Daily Writing tips, a thriller is a story where the “protagonist is in danger from the outset.”  

In another article I read, either the prologue or first chapter is from the antagonist’s point of view and it shows you why the protagonist is in danger.  

I also had to look at the difference between a mystery and a thriller.  

Writer’s Digest says, “A mystery follows an intellectual protagonist who puts together clues to solve a crime after it’s been committed, and a thriller details the prevention of a crime before it has been committed.”  

That seems to fly in the face of the antagonist committing a crime or action that sets the pace and gives the reason for the protagonist’s danger. However, I do like it for defining the difference.  

In any case, now I know what a thriller is.  I need to figure out how to thriller.

I am studying that today.  However, it would be helpful to have some idea of a plot, of a reason for the danger.  I’m hoping that developing my characters will help with that.  

So far, I have Theodore “Ted” Terwilliger, a bounty hunter of some kind (Federal?  Still researching it) turned cowboy.  He had a wife and a little boy, (who pretended he was a ninja almost all the time, thank you TMNT), that were murdered because of ….well, I don’t know what yet.  

Ted is 6’1″ and built like a linebacker.  Broad shoulders, well-muscled chest and abdomen.  Strong, muscular arms and legs.  Sensuous mouth, strong jaw, red-gold hair, green eyes.  A lumpy nose, from being broken many times, large scarred hands.  He’s got a scar just under his ribs on his right side from a bail skipper stabbing him and another low on the curve of his left butt cheek.

He won’t tell me what that one is for though.  I am intrigued.  I bet you are too. 😉

I have the Mexican, super assassin, eye-patch wearing, midget character figured out too.  Partly.  He’s a friend of Ted’s and his name is Carlos Montalbán.  He is going to have a bionic eye implant.  I want the eye to allow him to be able to choose between the lower and upper infrared spectrums.  

A quick lesson (because I just learned it):  The lower spectrum of infrared is what we typically think of as night vision.  It’s like a cat’s eye at night, when their pupils open wide.  They catch tiny amounts of light and enhance them to create a brighter picture of their surroundings.   The upper spectrum is like thermal imaging – capturing heat emitted by objects and people, rather than reflected light.

I am hoping that by building the characters – the complex protagonist and equally complex antagonist as well as the other characters of varying importance – I will stumble upon a plot.  A conflict at the very least.

Already, I’m thinking that Ted, in his bounty hunterness, (it’s a word…now), has done something to the antagonist, probably unintentionally.  Or at least peripherally.  

I am excited to share my progress with this book, this brand-new-to-me genre.  I’m looking forward to the challenge.