Tag: writing

30 Miles to Awesomeville

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Okay, so you’ve probably noticed that I’ve been about as active as a derelict starship stuck in the neutral zone as far as blog posts go.

Yep. I moved. We are out of that tiny, one bedroom apartment and finally in our forever home. Mushy-feel-good stuff aside, It feels awesome to own our own place. You can imagine how that guzzled up my spare time, but it was worth it.

My commute to work is much longer, but I see it as an unexpected glass that is half full. It is the perfect time to edit my stories. For whatever reason, riding the highway express bus puts me in the right mindset for it. Those of you who write know what a chore editing can be and how hard it is to force yourself to do it after you get home from work. I mean, there are so many other things to do…like play games, surf the Internet, do some actual writing, read a book…

Image courtesy of Wikipedia. You can find it here.

What I’m saying is that it can feel like you’ve been put in charge of organizing a room full of tribbles by color, size, and purr pitch after they’ve had an endless night of *ahem* reproducing. You walk in with your trusty tablet and find yourself drowning in the cute little suckers.

I’ve been working on this thing since July. What you are looking at is the FINAL edit. Yes, this is a short sequel to The Year is Now. Elly is back and runs headfirst into a threat she’s never encountered before. How much more heartache can one woman take? She’s run for her life once before, but this time it won’t be enough.

Fifty Years From Now

Posted on by in Fiction, Other Fiction

A grim future awaits us in this flash story of mine. Beware of the $ians, for they may snatch you up!

Original photo can be found on wikimedia commons! 
2065

Grandpa tells me that I was born ten years too late. I have no memory of what it was like before the world lost its way (though, he says that it had been riding I80 to Stupidville way before 2045). I frown as I gaze at his withered face. It looks serene in the candlelight. I sigh. The power outages have been getting worse. It’s been out for three days straight now.

When I see his chest rise and fall, I close my eyes and sit down. Good. I wrestled his mask on just in time. I glance over at the window. He likes to call the deep, dark brown hue “the marriage between a hipster and a trashy sepia filter.” I have no idea what it means, but I always laugh because he likes my reaction.

Sand begins to pelt against it. I rise and close the curtains. I’m sick of sand. It wasn’t this bad ten years ago. Resources were scarce then, and the only reason Grandpa, Mom, and me have a small cabin is because he was some sort of war hero before all of this.

Am I lucky that I’m sheltered from reality? I don’t know. Every once in a while the TV turns on, and we get a glimpse of the outside. The $ians like to parade their wealth by showing us how horrible it is out there. The sad thing is that there are just three factions left these days.

The VAl&ers, us. We live under the military pensions of old in decaying, manufactured neighborhoods–we are a dying breed.

The Fendrz, the ones left the fend for themselves in this mess. Grandpa says they were the working class way back before the world went to hell. They slipped through the cracks and were too poor to buy themselves out of the Disaster of 2045. He says they were always treated like shit.

Then there are the fat $ians, the ones who live in the famed *light City. They come from the upper classes of old or fendrz and VAl&ers attractive enough to be snatched up. Grandpa says that’s what happened to Dad right after Mom had me.

I shudder. Is he some Ms. Piggette’s husband now? Is he doomed to forever shovel horseshit? Mom says the $ians snatch us up to keep themselves from inbreeding. I don’t like to think about it. I keep to VAl&. I don’t dare go near the crumbling wall just outside the forest.

They’ve taken a liking to us in the past year.

Are the fendrz dying off? Have they stolen all the beautiful ones? I’ll never understand the radio broadcasts and government pamphlets we get in the mail…What is so wrong with the fendrz that they’re left in the ruins of the giant cities of old?

Grandpa remembers when the food shortages began and The Smarter You initiative started. He says it was a bunch of fascist bullshit designed to stop the dredges of society from breeding. They got blamed for everything. Grandpa blames society. People used to be selfish, infantile brats, especially with the rise of technology. He says there used to be gadgets for everything. They had bracelets that counted your steps and pocket ‘puters that could access other people–

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I just know that the fendrz are dying off, and we’re next. M@t from the blue cabin has been missing for three days. Dela has been missing for three months. They were the most attractive people in our village…

Grandpa says I’m next.

~FIN

Number 54

Posted on by in Fiction

I’m going to be blunt: I could care less about Black Friday, and “I am thankful for…” posts are about as entertaining as waiting in line at the DMV. Does this make me a bad person? I mean, I am grateful for what I have and all…

With all the fear, hype, and false quotes floating around these days about special IDs and compulsory badges, here is a little “what if” writing experiment. I refuse to defend a certain business man gone politician, but he never suggested IDs and badges.

Photo of the DMV is credited to coolcaesar at wikipedia commons

You are number 54. You watch as the ticker at the DMV flashes 52. Good. Just two more to go, and you can hurry up and get on with your life. You shift the paperwork in your hands as it makes an annoying crinkle sound.

53

You double check that you have everything. In the name of security, the DMV wants everything short of a blood sample. Whatever. You just want to get on with your life and go to that new cafe near your house. You hear they have the best caffè americanos.

54

Thank the gods. It is your turn. You hurry up to the window as the DMV clerk yawns. He motions for your paperwork as you are already putting it onto the counter. He flips through it and marks several copies with a red stamp.

“Good,” he mumbles when he picks up the last document. “The amount of people I had to send away today for not providing this.” He looks it over, giving it more attention than he did to your social security card.

He types something into his computer. You wait patiently. You are being served, so there is no sense in being annoyed. I just want my coffee, you think.

“Would you like to volunteer for the Religion Acceptance Project? It involves wearing a pendant or necklace with your religious symbol on it,” he says and leans forward. The bored clerk stares into his monitor as he reads a disclaimer.

“In the interest of freedom and fairness, we are introducing the RAP, a social experiment which allows participants to immediately recognize another participant’s beliefs. The goal is to promote tolerance, acceptance, and to correctly address participants. Participants will receive a voucher for $100 and a pendant in the mail. Participants are required to wear the pendant for a period of six months and will document their observations. At the end of the test period, participants will submit their observations and receive $200.”

Three hundred dollars to wear a silly badge? Yes, please. 

“Yes,” you reply. His fingers click across his keyboard as he submits your information.

“Are you registered to vote?”

“Yes,” you reply.

“Stand to the left. Face the camera. No smiling.”  You obey.

Flash. 

You blink and face him again.

“Proceed to Zone C and wait for your number to appear on the teleprompt. Your license will be ready in ten minutes.”

You frown as you walk to Zone C. Another ten minutes. You try not to be impatient, but damn it, you want to try out that cafe! It has that rustic, cabin-in-the-woods feel you love so much, but would never admit, lest you be confused for a hipster.

You fidget in your seat. Adding your religion to your license was something you could care less about. It was just another item on a list, and the government already knew everything about you anyway. Besides, they were giving everyone a tax break for it. You could use the extra cash.

Your number flashes on the teleprompt. It is time to grab your license and to finally get your beloved and long awaited americano.

When the clerk hands it to you, you frown. A dark pit forms in your stomach as your heart nearly stops. There it is. Your religion. It is listed right below your date of birth. Shaking, you stuff it in your wallet and hurry out.

This is how it begins.

Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain: Part 4

Posted on by in Fiction

Dráiden’s love is missing! He’s tried everything to get her back, but it is as if she’s vanished into thin air. When she is dragged before him, beaten and bruised, he will stop at nothing to make the elves pay. Little does he know that not everything is as it seems.

Part I:  Luthandra Raikin
Part II:  Dráiden Kaldor
Part III: Elven Tidings

Part IV: The Sham

Three days. It had been three days since Luthandra had gone missing. Dráiden folded his arms across his chest as he leaned forward in his throne. He had no idea what the master of the Blacksmith’s Guild was meandering on and on about. Her maid, Braynia, claimed innocence and ignorance of the disappearance, but he had her locked up anyway.
His groom was interrogating her in the dungeon below at this very moment. I cannot lose the only one who ever treated me with respect. I just…I can’t. He wanted the family that was his birthright. He wanted at least seven children, and he wanted to live to see–
“My lord?” The blacksmith asked, clearing his throat as though he had just repeated himself.
“Yes, yes,” he replied. Dráiden rose and waved his hand. “Proceed.”
“The Blackmsith’s Guild thanks you.” Before the man could bow, Dráiden was already descending the steps of his dais and heading out the side door. The interrogation was more important. If anyone get get someone to talk, it was Preston.
The grey stone walls of his castle were a blur as he hurried down the dark steps that would take him to the place he was loathe to admit he had. The air felt cooler as he continued his descent. A shriek echoed against the stone walls when he snaked around a corner.
The warden posted at the dungeon’s black doors opened them when he saw his lord approaching.
“I saw an elf!” came a wild scream. “Before I went to bed! That’s the only-” Something wet thudded against something soft. Dráiden marched past the rows of cells leading to The Iron Door. The two prisoners locked inside cried out to him in desperation, groping at him with feeble arms.
He did not hear them.
Candlelight flickered through the tiny slit of a window in The Iron Door. No rose petals ever adorned the dreadful room which it guarded.
“I’d never hurt her! She’s my friend!” Dráiden pushed the heavy thing open. The woman was laying on a blood stained table. His groom was folding a soiled cloth with his back turned.
“Please. Help!” The woman arched her back, struggling against the iron bands that secured her limbs to the table. “I swear it. I would never hurt her! It wasn’t me! I SWEAR!” Bruises adorned her otherwise homely face. Splotches of blood marred her not-so-white chemise.
“She speaks the truth,” he hissed. “Release her.” He knew a lie when he heard one. No one could stand Preston’s games for long.
“I was just about to finish up with the same conclusion,” Preston purred, wiping his hands on his cloth. “The elf…that’s the bit that makes me nervous,”  he licked his lips with a twitchy frown.
“We live no where near Avanduil’s kingdom,” Dráiden sighed. “King Ciallmhar of Alainn is many things, but,” he muttered and suppressed the urge to shiver. “I will send a bird.”  Dráiden paced the space between the table and his groom. He wiggled his nose at the stale stench wafting throughout the room. “It would behoove him to look into the matter, as we are neighbors.”
“Yes, sir. I shall have one sent at once.” He flopped the rag onto the table as Braynia whimpered.
“Get that cleaned up and send her to my beloved quarters first,” Dráiden scowled.
…
Five days.
Five days had passed, and not a word, a sign, or a bird…Nothing.
Sleep had escaped him, and he was gripping Arrowheart’s hilt, tempted to slide her out and destroy the balcony in front of him. It’s as if she’s vanished by some wizard’s trick. It all screamed elf magic to him, but Ciallmhar was not the type to instigate trouble. The elves kept to themselves when they weren’t trading with the neighboring lands.
A door swung open behind him, slamming against something hard.
“My Lord!” Preston cried. “Your betrothed! She has returned!” Dráiden spun around and ran past his groom. “Dark tidings…dark tidings are ahead.” Presten scurried in front of him, leading him to the throne room.
Luthandra trembled on her knees as two wardens struggled to grab her arms and stand her upright. Sobs escaped his beautiful bride’s face. When the wardens managed to get the woman to her feet, Dráiden froze.
The blood burning beneath his skin churned, and it was as if Winter had come screaming at him in a violent whirlwind of ice and snow. Purple bruises lined her skin. Dried blood caked her mouth and nose. Her chemise was nothing but brown rags, barely providing any modesty. Dráiden tore his cloak off.
Preston grabbed it and wrapped it around her shoulders. She shrank away from him, whimpering like her maid.
“My love,” Dráiden croaked, shooing Preston away with a wave of his hand. He neared her in three gentle strides, cupping her chin. A grotesque bruise marred her left eye. “My love,” he rasped again.
“The…the…” she wheezed, lowering her face. Shame dripped from the sorrowful expression in her eyes. Dráiden winced and scooped the light thing up in his arms.
“Get my healer!” he cried. “No one enters her quarters except Preston!”
…
Preston hovered over her with a mug of hot tea in his right hand. Dráiden had kicked the healer out as soon as Luthandra’s wounds had been tended to.
“My sweet,” he croaked, holding her weak hand. A bandage had been placed over her left eye. “Your wounds, as fate has blessed you, will heal. You will be beautiful in a few weeks time.”
His eyes washed over her face, and he leaned over her to stroke her cheek with his other hand. She shied away from him with a grunt, turning her face away.
“They…they,” she whispered. “I was taken. Raped,” she shuddered. “Beaten.” Preston arched an eyebrow and set the mug on the table beside her bed.
“Who?” Dráiden asked. “Who did this to you? How?”
“Elves. They took me with their magic in the night and…and.” The woman shuddered again and sat up. She buried her face into her hands. Sobs raked her form. Preston neared him.
“King Ciallmhar won’t know what hit him,” Draidon hissed, rising.
“My lord,” Preston whispered. “Perhaps we should wait a few days. Traumatic experiences warp one’s view-”
“CIALLMHAR’S ELVES DID THIS!” He clenched his fists. “And for that, the Kingdom of Alainn will know what it means to waken a Kaldor.” he thrust his arm out and pointed at the window. “Summon the wardens.”
“My lord if I may protest. We need more information. Perhaps her maid can question her about-”
“She is to be the Lady of Westridge! Undermine me again, Preston, and you’ll be the subject of one of your interrogations.”
The groom blanched, but he bowed. “I’ll summon them.”

“We ride tonight.”

One Grumpy Morning

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I take my coffee with almond milk or just straight black. What is your morning go-to drink?

Jadelynn Jackson has a case of the morning grumps
Don’t you dare suggest she have a pumpkin spice latte!

The public affairs department is forcing us to “human-ify” the RIA…I mean “Oh, look! We’re normal just like you guys!” …Because being in the RIA somehow makes us Extreme!Human. It’s not like we wake up just like regular civilians, whine about going to work, and shake off our crankiness by a super powered drink.

Here’s my top secret morning routine! I imagine a lot of this will be diluted into some sort of bland ritual involving “Oh, I must have my pumpkin spice latte before donning my perfectly pressed uniform! Emperor Be Praised!”

Okay, so here it goes. My alarm goes off every morning at five a.m. unless I’m working on a special case or I just pulled an all nighter. You better believe that I slam my fist on that annoying buzz machine. I can’t use my chit because one time I threw it across the room and shattered the screen. Yep. Not doing that again.

Once I grumble and curse the morning–Emperor, it’s not even light out yet–I throw my covers off, begrudgingly stagger across the room, and pull my workout gear out of my wall locker. A quick sonic shower, change, and Grumpy!Me is heading to RIA headquarters for the most irritating part of my day.

An hour later, I’m back at home. Oh, I’m awake all right, but word to the wise: until I’ve had my Space Cola (don’t knock the lame name ’till you’ve tried it!) or coffee, steer clear. Steer very clear. You think I’m exaggerating? Ask my neighbor about the time he accidentally knocked on my door to ask me about the fires in Coda Springs. That poor man. That poor, poor man.

Moving on! Okay, so I’m home. I’ve just had to do an insane workout. I’m cranky. Space Cola. Now. I rip my fridge open and grab the nearest can. Coffee is for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays (days we don’t work out).

My mouth waters when it makes that awesome swish sound as I open it. As soon as that first gulp hits my tongue, I’m no longer Scary!Jadelynn, the Friday Night Fright. I take the can, walk over to my balcony, and sit in my favorite chair. I’m not due into the office until eight a.m.

How do you start your morning? Share on Facebook or Twitter! 
* As you can see, I’ve changed the decor a bit. Expect to see a few tweaks with fonts here and there!