#WEP Get Together and #IWSG February 2024 - What turns you off on writers' blogs?

 Hi friends!

I am using this post for the monthly WEP Get Together and the IWSG. Although WEP is no longer operational, the team is tight and we're still having a meet and greet on the first of the month to share our news. Anyone is welcome to join us.

CLICK on the WEP site to read some inspiring posts!

How's the new year treating you? Any great successes? 

So far my year has made a slow start - I watch the New York news so I know the US has been battered by snow etc. Down here, Australia is battered by floods, cyclones (I got caught in one) and a long-lasting heatwave. Not an auspicious beginning to the year.

I have struggled to write amidst the mayhem. Hot, draining weather is not conducive to writing, which is why NaNoWriMo is in the Northern Hemisphere's winter. 

So my January plans of publishing two more novels has come to naught. One is ready, one is undergoing final tweaking by moi, then I'll be sending it out to betas and then an editor. Going to try a great development editor, Yolanda Renee. We've helped each other over the years. A great friendship which will continue even though we don't have WEP to hold us together. I'm playing back her kindness by showing her shingle.

See link above.

So, brings me to the IWSG question of the month:

February 7 question: What turns you off when visiting an author's website/blog? Lack of information? A drone of negativity? Little mention of author's books? Constant mention of books?

I think the question underlines what we mostly know - authors are doomed if they do, doomed if they don't. We get turned off if an author tries to sell us a book, or talks about it constantly, and if they don't, we think their marketing plan is skewiff. Hmm. Can't win. 

I think my website is unassuming. I have a Page for MY BOOKS which I'm pretty sure no one has ever clicked on. Correct me if I'm wrong. But blogging makes friends, not sales. Which, along with the constant dabbling by google and co which results in people not being able to comment etc, is why some bloggers leave for Facebook and Instagram or other socials. A lot less trouble. Do you agree?

The awesome co-hosts for the February 7 posting of the IWSG are Janet Alcorn, SE White, Victoria Marie Lees, and Cathrina Constantine!

Visit if you can!

See you in March!

Denise

#WEP August challenge - #Moonlight Sonata - #photoessay - Tonga underwater volcano.

 Hello friends!

Here is my entry in the WEP writing contest for the prompt, Moonlight Sonata. Many ideas ran through my mind when I saw the prompt, but the image inspired the following, a photo essay. 

MOONLIGHT SONATA

Sonata form is a (musical) structure generally consisting of three main sections: an exposition, a development, and a recapitulation. It has been used widely since the middle of the 18th century.

Sounds like the structure of a story to me – an exposition (beginning), a development (middle) and a recapitulation (denouement).

SUNRISE. SUNSET

“The 15 January blast sent shock waves around the globe and defied scientific expectations.” (nature.com)

Exposition

The spectacle we’re seeing in our Australian skies begins and ends each day on a grace note. Every morning and evening during our unaccustomed-bitter-cold-flood-prone winter, there’s a gift to be had if we look upward, an astonishing beauty that offers a time to reflect in those few moments between dark and light in the morning and light and dark at night.

Australia and the Pacific Islands

Where did these spectacular daily shows of outstanding beauty originate? In Tonga. Tonga? Yes. The undersea volcanic eruption that devastated the little Pacific Island and surrounding islands on 15 January 2022 lasted 11 hours and cost precious lives. It was the most powerful explosion in more than 30 years, with an equivalent force of 100 Hiroshima bombs. Scientists have not yet worked out exactly what happened during the cataclysmic explosion — and what it means for future volcanic risks. The eruption is forcing scientists to rethink their ideas on the hazards posed by the many submarine volcanoes that lurk beneath the waves of the Pacific Ocean.

The volcano, full name Hunga Tonga–Hunga Ha‘apai, erupted before dawn, 492 feet (150 meters) below the ocean's surface, when the island was bathed in moonlight. It sent a plume of ash soaring into the upper atmosphere and triggered a tsunami that destroyed homes on Tonga’s nearby islands. The plume of ash and dust reached higher into the atmosphere than any other eruption on record and triggered more than 590,000 lightning strikes in three days. Reverberations from the eruption circled the globe multiple times, but probably most of us knew nothing about it.

The extraordinary power of the blast, captured by a range of sophisticated Earth-observing satellites, has challenged ideas about the physics of eruptions. Researchers are finding it hard to explain why the volcano sent a cloud to such heights, yet emitted less ash than would be expected for an eruption of such magnitude. And the shock waves that rippled through the atmosphere and oceans are unlike anything seen in the modern scientific era.

The eruption threw up vast amounts of ash, sulphates and water vapor into the stratosphere, three times as many aerosols as usual contributing to …

The development …

…what we’re seeing in our evening skies. Particles in the atmosphere provide a surface on which to scatter light which results in breath-taking sunrises and sunsets. It provides a vast show-off moment in the battle of the realms, earthly versus heavenly. There are moments like this in nature – consider the mythical swansong of that silent bird who sings so sweetly just before death.

Each night, I stand at my bedroom window and watch nature’s magnificent dance, the colors pale, then bright, then intense, before fading into the night. Those wondrous blazes of fiery warmth cause me to gaze at the sky, remember loved ones who have passed, loved ones who live nearby, loved ones living on the other side of the world. Definitely a spiritual moment.

I’m not up early enough to watch every sunrise, but when I am, I’m glad I’m present for the show. Not as spectacular as sunset, but spectacular all the same. That bright ray that promises another day is born, a day to do what you will, to make good choices or bad, to love or hate. (I always am thankful that the brightness I’m seeing isn’t from missiles, bombs or nuclear explosions. It’s just nature sharing its giggly joy at coming back for another show).

 The recapitulation

As the morning begins with the orange orb pushing upwards on our horizon or the night curtain is drawn on another day, don’t we all hope that it will last a little longer? By the time we rush for our cameras, it’s gone. Then we remind ourselves that nothing lasts forever.

Summer is coming; the bitter cold that has clenched Australia for months while our brothers and sisters in the Northern Hemisphere have sweltered through heatwaves and fires, this too will pass. But on a bright note, the Tongan-inspired sunrises and sunsets will linger for another year.

The sunset sky is to me like an artist's canvas, filled with skilful brushstrokes of reds, purples, oranges and yellows. As the sunset fades, the sun gradually melts into the sky like paint into canvas, like a person waving goodbye and walking into the distance, far, far away; and darkness settles in and night closes around us, softly, like a fading musical note at the close of a symphony.

TAGLINE: There are more things that nature has wrought than humans can ever imagine.

808 words

FCA

I hope you enjoyed my take on the entry. Click in my sidebar to read more entries in our writing competition.

I'm On The Road Again as of this morning, the 17th, hauling my caravan northwards to hotter climes in the tropics. We are in the grips of, to us, a freezing winter. 

I'll answer comments as soon as I'm able.

And if you want to join the fun and are ready to be creeped out for Halloween, consider writing something for us in October - Thriller!!!! 

After a hiatus, Renee is back with a vengeance. She has treats galore in store for you! She really loves her horror-fests. And as a prize for the best entry, Renee offers a beta read/critique of your WIP. Go for it!!!

If horror's not your thing, go HERE for other ideas.

Thanks for reading ...

Denise

#WEPff NARCISSUS, by Caravaggio. My #flashfiction, A LIttle Reflection Can't hurt. And it's time for the December #IWSG and the delights of writing!

Hello and welcome to my blog!

Wow! I missed last month's IWSG cuz I was just so busy with everything writing related. Much the same this month. But I'll answer the second half of the suggested question - what delights you (about writing). I love everything about writing except sweating over the first draft - that's where my critique partners come in, but once I have my story down, it delights me to rewrite as many times as it takes, then share with betas and editors. But, added to that, I love that I'm a member of the blogosphere where we love to interact and help each other. So, when Damyanti asked me to put an article together on self-publishing, I was less than keen as I'm pretty new to the game, but I'm glad I chose to go ahead and do something for Damyanti who gets so many queries from her followers about self-publishing...so...

Damyanti is hosting me on her site. After you read my entry for WEP, Damyanti and I would be so happy if you drop by to read my article, A Beginner's Guide to Self-Publishing. Add to the conversation! 

Now, let's get WEP underway!

Welcome to WEP's final challenge for the year of 2021, Year of the Art. We've all thoroughly enjoyed being inspired by art prompts and honestly, I'm a bit sad that it's over. But, good news, 2022 is the Year of Music, where we're inspired to write by music titles and lyrics. Super exciting! 

The Year of Music kicks off in February 2022. 

Let's get down to the Art...Caravaggio's Narcissus. In my story, I've gone for Narcissus and Narcissa. I've strayed into vampire territory. Couldn't restrain myself. 

I hope you enjoy my flash! Those with sharp memories will recall I've taken the bones of a previous WEP entry and with some tweaking it was perfect for the challenge.

And a new innovation at WEP is that we write our own taglines - such good practise for submitting to agents/publishers/magazines/on book covers ... so ...

TAGLINE: Be careful what you wish for; you might just get it.

A Little Reflection Can’t Hurt

 

In perfect synchronicity, in the perfect silence of the night, two imposing figures ran side by side, shooting like arrows through trees and undergrowth. Moonbeams shone upon them, bathing them in surreal light.

Her name was Alessandra. His was Eduardo.

Eduardo took Alessandra’s hand and tugged her to a halt. ‘Before we feed, let’s go to our favorite place.’ Eduardo pointed deeper into the forest, where an abandoned track led away from the highway. The old path was pitted, potholed and pathetic, but it didn’t faze them. Their swift feet flew above the earth, propelled them into the sky whenever they craved the sheer joy of using their newfound powers.

Alessandra jerked his arm, dragged him under an overhanging branch of a Downy Birch. Despite her awesome powers of strength, intuition, enhanced sight and hearing, she was always nervous when Eduardo invited her to their favorite place. But her nerves coupled with a frisson of excitement. She thought of saying “no” for a nanosecond, but she hated to disappoint Eduardo after he’d been so good to her. ‘Oh let’s.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘I must try one more time before I give up.’

Eduardo wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drew her so close she felt his marble-hard body pressed against hers. ‘You are the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me, my darling,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you’re mine for eternity. What a gift I have been given. I always loved Christmas in my human form, now Christmas comes every day I spend with you.’

Alessandra knew he was buttering her up to ease the disappointment she must surely feel when they reached the magical place. ‘You are the most perfect gift ever, Eduardo.’

As she ran, Alessandra’s mind returned to that night when everything changed…

~*~

…She was out on the town, such as it was. Her boyfriend hovered attentively, plying her with white sauvignon blanc until the rough edges of her dissatisfaction blurred.

Why are you so unhappy? he'd asked. What more could you want? Your life is perfect.

That’s what you think.

Over the rim of her glass, her eyes flew from her boring boyfriend and locked with a new arrival. Helloooo stranger. Few strangers came to this weird little island plonked in the middle of the North Sea. In his Savile Row suit and designer haircut, he oozed glitz and glamour.

And excitement.

As he stared at her, trembling possessed her whole body like an alien force had taken her over. Her boredom with her ho-hum life on the island was about to end. He was "big city". Glasgow? Aberdeen? Her knight in shining armor had come to rescue her.

The stranger did indeed rescue her from her life.

She’d clutched her glass of white wine until the stem broke, cutting the tip of her finger. Seawater jumped clear across the harbor wall and crashed against the glass windows. She sucked her finger and wondered if the glass might shatter and tip them all into the North Sea.

She thought it was part of the game when he ran her from the pub, covering her with his fancy cloak and took her driving into the forest in his sleek black Maserati. She’d never seen such a car. A change from clanking old tractors driven by dour farmers.

She thought it was part of the game when he drew her close, sucked her bleeding wound then threaded his fingers through her hair. Her whole body shivered as he murmured endearments. Oooohhhh.

She thought it was part of the game when she felt a strange sensation where his lips touched her neck.

But she knew it wasn’t a game when his teeth bit her throat. ‘Come, my lifeless bride. Come away with me. Be mine eternally.’

Her heart hammered. Her throat burned. Her body trembled.

Too late.

The myths about strange creatures who lurked on the island were true. Why had she dismissed them like she dismissed everything about her home? But who’d expect one of those creatures would drive a Maserati?

But thankfully, her boyfriend, Eduardo, had followed them in his beat-up Toyota.

He’d wrenched open the Maserati door, dragged Niccolò off her neck, pulled him outside.

Niccolò had spung up, pounded a fist into Eduardo’s temple. While he lay unconscious, and while Alessandra lay inert inside the car, Niccolò had drunk from Eduardo, then roared into the night after tossing her on the ground. 

Gods be praised, her boyfriend followed her into the Otherworld. 

~*~

Through mountains of musky leaves, she and Eduardo ran, hummus flying around their feet. Occasionally, just for thrills, they flew to the treetops, using their sharp vision to check out the distant landscape of gray sea and green hills, so beloved.

Alessandra smelt it before she saw it.

Their special stream. They knelt before the pristine water and played the game. Would it be different this time?

Pushing their faces close to the water, they tried, they really did. But no. Nothing. No image. No reflection. No chance of being Narcissus or Narcissa even with all their extraordinary powers. 

Disappointed, Alessandra plunged her face into the water. Do I even exist?  ‘Ohuhuh…aagh...’ Electricity shot through her body while Eduardo held her while she trembled with shock.

When the trembling ceased, Alessandra sighed. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll see my reflection.’ She bent down and scooped a handful of shimmering water, let it trail through her fingers. She might be slowly forgetting what she looked like, but she’d never forget the past events that brought her to a place where her reflection didn't reflect.

‘See yourself through my eyes, my love.’ With his long fingers, Eduardo traced the shape of her face. ‘Your hair is like black silk, and it is my never-ending thrill to run my fingers through it; your face is a heart, so dear to me as you gaze at me with your heart in your eyes. Your lips are soft and red,’ he followed their outline with a fingertip, ‘while your ears are two delicate white shells attuned to my love words.’

Alessandra was moved beyond words. ‘My love, I see myself reflected in your words. What need have I for any other?’

_____________________________________________________

WORDS: 1040

FCA

You'll find this announcement everywhere I hope! Here are the WEP challenges for 2022, the Year of Music. If you've never written for us, accept the challenge in 2022. You can find a complete list of the music challenges HERE.

                             We'll rock on with All You Need is Love in February. How perfect!

And a reminder ~

Please drop by to read my article, A Beginner's Guide to Self-Publishing on Damyanti's blog. Add to the conversation! 

A large part of my author promotion is through BOOKFUNNEL. They are great for selling books and growing newsletters. If you click on this link in one of my current promos, GIFTS GALORE, it will lead you to a passel of books to choose from in various genres - Romance, Historical, Western, Suspense. Try it! 

GIFTS GALORE

PARIS DREAMS THROUGH BOOKFUNNEL

                               

Thank you!

#IWSG post - Yolanda Renee on writing a #ries - and finishing it!

Welcome to IWSG for July! 

Alex's  awesome co-hosts for the July 7 posting of the IWSG are Pat Garcia, Victoria Marie Lees, and Louise – Fundy Blue!

  Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!

Today I've handed over my blog to Yolanda Renee. I'm not sure what she's got to feel insecure about, and she certainly would never let anything make her quit writing,  but let's find out. Because I write series myself, I'm always interested in how other authors go about writing them. 

How My Murder Mystery Series Came to Be!

Denise asked me to write a guest post on "How to Write a Series - what worked for you, kind of thing." And she said, "I'm especially interested in how it feels to have written your last book in the series."

I had several emotions at once. Immediate excitement, then relief, and finally a sense of accomplishment. However, I was also hit by a touch of anxiety. Had I released it too soon?

But I shook that off because what I really wanted to do was celebrate. Pop the cork, laugh, shout, dance, and tell the world. It felt much the same way after I published the first book, but like then, I was alone. The highs and lows of the writer's life are seldom shared.

That's why holding a launch party is so important. Even though I won't have one for this book. I did for the first, and it was a blast! But immediate gratification, that pat on the back, or 'you go girl' response, just isn't there for most writers. So, my friends, get it when you can! Like this guest post, thanks, Denise. It means the world to be able to share my experience and the results!

Keeping with the phrase 'what worked for me' - the real secret to my series, or the method to my madness, is this, pure happenstance...

Once the first novel was written, I submitted it to publishers. One even called. She said she liked the premise, and had I considered writing a trilogy? Of course, I said yes, although it was a lie. But not for long, because she'd given me a great idea. Why not a trilogy. So, before the first book, Murder, Madness & Love, was published, I'd written the rough draft of books two and three, Memories of Murder and Obsession & Murder. While it took me years to write book one, It only took me a few months to write the next two.

Once the trilogy reached publication. I was looking for ways to draw attention to it. So, writing a prequel came to mind, and since I'd mentioned the first case, Detective Quaid solved, The Snowman, in Murder, Madness & Love, the first book. It just made sense to elaborate on that. But instead of a short story, it became a novella. Now, it will become the draw for the series when I offer it free just for signing up for my newsletter. (Now under construction)

But the most shocking thing about The Snowman was the villain, Stowy Jenkins. He had a voice that wouldn't let go. I always assumed it was because he went to prison. In the other books, the villains all died at the end of the book. But Stowy lived, and because of that, he wouldn't let go. So, I had to write his whole story. (You know how it is, some characters just won't shut up.)

Therefore, book 5, Murder, Just Because came into being. Stowy escapes prison to wreak more havoc on Anchorage. It's a brutal book. Some would claim too brutal, so I couldn't let the series end there.

And now I have the perfect final book. A Passion for Murder highlights Detective Quaid's passion for his job and the murderer's provocation for his crimes. A Passion for Murder also wraps up beautifully what I consider to be an epic love story.

Now I'm off and running on the next series, thus far titled A Murder Beach Read, and the first in the series called Her Mona Lisa Smile!

 Thanks, Denise, for always being an encouragement and an inspiration during my entire writing journey.

 

AMAZON             FACEBOOK        BLOG          TWITTER

Bio:

Looking for a new adventure, Renee recently moved to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. A storyteller from a very early age, an avid reader, and with an education and background in business and accounting, becoming a writer only made sense. And writing mysteries pure logic.

 

A Passion for Murder: Another heinous crime occurs in Alaska, and with no time to heal from the last brutal case of The Snowman, and Stowy Jenkins, Detective Quaid returns to his job. PTSD, a former lover, and an odious villain test his mettle and his sanity.

Excerpt:

A cold pre-autumn rain fell in straight lines from the swollen gray clouds sitting over the valley. The residents of Anchorage thanked their personal deity an early snowstorm hadn't fallen. While in one lone cabin, a fire burned bright. Warmth and coziness reflected off the colorful furnishings. The man working diligently at his desk hummed his favorite rhyme.

 

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe

Grab a slut by the Toe

Blonde-Blue Brown, or Green,

Who's ready to meet Killer Clean?

 

He chuckled as he turned the pages of a scrapbook.

 

Choosing from among his collection of beauties was as much fun as planning just how they would die. Although nothing could really compete with seeing them take their last breath. Except, of course, that final thrust of the knife. Still, today was a special day. Making his choice most important. He’d have to choose someone as close to the original as possible. Which meant it would be the beauty with the green eyes. Her golden hair, career choice, and availability hit all tens on his list of go points.

A perfect thirty meant she had to die today!

Here's my review on Goodreads.

Yolanda Renee is a winner when it comes to writing murder! I've loved her hero, Detective Quaid, as he solved his way through many murders during Renee's six books. Even with PTSD in book six, he still managed to solve the horrific crimes. Don't read this at night! Be warned!

 

#FREEDOMMORNING - #WEPAPRILCHALLENGE - MY #FLASHFICTION, 'THE BEACH HOUSE.'

Hello! Welcome to the #WEP April challenge. This is our Year of Art at WEP, and we started with a very successful challenge with Klimt's THE KISS for February. A challenge won by Jemi Fraser with Sin and Sunshine. To read Jemi's flash to give you an idea of the kind of writing that wins prizes, go HERE. 

This month we honor Claude Clark, an African American artist and art educator. In his bio, he said, 'As a child in the churches, the schools and the community, I dreamed of a destiny.' This dream is shared by so many today, with modern day slavery skyrocketing to numbers over 40 million. And of course, that's just a very conservative estimate. Big Chocolate, Big Coffee, Big Tabacco  -- most of the 'Bigs' have discovered how using child slaves in their plantations adds to their bottom line, even though they've promised to 'end child slavery' -- ha ha ha.

The 'Big' stories are for another day. I nearly shared Arno's Big Chocolate story, but that would have spoiled Easter for you. This challenge is perfect for one of the causes close to my heart -- arranged marriage and domestic abuse, whether mental or physical or both. These stories make me fume.

Today, I want to share Emma Dil's story. Like Claude Clark, she dreamed of a destiny far removed from her present day situation.

The Beach House

 

Emma Dil was a fool to leave Paris. 

The city where she feels safe.

Where freedom reigns.

She was a fool to come back.

Here.

Here holds too many memories, too many secrets.

Memories and secrets she can no longer ignore.

She must deal with them or she’ll never reach her potential.

There. In front of her. The beach house, its timbers broken and exposed. Since she escaped, years of relentless tides have eaten away at its foundations. It now teeters on the edge of the dunes, on its knees in the sand, ready to surrender to a king tide.

Today the ocean holds no threat like it did that night many years ago. Its gentle waves lap the sand, leaving a trail of silvery froth and grit. Gazing at the peaceful sea, she almost forgets why she suppressed her memories for so long. But the mind holds onto things, remembers things best forgotten, overwhelms in the early morning hours when the body is most vulnerable.

 Confronted with the crumbling house, her mind searches its dark recesses, unearthing hidden secrets which she thought buried. Through the years, in her silent moments when the busyness of life paused, it spoke so softly in the gentlest of whispers, as it tried to speak to her of its memories. Then there were other times when her pain rushed to the surface without warning, hurtling through her like a runaway train, threatening to derail her altogether.

 She cries, falls to her knees in the wet sand. She no longer wants to carry that heavy sharp stone of hurt which has kept her caged like a helpless bird, which has stopped her enjoying the freedom of her new life. 

 She will no longer be held hostage to painful memories.

 Memories of her last terrible night in that crumbling house threaten to drown her in a tidal wave of hurt.

  ~*~

On the night she died to her old life, the wind roared, the rain poured, the waves crashed. The mighty Pacific Ocean swirled, rose and fell in a dance of wave and tide. Then the winds calmed, the moon rose and sat outside her window, bathing her in light.

 She’d been asleep, tossing and turning like the tide as she did every night. She’d opened her eyes and watched the moonlight creep across her bed like a lover’s soft caress. The sheets tangled and folded over the bed like waves. Kicking off the covers, she threw herself across the bed like a beached whale.

 The moon’s light overlooked the angry welts criss-crossing her legs. The wounds throbbed, but she had no ointments to ease the pain. But the pain she felt inside at her father’s betrayal was worse than any belting.  There were no ointments to soothe that sharp pain.

The crashing waves heralded high tide. Soon the water would rise to just below her window. The relentless pummeling against the house posts, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, mimicked the sound and rhythm of her father’s belt as it cut her tender flesh while her mother cowed in the corner, praying, flinching each time the belt descended. Did she pray for her husband’s soul? For her daughter’s pain? Why didn’t she do something? Anything … But her mother was as helpless as she.

Father would not be denied his will. She was her father’s daughter. She would never give in to his demands. She would not marry the boy from Afghanistan, her father’s choice for her. She would marry the man she loved.

 A big storm had struck earlier in the night. Now the rain starts again. Relentless. Like her father’s demands. He locked her in her room until you come to your senses were his words. She hasn’t been able to communicate with Ahmed since she was imprisoned, but she was not afraid. She would escape her cage. She and Ahmet would be together. As God willed.

She knew Ahmed waited for her every night beyond the dunes. It was her hope. Her belief.

Tonight she must choose freedom.

 She wrapped her hand in the end of her sheet and smashed the locked window, thankful the pelting rain muffled the sound of breaking glass, thankful she did not cut herself on the jagged edges.

The black night sucked her in. 

Hitting the surprisingly warm water, she swam for her life, her robe tangled around her knees, dragging her under. Water filled her mouth and nose. Waves slapped her face but fell more gently than her father's hands. She fought the urge to surrender to the elements. No. She has waited too long for freedom. What was this water compared to the joy that lay ahead, a new life with her love? 

Her name meant ‘Heart’s Wish.’ She would have her wish.

A new life in Paris. With Ahmet.

Her bare feet found sand at last. Running out of the water, she held her sopping robe in her hands and sprinted toward the trees.

‘Emma Dil.’ Ahmed whispered her name as he stepped forward from his place on the dunes where he later told her he’d made a shelter and watched her window for many days and nights, fighting the urge to break down the door and drag her away from her father's abuse.

Now, at long last, Ahmed held her in his safe arms.

Freedom.

Home.

 

~*~

 

These many years later, Ahmed watches her from the top of the dunes, next to the crumbling wreck that had been her home when her family first arrived from Afghanistan. Before it became her prison. After she rises to her feet, in a few long strides he is by her side. He gently cradles her. Rocks her like a baby while she cries in his arms.

 Her tears are healing tears.

 She will be whole again.

 ‘My brave girl,’ he whispers.

 Over her shoulder the house groans and lurches, plunges into the sea. Its timbers break like skittles. The tide reaches out its greedy hand and sucks it under the waves.

WORDS: 1,000

FCA

If it's too late to join WEP this month, please consider joining us in June. We continue our Year of Art with this challenge - 

Thanks for visiting. To read more WEP stories, go HERE or click on names in the sidebar if it's up!