This past month has gone by super quick AND incredibly slow at the same time. Busy with work, family and house (yes, first-time homeowner over here!!) not only my blog – but my overall writing has suffered simply from lack of time.

When I was younger, I used to write everything – fiction and non-fiction – on a yellow, legal pad and then did my editing as I typed my flowing thoughts into Word. Those days are long gone! I don’t have that luxury of time anymore, and I think my hand would start cramping if I tried it now.

So this weekend, when I was the Parent-on-Duty for my 15 year old’s birthday party extravaganza at The Hard Rock Cafe, I opened up my handy dandy Google Doc app on my cell phone and typed out some of a story that had been rolling around in my head all day.  And let me tell you – it was amazing to be able to create right there in the middle of an overcrowded entertainment destination.

So, as this weeks’ blog post – I’m sharing with you a few passages from Untitled Novella #1.  It’s a little rough, but I think you’ll get the idea.

Hope you enjoy:

Untitled Novella #1

Na’chelle Walker was left in a tropical shit hole by a superstar shithead.

With one semester left of college, she had up and followed her then boyfriend – James – as he went to fulfill his dream of being a adrenaline junky adventurer.  From a small bang ‘em up corner of Maryland right outside of Washington, D.C., Shellie had gotten into college by the skin of her teeth, academically, and by the sweat of her brow, literally, on a track scholarship. She had nothing to go home to – just a sister who flaked in and out of her life – and nothing to look forward to after graduation. So when Jimmy had asked her to go with him, she’d shrugged and packed a bag.

Deep down, Shellie knew he’d asked her because he needed someone to watch his back and coordinate the details of the trips for him. She just chose to think that it was true love that pushed him to ask her to trudge through the jungle with him. But during those three years that she had spent making arrangements for malaria shots and helicopter pickups, he had turned miraculously turned himself into an internet sensation. Slowly, she began fielding more and more calls from the media, replying to more and more tweets, taking more and more pictures and posting them when they hit a hotzone.

Now, here she was, in a shitty bar watching the megawatt smile of her ex plastered on commercials for his upcoming survival show “The College of the Jungle.”

He had dumped her exactly three days ago after being wined and dined by some too rich producer with too much time on his hands. Shellie hadn’t been part of the production deal, just part of the equipment that had been left behind. Jimmy had graciously let her stay in their 4-star hotel suite – on the producers dime – and given her $1500 and a plane ticket before giving her a jaunty wave as he’d boarded the private jet to god knew where.

Asshole.

She had spent the past few days vacillating between absolute anger and unexpected tears from a sadness she hadn’t known she was capable of. At least she had wine and a masseuse nearby.

Nonetheless, if she had known it would end like this, she would’ve turned her gun on him instead of those douche bags who had tried to steal their MREs outside of Guatemala a few weeks back.

“Friend of yours?”

She was more surprised by the American accent than the deepness of the voice.

Slowly she turned to look at the man next to her, stiffening her spine along the way.

“Only in an alternate universe,” she responded.

Shellie wasn’t in the mood to get picked up in this bar and she wasn’t interested in getting her ear talked off by some lonely ex-pat. They were in a tiny, nearly open-air airport in the middle of nowhere and it didn’t take a genius to figure out it wasn’t the best place for a female to be all by herself even if there were a dozen or so people around.  

Her  finger inched towards the spot where her Bowie knife was usually strapped to her thigh, but she stopped when she remembered it was wrapped up nice and safe in her checked duffel bag.

Super.

She eyed the man next to her. He was black like her, but that’s where the similarities ended.

He wasn’t as clean cut, All-American looking as Jimmy, but he was built, his muscles corded under the tight cuff of his white shirt and his broad shoulders were rock solid under his open collar. Shellie was built, too, but as people used to tell her after she hit puberty, she looked more like a music video star than a track star. That’s what had made her so good. No one had expected her to  be so fast.

There was a hint of a smile on this guy’s lips, but instead of saying anything else he tipped his beer bottle and took a swallow.

Shellie relaxed. He wasn’t interested in her.

Maybe he was lonely, and was just being friendly. The thought instantly put her on alert. In her whole life, she could count on one hand the number of people who were ‘just friendly.’

She stood and put money down on the counter.

As she walked past Mr. Talkative, he swung on his stool, stopping her in her tracks with his sudden movement.

“Got a name?”

She went with hard ass  “Fuck you.”

He didn’t even blink. “Got another one?”

She rolled her eyes, “Bye.”

It was in the hallway by the ladies room that she wished she had her gun.

Shellie had known how to use a weapon long before she started traveling with Jimmy, who’d always been a target because of all the hi-tech equipment they carried with them. The days in her youth spent hanging on street corners, looking out for other thugs, cops and whoever-fell-between had trained her well. She might not have ever technically shot anyone, but she’d come damn close a few times and could draw a gun in a flash. It wouldn’t have helped her here, though. Even if she’d been able to get her weapon past airport security, she would not have been a match for Mr. Chatty Pants.

He had his gun to her head before she could form one good curse.

“You better not be trying to rape me.”

“Name.”

Rolling her eyes, she dropped her hand to her hips.

“Na’Chelle Walker.”

He released his stance and disappeared his gun somewhere on his fit body.

Shellie eyed him warily.

“Aaron Moyers.”

“Not a pleasure, I’m sure.” She said.

His face didn’t move.

“Ok, now that’s settled.” She turned to move, but saw a couple of equally fit forms at her back.

“I’ll fight you,” she warned him.

He stepped close enough to her that she had to tilt her head up to get a good look at his face.

“I’m sure you would.”

The end of his sentence was punctuated by a pin prick on the bare skin of Shellie’s arm.

****