The amazing Stephanie Diaz tagged me in a game called Look. I figured, I’m not doing a darn thing, so why not share? Here’s the rules:


If you are tagged, do a search for the word “look” in your work in progress. Copy that paragraph, along with surrounding paragraphs, to your blog, to keep the game afloat. Don’t forget to tag others.

So, I checked out my two WIPs. The first, Through the Reflection Pond features ‘look’ in the second paragraph. I deemed that boring, so I headed to the sequel to Through the Reflection Pond, Shade of the Poison Tree, which also features ‘look’ in the second paragraph. Hm. Gave me a WTH moment. I decided on Poison Tree, even though it’s unedited, even though it’ll make no sense.

Here’s your tidbits!

            Even with my back turned to him, I felt Nate’s eyes on me, as if I was Santa Claus and it was Christmas morning, as if he couldn’t believe it was really me. He’d cried. Actual tears, heavy with months of fear and grief, had fallen from the corners of his hollow eyes and trailed down his cheeks. I’d done this to him. The dark smudges from lack of sleep? Those were my fault. He’d lost weight, his cheeks were sunken, his body gaunt. My fault. My fault.


I lifted my head. We’d stopped at a red light. Ahead of me, the dark road stretched for miles and miles, disappearing into the trees in the distance. It was the last traffic light in town. I glanced at his face and away, staring out the window, at a spot just beyond Nate’s head where the sun was trying to make an appearance, unable to bring myself to look at him. It was one thing to leave—I’d done that, quite successfully and completely by accident, it was another to come face to face with the person you’d left behind and realize that you’d destroyed their life in your absence. My stomach turned to ropes, thick and heavy, making me ache.

“I’m sorry.” The words were just the barest whisper. I coughed, trying to make my voice fit beside the guilt. He touched my face, the callused planes of his palm felt foreign even though it’d been mere months since I’d seen him. The light turned green and reflected in his eyes. He was waiting me out, wearing me down with his infinite patience. I leaned out of his touch and pressed my back to the door. Hurt flashed across his face.

“Are you hungry? Cold? Should I take you home?”

            Home. It was ironic, really, that word. Home.


Now I must tag some people.

1. Missy Biozarre (You are my dearest writer friend. Do it. Take a chance. Let it all hang…out…er…you know what I mean.)

2. RLL (Oh yes YOU!! You read that correctly.)

3. Chris Stocking (You won something off my blog, that means I stalk you now.)

4. Martha Allard (Because I CAN!! And I love your writing. Seriously. Love. It. And if anyone would EVER listen to me, I vote for the werewolf story.)

5. Melissa Keir (Does this really need an explanation? Yes? No? No…?)
Now, listen up all of yous. You don’t HAVE to participate, it’s not REQUIRED by LAW, but what else are you doing right now? Nada? Nothing? That’s what I thought. Share some writing. It’s amazing an you know it.
All the best,



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