short story

WHIRLWIND

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Good morning everyone! I’m stuck at home with the plague, so I thought I’d take a moment to reflect on this amazing week. It’s truly been a rush and a ton of fun.

Antithesis CoverMonday was the cover reveal for Antithesis. There aren’t words for how exciting this is, to see my book with a cover, to know that in a couple months I’ll be able to hold it in my hands. Wow. WOW. People have been so nice, too. My friends on Facebook have been working overtime promoting Antithesis, and I love them for that. It’s great to have a support group and I really appreciate everything they’ve done for me.

On Tuesday, my short story, First Shift went live on the Inkspell website. This is a FREE READ, and it’s still up, so if you want to get it CLICK HERE. Ā 

First Shift

First Shift is the catalyst for Antithesis, and the reason Liam finds himself in Gavyn’s bedroom over two years later. It was really interesting for me to write the before, sad, too. I hope you’ll enjoy it.

Wednesday and Thursday flew by in a flurry of posts and tweets and updates. I really don’t mean to annoy people on Facebook, but if I connect with one new person for every post, then it’s worth it. Writing is a thankless job, and just because the book is written doesn’t mean I get a break. Advertising could make or break Antithesis, so I want to give it every opportunity to get out there. So share it. Read it. Love it or hate it, it doesn’t really matter. Just read.

I’ve also become heavily involved with SUCKER LITERARY, which is a Lit Anthology that features emerging young adult authors. I feel really strongly about Sucker. There just isn’t a place for emerging YA. It seems like it’s either make or break, and there’s such a flooded market, that it’s hard to find solid advice. Sucker is incredible in this way, because they mentor writers. If they feel they can help you grow as a writer, they will mentor your story, regardless of whether they accept it for the anthology. Hannah Goodman, the editor and founder of Sucker, has a great vision and I’m honored to be on board. Look for an upcoming blog tour featuring the second volume of Sucker Literary. You can find Sucker on Amazon HERE. And on Goodreads HERE.Ā 

 

Give it a try, I think you’ll be surprised by the combination of grit and heart that makes Sucker Literary a great read.

In the next few months, my writing group, The Flint Area Writers, will be accepting submissions for a faerie anthology. I’m REALLY excited about this. We have a fantastic set of writers to build the crux of the anthology, and we’ll be accepting general submissions from the public as well. So if you’re a writer, get writing your faerie stories! The submission period runs from August 1 – September 30, and we’d love to read your story.

Stories-from-Fairyland-Promo3There’s a lot of awesome things coming in the future and I’m so grateful to be involved in all of them. If you have the time, take a second to like my Facebook AUTHOR PAGE and add Antithesis on GOODREADS.

After all, I wouldn’t be here without the support of this great community and all the writers that have encouraged me along the way. Now – to actually do the important thing: WRITE!

All the best,

Kacey

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A Short Story Excerpt

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I haven’t posted much fiction lately, mostly because I’ve been in a writing stupor, blind to everything except the absolute horrors going on in my manuscript. Don’t be alarmed – these things are AMAZING.

A while back I was taking a writing class, but then work came between the two of us and we had to part ways. I started writing a short story for said class, it’s pretty good, if I may say so, but it’s also unfinished. So I’m going to post the couples pages, get some comments and some encouragement to finish. It doesn’t have a title yet…so yeah.

Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā  Cord crushed the cigarette in his fist, watching as the flecks of tobacco spilled from his fingers. Heā€™d promised himself heā€™d quit, hell, heā€™d promised a lot of things over the past few years. With a sigh, he fished the crumpled pack out of his pocket. The first drag brought everything into focus. Reaching once again into his pocket, he retrieved the business card and train ticket.

ā€œHey, you canā€™t smoke here,ā€ a passing man said, face contorted with righteous disgust.

Cord looked up, catching the signs changing, informing him that his train was running on time. ā€œFuck off,ā€ he muttered, but the man was already out of earshot. Cord dropped his cigarette anyway, smashed the embers with his boot and headed for the platform, hitching his backpack on his shoulder. The woman there stamped his ticket without looking at him. She didnā€™t ask for ID, probably didnā€™t care that the name on the little stub wasnā€™t his. He didnā€™t thank her, just snatched up the ticket and strode into the belly of the station, pulling his leather jacket tight around his shoulders. That was New York for you; nobody really gave a shit anyway.

The train ride was long and boring and Cord found himself dozing against the window as the train rumbled past cities and long stretches of what passed for countryside. The woman in the next seat roused him when they reached the last stop. He felt like shit when he couldnā€™t muster a smile of thanks. He supposed heā€™d spent too long in the city, watching his life slide by in a steel-colored lull.

Cord palmed the business card as he stepped into the snap of brisk autumn air. It was colder here without the long fingers of buildings to block the wind. Good, he thought, scanning the station, which was much smaller and dingier than the one in the city. He read the tiny words printed on the card for the millionth time.

Congratulations, you have been chosen to attend a weekend of secret festivities.

Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā  Secret festivities, he scoffed. It was the quote that caught his attention.

ā€œIf you donā€™t get lost, thereā€™s a chance you may never be found.ā€

Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā  Heā€™d found the card and train ticket on his brotherā€™s dresser while stealing money for cigarettes. It was probably some self-help seminar that would leave him cross-eyed with boredom, but he figured, what the hell? Couldnā€™t be any worse than spending the weekend at home while Mom drank herself into a pathetic stupor. So heā€™d pocketed the card, ticket, and thirty dollars, and left his cellphone in their place.

Anger burned hot inside of him as though heā€™d swallowed the flame of the devil himself. He didnā€™t give a fuck about his family. They could rot in the tiny shithole apartment for all he cared. Besides, if the ā€œsecret festivitiesā€ sucked, he figured heā€™d just escape and spend the weekend lost in the unfamiliar town.

He hailed a cab out front and gave the driver the address from the back of the card. Thirty minutes later, they arrived in front of a lonely gated driveway that disappeared into a dark thick of woods. He paid the driver, skimping on the tip, and watched as the taxi pulled away.

Cord looked around, tamping down a frisson fear. He was from fucking New York City; a house in the woods was nothing. He crossed to the intercom next to the gate and depressed the button.

A tinny, disembodied voice answered. ā€œName?ā€

ā€œCoā€”Aaron Adams.ā€ He almost forgot to give his brotherā€™s name.

The black gate swung inward, creaking. Without looking back, Cord slung his bag over his shoulder and went inside.

There it is! Now I’m off to manuscript land once again.

All the best,

Kacey

WEDNESDAY’S WORDS

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Truth be told, these are Tuesday’s words, but I adore applying alliteration abundantly.

This is from a 10 minute timed writing and is a little insight into the short story I’m working on, which I was just recently informed I will have to read in front of an audience. What?! Wish I’d known that before I started. Reading in front of my writing group is one thing, but reading my stuff in front of strangers? Eeehh…I don’t know about all that. I suppose it’s good for me, and I’m not one to turn down a challenge easily.

I like this piece, mostly because I’m trying to figure out WHY the owner of the house is the way he is. Is he justĀ strange? Is he creepy? Is he sinister? Is he just doing the wrong thing for the right reasons?

I just don’t know yet. But, writing stories would be boring if we always knew the outcome.

The night closed in around him as he switched off the lights. Silent, the air still and full of must, he stood in the great room, listening. And if he listened with his entire being he could hear them – a tinkle of laughter, a sharp gasp of pain, a cry as welcome as a summer day.

The house hunkered around him, patient, waiting. Pine from the banisters, the roses on the table, soon they would mix with the tang of alcohol and the sweetness of sighed breath.

This was the moment he liked best, with anticipation thrumming through his veins like a thunderstorm. They would come, like sheep to the slaughter, wide-eyed, with fears and dreams as equally dark. They were his to shape like clay molded by careful fingers.

The man sat on the marble floor and as the cold seeped into his skin, he remembered the first time, when recognition had flickered on their faces.

He always remembered the first time.

He lay back, letting the sounds of the old house settle around him. The creaks were his friends, his family, a lover. For once they came, they never truly left. There were pieces of each person scattered through the rooms like trophies of a time long forgotten. He wrapped his arms around his chest and pulled each one in, a blanket that would carry him to the possibility of morning.

That’s it! Hope you enjoyed. So tell me – were you creeped out? Curious? I just wish this dude would tell me what he’s all about. šŸ™‚

All the best,

Kacey

Aww – you made it to the bottom of the page! You deserve a treat. Here’s a poem I wrote:

Hope is yellow

and citrus flavored

like the slant of sunshine

on a sloping roof.

It’s sweet

with a sharp surprise

of tart and sting.

It burns,

bitter flame

with a desire

to consume.

Hope is yellow

and citrus flavored.