About J. A. Allen

J. A. Allen, author of the upcoming contemporary fantasy, Old Souls: When a woman claiming to know him from a life ten thousand years before asks Lucien Navarro to return to their great family, he abandons his antipsychotics to uncover the truth. His soul is immortal. Once the leader of three hundred beings who’ve incarnated over and over through the ages, Lucien must unite his kind again to rise up against a cult set on their destruction, take a stand in a war which has raged behind the veil of human awareness for millennia, and fight for a love that defies the boundaries of time.

The Storm

Summer storms are one of the things I miss most from the prairies.

They’re rare on Prince Edward Island, but they happen occasionally. I woke up to thunder a few nights ago.  A huge crack of it, right outside our bedroom window. I had a hard time sleeping after that. Weird dreams.

And the next day, I had this weird-ass story.


—read best as it was written, while listening to Lana Del Rey


“It’s too hot to sleep.”


I swept Cruise’s hair away from his face. He lay on top of the blankets, naked with the exception of his beloved Spiderman underwear, staring up at me in the candlelight, his seven-year-old features gleaming under a sheen of sweat.

“You won’t notice the heat once you fall asleep, baby.” I leaned with a kiss for the top of his head and smiled. Standing, I returned his book to the shelf and took the candle from the top of his dresser. “They’ll probably have the power on by morning. I’ll make you toast with cinnamon and brown sugar for breakfast.”

“You’re trying to bribe me,” he said, pulling a stuffed dragon with oversized eyes close to his chest. “It won’t work.”

“You need to sleep. It’s time.”

“Good night, Momma.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

Ben tossed his cell phone on the coffee table as I entered the living room. Placing Cruise’s candle next to it, I sank onto the opposite side of the couch.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked, glancing at his phone, forcing an air of lightness into the question.

“No one.” He offered a quick smile. Something had been bothering him all week. He’d been playing it off, but after seventeen years together, the signs were easy to spot. The strained conversation. The way he rolled toward the opposite side of the room when we went to bed. “I was just playing Sudoku. Battery’s out now. I’ll have to wait for the power to come back.”

I lifted my feet onto the ottoman. “I wish we had a generator, at least for the air conditioner. I can feel your body heat from here.” Fanning myself with a magazine from the basket on the floor, I asked, “What do you think happened to the power, anyway?”

Living so deep in the country had its advantages. Cruise, Lily, and Grace were free to roam the meandering trails on their four-wheelers in summer and on the snowmobiles in winter, paid for with the money left over after trading the cramped, million-dollar condo in Vancouver for our sprawling acreage in Saskatchewan. Nestled so far in the woods, we had no neighbors. Ben converted the old barn across the yard into a studio with large windows that invited the natural light he so coveted to brighten his herculean canvases. background-2439018_1920I had turned the spare bedroom into the office I’d always dreamt of and, after quitting my job as a content writer, the free time I needed to complete my second novel. The kids all had their own rooms. The move granted us everything we could ever want out here, and while I never once regretted leaving British Columbia the year before, I did miss how easily accessible information had been in the city. The power had been out for three hours, and we still had no idea why.

“The heat,” Ben answered. “Probably a transformer. Are Lily and Grace asleep?”

The basement stairs appeared dark. “I think so. Finally. It’s nearly midnight, they’ll be tired at school tomorrow.”

Ben’s gaze wandered back to his phone on the coffee table. He masked a frown with his hand.

“You sure everything’s okay?” I prodded, knowing it was her. It was always her.

“Yeah.” He stood. “We should go to bed, too. Not much to do without the power.”

I let out an annoyed groan, rising to my feet. “Why’s it so hot, anyway? It’s supposed to be freezing this time of year. It’s almost November, for Christ sake.” The heatwave had arrived the week before, our summer clothes having already been packed away.

Ben made his way to the living room window, wearing only a tattered pair of shorts that somehow eluded my last trip to the donation box. I enjoyed the sight of him staring into the night: the way his naked back tapered so neatly into the elastic band of his shorts.

“Ah. Who knows,” he said, his shoulders uncharacteristically tense. “Seems to be shifting though. There’s a breeze now, at least.”

I joined him at the window. He was right. A cool stream of air filtered through the screen. Closing my eyes, I enjoyed the feel of it against my face. “Tell me the truth.” I turned to face him. “Has she been messaging you again?”

The candles flickered behind us, caught in the breeze. Ben sighed. “I’m not encouraging her, Terra.”

“What’s she saying?”


“She’s been depressed. She’s . . . in a dark place.”


I crossed my arms, suddenly thankful his phone had died. There had been many reasons for the move from civilization as we knew it: the traffic, the hectic lifestyle, the endless cycle of day after day of gray skies; but leaving Helena behind to keep our family intact had been the biggest.

“How depressed?” I asked.

He lowered his head. “Before the phone died, she said . . .”

I waited, saying nothing, refusing to prod him on. It was a mess he had gotten himself into. A mess he promised was over.

Ben cleared his throat. “She picked up some sleeping pills.”

“She can’t sleep?” I asked, with a feeling that wasn’t where the conversation was going. I’d been trying to forgive Helena for stealing him away. My husband. Not because I felt she deserved forgiveness, but because my hate had consumed me the past two years. Changed me. Ben was doing everything he could to save our family. It was only fair that I tried too.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged.

“You think she would . . .”

“I don’t know.”

The world would be better off without her. I bit my lip, holding the comment in. “Would you like to call her?”

“Is there any charge in your phone?”

“No.” I answered, silently thanking Cruise for draining the battery playing Minecraft. It seemed that the seventeen hundred miles we’d travelled wasn’t enough to keep Helena from my husband. background-1177463_1920Maybe if she killed herself it would be over and done. Let her beautiful face and her flawless body rot six feet under the ground if that was what it took to keep her from my family.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck, absentmindedly flexing the muscles along his arm and the left side of his body. He was handsome. One of the handsomest men I’d ever seen. A brilliant artist. I doubted I could have forgiven another man for the pain his affair had cause me. Of course Helena was depressed. I had been depressed too, when I found out about her. Would I have killed myself? No. But then, I had the kids. Helena had nothing.

“You’re right,” I said finally. “We should go to bed.”

By the time we completed our nightly rituals of face-washing and teeth-brushing, the wind had picked up substantially.

Ben closed the bedroom windows halfway while I peed in the en-suite. He peered across the yard. “It’s getting wild out there.”

The shrubs surrounding the outer wall of the bathroom scraped the siding in the wind. I rose, pulling up my pants and flushing the toilet. Out the small window, I caught sight of the trampoline in the yard. “We should run out and take the safety net down. If it gets windy enough that thing will end up in our roof.”

Ben’s shoulder slumped. “Oh, hell. I’ll do it.”

“I can come—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.” He grabbed a flashlight from the closet and pulled a shirt on before making his way down the hall. In a minute backdoor slammed shut behind him. I sat on the bed. The sound of crisp autumn leaves rustled noisily though the window. I strained to see Ben climbing onto the trampoline to wrestle with the safety net in the darkness. Above, the slivered crescent of the moon was white and bright, and then it was covered by a thick patch of quickly moving cloud. The earthy, delicious smell of fast approaching rain filled the air.

Footsteps shuffled on the floor behind me. It was Cruise. The hair rose along the back of my arms. His face had paled since I’d tucked him in. His eyes were empty. Hollow.

Crossing the room, I knelt before him. “Cruise?” I refrained from touching him, remembering what the pediatrician in Vancouver had said. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. Despite his recent growth spurt, he still had a little baby fat. His little belly protruded slightly over his underwear. The innocent expression that usually brightened his baby-blue eyes was gone.

“Are you asleep, baby?” I asked. How long had it been since I’d left his room? A half-hour at most. Obviously, that was all it took. It was the second time I’d caught him sleepwalking that week.

He mumbled indiscernibly. Garbled, halting vowels and sharp constants. My pulse raced. Ben handled Cruise’s sleepwalking better than I did.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” I asked.


He seemed to look right through me. “It’s going to storm.”


My breath caught in my throat. He talked in his sleep a hundred times before. But, his words were always mangled, as if he was speaking in tongues. I’d never been able to understand him.

His head tilted slightly to the side, blonde hair ruffled in the back from sweating against his pillow. He reached out blindly to touch my arm. “Be careful, Momma.”

I let out a quiet gasp. The words were jarringly clear, his breath a ripple of heat against my face. I swallowed, buying time, gathering myself. “It’s time for bed, baby,”

“Momma.” Cruise leaned with a whisper, sleeping blue eyes clear and wide. “She’s coming.”

A chill rose up my spine. I hesitated, staring at my only son. My sweet boy. “Who’s coming, honey?”

The backdoor slammed. Ben lumbered up the stairs. He came in breathing hard, the flashlight brightening our room. “It’s going to pour out there.” He caught sight of Cruise.

“What’s he doing up?”

screen“He’s not up.” My attention returned to Cruise. The older he grew the more he looked like his father: the same wide shoulders, square jaw, and puckered lips. He was my baby. A perfectly unspoiled replica of the man I’d fallen in love with so long before. “He’s asleep, I think.”

“I’ll take him to his bed.” Ben laid his hand on Cruise’s back to usher him slowly down the hall. “Let’s go, buddy.”

I waited for Ben to return, listening to the wind wail against the outer walls of the house. Something was banging in the distance. A door, maybe. An open gate. I retrieved the discarded flashlight and slipped past Ben speaking softly, calmly to Cruise while tucking him safe beneath his blankets, and descended the stairs to the entryway. Pushing firmly against the closed door, I turned the deadbolt sideways at the top. Ben installed it when we first moved to the acreage. The last thing we had wanted was Cruise sleepwalking out of the house in the dead of winter. I glanced into the front yard through the window. The trees swayed violently in the wind. Rain droplets spotted the glass.

Moving systematically from one room to the next, I closed the windows. Grace and Lily lay still in their rooms in the basement, breathing heavily, blissfully unaware of the coming storm.

Ben stripped to his underwear and laid down on the bed. “This rain is exactly what we need. It’ll take some of the humidity out of the air. Cruise will be fine tomorrow.”

He was right, of course. Cruise’s sleepwalking somehow always grew worse in extended periods of humidity. Laying next to Ben I let out a long breath. “I hate when Cruise talks in his sleep.”

Ben let out a sigh. “He’s fine, Terra. It’s natural. Weird, but natural.”

We blew out our candles. Ben was restless. I was certain he was thinking of Helena. There was nothing he could do from here. All the same, I could practically feel her in the bed between us. I turned to face the window. Rain came in waves against the pane. We listened to the storm separately until almost two hours had passed, and Ben’s breathing became heavy. Sleep came slower for me. Now and then my body became weightless, my thoughts setting adrift as the edges of my consciousness began to soften.

I’d only seen Helena once, across a busy street. She’d been with Ben, coming out of a hotel paid for with our credit card. She was prettier than me. A couple years older. He told me she was an artist, like him. An artist like Ben, who felt deeper than other people. Loved harder.

Could she have loved him more than I did? Did it matter? He was mine. Maybe she was lying to him about the pills; using whatever means necessary to pull him back into her web. Maybe she wouldn’t take the them.


And maybe she would.


Oh God, I hoped she would.

I imagined her sitting in her condo, her shining black hair pulled into a perfect bun on the very top of her head, rolling the bottle of pills back and forth across the coffee table with the tips of her thin fingers. I willed her to open them. I willed her to pick up the glass of Malbec I pictured beside her.

It’ll be easier if you do it, Helena.

Rain pounded against the roof. Wind whipped at the walls. Weightless, weightless, weightless. My awareness drifted, euphoria closing in as sleep worked to erase Ben’s lover from my mind.

My eyes fluttered open. A slow roll of thunder moved in like an animal approaching in the night.

I had lifted from the bed.

Ben lay below me, still. I tried to scream his name but no sound came out. My arms and legs and head hung back, unresponsive. My chest was tight. Cramped. Expelling my soul. Forcing my consciousness outward, outward, outward. Into what? Where would my soul go if not inside my body? Uncontained, it would spill free, separate, disappear. I would be gone, just like that. And then? My body would be empty, an old house, waiting for a renter.

Another slow roll of thunder carried with it a resonance I imagined to be a woman’s voice, a woman’s scream, a battle cry in the night. I tried to yell again. Air poured freely from my lungs. No sound. Ben let out a stammered snore beneath me. Adrenaline pumped furiously from my heart. I swayed slightly, left and right, rocking in an invisible cradle, led by a force rising somewhere from my chest. texture-1697391_1280

“Ben!” I managed finally.

His eyes flew open. Could he see me in the darkness? He patted the mattress and glanced up, stiffening. Launching from the bed he stood against the wall, immediately awake. “Terra, what the fuck?”

“Help!” I reached toward him. The rocking motion intensified. I was sick, swaying back and forth above the bed, limbs flailing. “Get me down.”

The electricity surged a moment, flashing through the lights. Ben’s face appeared white beneath his stubble. He was frozen, glancing wildly around the room.

The light died out. The room seemed blacker than before.

Cruise’s shockingly blank face. She’s coming.

It wasn’t possible. I was dreaming, wasn’t I? This was my body. My husband. Mine.

Helena was lying. She wouldn’t kill herself.

“Terra!” Ben’s voice was closer. “Grab my hand.”

It was too dark to see. I swung in, arm flailing. I brushed the edge of his hand before swinging back. He grabbed me when I came in again. The energy shuttling me by my chest was too strong.

Ben let go before my arm could snap. Back I went. The motion grew manic. I was swung like a pendulum, back and forth and back again. My stomach rolled. “Ben!”

“Tell me what to do, Terra!”

What could he do?

I imagined myself to be a sponge trying to reabsorb my soul; focusing on breathing in and out and in again: using my lungs to pull the spilled me back. My body. I was released. Flung onto the floor. There was a crunch. Something hard protruded beneath my back. Pain screamed from my ribs. I’d landed on something. The flashlight?

Ben rushed to me. “What happened?” He held me by my shoulders. “What the fuck was that?”


I couldn’t bring myself to say it.


Her name.

I said the only thing I could. “I don’t know.”

There was a bang from downstairs. A door slamming. Grace screamed. I pushed Ben backward, trying to stand. A warm stream drained from my ribs down the back of my nightgown. A surge of pins and needles accosted my limbs.

Ben moved to the dresser. A match flared across the room. The candle was immediately snuffed out. It remained lit on the third attempt. Ben and I made our way down the stairs quickly, Ben guarding the wildly flickering flame with his hand. A clap of thunder shook the house, loud, and long, and close.

Helena was in it.

She was all around us now.

I held onto Ben’s arm as he opened Grace’s door. “Honey?”

Wind blasted the curtains out from her open window. Our eldest daughter shuffled back in her bed, long hair wildly disheveled. Both girls took after me more than their father; with the same mousy hair, and extra flesh around the waist and hips.

“Sorry,” she  panted. “The thunder scared me. The wind blew my door shut.”

light-1985200_1920At fourteen, Grace rarely looked like a child anymore. Now it was all I saw. I raced past Ben to embrace her, eager for an excuse to hold another person, heart hammering heavily beneath my breast. Ben closed the window with a thud.

“Why’d you open the window?” I asked Grace, holding her soft frame tight.

“It was open when I went to bed.”

“I know.” I glanced at Ben. “I closed it.”

Lily padded in, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?” She was two years younger than Grace, but unlike her older sister she appeared unfazed by the storm. Thunder roared around us. The basement windows flashed bright.

Slam, slam, slam. The bedroom doors blew shut upstairs.

Wind ripped through the house. Had every window opened?

Ben blinked. “Cruise!”

I pulled Grace’s hand. She shimmied from the blankets. Ben raced up the stairs past the front door to check Cruise’s room. The girls and I stayed on the steps. I looked up at the lock. The knob was vertical. Open, and intact. It had to have been turned from the inside. But, by who? Cruise wasn’t tall enough. He was only seven.

Only seven. Pure, and good, and mine.

“Ben,” I yelled. “Is he up there?”

Lily took my hand. “What’s going on?”

“Daddy’s just checking Cruise,” I answered, as calmly as I could. “Ben!”

He rounded the corner, panicked. “He isn’t there.”

Thunder clapped, retreating. Seconds passed. Lighting illuminated the front door. Something was written on the surface, scrawled deep into the wood.

Mine.


Split Ends and House Flies


They say you need to write every day. I don’t necessarily believe that—mainly because I can’t write every day.


untitled

Shut up Jean-Luc.

Like most aspiring authors, I have a day job. I have a (very) busy family life, errands to run, a house to maintain, and air to breathe. Writing every day just isn’t feasible at this stage of the game.

And, writing in summer? Impossible.

Taking two months off my WIP was a decision I made to ensure the hellions enjoyed their annual eight weeks of freedom. I’m glad I did. My oldest is eleven. In a few years, he might not want to spend his school vacation camping/beaching/laser-tagging with his parents. Now, he does. And I want to spend time with him, too.

All that said, I am fully aware that maintaining a consistent writing schedule is enormously beneficial to writers at every stage. Perhaps all-too-fully aware of it now, as I sit at my computer trying, trying, trying to get words to magically jump from my fingertips onto the computer screen. Getting back into a regular writing schedule after an extended period of time off is hard as hell. Like any skill, the ability to communicate clearly and concisely degrades without practice. Those who don’t write often risk a dramatic step-back in their very ability to work.


Boo-bloody-hoo.

Writing is hard. We all know it.


Life happens. We all have jobs. We all have bills, stress, and the very human desire to socialize every now and then. What separates an author from a wannabe is the ability to get back on the writing horse and stare at the blinking cursor until it starts to move.
Today, I tried to write for three hours AND NOTHING HAPPENED.

Well, that’s not true. A fly buzzed around me as if willfully trying to drive me insane for an hour and a half . . . until I finally killed it. Has-Only-1-Day-Of-Life-Spends-It-All-Trolling-You-Funny-Fly-MemeThen I ate lunch. Then I divided the splitting ends of my hair for fifteen minutes, thinking about Sean Spicer’s appearance on the Emmys last night.

I finally settled on attacking a blog post, because I didn’t really want to think about Sean Spicer anymore and it was obvious it just wasn’t an Old Souls kind of day.


But you know what? Tomorrow I’ll work on my book again.

One day soon I’ll get back into my writing groove.

A little while after that I’ll finish Old Souls.


And it all will have happened solely because I didn’t give up today.


Falling into Gear


The rain is falling outside my window, and for what seems like the first time in months, I can hear it.


Two hours ago I dropped the hellions off at school.  Today my sons head to grades six, five, and two. It’s been a busy eight weeks, filled with days of trampoline parks, camping, laser tag, mini-golf, water-gun fights, and theme parks.


I love summer. I’m not going to lie.


walkway-2030319_1920.jpgI love watching the hellions play soccer and baseball, seeing their hair turn bright blonde and their cheeks become freckled and tanned. I love heat, and Prince Edward Island beaches, and sprinklers on lawns, and the smell of freshly cut grass.

I love everything about summer. Even the storms. Especially the storms, even though they can be hard to hear over the gentle roar of every neighborhood kid in a ten block radius descending on my kitchen to raid the cupboards like a swarm of locusts attacking a crop.

But, I have to admit that fall isn’t so bad, either.

Near the end of every summer I get the same old itch. A creative current seems to electrify the air. And, even though I enjoy spending summer vacation with the boys, every night for the last two weeks I’ve been fantasizing about what life will be like when they head back to school. This morning I woke up up early to go for a run. The sun wasn’t up, so I promptly threw that idea out the window. (Maybe tomorrow?) I got the hellions ready for the day and out the door. Soon, I’ll take a shower, begrudgingly devote an hour to housework, and finally sit down to work on Old Souls.

The goal is four hours a day six days a week of writing, one hour a day five days a week on social media–including the work I put into Scribbles–and, at least a half hour every day of reading.


A couple exciting things are set to happen in the next two months.


I’ve contributed a story to an anthology, The Box Under the Bed, that will be released on Amazon October 1st. (It’s available for pre-order now, btw.) My submission, Cassie, will be featured alongside the spooky stories of twenty spectacular indie authors, just in time for black cat season. The anthology has been compiled and edited by best-selling Amazon author Dan Alatorre, who many of you will recognize as a regular here on Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins.

Shortly after the book’s release, I’m heading to Altamonte Springs to present two workshops at the Florida Writer’s Conference. (And hey, you can register for that here and find out more about my workshops here.)

But, even more exciting than that is while the boys take their hell-raising act to school, Old Souls will once again receive the attention it deserves. The characters will come back to life in my imagination, and soon, they’ll be living and breathing in the imagination of others, too.

Because the book is nearly ready to slip back into the trusted grip of my critique partners. And you know what happens after that?


Publication!


(JOKING.)being-a-writer-its-easy-its-like-riding-a-bike-men-s-t-shirt

There are still a few steps to go after that. But we’ll get there.

Until then, you can expect a more consistent posting schedule here. I’ll be uploading more short stories this year than in previous years. And, as Old Souls becomes tighter, I’ll be able to release a few more deleted scenes. I’m hoping to host quite a few guest blogs too, so: if you have a piece you’d like to share, shoot an email to me at scribblesoncocktailnapkins@gmail.com.

I’m excited to kick the upcoming writing year into full gear.


As always, thanks for coming along for the ride.


J. A.


Under Pressure


After an brief summer break from the blogging world I’m excited to share a fantastic piece written by Lari Burgos–who followers of the Sunday Scribble Challenge may better recognize under the name Larisanjou.

I’m sure you will enjoy the post as much as I did. And hey, don’t forget to check out her site today!


(More specifically this post, women–as a gentle reminder we should ALL be paying a bit more attention to our funbags.)


–J.A.


mokpoThere are unavoidable moments when ice-cold shock wakes us up from our complacency.  Our priorities become clearer and more urgent than ever.  When the impossible seems within reach, thanks to our desperate, unyielding hope.  It turns us upside-down, dispels the cobwebs and shines renewed clarity on our inner truth, the unshakeable purpose of our being, our raison d’être.

I’m one week out from greeting my thirty-first year of existence.


One year ago


I was in Spain with my F, laughing into the sky, and saying good-bye to my twenties. Turning 30, that mystical, perfectly round number.  That age, as it’s widely considered, to be the “end” of my prime.  When we’re supposed to have it all together, and to part the seas for the younger, more viable women, that moment when we reach our social expiration date.  One week before greeting my thirty-first year, I can say I’m just getting started.  Time flows, and I’m following it right along.


January, 2015


Stark text, black-and-white.  My father’s near-fatal car accident.  An ocean away, there was nothing to do but feel, go to work, and continue living. And he survived.


October, 2015


My mom’s first visit to France.  The energizing scent of travel hung around us as I joyously tugged her suitcase full of American goodies past that envelope by the door.  As an afterthought, I opened the banal envelope that contained a bombshell:  my deportation order.  Stomach turned to lead, heart rushed up to my throat.  My immediate thought:  Oh, hell no.  I’m not going anywhere. And I didn’t.  All thanks to an overwhelming support system, whose reach extended further than I realized at the time.


abstract tuned heart.jpgThere is always pressure.


The kind we artificially manufacture within ourselves, and the kind that is universal and ever-present, underlying everything we do in our “normal” lives.

My pressure emanates from within, a tactile reminder of my need to love, to express myself, to write.  The love for my dearest people, for all humanity, is frantic to escape from me, in the best way I know how.  I write.

The lump in my left breast compels me to release that love that desperately overflows from my heart, that my ego is often too afraid to reveal.  It inspires fear, and yet defiantly releases me from that same dread.

Fear is our torch in the darkness.  It’s our intimate friend, because it illuminates that which we treasure most.

Because behind the fear, there is nothing but love and acceptance.

I want to give joy and laughter to my loved ones.

I want to nourish people with my food.

I want to love my husband-to-be, my darling F, until the end of time.

Pressure boils within from this unwanted interloper, pushing my own raison d’être to the forefront.

Strip the fear away, and what does it mean?

To me, it means careful attention to each word, each gesture, each meal, each moment that becomes vibrant with urgency. Each moment I share with my students, my friends, my loves.  When words fail, it comes out in song, in a smile, in food prepared with intention, in carnal desire for my F.  Love finds any way it can to escape from my heart, despite my cowardly attempts to hold it back.  What will people think if I go around, writing, loving, and speaking all willy-nilly?  Normal people might find it strange.

But despite it all, in the face of fear, I have this undying urge.

What do you choose to do in these moments?


thon-e1362450105949.jpgLari is an ESOL teacher and avid traveler.  Writing, cooking, foreign languages, and art keep her mind active, and she’s guided through life by her sense of curiosity.  She blogs at larisanjou.com.


Big News


No, Old Souls isn’t finished. Because c’mon. It’s summer.

But THIS is pretty cool too.


One of my partners in googling things like:

Weird ways to die, how to get away with murder, what it feels like to stab people, how to get over the Canadian/American border without a passport, time travel . . .

chains-19176_960_720.jpg

Oh wait, can they send you to jail for googling that stuff?

*ahem*

One of my WRITING PARTNERS came up with a great idea a while ago. It’s an anthology. A compilation of short stories bound together with a theme. Now, this idea has been shelved a while, but it’s close to happening now.

This anthology will feature stories written by a select group of authors, and PUBLISHED by best-selling Amazon author Dan Alatorre.

And hey, receiving publishing help from a best-selling author is pretty cool.

The anthology could even be tied together with a Halloween theme and released before October 31st.

I’m definitely going to be a part of it.


But the best part? YOU could be a part of it too.


dan

Check out the benefits of participating in an anthology:

  • 20 or so authors all contributing to and helping market a short story anthology. That’s 20x the marketing you’d have to do yourself.
  • 20 authors posting about it on their blogs.
  • 20 authors asking for blog tours and interviews to promote a book YOU are in means 20 times the number of people discovering your work!

And oh by the way, for some of you that’ll be your first published work, so there’s that. Ammy fame awaits.


Do we have your attention now?

Check out Dan’s site for more information.


Hit that reblog button! Let’s give this project the best start we possibly can.


 

 

​Dum Scribo Spero – Guest Post by Sarah Clegg


Sarah Clegg is the final winner of this year’s series of weekly challenges to contribute a guest post to Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins. She’s also a new blogger! Join me and check out her new site, “Stay at Home Socrates.”

–J. A. Allen 


untitled.pngAt the start of May I entered the unfamiliar world of blogging, and set-up “Stay at Home Socrates” on a whim. By the end of the month, I had won J. A. Allen’s Sunday Scribble Challenge to the prompt “Show a Mother’s Twisted Love.” A tad concerning for the mother of two young children. Nevertheless buzzing with the validation of online strangers, I sought undisturbed moments with my laptop like a drug, fingers racing over the keys in a word-fuelled binge. The rest of the time I tested out material in my head, sniggering at my own jokes and tweaking my creations, whilst I just about managed to hold monosyllabic conversations with my tiddlers. For the first time in a while there was a spring in my step.  I had a hobby.

Then as spontaneously as the blog had started, it juddered to an emergency halt.

My body betrayed me and all words, inspiration, puns, and footnotes, were ejected faster than the streams that poured forth in my first episode of gastroenteritis that month. Survival became my only pursuit as I navigated a constant cycle of toilet sprints, bleaching, languishing on the sofa, languishing on the floor and attending only to the most primitive of my children’s needs.


In a conscious act of desperation I send a futile message to my husband, knowing there was no way he’d even consider coming home from work, conscientious to the end.


Note how long it took to get a reply.
At one point I must have nodded off on the sofa, exhausted from wretching and googling ‘catabolysis’.  I came to with a start when the Small One (S1) whacked some Duplo in my face. I allowed her to continue, even when she upgraded to a phone charger as her weapon of choice, rather than face the task of sourcing another form of entertainment.  I then took a selfie to check whether I looked as bad as I felt  and was satisfied with the result.



A quick scan of the room revealed relative destruction.  The Big One (B1) had managed to unlock the iPad and was watching videos of plastic dolls doing pretend poos in potties.  S1 had spread soot from the fireplace throughout the vicinity.  It was at that moment that I knew what I had to do. Whatever it took, I had to summon the strength to deliver B1 to Preschool and get S1 to nap at the same time. The promise of solitary toilet trips and three hours of lying prostrate was too alluring not to at least attempt the gargantuan task ahead.

Even now, with time to reflect, I can’t say how I managed it, but somehow, head pounding, buttocks clamping, I stumbled out into the light of day, and deposited B1 at the hallowed gates. I can only recall key moments of that trip – the despair at having to make small talk with other parents, quickly followed by surprise that no one recoiled at the sight of my blood-stained sclera and emaciated body.


I said nothing about my predicament; had anyone inquired as to how I was, I’m certain my reply would have been a sunny ‘Good, thanks.’


However this approach came at my cost later, when having found slumberous respite , brazenly my phone rang out, re-alerting me of my mortal coil.  Seconds later, the inevitable message arrived with an unwelcome buzz – a child care request from another mum.  For a moment I almost considered accommodating the third child, worried that the confession to my true state would seem implausible; my performance at drop-off had been just too strong.  I bolted back to the toilet, improvising with B1’s Frozen step-up to allow relief of both ends simultaneously, knowing I had to come clean, even if it looked suspect.  The mere hint of germs was always sufficient to deter another parent from sending their child to your home.

It took about a week to recover fully from this episode and to start inspecting food without suspicion.  I even thought about the blog again and worried I had lost my momentum – could I write again, would my audience  have given up on me?  Then the unthinkable happened.  Three short weeks since the first digestive attack, I was struck again.  The injustice was almost as difficult to deal with as the physical symptoms.

Undeterred by my failed first attempt, once again I sent an SOS to my husband when things became too terrible to bear – I worried for the safety of myself and my offspring when I failed to even keep water down. Screenshot_2017-07-14-14-23-53I genuinely wasn’t certain my body, already malnourished from round 1, could survive another onslaught so soon.  He returned home triumphant at 5.30pm.  When S1 failed to sleep that evening, he flung her back to me and proceeded to work until midnight to make up the time lost by coming home early…

I’d like to say I took it with good grace when days later my husband, becoming afflicted with a mild version of the illness, retreated to bed for the foreseeable and indulged in a 100% bona fide ‘sick day’.  However the injustice smarted almost as much as the chilli-laden meals he cooked up following B1’s birth.  As my own bile and diarrhoea abated, pitiless prose started re-circulating in my shrivelled grey matter and I knew I was well on the road to recovery.


Dum scribo spero.


Sarah Brentyn – Guest Post


My life as an Introverted Writer


coffee-1848899_960_720.jpgI’m an introvert. Always have been.

I need time to recharge after major events. Hell, I need time to recharge after answering the door. (When I do. Sometimes I hide.)

I’m definitely not a people-person. It’s not that I don’t like people, just that I wish they wouldn’t come near me. Or talk to me. Or look at me.

Personal space, you know?

I’d say, instead of a social butterfly, I’m more of a social spider. Creeping away from commotion, scrunching into dark corners, hiding behind a web. (I completely just grossed myself out. I’m wicked arachnophobic and compared my people-skills to those nasty 8-legged critters. Now I’m itchy. I hope the analogy was worth it.)

When I was little, people used to be nice about my introverted nature and call me a “homebody.” Now it’s like, “Holy crap, woman. When’s the last time you left the house? You need to put your books down and GET OUT.” A bit rude but, alas, they’re not wrong.

Once upon a time, I had a friend who consistently told me how much happier I’d be if I went drinking and partying with her. I wouldn’t have been.

However, heading for a walk, strolling through a cemetery, watching the ocean…these things make me happy and I don’t indulge in them nearly enough.

So, we’ve established I’m a loner. And that’s okay. Really. It is.

But.

You knew there was a “but,” right?

Here’s where, as a writer, I get into trouble.

I can go from hermit to recluse in 60 seconds flat. I know. It’s impressive. One minute I’m an introspective introvert, the next I’m a shut-in.

Writing is a solitary pursuit. It lends itself to introversion.

I live in my head, constantly writing, narrating, and stowing away encounters for future plotlines or dialogue.

I can bounce ideas off other writers, get beta feedback, and network all I want but, in the end, it’s me and my laptop.desk-602975_960_720.jpg

Though my characters are hanging out here keeping me company, they never ask me to get a beer or tell me to go outside for some fresh air. Never suggest I leave the keyboard to see the sunset.

While I’m content with who I am and love what I do, this life can be isolating. Writing doesn’t force me to leave the comforts of home. So here I stay.

Writer. Introvert. Recluse.

With this combination, I need to be careful. It sucks. It literally sucks the life out of me and my writing. Because leaving the house not only helps your mental health but gives you fodder for stories. Both of which I need.

I have to work a little bit harder than my extroverted friends to get out of my world, into the one outside, have some adventures, and return a little richer in all the ways that matter. Like Bilbo Baggins: There and Back Again.


Author Bio:


sarahbrentyn profile picSarah Brentyn is an introvert who believes anything can be made better with soy sauce and wasabi.

She loves words and has been writing stories since she was nine years old. She talks to trees and apologizes to inanimate objects when she bumps into them.

When she’s not writing, you can find her strolling through cemeteries or searching for fairies.

She hopes to build a vacation home in Narnia someday. In the meantime, she lives with her family and a rainbow-colored, wooden cat who is secretly a Guardian.
She is the author of Hinting at Shadows, a collection of short fiction.


Hinting at Shadows_COVERContact Information (blog, website, etc.):


Amazon: Author Page

Amazon US | Amazon UK

Blogs:

Lemon Shark

Lemon Shark Reef


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