1. Thank and link the amazing person who nominated you.
2. List the rules and display the award.
3. Share seven facts about yourself.
15 other amazing a carefully curated set of blogs and comment on their posts to let them know they have been nominated.
5. Optional: Proudly display the award logo on your blog and follow the blogger who nominated you.
Three huzzahs to my best blogging buddy, Selah @ A Bibliophile’s Style, for very graciously nominating me for this award. If she hadn’t been the one to initiate this award, she’d be at the top of my list because she is always a constant source of inspiration for me.
So, let’s see. Seven facts, eh? How ’bout something different? How ’bout I give you 7 snippets from fics I’m currently working on. And you tell me which one you’d be most interested in pursuing further?
Okay, game on…
1. It hits me in the middle of 4th period Geometry and it’s a doozy. The pain explodes from the base of my skull and pounds its way relentlessly to set up camp right where my fontanel would have been had I been a newborn. I let go of my pencil and close my eyes, forcing myself to relax because I know from experience that this is the only way to make the throbbing even remotely bearable. I tell my muscles to un-tense and I feel myself sinking bonelessly in the hard plastic seat. I ride out a wave of the intensely paralyzing headache as it makes itself at home in my head and I would have been okay after maybe a couple more minutes of excruciating torture because I know it will disappear as suddenly as it appears. Unfortunately, Cavenaugh is not sympathetic to my episodes.
2. They had boarded the train as per usual. The same contingent of arrogant, aloof Lords and Ladies clad in somber, if festive, winter wear, their dark fur coats and muffs and beaver hats unable to mask the unholy paleness of their aristocratic skins. They were a stoic bunch, none speaking above a polite murmur as they shuffled into the cars, down mahogany passageways, holding on to gilt handrails and finding comfortable positions on the plush leather seats. In comparison, his rickety bus parked the requisite and inconspicuous twenty yards away, devoid of any passengers as of yet since his lot weren’t allowed to mingle with the upper crust, looked even more decrepit and shabby than normal.
3. Danny was six and three quarters when he saw his first Sweeper. Of course, Danny didn’t know to call him a Sweeper then, and he certainly could not have foreseen the dire consequences of this initial sighting. At the time, Danny simply thought it odd that a funny little man clutching a feather duster was shuffling across his living room at three o’clock in the morning.
4. The rabbit didn’t blink when David slit its throat. It just stared at him with glassy eyes, bewildered, as his sharp knife slid through the fur, stuttered at the bone then slipped past and severed the pulsing artery. David let go of the rabbit’s long ears to grasp at its scruff but he was in a hurry and his fingers were slick with sweat. He fumbled both the animal and the knife, cringing as he felt more than heard the ragged ripping of steel on flesh and fat. Gouts of blood gushed thick and red from the gaping wound, splattering both his jerkin and breeches.
A good kill is a clean kill.
5. I am dying.
I know this and yet I’m not afraid.
I’m actually more pissed off than anything else. After everything we went through – all the hurt and insanity, all the preparation and training, all the secrets and lies – it can’t possibly end like this. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my very brief time on earth, it’s that nothing is ever as you expect. Hard work doesn’t always pay off. Planning isn’t everything. The good guys don’t always win.
So I guess I won’t get my Hollywood ending after all.
I am going down bloody, beaten and alone.
Damn it all to hell.
6. Lucas White wondered for the umpteenth time why he had to be the chosen one and how he could possibly get out of it and all its trappings. He hated spectacle, was leery of attention, felt thwarted at every turn by speculation and rumor. He knew he was ill-suited for the nomenclature and wished he could shuck it off like so much dead snake skin. But the sad fact of the matter was that he was, indeed, the chosen one, would remain the chosen one and would probably eke out the rest of his existence as the chosen one, regardless of personal desire to get out of it or antipathy toward it.
7. Perhaps it was the natty three-piece suit and spotlessly black designer shoes. Perhaps it was the shock of golden hair, cropped close to the sides but longish in front on purpose to give him a more roguish appearance. Perhaps it was the plummy British accent and the gallantry that accompanied it. Or perhaps it was the combination of all of the above, making him the perfect, swoon-worthy male specimen. Whatever it was, it allowed Aloysius Crow to expertly juggle four cups of frothy concoctions and navigate through hostile territory with effortless grace. Amidst the throng of impatient Starbucks customers irately jostling for that extra inch in line, Crow was Moses parting the Red Sea.
And now I nominate the following bloggers for always being so encouraging and inspirational in their own, unique ways: Jan @ Fort Smith Sylista, Val @ Muse Fondue, Sue @ A Colourful Canvas, Debbie @ Fashion Fairy Dust.
You ladies rock my socks!