Joely Sue Burkhart

I really can’t share much of the zombie love story I started last week since it’s only a little over 4K.  I’ll share one more piece that sets up the “zombie” element but there’s so much more coming…  Warning:  sexual content

Opening Section.

Screaming, I jerked awake. I clawed at the blankets, flailing toward the edge of our king-sized bed.

My husband reached for me, mumbling, “What’s wrong?”

Relieved, I sank back onto the pillows and rolled into his embrace. Even woken from sleep, his voice echoed with command. He was a man used to leadership, wealthy enough to purchase the best doctors and provide exclusive, expensive care for me. He loved me. I remembered that much.

A wave of nausea flooded my stomach, burning up my throat. I really didn’t want to see any more doctors. Perhaps one–the one who… My head hurt. Yes, he’d taken care of my head. After the accident. The bridge. Pain exploded. Why couldn’t I remember his face? His name? He saved me. Images fluttered through my mind like loose papers, blowing leaves, gone in an instant.

Pillowing my face on Robert’s chest, I tried to calm my thoughts. “I was dreaming. Oh, it was horrible. That doll, her broken face…”

Shuddering, I couldn’t tell him the worst of the nightmare. She was me. I was her. What does that mean?

“That same old nightmare again? Go back to sleep, dear.”

His dismissive attitude stung. Rather, it would have hurt if I could feel anything. I was suddenly aware that I was fully awake, yet I was still numb to my surroundings. His bare chest was beneath my cheek, but I felt no heat from him. I smelled nothing from his skin. Hadn’t he always smelled of cologne, even at night? His chest hairs should tickle, yet I felt nothing but the rise and fall of his chest. Panic gnawed in the pit of my stomach, twisting me into knots.

He made a sound of pain and took my hand in his, lifting my fingers away from his skin where I’d gouged my nails into him. “That hurts, Angelina. What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t speak for the dread choking me. I was still the doll, but I was awake. He rolled up onto his forearm and smiled down at me. Didn’t terror flash in my eyes, dark with the screams of nightmares? Or was it the blank stare of the doll? Which was worse?

He kissed me, murmuring against my mouth. I felt the pressure of his lips, but not the heat or wetness, nor the scratch of his mustache. I clutched him harder, pushing him over onto his back and climbing onto him. Nothing. No heat, no sweaty glide of flesh on flesh. Yet he threw his head back and groaned deep in his throat, his hips arching up beneath me.

He was inside me, and I couldn’t feel it. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me into a rocking rhythm that my body knew but didn’t feel. No stirring fire burned in me. Nothing but this spreading blackness of fear. I plunged harder, faster, desperation driving me to feel something, anything. He drew me down and whispered, “Are you ready? I’m coming, oh, my love…”

Nothing. I couldn’t even cry. He shuddered and made a masculine purr of satisfaction as he rolled to his side and tucked me down beside him. “I like these nightmares of yours.”

I lay there, silent, frozen, strangled with betrayal. How could he be so blind, so oblivious? Didn’t he see? Couldn’t he feel the coldness in my unresponsive body?

This reality was worse than the doll’s nightmare.

 

I’ve blogged before about how Mah Jong does interesting things to my brain.  Unfortunately, my wrists, hands, and fingers are so bad that I cut out playing any sort of computer game.  If I’m on the computer, I’m either working, writing, or doing e-mail/blog stuff.  That’s it.  I tend to go through phases where I’m obsessed (who, moi??) and play until my wrists are killing me.  Which I can’t afford any longer.

But I’ve been really slinging code for the last few weeks at the Evil Day Job and I needed a break.  Something that wouldn’t take “writing” related brain cells, because I’d pretty much lost the ability to do anything but think in calc-lingo, which is a very scary programming language indeed.  Mah Jong was my answer.  As long as I only allowed myself to play a set amount of time, it gave me the break I needed so I could switch back somewhat refreshed and continue working late into the evening.

Then the same weird thing happened again.  I got another story idea.  Not just a character or two.  Not just a scene or two.  But nearly the whole damned thing.  Way too much for me to hold in my brain along with work and writing my current stories.  I blew it off at first, because this has happened before several times.  I’ve never written those detailed flash stories.  It’s like, once my brain lived out the story, I was done.  I didn’t feel compelled to write it. 

This one may be different.  For one, I dreamed about it.  Yep, after staying up way too late writing EDJ code and my brain being utter mush, I went to bed and dreamed about this new story.  It’s got a few very powerful triggers for me personally.  Things I know I’m intrigued by. 

One of the characters is a total bastard yet appealing in a House sort of way.  He’s got a very unique sort of gift/species talent.  In my notes, I referred to him as Alpha, although that’s not exactly true nor his real name.  He has a friend I called Beta, who’s much more than a friend, but not in the way you’d think.  The heroine isn’t like the normal character I’ve thought up before.  She’s known as Mouse — yet she’s strong enough to deal with the jerk of a guy and make him pay, big time.  Boy, does she make him pay in the end — if I can remember the details long enough to get it down.  The whole thing is a set up, orchestrated by him.  The heroine is DEVASTATED and suffers dramatically but survives to come down to the finale.  Will Alpha get his revenge or not?  It’s up to her.

The more telling element of this story is that it’s starting to congeal several other partials and thoughts I’ve had for years (but couldn’t stand on their own into a story) into something new.  My best ideas are always combinations of stories, elements, characters that have rumbled around in my brain for years.

Hmmm.  Better get this one down, I decided.  So I stayed up entirely too late last night writing up some notes after the girls’ basketball award ceremony.  I’ve already forgotten one of the dream elements about the ending, but I noted all I could remember.  I’ve still got several pages I could write down, if I have the time.  Maybe tonight I’ll play a little Mah Jong and see what else I get.

I can’t even give a hint of title or anything to flag this so I’ll know if I ever come back to this story.  I don’t know any of the characters’ names (other than the heroine’s nickname, Mouse).  I don’t have any title or premise comparison.  I guess as a marker, we can call it ChemTrio.  This one may come back to bite my writer’s brain someday.

Isn’t it GORGEOUS??

Release date: 3/9/2008 from Drollerie Press!

My goals were simple last week, which is a good thing because I really didn’t have a lot of free time at all for writing.  I did finish the zombie story, edited it a dozen times (it’s amazing how much work four thousand little words can cause) and shipped it off to Deena at DP.  I made it 3 or 4 mornings dark and early, but didn’t get more than a couple hundred words each morning.  I started work earlier each day, and worked later, and still haven’t caught up yet.  This week, wash, rinse, repeat.

Back to Letters and trying to finish the major new sequence of scenes rather early in the story line.  I’m almost done.  I wrote [this is boring] at one point, so these scenes will take a ton of work to spiff up, but there were some really good conflicts that came up too.  Another facet of Conn’s character revealed.  So it’s worth the work.  The next few tough scenes will be taking existing scenes in Rae’s POV and switching them over to Conn’s.  Finding the balance, searching through his emotions, etc.  Tough.  I was hoping to finish by the end of Feb but… That might not be possible.

I also finished Patricia Briggs’ Iron Kissed yesterday.  I hadn’t planned to — in fact, I planned to work a few hours for the EDJ after church.  From the reviews, I knew it was a pretty meaty book in the series.  I can’t say I’m thoroughly happy with how things turned out, but I didn’t hate the book either.  I’ll admit it made me cry.  Dang, maybe I’m turning into a softy — that’s 2/3 books for the year that have made me bawl!

When was the last time a book made you emotional?

Months ago, my fantabulous editor, Deena at Drollerie Press, challenged me during a chat to write a ZOMBIE ROMANCE.  Think about it: 

Dead People + Love Story = Necrophilia? 

But I have to admit I was intrigued by the challenge.  Could I come up with a plausible “science” that might make a zombie hero or heroine more… er… palatable to the general romance reader?

Despite my interest, it still took quite a while for the story to work itself out in my mind.  I knew it was going to be rather Phantom of the Opera-ish… with a twist.  I had a very strong image of the heroine thinking about eating somebody (that scene never made it into the story, thank God, although she does kill someone.)  But I couldn’t bring all the pieces/parts into a manageable vision in my head.

I’ve already mentioned in earlier blog posts that last week while getting slammed at the Evil Day Job, the story suddenly worked itself out.  After thinking about it for months, I wrote the first draft in two sessions. 

I don’t write much (any before) zombie horror fiction, so I have no idea if the images/motifs I’m using are overdone or not, but I like how it came out. 

Here’s the opening scene of Broken Angel:  A Zombie Love Story.

I dreamed of the broken doll again.

Standing on a bridge curtained with willows and blooming vines, I saw her in the crystal water flowing beneath the stone arch. At first, she looked perfect: lovely porcelain face, large sparkling eyes, and flowing silken ribbons of gold framing her angelic features. Beautiful as she rose from the gurgling stream, she floated up to the bridge like dandelion fluff. She smiled with that Cupid’s bow mouth and walked toward me, stiff and jerky like a mindless robot.

Dread rolled through me, a drowning darkness of cold waters. I couldn’t breathe. My head pounded, my heart struggled to beat. Ice encased my hands, my feet, inching up my arms and legs. I wanted to run before she came any closer, but I was frozen immobile.

Dead leaves rained down; brittle flowers crumpled to dust; ice covered me. My face was stiff and cold, my eyes wide open and staring. Just like that horrible, perfect doll marching toward me with grim joviality.

From the other dreams, I knew there was something horrible about her face, something so terrifying that I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to look.

Peaches and cream complexion, once smooth and symmetrical, now drooped. The eye on the right sat lower on her face, her mouth tugging down into a grimace. A dark slash cut across her forehead, another down her cheek. She stumbled forward, clutching a heavy gold watch, links of chain woven between her wooden fingers. I stared, frozen like a dumb animal, as that face broke open. Porcelain cracked away to reveal…

My face.

 

Sorry, I can’t do Thursday Thirteen this week — I’m putting in some overtime at the Evil Day Job.  I’m so far behind, I figure here pretty soon, I’ll actually be ahead!

Larissa tagged me:

The rules are:

1. Link back to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Share six unimportant things about yourself.
4. Tag six random people at the end of your blog entry.
5. Let the tagged people know by leaving a comment on their blogs.

Six random things: 

1. I read Gone with the Wind three times in high school.

2. I’ve been coloring my hair for so long I can’t remember what my real color looked like.  (I’ve had gray in my hair since I was a sophomore in high school.)

3. My parents named me after a famous actor/actress’s daughter – either Joely Fisher or Joely Richardson – but they can’t remember which one and used to argue about it.  (They’ve been divorced for many years now, but not because of the name argument.)

4. I have a Masters in mathematics but I can’t do arthimetic in my head.  (Although at Princess Monster’s parent-teacher conference last night, they made me take a Rocket Math test in 1 minute and I got them all right.  )

5. My personality is an analytic amiable, which I lovingly call an over-thinking doormat.

6. If I make a promise, I just about kill myself to keep it.  Which is why I’m under such stress at the Evil Day Job lately.  (And I didn’t make yesterday’s deadline.  Boo. )

I won’t tag anybody, but let us know if you participate!

Last week was a toughie.  I did get a little written each morning (around 500 words) so it wasn’t a total loss, but I’ve been under a huge amount of stress at the Evil Day Job.  Slinging code as fast as possible, so much I even moved my ergonomic keyboard and mouse over to my work station because my wrists were killing me again.  (Once you’ve been a computer programmer for over ten years, you don’t actually do much straight coding!  So my wrists are out of practice.) 

Then on Friday late afternoon (when I’m supposed to be ready to turn everything over for testing next week), all my work blew up in my face with an unrecoverable error.  My design is flawed.  Big time.

Needless to say, I wasn’t in a good place mentally this weekend.

Littlest Monster got up Sat. sick and I took her to the doctor (ear infection) while That Man took the other two kids to basketball.  We ran errands all weekend.  Every moment, my brain was chewing on my work issue, trying to think around this wall and come up with a fix.  (I might have — but man am I behind now.)  No writing done — how could I with my brain crammed full of logic?

Then whammo…  The zombie story suddenly made perfect sense.  Anyone who finds it ironic that I figured out a ZOMBIE story after a hard week of work, raise their hand.    Anyway, I slammed out 3K of it last night and am nearly finished — I just need the big climax/resolution.  Maybe it’ll come to me after slinging code all day today…

So not a huge writing week for me until last night, but I did manage to get up 4 days D&E and accomplish a little progress in Letters.  I’m behind there and I’m not going to be ready to start Gregar’s story in March if I don’t find time to outline.

This week, I’d like to finish up the zombie story and get back hard to Letters.  What’s on tap for you this week?

I’m in the mood for a little poetry.  This is from Longfellow’s The Day is Done.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Thirteen Monster Tales  We have three girl monsters aged 9 (Princess Monster), 6 (Middle Monster) and 4 (Littlest Monster, soon to be 5).  Here are a few reasons I call them MONSTERS. 1.”Mom, the tub is clogged.”  Princess Monster gave the dog a bath — and a haircut at the same time. 2.”Mom, the toilet is flooding!”  Middle Monster flushed hair bands and a wash cloth down the toilet and blew up the sump pump.  Not once, but twice. 3.*screaming, wailing*  “Mom, Middle Monster shut Littlest Monster’s hand in the door!” 4.”But Mom, why can’t I sit on top of the swing set?” 5.Princess Monster came home with a bucket of snapping turtle eggs she found at Papa’s farm.  Thank GOD they never hatched. 6. After we looked high and low for TWO DAYS trying to find Princess Monster’s brand new stuffed poodle, Littlest Monster admitted *with a very cute grin* that she’d hid it so SHE could sleep with it. 7.At basketball practice, I suddenly realized that Middle Monster wasn’t wearing any pants.  “I forgot.” 8.”Mom, Dad’s pool chemicals taste yuck!”  *Hello, Poison Control???* 9.”Mom, can I wear flip flops to school today?”  *three inches of ice on the ground* 10.Middle Monster ripped open her diaper and ate poop when she was a toddler, but refuses to eat * because it’s yucky.  (Insert random normal food) 11.Nasty dark footprints tracked all over the carpet:  “But Mom, you told me stay on the sidewalk.  You never told me to stay off the grass.”  *where the dog poops* 12.It’s not a family dinner if we don’t discuss poop and pee at least once with lots of giggles. 13. I never knew something so cute would out-belch and out-fart their father.

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