No Kiss Blogfest! Happy January 2nd!

Okay, so I decided to take part in this. Seems like a lot of fun, plus I need the practice. As you'll see by the following.

This is an almost kiss:

Hot, right?

Plus, Chuck Bass? YUM! I couldn't resist.

Anyway...

This is my one-shot.

I'm calling it Impulse.

Hope you like it. Let me know either way. I need to improve. Plus, check out the other entries! :)

So, when you catch your boyfriend mounting another girl at a party, three things come to mind.

One: You want to punch him squarely in the jaw, and keep going until you hear a crack.

Two: You want to break down and cry.

Three: You want to scream bloody murder until everyone sees what a lying scumbag he is.

I chose the secret fourth option.

“Abby,” he bounced from the bed like it was a trampoline, adjusted his zip and fixed his hair. Marcy just sat where she was, didn’t meet my eyes, and fiddled with her t-shirt.

“We’re done.” It was simple, short and succinct. I closed the door behind me, took the stairs two at a time and wanted to get the hell out of there so I could start with option two.

The night had a crisp, bitter feel to it; cutting my skin like tiny needles of ice as I raced down the road, trying not to slip on the slick patches of path. I didn’t care why he had done it—I didn’t even care who he had done it with—but the fact that he had dared to think he could get away with it?

That bugged me.

Tears were threatening to escape from their prison, and I held them in like cold steel bars, picking up my pace. But when I realised it was 2.30 in the morning, I was alone and in a bad area of town, I started to think that maybe I hadn’t been that smart after all.

“Abby!” I whipped my head around and found Max, Marcy’s older brother, chasing me down the street, before he lost his footing on the glistening gravel.

“Max!” I ran to him, but he was already picked himself up and stuffed his hands into his pockets, embarrassed.

“Why’d you leave?”

Did I really want to tell him that his little sister, and my one-time best friend, was testing the springs in his new bed?

Not really.

“I had to get out of there, and I want to be alone. Mind making both of those dreams come true?” I snapped. If I cried in front of him, I’d never hear the end of it.

Max jerked a hand through his hair and seemed to be arguing with himself. Finally he settled on “It’s late. I’ll drive you home.”

Apparently he wasn’t catching the hint.

“I’ll walk, thanks.” Before he knew what was happening, I feigned right and darted into a nearby alley, hoping to loop around to the better lit side of the street.

“Abby! You can’t...” I was faster than Max. And he knew it, but when I came to a dead end, I heard him finish lamely “go that way.”

Growing more frustrated by the minute, from my anger, my resentment and the fact that I was freezing my follicles off, I stopped, jogged in place and started to clench my jaw.

“What happened?” Max said once he’d reached me. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted him to leave me alone. So I hit him.

Again. And again, and again, until my knuckles were sore, his t-shirt was rumpled and he pulled me into his strong arms. Everything just dissolved from there and a salty-sea fell from my eyes and onto his white shirt.

“It’s okay,” he said, hushing into my hair, his breath warming what I thought would be forever frozen. I looked up at him, his messy blonde hair, his earnest green eyes and that crooked smile he always had for me...and I just jumped on him.

My legs wrapped around his waist, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around me. His right hand rested on the small of my back, while his left trailed a lightning storm up my spine, before resting on the nape of my neck, burning me beautifully. I leaned my forehead against his and felt his chest rise and fall against mine. His hand was in my hair, mine were around his neck, and we just kind of....fit. I tilted my head to the right and so did he, inches apart, centimetres, millimetres...I could feel his breath mingling with mine, the scent of peppermint and chocolate catching in my throat...

And then he cocked his head further right and sweetly swept up a solitary tear with his lips, before trailing its path with his thumb, his eyes lingering on mine, and setting me back down to earth softly.

“I’ll walk you back.” He said.

Twice I had been stunned tonight, and when he held out his hand for me to take, I did. It felt warm and secure. But I pulled it away in anger, two seconds later. I was sick of being out of the loop. I wanted answers.

“Why did you stop?!” I yelled.

“Because,” he said simple, not rising to my anger, not stooping to my level. “I don’t want this to be revenge. I saw Marcy and Luke come downstairs after you left. I know what happened. But I don’t want to take advantage of you, because I want this, us, to be something memorable. I want it to be a Hollywood moment.”

Stunned, I couldn’t help but stare at Max. “But...you’re Max?”

“Didn’t stop you before, did it?” he smirked. He held out his hand, and this time I took it without letting go while he guided me to back to his house and car.

“How do I look?” I asked, self consciously smoothing down my hair. Max laughed.

“You look like a mess.” As I made an indignant sound, he continued “but a beautiful one.”

Birds tweeted, music blared, but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and felt the heat rising up my neck.

“Now,” he opened the passenger door and gestured for me to sit in. I stopped at the door, kissed him on the cheek and thanked him. He smiled. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

Nothing, I told him.

“How about coffee?”

Yup, That's it! :)

I may put something up from my WIP.

Hopefully it's a lot hotter!

Peace, love and Lollipops!

3rd Annual No Kiss Blogfest!

Over at http://frankiediane.blogspot.com/2011/12/3rd-annual-no-kiss-blogfest.html

I heard about the No Kiss Blog fest.

Seemed Like fun, so I'm taking part.

For the craic, like.

Besides, isn't the best part of any kiss scene the build up itself? The total yearning the audience/reader feels, empathising with the characters.....

and then it all gets thrown away in one fantastically awful moment.

For a perfect example, watch Season 2, episode 1 of Sherlock.

The last Quarter.

GOOD GOD!

On a side note, I want to have Benedict Cumberbatch's children and would be on Sherlock Holmes in half a second's heartbeat.

That is all.

Now to be a stinker and think of scenarios for make-out sessions that never happen!

WOO.

Ashfall by Mike Mullin:

This is a rare book. One that breathes like a flickering flame, before exploding like an inferno, gathering you in its clutches and refusing to let go.

There are three things I learned from Ashfall:

1) Super Volcanoes are SUPER scary.

2) People are capable of anything.

3) Never trust men with target signs on the back of their skull

Although, if I’m honest, that last one I already had figured out.

Now to the good stuff: The book itself.

This is everything you want from a disaster novel, and everything I hoped The Road would be. The thing is, in a market saturated by post-apocalyptic fiction, this is unique. Because this book deals with the immediate aftermath of disaster, and not as a reference to the past.

Alex, an ordinary fifteen year old on an ordinary day is thrust into extraordinary circumstances when the Super Volcano at Yellowstone National Park erupts. After a series of unexpected and terrifying events, he sets off to find his family in Warren and discovers that disasters bring out the worst in some people.

Particularly when you have this going off in your ears:

YIKES!

The action starts from the get go, and Mullin’s prose is pitch perfect, as he describes everything to great detail, but not to the point where you’re mind is as muddled as a post-volcanic boom. You can see every inch of what he is describing, and this is both a good and bad thing if you have a nervous disposition, because this book is DISGUSTING!

And I love it for that.

I’ll admit it; I love reading thrillers, and horror, so it takes a lot to get a reaction from me. I have read entire scenes featuring decapitation and did not even blink an eye (this probably says something about the desensitisation of my generation, but I say it’s because I’m odd) but when reading this book, the following happened:

I gasped.

I screamed.

I gagged. And gagged some more.

I gagged so much that I was asked if I was okay and offered a glass of water.

And all with a giant, face-splitting grin on my face.

Because gagging while reading a book is not something I have done in a very, very long time. It was a refreshing change.

But don’t let that deter you, this book is phenomenal. It is highly original, artfully written and the characters are just as interesting as the plot.

Ashfall shows that in the face of adversity, when times are tough, people are capable of anything. People will do anything to survive. Because survival is part of our programming. It is part of the human condition.

This is book I want on hand if there is ever an earth-shattering disaster. Firstly, because it’s fantastic, but secondly—and maybe this is more important—it actually tells you HOW to survive a disaster zone. From skinning rabbits, to surviving attacks by psychopathic cannibals.

That’s right: CANNIBALS!

This book has everything!

I can’t wait for the next instalment: Ashen Winter, and to see what becomes of Alex, Darla and the whole gang, as well as seeing more from Mike Mullin.

This is an author to watch folks.

Highly recommend it.

5/5

*I received this ARC courtesy of NetGalley in return for an honest review. I thank them for it*

In the Moonlight: a short story for funzies, and for a contest

So, Merry Sisters of fate are having a contest based on a prompt

Link here: http://merryfates.com/2011/08/08/watcher-prompt-contest-2/

So i thought I'd throw my two cents in and get to writing. So here we go:

IN THE MOONLIGHT:

Only the moonlight, the twittering birds and the guards were outside on the cold winter’s night. The foot soldiers watch the castle, protecting the preciousness that’s hidden inside. The royal family: King Jensen. Queen Annabelle.

And me.

Quinlan stalks outside the horse stables while I hide behind the hay. His sword is poised at his side and a bored expression is etched into every nook and cranny of his face. I am help captive in my castle, and I want out.

The hem of my dress grows filthier and the pungent smell makes me regret my decision to sneak out. But I need to breathe. I need my freedom. I am not a canary to be caged. I only have one life.

I intend to live it.

Once again, Quinlan paces back and forth, his shoe catching the tip of his sword, kicking it as he walks, like a disturbed dance. I almost laugh, but stifle the sound with the trail of my sleeve. I have known Quinlan all my life. His father is the leader of the guards, so he spent many an afternoon keeping me company in the castle, each of us itching to discover secret passage ways hidden in the depths of the stone castle, and only finding secrets hidden behind its doors.

One of which is the bounty on my head, haunting me since my youth.

But two months ago the first serious attempt was taken by the lake, and I only just escaped capture.

Hence the increase in protection detail, and the fraying of my nerves.

Quinlan seems to be alone, bathed in the eerily bright moonlight reflecting off the courtyard.

I wonder...

Hunched behind the hay, I caw like a crow and hopes he remembers our signal from when we were children.

He doesn’t.

I don’t know what disappoints me more: that he didn’t remember, or that I thought he would. Quinlan and I haven’t spoken for three years, ever since he joined the guards and I was sought out for official duties. When my life became too complicated.

When my life was no longer mine to live.

Quinlan pauses for a moment, but shakes his head, thinking he has imagined the noise that incited the shiver up his spine, as it had mine. But unlike him I chose not to ignore the sound. The sound of boot soles crunching against leaves, trying—and failing—to be silent.

Then he attacked.

Quinlan’s cat-like reflexes kicked in, thankfully, as his assailant darted at him with slash after slash. Quinlan parried and defended, metal crashing against metal, ringing out into the night. But no help could be found.

I pause, enthralled and anxious, watching as Quinlan’s movements became more frantic and less skilled. He was getting tired. This could be dangerous. This could kill him.

My stomach drops at the thought. Searching high and low across the stable walls, a scythe cries out to me like seraphim. I slip towards it, careful not to make too much noise. The handle is heavier than I imagined, the long blade coated in a thin film of rust and history.

I heave it from the wall and it crashes into the floor. I cannot lift it, and Quinlan’s grunts become more pronounced and his attacker draws closer. Beside the scythe lies a pitchfork, used to bundle hay together for turning in the heart of summer. I grasp it, feeling its weight reassure me as I hold it steadily at my waist and draw the scythe along the ground behind me, its blade ringing in protest.

The assailant is ten feet away.

He turns at the noise.

This is my chance, and I take it.

The pitchfork is airborne and falls in a downward arc through the muscles of his right leg. He cries out. Quinlan scrambles for his sword, which he lost in the struggle. But despite the blood loss and the pain, the attacker knows his target. He knows I am the one he will get the reward for capturing. Feasts and riches will reign down on him when he serves my head on a silver platter for the neighbouring king.

I can’t let that happen.

I won’t.

His grin grows wide, he tears the pitchfork from his leg and comes toward me, sword drawn and eye menacing. He is the hawk. I am the mouse.

I am about to die.

That is something I cannot fathom. Cannot accept.

Something washes over me, a sudden encompassing calm. I do not cry. I do not whimper. I merely say “Goodnight.”

And once he is close enough, I life the scythe and swing.

There is an arc of blood, a crumpling body, and a rolling head, before the scythe returns to my side and rips my sleeve apart, slicing through the soft skin of my forearm. I grunt and drop the weapon. Nausea roils through me.

I stand, unmoving, and look upon the mess I have made.

“Lina?” Quinlan stares at me in shock. It is enough to propel me across the courtyard, through the back kitchen and toward my room, tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

I climb. And climb. And climb some more.

Finally, the familiar limestone brickwork and flickering candlelight greets me, my bedroom beckoning me for sleep so I can pretend this is all a dream. A terrible nightmare.

Hearing the footsteps clamber up the stairs, reverberating off the secretive stones and turrets, does nothing to settle my nerves.

“Lina,” his voice calls, growing uncertain as he grasps the final footstep separating us, but feeling like a cavern in between. “Princess Lina,” I incline my head toward him, feeling the rush of emotion waving like flags in my veins, and look away once more.

Fear. Nausea. Shock. Uncertainty.

That is all I feel.

All I know.

All I am.

“May I ask why you followed me, Quinlan?” My voice is sharp and bitter as gooseberries, clipped to emulate my position, my god-given right.

What I have put on the line this very night.

Quinlan hangs his head, trying to shake away the shock. “Lina, look at me,”

I say nothing.

I do nothing.

I still.

“Quinlan, leave me.”

“You saved my life, Lina.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I push on the wooden panels, wishing them to fall away beneath my hand, but I can’t seem to enter the room. My breath freezes in my chest, my muscles ice.

“I would be dead if you hadn’t helped. He had his sword poised for the kill. You...you saved me. How can I repay you?”

“You want to help me? Pretend it never happened.” I say, looking at him briefly. His dark hair, his darker eyes. The shadow of the boy I used to know hidden behind the safety of the red guards uniform.

Quinlan grasps my sleeve, fingering the torn fabric and spattered blood. “You’re hurt.” I do not look at him, or speak, but feel his fingers trail like butterfly wings across the wound, holding my arm in his grasp.

“I’ll live.” I whisper.

“As will I.” He says.

“Goodnight Quinlan.” I say, pushing on the doorframe, but am stilled by the fleeting feeling of his lips against my skin, pressing softly against my wound, lingering against my blood stained skin.

The night is still. The castle quiet. Tendrils of my flame-red hair hang free from my braid.

“Thank you, Lina.”

“I miss you Quinlan.” I draw myself from him and enter the room, lean against the dark wood door, and promise that tomorrow is just another day. That living in the moment means yesterday does not exist.

How I wish for this moment not to exist.

Because Princesses are meant to sit pretty and be poised. They are not meant to be armed and dangerous.

The funny thing is, at that moment of death, I had never felt more alive.

Hope you like :)

XxX

Hello there Kittens.

Yes, whatever, I'm a serial blog deserter. If I was in the army, I would so be done for going A.W.O.L.

I'm ashamed.

I apologise.

Now, let's move past this and get to the good stuff.

From now on, this blog will no longer be just books and films ("was it ever?" I hear you cry. Hardy Har har.)

I'm gonna throw some writing on here.

Like many people without a summer job, or in my case, a life, I've taken to writing.

Of course, like this blog, that gets abandoned quite frequently too.

But I just got my first short story published on Paranormal flash fiction, a very cool website folks, highly recommend it, and am using it as motivation to get my ass in gear and get my fingers a'typing. :)

So yeah, this will be the place for me to post my general musings in a not so coherant form.

But I'll throw some reviews in here too, since I find them fun :D

BTW, if you haven't heard, because you're living under a rock, The Hunger Games, March 23rd 2011....BE THERE! :D

Later, friends.

Divergent by Veronica Roth: the review.

This review contains spoilers. Not major ones, but spoilers none the less.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

After a long overdue hiatus, I've finally decided to get off my ass and do some reviewing.

And I could not be more proud to be reviewing Divergent.

Veronica Roth's debut is easily one of the most compelling reads to grace our bookshelves all year.

So, let's get down to business

Summary:

In Beatrice Prior's dystopian Chicago, society is divided into five factions, each dedicated to the cultivation of a particular virtue—Candor (the honest), Abnegation (the selfless), Dauntless (the brave), Amity (the peaceful), and Erudite (the intelligent). On an appointed day of every year, all sixteen-year-olds must select the faction to which they will devote the rest of their lives. For Beatrice, the decision is between staying with her family and being who she really is—she can't have both. So she makes a choice that surprises everyone, including herself.

During the highly competitive initiation that follows, Beatrice renames herself Tris and struggles to determine who her friends really are—and where, exactly, a romance with a sometimes fascinating, sometimes infuriating boy fits into the life she's chosen. But Tris also has a secret, one she's kept hidden from everyone because she's been warned it can mean death. And as she discovers a growing conflict that threatens to unravel her seemingly perfect society, she also learns that her secret might help her save those she loves . . . or it might destroy her.

Sounds good, right?

Well, I have news for you: You have no idea.

This book is a force to be reckoned with; a literary wrecking ball with the force to knock every bit of air from your lungs and suspend you in disbelief and awe, while compelling you to keep the pages turning long into the night.

It's been a while since I have been so captured by a book that I have to force myself to put it down. In the last three years, it has happened only a handful of times.

The two that spring to mind are Divergent, and the other heavyweight in the Dystopian genre, The Hunger Games.

Yes, the genre is becoming saturated. Every way you turn, another dystopian novel pops up and hits you right between the eyes.

I, for one, am thrilled with this development. Dystopian fiction is exciting. The imagined worlds are all possible, if just a few changes are made. Yes, that thought is frightening, but it also makes the novels that much more captivating, don't y0u think?

Anyway, enough with the digression, back to Divergent.

Tris has to choose between one of five Factions once she turns sixteen.

They are:

Tris has to choose, and the choice will change her life forever.

I am always a fan of books that feature strong female leads, and more often than not I am left disappointed. Tris does not disappoint. She is strong, both physically and mentally, and she deals with the trials and tribulations of life in the Factions with clever wit and extraordinary courage. She spends a good deal of the book being bruised and bloodied by other delegates in her chosen faction, Dauntless, but she doesn't whine and cry and wonder why. She deals with it, and I appreciate her more for that.

In fact, all the characters are equally captivating, lovable and detestable, as our protagonist and her trainer, the incomparable Four.

Oh, Four, how I love thee....:)

Serioulsly, a hot trainer, and love interest, always adds to my appreciation of a book. Yes, it makes me shallow, but it's not just how he looks. It's because of who he is. All his little nuances and complexities make Four one of the most interesting love interests I've ever come across.

And it makes me even more obsessively in love with a fictional character.

Of course, this is all due to Roth's amazing writing style.

Honestly, I am more attached to Veronica Roth's characters than I am to my own. Rivers of tears will flow from my eyes if anything happens to them.

I am eagerly awaiting the sequel, Insurgent, and can't wait to get my greedy paws on a copy.

Although, I don't think the I can wait, the suspense is killing me. Or at least giving me peptic ulcers after that ending.

This book gets two thumbs up, and on the crap to cool ratio?

It's definitely reaching Ice-cold awesome levels.

Thoroughly recommend it. To everyone.

But particularly to fans of the Hunger Games.

After all, we need a new obsession, and this thoroughly lives up to the hype.

5/5

Oh, and P.S.--Casting Directors? For the upcoming film, try and get

Skylar Samuels

` or Eliza Bennett

and the lovely Drew Roy

as Tris and Four, won't you?

Sincerely,

a loving fangirl.

So, this is bare....

Yes, I know, I suck.

I probably should post something...

SoI made a Finnick Odair Manip.

You know, for funzies.

I wish I was better at photoshop, but whatever. :)

At least this thing looks a little less bare.