Fuck...

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I’ve been working on Misdemeanor and it had been coming together...until Simon decided to change an important part of the story.

His arrest.

He wants to make it more like it could have been just a misunderstanding. That he approached Paley to ask why he was stalking him in the store. And after that it becomes a he said/he said situation. Which on its surface makes sense...

But doesn’t work, because it really makes no sense.

1. It happens at midnight.

2. Paley is in street clothes, not a uniform, so is like some random guy who could be dangerous.

3. Simon is solitary. He shuns approaching people unless he absolutely has to.

Seriously, he would not just walk up to some random stranger in the middle of the night in a town he’s never been to before and strike up a conversation. That’s not his way. 

There's also the issue that if he does that, it changes the story’s trajectory, as currently worked out. But he’s adamant and I cannot figure out how to do it. 

So I’m blocked. 

I’m fucking blocked.

Have been for two days. On a story Simon brought me, laid out in a particular form, and insisted I tell. Except now he wants it different. Almost like a bait and switch.

The little fuck.

Bits and pieces...

Some of what I've been working on, for Misdemeanor...and I really do want better title. This happens in the second half of the Seventies.

-----

The first time he saw Doyle, Simon'd breath had stopped for who knew how long. Tall. Broad shoulders under a fine gray suit jacket. Yves St. Laurent, he learned later, from the very pricey Frost Brothers. A casual walk along an aisle of dust-ridden paperbacks made even more elegant by the perfection of his legs. 

Seen from behind. 

When he turned to come back another aisle, a soft pink shirt and flashy tie only enhanced the exquisite features of his face. Ice blue eyes. Lips pursed in just the right way. Clean chin sculpted by the heavens. He had to be an apparition, he was so gorgeous. 

He stopped in the action/adventure section of paperbacks and picked up a new copy of Arthur Hailey’s The Moneychangers. 

Without thinking, Simon called over, “That’s a good one. He wrote Airport, too.” 

Doyle glanced at him and picked up a slightly yellowed copy of that book and held it up for Simon to see. One eyebrow perfectly raised in question. 

Simon nodded, feeling completely idiotic. 

Doyle brought both over and said, “Haven’t seen the movie.” 

“It was on TV, last year. Maybe they’ll show it, again. Will that be all?” Doyle nodded...and Simon noticed his eyes were looking straight at him. “Uh, that’ll four-twenty-eight,” Simon murmured as he slipped the books into a bag. 

Doyle paid with a five, saying, “You new?” 

“What?” 

“Haven’t seen you here, before.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Just started. Part-time.” Why did he tell him that? 

Doyle nodded, accepting his change. “Still in high-school?” 

“No. No, Graduated in May. Started at SAC. San Antonio College.” More stupid words. 

But then Doyle looked him over like a cat eyeing a mouse it’s about to have for its dinner, and smiled. “I’m familiar with it. So you work nights?” Simon just nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

Then he licked his lips, winked, and walked out the door. 

And for the next three weeks Simon kept hoping he’d see him walk back in. 

Which he did, just before closing, dressed in a fine pullover shirt and tan slacks. It was still too warm for a jacket. He went to the adult magazines and picked through them, finally choosing a Playgirl and ignoring the glances cast his way by a couple of older men in rougher clothing who were pawing a Penthouse. 

Then ten o’clock came and Simon told him, “I’m closing, now.” 

He’d looked around, smiling. “You here, all alone?”

Simon nodded. “Just for a few hours.” 

“Seems dangerous.” 

“Nobody’s gonna rob this place. Get maybe fifty bucks.” 

“But you’re cute. They might take advantage of you.” 

Simon had no answer to that...until Doyle reached over, put a finger through a belt loop in his jeans, and pulled him close. “Is there anyplace they could?” 

Simon still had no words, but did manage to motion to a door in the back. 

“So maybe lock the door?” said Doyle. 

Simon did, and Doyle led him into the back...

Spooked me...

I had a bit of a freak out, today. There's more and more of me going into this story...and I didn't really catch on to how much till I wrote a section just after Simon's posted bond and been released. 

Walstead, the assistant DA assigned his case to prosecute, talks to him about a deal, which he flat out refuses it. "I've done nothing wrong or illegal and won't say I did just to make your job easier."

He's warned to think about it, because he could go to jail. He goes to the hotel, cleans up, and goes to the client's house, a guy named Northridge, to try and smooth over not showing up, that morning. He only says that something happened and he couldn't make it, but is still willing to o the job.

Turns out Northridge knows he was arrested. It's on the local news. And he uses that to manipulate him into not only making a list of the books, but packing them for shipment. He figures Simon will have to stay in the city for a couple extra days, anyway, to find an attorney and settle other aspects of the arrest.

Northridge also know's Walstead's father, also a lawyer, and warns Simon about how nasty they can be. "They leave me alone and I leave them alone. Best way to handle people like that."

Simon contacts Olivier, the UK dealer he's doing the job for, to say he didn't agree to all of this...but now he's trapped. And this flashes him back to the times Doyle would do the same thing...as did members of his family. Force him to do something he didn't want to do. He thought he was past all that, but his sense of obligation and empathy have roared in, and his self-control is focused on fighting the accusations against him, and he needs all of it.

To be clear, I have never been arrested, for anything. But for years I could be guilt tripped into doing things I didn't want to, and then I'd get resentful for allowing myself to be used. I'd use my love of books to help calm me...like I'm doing with Simon. Retreat into something that can't hurt you.

I can't let myself hold back in this story...but it is digging at me.

The usual changes...

I'm doing the backstory on Simon and Chris...and Chris changed his name. To Doyle Bergeron. His real name is still Jonathan James, which Simon doesn't figure out till much later in their relationship, but this works a lot better. Chris is on the common side and a bit bland. He also let me know he was born in Lubbock, and I can see someone from that town thinking Doyle is a high-tone name.

He's also changed his look, somewhat. I'm using Kyle King's image for Doyle, now. He's got a good expression and Simon wold go for him in a heartbeat. He's also a few years older than Simon, and has a wealthy sugar daddy. So the only reason Doyle would want him is to fuck and be worshiped by.

Until Simon inherits a bit of money from the sale of his grandmother's farm outside Natalia. It's just going to be seven thousand bucks, but that's nearly double a year's wages for him.

Only Doyle winds up with most of it and brutalizes Simon when he wants it back. Simon's younger brother gets some, too, and just ignores his requests for repayment.

That's when he decides to move to Houston and start over. Get away from Doyle and his family. And it works for several years...until Doyle finds him and draws him back in, this time because he's dying from kaposi's sarcoma and has no one to help him.

What's interesting is his experience with Doyle is what makes him strong enough to handle the situation with being arrested. I think. It's still early in the story building process.

More will change, I'm sure.

I'm being kept in line...

This is Max Riemelt, a German actor who is worming his way into my mind as the image of Simon, albeit at a younger age. He fits, in so many ways, but especially his eyes.

It's interesting that's the name the main character chose, in Misdemeanor. Reminds me of the children's game of Simon Says...except my Simon don't want to say a damn thing. He wants to keep his words to himself, because he knows what they will reveal or can lead to. And that is going to be damned hard to keep up throughout the book.

I love working up meaningful dialogues. Sure, I can go overboard and have to pull it back, but it's also one way the characters reveal themselves to me. Show me how they express themselves. I guess that stems from my screenwriting days, when dialogue was everything...and nothing, because the actors would just change it.

But Simon...he's not merely being taciturn. He uses his silence to protect himself. He was in a vicious relationship with a guy named Chris (real name: John James) where just one wrong word could hurt him, and it took him moving to another city to break the cycle with the bastard. 

He's like a cat that's hidden in a bush and licking his wounds after a brutal fight that it damn near lost. And he's found that staying there, silent and observant, is the only way he can feel safe. Even though it's been 40 years since Chris died.

A telling moment has come out about him and Chris. As his abuser is slowly being taken by AIDs, Simon cares for him. Sees to it he gets the help he needs. Reads to him. And despite this, Chris is still verbally abusive...until one day, near the end, he says, "You're just doin' this because you wanna see me die, aren't you?"

To which Simon merely replies, "Yes." And leaves it at that. But when Chris does pass into death, Simon grieves...and doesn't understand why. And I'm not sure I want to explain that.

Or can.

Or even if I should.

Tug of war...

One of the joys I've found in writing is when a character starts talking back at you. You build him. Lay out his who, what, where, how, when and why...and then he takes that and says something like, Yeah, but isn't this better, for me? And it's not what you want to do.

Simon's started that with me. He wants to go left when I'm aiming right in his storyline. I want him to speak...mainly when he's angry and irritated at the other person, but he wants dead silence. Go internal on me, he says. I can think about anything, but I don't share with people. No matter what. 

This happened because I'd started writing sections that hit me. Then I arrange them into the story, once I have enough of them. One was a lovely little exchange between Simon and Walstead, set just before the beginning of the trial. Walstead's learned Simon writes gay erotica and it went like this:

Walstead: We need to talk.

Simon: You have nothing to say to me.

I dunno. Been doing some research. You write some pretty intense stuff. 

What’ve you read? 

I don’t read things like that, so... 

So you think you can discuss something about which you know nothing. 

The synopses alone tell all I need to know. Kidnapping straight men. Tying them up. Raping them. 

You’ve been perusing what’s on Gay Portal. You have to be a member, for access. Was that smart of you, signing up? 

I didn’t. I know some gay men, and one had a membership. He’s a pretty mellow guy but even he was freaked out. Said it got brutal in the...how’d he put it...non-con area. 

Am I supposed to respond to that in some way? 

Makes me kind of wonder if that’s what you planned for Paley. 

This is why you need to read the work, not learn about it second hand. If you had, you’d have seen that every one of the men in my stories who’s abused is described as well-built; hair on their chest, legs, arms and belly; middle-thirties; good strong features; and a thick mane on their head. Paley is their polar opposite. 

He’s well-built...

He’s a juicer who shaves the hair off his body. Including his pubes. 

How do you know that? 

Oh, stop it. I specifically note in every story I write that I despise that. It’s like they want to come across like a little boy instead of a man. 

Y’know, steroids are illegal. I mean, for muscle enhancement...and without a prescription. 

Oh, that’ll prevent its use. 

What makes you think he's on them? 

Look at his face. His jowls. His skin. How his hair is thinning and his muscles are blown up like balloons. He’s even getting bitch tits. It’s like, if I stuck him with a pin he’d pop. 

C’mon, man, you gay guys go for muscles and... 

Don’t be insulting. 

I can still use the stories against you. 

Do you want a list of my work? It’s not just on Gay Portal. There’s Plumbr. BDSM2. My blog on WordPlay has some of the more palatable ones, for you. Oh, and GayTrip. Queer2, too. 

You’re pretty cavalier about what these could do to you, in that courtroom. 

Did your gay buddies tell you whose name is on them all? Did you think maybe that was why they found them so quickly? Google me and the first one that usually comes up is "The Best Way to Take a Straight Man’s Cherry". It’s been banned a few times. People thought it was a how-to manual. 

It’s not? 

Again, the main reason you should read my work for yourself. Courtroom’s open. I’m going in. 

If we don’t deal, here and now, I’m aiming for jail time. 

How the hell did you even get into Harvard Law, let alone graduate and pass the bar? How?

------

Walstead's dialogue is a fine start. Keepable, for the most part. But the only line that's important for Simon to say about his writing is, Whose name is on them? That, alone, tells Walstead to fuck off, without the hyperbole.

Characters laid out...

Lots of chit-chat, today with my characters and the storyline of Misdemeanor...

The treatment  is 7 pages long and fairly detailed. Here are quick snippets of the other main characters. Still working on depth for each...but may let that just happen as the story goes.

Frank Paley, 32, Cop for Barrington Township, Power builder, Straight, he says, tattoos, probable use of muscle enhancers, friends with Brian Walstead.

Olivier Deskin, 56, antiquarian book dealer in London, knowledgeable but prickly, snarky about Simon’s sexual orientation, claiming he’s just joshing. 

Tannen Northridge, 72, worth millions, hard to deal with, wife dead, kids gone all over the world, alone in great house, not a book person. Refers Simon to Villiers.

William Villiers, 80, defense attorney, won’t consider trial, just deal. Anything else is a waste of time and effort, and just stupid. 

Brian Walstead, 32, Assistant District Attorney, Very good-looking, Divorced, friends with Paley, trying to prove self to father. 

Elissa Manville, 30, Walstead’s second chair, Rubenesque but pretty, Boyfriend is not very attentive, has little boy and mother at home to watch him. Sole income.

Vin Tran, 50, owns store where it all starts, doesn’t want to give Simon security tape, thinks will piss off cops. 

Judge Alexander Denton, 49, Criminal Court, Distinguished but right wing, Married, 5 daughters, three grandchildren, may be closet case.

Christopher Westridge, deceased in 1984 at age of 27, involved with Simon in mid-70s, gorgeous but cruel to him. Real name? John James. Sociopathic. 

Dr. Delon Aristide, 36, PhD in Jurisprudence, Attractive and well-dressed, Married, 2 sons and a daughter.

Raymond Harver, 54, District Attorney, Self-satisfied about self, Married twice, son and daughter from first marriage don’t speak to him. Friends with Brian's father.

Arlon Walstead, 62, powerful lawyer in town, wealthy, used friendship with Harver to help Brian because he thinks Brian is no good on his own.

Georg Garisov, 38, Cop for Barrington, About to become sergeant, Married, three kids.

Angelo Corelli, 26, Cop for Barrington, Good-looking and upright-seeming, Single.

Dominqua Lambert, 34, ACLU Lawyer, recent hire. Pretty and self-assured. Involved with Walstead, on the sly. Anti-gay. Did podcast a few years back under a different name, praising MAGA crap.

ReShawn Greene, 46, Attorney with Kaplan, Halliwell and Greene, Stocky and neatly dressed, Married, three girls, seven grandkids. Decent.

Collier Allendale, 74, Superior Court judge., Tall and stately, Married, two children, two grandchildren, one great-grandchild, level-headed.

Benny Reacher, 23, techie, AKA: Snack Attack. He can fix any phone, computer, electronic stuff, tattoos all over, quirky smiles, read some of Simon’s work. “Wild shit.”

The framework begins building...

I spent much of today sitting and talking with my main character in what I'm now calling Misdemeanor Murder...and which I'm still not crazy about. I do need a better title.

This is what he's revealed of himself.

Simon Halloran, 69, gay but celibate. Insulted people think he'd make a pass at the juice-junky cop who arrested him. Looks like an older Bing Crosby. Thinning red hair. Slim but not skinny. 5’9” and 155 lbs. Bites nails.

Born in Nathalia, Texas Moved to San Antonio when dad got job at Kelly AFB.

Had a brother and his wife get $2500 out of him to help with dental expenses, turned out was really for one of her sons from a previous marriage to get him out of a jam. Never paid back.

Aunt, uncle and cousins cut him off when found out he’s gay, nothing overt just went silent on him, no sharing, nothing.

Now lives in Buffalo, NY, away from everyone in his family.

“I can’t be hurt when no one is around to hurt me.” 

Mom neurotic but kindly. Passed away 15 years earlier.

Father dismissive due to being effeminate, focused on brothers and sisters. Died from diabetes 23 years ago.

Trained himself to be more masculine as he grew older, now just kind of bland, on the surface.

Presbyterian upbringing.

Writes and posts stories about kidnapping and raping men, what he calls ditties on his blog, on Tumblr, through GayDemon and other threads. Some very brutal. Unapologetic when confronted with it. “I don’t do it; I just fantasize.”

Loses self in SF and Fantasy, and writing gay erotica. Always worked in book stores on a minimal existence, but lots of free reading. “What more am I worthy of?”

Semi-retired, talked into going to Barrington, OH to archive a book collection as a favor for a friend.

When in 8th grade would draw sketches for girls (of boys they liked) and boys (nude females), for 10 cents each, till two boys tried to blackmail him. He refused. Got in trouble, suspended. Picked on when returned but stabbed one tormenter in arm with a pencil. Said was an accident. Uproar but nothing could be done. Here is when he first realized he will not back down in the face of being threatened. Quietly told the boy the next pencil would go in his eye, so left him alone, after that.

As a young gay man in San Antonio, got into a relationship with Darren and was treated like shit. Emotionally and physically abused. Raped, but when he tried to report it was told he’d go to jail for being queer. Financially devastated but managed to move to Houston to get away.

Darren died of AIDs, in Austin. Simon both glad and sad about it. HIV negative.

Near end of the book, in a confrontation with the cop who first arrested him: What a stupid man, Simon thought. He can’t think beyond his nose. Can’t see threats are nothing to me. I’ve never given into threats. Never will. I can’t. There’s something in me that refuses to allow that. And I told him. But he doesn’t believe me. The stupid, stupid man.

Stephen King on writing successfully

This is from 1988...and some is no longer valid. But still good to check out...especially if you've violated 7 of the 12, like I have:

1. Be talented. This, of course, is the killer. What is talent? I can hear someone shouting, and here we are, ready to get into a discussion right up there with “what is the meaning of life?” for weighty pronouncements and total uselessness. For the purposes of the beginning writer, talent may as well be defined as eventual success – publication and money. If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn’t bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented. 

Now some of you are really hollering. Some of you are calling me one crass money-fixated creep. And some of you are calling me bad names. Are you calling Harold Robbins talented? someone in one of the Great English Departments of America is screeching. V.C. Andrews? Theodore Dreiser? Or what about you, you dyslexic moron? 

 Nonsense. Worse than nonsense, off the subject. We’re not talking about good or bad here. I’m interested in telling you how to get your stuff published, not in critical judgments of who’s good or bad. As a rule the critical judgments come after the check’s been spent, anyway. I have my own opinions, but most times I keep them to myself. People who are published steadily and are paid for what they are writing may be either saints or trollops, but they are clearly reaching a great many someones who want what they have. Ergo, they are communicating. Ergo, they are talented. The biggest part of writing successfully is being talented, and in the context of marketing, the only bad writer is one who doesn’t get paid. If you’re not talented, you won’t succeed. And if you’re not succeeding, you should know when to quit. 

When is that? I don’t know. It’s different for each writer. Not after six rejection slips, certainly, nor after sixty. But after six hundred? Maybe. After six thousand? My friend, after six thousand pinks, it’s time you tried painting or computer programming. Further, almost every aspiring writer knows when he is getting warmer – you start getting little jotted notes on your rejection slips, or personal letters . . . maybe a commiserating phone call. It’s lonely out there in the cold, but there are encouraging voices … unless there is nothing in your words which warrants encouragement. I think you owe it to yourself to skip as much of the self-illusion as possible. If your eyes are open, you’ll know which way to go … or when to turn back. 

2. Be neat. Type. Double-space. Use a nice heavy white paper, never that erasable onion-skin stuff. If you’ve marked up your manuscript a lot, do another draft. 

3. Be self-critical. If you haven’t marked up your manuscript a lot, you did a lazy job. Only God gets things right the first time. Don’t be a slob. 

4. Remove every extraneous word. You want to get up on a soapbox and preach? Fine. Get one and try your local park. You want to write for money? Get to the point. And if you remove all the excess garbage and discover you can’t find the point, tear up what you wrote and start all over again . . . or try something new. 

5. Never look at a reference book while doing a first draft. You want to write a story? Fine. Put away your dictionary, your encyclopedias, your World Almanac, and your thesaurus. Better yet, throw your thesaurus into the wastebasket. The only things creepier than a thesaurus are those little paperbacks college students too lazy to read the assigned novels buy around exam time. Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule. You think you might have misspelled a word? O.K., so here is your choice: either look it up in the dictionary, thereby making sure you have it right – and breaking your train of thought and the writer’s trance in the bargain – or just spell it phonetically and correct it later. Why not? Did you think it was going to go somewhere? And if you need to know the largest city in Brazil and you find you don’t have it in your head, why not write in Miami, or Cleveland? You can check it … but later. When you sit down to write, write. Don’t do anything else except go to the bathroom, and only do that if it absolutely cannot be put off. 

6. Know the markets. Only a dimwit would send a story about giant vampire bats surrounding a high school to McCall’s. Only a dimwit would send a tender story about a mother and daughter making up their differences on Christmas Eve to Playboy … but people do it all the time. I’m not exaggerating; I have seen such stories in the slush piles of the actual magazines. If you write a good story, why send it out in an ignorant fashion? Would you send your kid out in a snowstorm dressed in Bermuda shorts and a tank top? If you like science fiction, read the magazines. If you want to write confession stories, read the magazines. And so on. It isn’t just a matter of knowing what’s right for the present story; you can begin to catch on, after awhile, to overall rhythms, editorial likes and dislikes, a magazine’s entire slant. Sometimes your reading can influence the next story, and create a sale. 

7. Write to entertain. Does this mean you can’t write “serious fiction”? It does not. Somewhere along the line pernicious critics have invested the American reading and writing public with the idea that entertaining fiction and serious ideas do not overlap. This would have surprised Charles Dickens, not to mention Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner, Bernard Malamud, and hundreds of others. But your serious ideas must always serve your story, not the other way around. I repeat: if you want to preach, get a soapbox. 

8. Ask yourself frequently, “Am I having fun?” The answer needn’t always be yes. But if it’s always no, it’s time for a new project or a new career. 

9. How to evaluate criticism. Show your piece to a number of people – ten, let us say. Listen carefully to what they tell you. Smile and nod a lot. Then review what was said very carefully. If your critics are all telling you the same thing about some facet of your story – a plot twist that doesn’t work, a character who rings false, stilted narrative, or half a dozen other possibles – change that facet. It doesn’t matter if you really liked that twist of that character; if a lot of people are telling you something is wrong with your piece, it is. If seven or eight of them are hitting on that same thing, I’d still suggest changing it. But if everyone – or even most everyone – is criticizing something different, you can safely disregard what all of them say. 

10. Observe all rules for proper submission. Return postage, self-addressed envelope, all of that. (Not really valid, anymore)

11. An agent? Forget it. For now Agents get 10% of monies earned by their clients. 10% of nothing is nothing. Agents also have to pay the rent. Beginning writers do not contribute to that or any other necessity of life. Flog your stories around yourself. If you’ve done a novel, send around query letters to publishers, one by one, and follow up with sample chapters and/or the manuscript complete. And remember Stephen King’s First Rule of Writers and Agents, learned by bitter personal experience: You don’t need one until you’re making enough for someone to steal … and if you’re making that much, you’ll be able to take your pick of good agents. 

12. If it’s bad, kill it. When it comes to people, mercy killing is against the law. When it comes to fiction, it is the law.

That’s everything you need to know.

Coming together...

A Simple Misdemeanor is the new working title for this next book. A story of how a small incident escalates to the point of murder and destruction. I've been going over an outline I wrote, back in December, and making notes. Adding details. All in red pen.

I've also worked up a basic idea of how the convenience store is set up, where things get started. A rough sketch but it's just for my visualization, since it plays an important part in the story.

Of course, I'm getting into something I know very little about--the true legal processes involved in escalating a simple misdemeanor into a full-scale legal war. Simon doesn't need to know much about it, but Brian does...well enough to manipulate the law to benefit himself.

I guess I can write it out using what little knowledge I have...from watching LA Law and Law and Order...not to mention Perry Mason, once upon a time. Then go over it with an attorney who handles defense, in court.

There's also the issue of the judge and what standards he or she has to have. What is considered misconduct in criminal court? I know they're usually handled by the issuance of a citation instead of a full-scale arrest...

But the cop needs to actually arrest Simon, making this a bigger deal. Could his claim Simon exposed himself within 600 feet of a school be sufficient cause? Even though it's around midnight?

Oh, man...I have a lot of research to do. See what I can get away with and what I can't.

Psycho me...

As is usual for my manner of writing, suddenly I'm lost in thought about a story outline I worked up over Christmas, back when I was trying to figure out what to do now that I'd finished A Place of Safety-Home Not Home. And I blame a quote by Lao Tzu I saw in an Instagram clip for it.

Care about what other people think and you will always be their prisoner.

It's not the quote that got me, so much, as how his name was spelled by the people who made the post. Loudsu! Check the screengrab.

Yeah, sure, that's how it's pronounced, but spelling it phonetically was way off the beam...and shows how stupid even smart people can be.

Anyway, that kicked my brain in an odd way...and I started thinking about Arrested, again. (Bad title. A Simple Misdemeanor would be better.) It's the story about Simon Halliwell, a man who claims he was arrested without cause or justification and won't take a deal, so the case goes to trial...and gets nastier and nastier.

A couple of the characters started talking to me -- Brian Walstead, the assistant DA, and Elissa Manville, his associate...but they were not talking with each other.

Brian realizes he fucked up, big-time, by prosecuting Simon based on Officer Paley's word...and it's coming back to haunt not only him but the whole team in the DA's office. He and Harver, the DA, are in an intense discussion over who to blame in order to minimize the damage this is causing.

Paley is now facing accusations of perjury and false arrest, and two of his fellow cops are accused of conspiring to commit perjury, to help him. Harver is pissed because if Brian hadn't gone through with the trial he'd have had just the false arrest to deal with and could have made it go away. But now IAD has to look into it, and the police department is furious.

Brian thinks blaming Manville might work, despite the fact she cautioned against him pursuing the case. His father did it once, blaming an intern for a late filing in a legal matter and saved not only the case but his own reputation...albeit at the destruction of the intern's chances of becoming an attorney. Harver thinks that might work.

However, neither of them knows Elissa is friends with Harver's receptionist, who's letting her listen in on their conversation via the intercom. And she's recording it on her phone. When the man calls her in to prepare the path to blame her for the growing fiasco, she uses that recording to protect her own position. I support my mother and my child, so don't try to fuck me over.

That's when Brian's father joins with his son and the DA, and they decide the best way to handle the growing crisis is to have Simon permanently disappear. Otherwise, they're all going down. But Mr. Walstead is even more pissed off at his son...and disappointed in him...and is letting him know it.

It's turning into a serious storyline, for me...and I do not want to let that go.

Now comes the fun...

I need to figure out a way to make Darian's Point compelling and scary and meaningful, but as of right now, I don't know exactly what to do to achieve that. I know the outline. The structure. The characters. Who does what to whom and why...all except for the why it matters part of the project.

I know it does have a reason to become a tale...but right now, no one is sharing that with me. There's the basic moral attitude of cheating on your spouse is bad and causes problems way beyond anything you can imagine. Not very interesting, really. You can get that in any romance novel.

There's the idea that a slavish devotion to honor before death is not the same as doing what is right. But that seems contrary to what a story like this is aiming for. Especially since the rest of the book will show that Caoimhín's death brings a sort of horrible peace to his clan, giving them the opportunity to rebuild their lives after years of war and destruction.

With A Place of Safety, it took me years to find the meaning in it. That Brendan was just a lad who wanted to live his life...but the world would not let him. Even then, it took me writing the whole of the story to finally accept that he was fighting to not let history rule his life. I was going to have him join the IRA and commit a murder at the end, as a sort of surrender to the inevitable.

But after I wrote it, the whole moment felt hollow. Then he slowly...deliberately...dragged me back to show how he did not want to surrender to that sort of evil. He found a path he could take that would let him be who he is, and would protect his family. A quiet path separate from the slaughter. Not perfect, but by his choice.

That was hard to get to. I'd rather not have to go through that, again. This is a gothic/horror story...and maybe I'm attaching too much importance to it. But I'm going to be working on this beast for a couple years, and I want it to have some meaning to it.

I'm just that grandiose, in nature.

Last part of the prologue...

The soft, tender, chilling laughter continued as the creatures slipped up to dance around Caoimhín in movements as playful as they were sensuous. Three of them, there were, twisting and turning, so well-wrapped in the thick mist they almost seemed human. Their laughter verged on being musical. Joyful. Welcoming. 

Caoimhín watched them grow closer and closer. Refused to look away until their forms began to shift into the beasts he knew they were. His first thought was to escape. To pull himself free from the straps and run. But that meant a coward's life and would not be worth living. So he gripped the stones tighter and focused on the whispering gray around him. 

A talon appeared from within it to caress his cheek. Cut into his skin. He grimaced and grunted in pain. Blood coursed down to his neck to stain his tunic. 

He shook with fear but still made himself growl, "You will toy with me!? Now!? Play your evil games!? Now!?" 

The laughter grew darker and more cruel. Hisses worked within it. Another talon appeared from the mist to slice across his chest, rending both tunic and skin open. 

He barely kept from crying out, then gasped in a breath.

It was time. 

It was time. 

He closed his eyes and choked out a whisper. "Caera...Caera, I...I come to you. Forgive me." 

Then another talon whispered up, accompanied by the cruelest laughter, and sliced through his throat.

Mícheál heard his brother's strangled cry and had to fight back sobs of grief. This was Caoimhín, his brother, his dying brother, and he was losing the battle to control his pain, losing, and that could not be because then he'd be crying before the men he'd sworn to lead, men who needed to respect him and follow him and he could not allow that but he could not stop the towering waves of loss and sorrow crashing over him until in desperation he gripped his brother's sword and thrust it into the air and howled, "Caoimhín Ui Briúin! Caoimhín Ui Briúin!"

His men joined him, in unison. Swords high above their heads. "Caoimhín Ui Briúin! Caoimhín Ui Briúin!" 

Over and over and over they cried the name. It echoed across the water to their land. A lament to let their world know that the evil which had terrorized them had finally been tamed. 

And that Caoimhín Ui Briúin was of this earth, no longer.

--------

This prologue sets up the horror and tragedy of what the rest of the story will be about...and adds a level of fear to the parts set in 1910 and in modern day. Knowing what is in store for the lead male to face.

The image I used to illustrate this section is of Poulnabrone, a portal dolem I visited on my first trip to Ireland in 2002. It's an ancient burial site, and I nearly drove past it en route back to Galway.

I took the photo.

Continuing...

From the 17th...Until the first laughter came...

-----

It drifted past him as a beautiful whisper of tenderness. Soft. Gentle. Cold and cruel. Seductive. Like the quietest of bells. More followed, echoing through the darkness. 

"Stand firm!" he said, stronger but barely in control. He ached to reach for his sword. To slash at the things he knew were close by. He had to grip the edge of his tunic to keep from doing so...and tore the fabric.

Then a hand barely caressed his face. Soft fingers trailed along the line of his chin. Tenderly touched his cheeks. The laughter light but joyous and teasing. It drifted into his ear on the barest trail of breath. The finger gliding down his neck, still soft, almost loving...until he felt sharp talons drag along his skin. Cut into it. Tear open a sleeve of his tunic. 

"We are not to be harmed!" Mícheál cried, fighting his fear. His hand on the handle of his axe. "It is your promise!" 

The laughter echoed around him. Hollow and terrifying. Evil to the core. 

But also softer. 

And softer. 

The sounds drew farther away. They were keeping the oath. They were headed for Caoimhín. 

Mícheál felt such relief in this. His men had not been harmed. But an instant later, the horror of what was about to happen returned to him. 

Caoimhín heard the soft genial laughter draw closer and closer. But this time...this time there had been no cries of pain or terror, not like so many times since the beginning. For that, he was thankful. 

The mist grew lighter and three forms appeared in it. They had the look of women, beautiful in shape and movement, but he knew what they were. He was the only man who had seen them and lived.

It was in the midst of an attack on his settlement. The mist surrounding them all, to where nothing could be seen. He was searching under Aoibhinn's flowing branches, trying to find his brother, who was protecting the child named Pádraic from one of them.

He could barely hear the sound of howling, from both Mícheál and that beast. And the sharp whipping sounds of his axe, the only thing that could keep one of them at bay. 

Caoimhín was rushing to help but heard shrieks of death and turned to see the mist part for a moment... 

To show four of his best men being slaughtered by a thing that had the form of a woman, to be sure. Her head and upper body. But in place of hair, black shining feathers flowed over her neck and shoulders, and while she did have hands, they were part of powerful wings that made up her arms, black and shining, each of them longer than a man was tall. Sharp cruel talons gleamed on her fingers, also black, and her lower body was covered in more feathers with claws for feet and larger, sharper claws.

She used them to tear his men to shreds without the least bit of trouble, their swords and spears having little effect against her. When she was done, she'd flicked their bodies aside like they were nothing.

Then she had turned to him and that hideous laugh had drifted from her. She had flown at him, shrieking like some mad beast. 

“Femlimid!” he had screamed at Mícheál. “Femlimid!” 

Then he had slashed at both the creatures with his sword and knife, distracting them enough to give Mícheál time to grab the boy and dive into the stream under the cover of Aoibhinn’s drifting branches.

One’s claws still dashed into the water to grab for him, but Caoimhín used its distraction to plunge his silver dagger into the base of its skull. It screamed in full horror and anger, causing her sister to dance back, in shock. 

This gave Caoimhín the chance to jump into the water and hide in the reeds. The wounded beast’s screams of pain cut through even the silence of the water. Shrieks that would chill the blood of any man, living, as she slowly, slowly died. 

Then came the howls of anger and frustration, roaring wild enough enough to make the bravest man run in terror as her sister flew about the reeds, trying to find him. She dove and danced around and dove, again. 

But then another of her sisters howled in pain and others called in fear and she danced up and dashed away, giving Caoimhín time to slip away...and find Mícheál had hidden the child in a narrow cave between the roots of the great towering oak, Fedlimid. 

It was after this attack that Morriggan and The Dagda had joined with them, and within the course of one moon a treaty was forged with terms agreeable to both sides.

Now the Ui Briúins were honoring their part. And it seemed these things would honor theirs, as well.

One more done...

Everything picked up and gone. I drove straight back home, with my back aching and feeling like dirt. The back, I understand. I shifted around a lot of heavy boxes, yesterday, but everything else? Stomach. Sides. Neck. Old man complaints.

I was also dead tired so wound up taking a nap about halfway. Just pulled into a rest stop on the tollway...kicked the seat back and slept for about ten minutes. It's not comfortable enough for anything more than that. But it helped the weariness.

I didn't stop to eat. I had a Hillshire Farm meal so ate that and had some DPZ as I drove, and just kept going. I told myself I'd get some Mexican food when I got home...but didn't. Just nuked a cafe steamer and ate that...and got the worst gas off the fucking broccoli.

The one good part about this drive was that as I was passing along the Mohawk River, I glanced across it and saw an Amtrak train heading for Buffalo, on the other side. Five cars. Scooting right along. And it paced me for a good fifteen minutes. 

I was going 70mph in a 65 zone, using cruise control to keep it at that. Lots of troopers out looking for tickets to give, so didn't want to get too fast...which I can do. And that train was right there with me.

This is the route Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint took in Alfred Hitchcock's North by Northwest. Heading for Chicago. I've ridden it, myself, many times and it still entrances me. Takes 8-9 hours and there's a layover in Albany, but it's still a lovely time.

One more bit of the prologue...

The job I'm on turned into a full-scale repack of every damned box when I was supposed to just verify were okay for transport. So I wound up condensing 56 boxes down to 41. And I'm exhausted. But it had to be set for pickup, tomorrow. Then I drive home, and I'll need a week to recover from this.

I've been posting bits of DP's prologue to keep myself going on the story, reworking it as I go along. Here's another bit:

------

Morriggan positioned herself behind Caoimhín and said, "Repeat after me." Her voice sharp and angry. "Thiocfaidh mé a thabhairt duit." 

He hesitated then whispered, "Thiocfaidh mé a thabhairt duit." 

"Tá mé an Ui Briúin anseo de réir rian Dé." 

"Tá mé an Ui Briúin anseo de réir rian Dé." 

"Táim ag fannacht leis." 

"Táim ag fannacht leis." 

"Tar chugam." 

He hesitated, could barely say the last..."Tar chugam." 

The wind exploded in sudden fury, snapping and whipping like the worst of storms. Clouds boiled across the sky in madness, bringing near darkness with them. The sea, so calm and easy when they'd crossed, now churned and crashed against the rocks below, as angry as it had ever been. 

Only the straps bound around his wrists kept Caoimhín in place. He tried to gain a hold on the posts to lessen the pain of them cutting into his skin, but could not. 

Then at the base of the black rocks across the water he saw the mist grow thicker. And thicker. It seemed to climb the towering Cliffs...then pause...then change direction to whisper towards the island. 

In the very face of the wind. 

Unnatural. 

Unyielding. 

Growing closer. 

Closer. 

He forced himself to remain calm. He knew his men could also see it coming and each knew what it meant. The thick boiling mist had hidden much of what happened within it, so they had only the idea of what monsters it hid.

But Caoimhín knew. He had seen them, and knew he had to remain strong for his men, so he did not dare glance at them. If he broke, now, they would as well. In answer to his growing fear, he pulled back at the straps...

Then he saw his brother’s face, unyielding. They cast each other the slightest of smiles before Caoimhín turned back to watch the mist approach. Refusing to let his eyes shift away. Forcing himself to stand solid, immovable, ready.

"I am Fedlimid," he murmured. "My roots dig far into the good earth. My branches give shelter for all. Nothing shall move me." 

Suddenly the mist parted. Whispered to circle around the finger of land. 

Caoimhín jolted. It only did this to surround his men before they were slaughtered. Why was it happening now? Was the oath not to be honored? Would Mícheál know to hold? To wait? Not to panic? His breath grew sharper. Shakier.

He filled his mind with one thought, Hold, please hold in place. This has to end, please hold. 

Mícheál saw what was happening. He glanced at Morrigan. She was like stone. He looked to The Dagda. His face was hard, unmoving. They expected this, he told himself. 

He stood straighter and tied Caoimhín's sword next to his own. "Stand firm," he said, his voice much calmer than he felt. "Those things want to trick us into breaking our oath. Stand firm." 

He heard the men murmur but also did not hear a single sword being withdrawn from its sheath. They trusted him, now, and he would sooner die than break that trust. 

A moment later, the mist whipped over them. Blotted out all light and sound. Everything. Mícheál could not even see his hand before his face. He had to shuffle his feet to remind himself he was standing on solid ground. The silence was so complete. So cold. So much like death...

Until the first laughter came...

The prologue continues...

Mícheál understood and stepped up to beside him, his eyes sharp on The Dagda as he said, "We have agreed to honor our side of this pact, and have presented our choice..."

"I...I cannot allow it,” Morrigan snapped, backing away. “I will not!"

Mícheál looked at her. "You would break your oath? Violate the very agreement you demanded?"

She hissed, drew herself up and cast him a glare of purest contempt before snarling, "You dare question my honor?"

He was unmoved. "We know what we ask you to do, Caoimhín and I." He turned to The Dagda. "You know, as well. Are the Tuatha De Danann truly this weak? Is the clan Ui Briúin superior to you all? You are willing to do as you choose, when it suits you." And his voice dripped with contempt. 

The Dagda drew near to Mícheál, growling, his anger close to exploding. "Watch your tone, boy." 

Mícheál did not even grow tense. "Have I earned none of your respect?" His eyes were unyielding. 

The Dagda hesitated then spun away from him with a howl.

Morrigan glared at the man, disdainful.

Caoimhín finally raised his gaze to her. "So what is it to be? Do you keep to your oath, or do we continue as we have? We will not back down nor stop until we have finished it." 

She turned to him, now cold and in control. “No matter the cost?” 

He drew in a deep breath. “No matter the cost.” 

"Then...step forward." 

"I will," he responded. 

He turned to Mícheál, removing his sword. "Here. You must lead our clan, now. I know you will do better than would I." 

"I cannot agree with that." 

"And you will...you will care for everyone and..." 

Mícheál nodded, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. "To my dying breath." He accepted the gleaming blade and whispered, "Give Caera a kiss for me."

Caoimhín looked to the other men. "I am proud to have been at your side, through these times, and I know you will do well by my brother. But for now, you must keep your swords in their sheaths, as per our oath." Then he cast a sharp glance at Morrigan. "So long as it is honored."

"It will be," she spit. 

With a pat on Mícheál's back, he strode up to Morrigan to look her straight in the eye. "Let's be done with it, witch."

Anger filled her face. "I give you runes to hold, one in each hand. To lead you to the next world." She offered them to him. Each had a runic symbol, one for strength, one for peace. She motioned to the post. "There are two thongs, again, one for each hand. Slip them around your wrists." 

He saw the thongs were positioned through holes in each post, with loops. He stepped to between the two posts and thrust his hands up into each one, still holding the stones. Then Morrigan twisted the outer loops, binding his wrists tight against the posts before jamming a peg into the hole to hold them in place. Now Caoimhín's arms were stretched wide. He could not easily move. 

The Dagda kept himself turned away, his eyes locked on the far cliffs. His cloak barely moved by the gentle breeze. His stance tight and still angry. 

Caoimhín sneered at him, saying, "Have you no stomach to face this? Are you nothing but your looks?"

The man turned to glare at him. Hurt colored his eyes but he stood strong and straight and focused on Caoimhín. 

The younger man looked across the water at the black towering Cliffs. A mist had begun to build at their base. He grew tense, a hint of fear now in his eyes. His breath was sharp and shallow. Above him, the white birds screamed in fear and fury.

With a flick of one wrist, Morrigan silenced them, saying, "Bheith imithe."

In moments, they were gone.

The sudden silence screamed around them all.

Decided

The two prior posts and this one have shown me this works best as the opening, and the harpies reviewing it from the air is better at the end. May change my mind, again, but as of now...that's how it will go.

-----

The Dagda hid nothing. His face was so filled with rage, it was a fight to keep himself under control. But he had promised to remain silent about the agreement...and was being good to his word. Still, it unnerved Caoimhín to see the man's anger. It helped that he knew it was aimed at Morriggan, and not him.

He stopped his men on the side of the grassy finger, slightly down the slope. This part was wider than he'd thought. Had room enough for a settlement to be built. It also rose higher above the water than he'd estimated, so would be quite secure. But then he realized...

This sharp bit of land pointed directly to those black, towering rocks, beyond...as if to say, There...there lies your destiny. 

Of course. That was why this spot had been chosen. It brought a sneer to Caoimhín's lips.

He turned back to eye two thick wooden posts that were planted in crevices of the rocks. They were perhaps two arms-length apart, both very solid, and taller than even The Dagda. Leather straps hung from each and runes had been carved into them, adding to their ceremonious feel.

Caoimhín hesitated, glancing from them to The Dagda to Morrigan, then drew in his deepest breath and snarled, "We've come, witch. Let this be done."

Morrigan drew haughtier, her expression now cold and nearly cruel. "Do you agree to the conditions of the oath?" she asked.

Caoimhín nodded. "These horrors must be ended in some way, and if this is how, so be it."

The Dagda glanced between them, almost ready to argue...but then he decided against it. The agreement had been difficult enough to forge without him adding his last-minute reservations.

Morrigan all but smiled, her voice like a purr. "So be it. Which of you is the offering?"

"Myself," said Caoimhín.

That word jolted Morrigan, as if she had been slapped.

The Dagda jumped forward. "No, Caoimhín, I cannot allow..."

"It is not your decision," Caoimhín snarled. "It is our choice. And it is to be me."

"Caoimhín," Morrigan whispered in a voice so soft and alluring, it could break the heart of a stone. "It is not you we expected to...I mean...this is not what we wanted. This not what we...what we..."

"Why not?" And he cast her a glare filled with such hate and anger, she took a step back. "You think I would allow some other man to take my place when I am the one who brought this horror upon us? Should I not be the one to finish it?"

“You were not the one who...”

“Had I not been such a child in mind and spirit, we could have avoided everything, so I accept blame and call for...” 

"That is abject nonsense!" The Dagda snapped. "I refuse to allow this travesty to..." 

"Keep your fancy words to yourself!” Caoimhín growled, shifting his glare to the man. “My brother tried to counsel me in my anger. My father attempted to instruct me. But I would not listen, so it is I who brought...who caused...I who..." 

His voice trailed off. He did not trust himself to speak further.

Reconsidering...

I'm thinking I may shift this to the beginning of the story and shift from the harpies' POV to this and back. Could that be too confusing? Perhaps theirs should be at the end...

---

Caoimhín sighed and looked ahead. Saw a tiny strip of land that barely crested above the water. Inish Ciúin, he was told. Tiny Island. The name was right. It was low and mostly flat, its rocks the color of darkness. Very little green showed there was very little earth. If his thoughts were correct, a man such as himself could circle the damned thing in less than half a day. Not a fit place for anyone to live.

"The witch chose the best spot," he muttered.

He caught a glimpse of a small strip of sand slightly to their right and pointed to it. Mícheál looked and nodded and shifted the helm, hoisting a banner above his head to signal for the other boats to follow. He did not bother to make certain they saw him; he knew they would be right behind.

Now Caoimhín could see a finger of land jutting from the side of the island, to his left. It rose a bit higher than the rest of the soft hills and pointed in the direction of the sun.

And it was covered in green. 

Why is that so? he wondered. Why does this one area look so rich? Is it more of her magic?

A closer look showed the hint of two figures atop the tallest part of that bit of land. One male, one female, both gleaming and golden in the midday sun, even from this distance. Standing still. Watching them. Waiting. 

Mícheál saw them, as well, and drew in a sharp breath of anger. "I see no boat on the sand," he called to his brother. 

"Did you expect to?" was his response. 

"I would like to think, for a moment, that they were at least a little human." 

"They are nothing like us." Spoken with a soft chuckle. 

"I know. But I still hoped..." 

You would, Caoimhín thought. You would. 

Their boat slipped up to the sand and he jumped into the water to stride ashore. The oarsmen followed him and pulled the boat the rest of the way up on the beach, then Mícheál joined his brother.

The other boats followed them, and soon two-dozen men were gathered together, all of them strong and proud. Each had a tunic freshly made, similar to Caoimhín's and to be worn only for this occasion, and each held a gleaming sword and shield. Their heads were protected by thick leather straps detailed with runes to ward off the worst of horrors, while pelts surrounded their feet and calves. Their eyes were dark and dangerous, and all were focused on Caoimhín. 

I have to say something, he told himself. I have to let them know...

"If any wish to back away," he said, his voice strong, "there is no dishonor in it. Not this time."

None of the men even drew so much as a breath of concern.

He smiled and nodded to them, then pointed to the green sliver of land to his right and said, "So to the witch, we go."

He turned and led them straight across the rocks. It was not an easy patch to cross. Untold eons had scarred the stones to where they were uneven and small crevices cut between them. Many areas were slippery and wet. But there was no other way that was better, and even if there had been, Caoimhín had no wish to delay this final confrontation.

Soon the two who were waiting for them were in full view, watching them approach. Both tall. Both regal. More like brother and sister than husband and wife.

The male? The Dagda. A god to Caoimhín's clan; an evil jokester, to Caoimhín. A thick cloak of a deep rich blue hung from his shoulders, and his ornate helmet was of silver, as were his sword and spear. He was the only person any of them had known who could make Caoimhín look weak and simple, in comparison. For that, alone, he would have hated the creature. 

However, Morriggan was a hundred times worse, for Caoimhín knew her too damned well. Her clothing was also in white and embroidered in gold. Her cloak the same as The Dagda's. Her manner just as haughty.

From a distance.

Once Caoimhín was close enough to look into her expression, he noticed an odd sense of...wariness? Unhappiness? Sorrow? He could not tell. He thought she would have been glad for this day to come, not fighting to hide her true feelings. She had fought for it hard enough.

Possibly the ending...

Jumping around I got this done...

The water was too still. Too quiet. No wind. The face of The Dagda’s vessel cut across the surface with little trouble, so oars pulling it at a surprising speed. Above, the sky boiled in grays soft and cruel. Not unusual for it was not yet time to planting the grain. Yet still it mocked the meaning of this day. Mocked Caoimhín with its joyous dancing so far above, and he was not one to be mocked. Not after the last five harvests. 

He wore a tunic specially woven for this moment, its rough cloth colored in a mixture of the darkest earth and the shining deep red of blood. Skins were wrapped around his feet and lower legs, bound tight and painted with protective runes. He wore a pelt to hold back the chill and occasional spray from the ocean, and was glad for this. It would not do for his body to be covered with water on such a day; it might give the wrong impression to his enemies. To those he despised. 

His boat was the lead of three. Simple crafts built from carved wood, their interior wrapped tightly with the black, gleaming skins of large creatures from the sea. What had he been told they were? Seals? An odd name for a fish. The boat was barely large enough for him and six oarsmen, three to each side. They carried the same basic look as Caoimhín and had initially wrapped themselves in skins against the chill. But now all those lay on the floor, for the simple act of thrusting their oars into the water provided heat enough for them. 

Caoimhín's brother, Mícheál, was at the helm. Their passage was swifter than expected, due to the silence of the wind and the ease of the sea. Behind them, the crafts kept pace carrying men Caoimhín had known since boyhood. Again, all of them with the same dark hair and strong feel, and not one of them unscarred. Not one of them willing to back away from what they knew was to come. He was proud to have them with him. 

Caoimhín looked to his left at the endless ocean. It could carry a man to the edge of the world, and he thought for a moment it might be better to aim for that...but what would he then find? Another life to live? Anything? Nothing? Would he even be allowed to make the journey? He could see hints of anger in the water beyond a certain point. The Dagda’s fine boats would not easily cross there. 

No. 

No, that way was for cowards, and Caoimhín refused to number himself with the likes of them. He had seen too many in recent times. What good was a life lived without honor? Without self-respect? He had learned this lesson in ways hard and brutal. Vicious and cruel. He could not toss it aside on a whim. 

He sighed and looked to his right at the black rocks that towered above them. Taller than a hundred men. Brutal and unyielding, slashed here and there by hints of green, with more grass on top. The edge of his past domain. He had once been to the top of those rocks and thought that was the end of the world, but then had looked down to see, so far below, creatures of the air, white birds with wide wings whispering above the water as it thundered up with white foam to shatter itself against them. Small wonder he had thought this was the end of the earth, and beyond nothing but angry water. It was not hard to believe. The wind had pulled at him in ways inhuman, back then. Almost trying to carry him over the edge. But now? Now the silence was there, as well, and the water barely touched the base of the rocks. 

No winged creatures danced amongst the crevices and caves it held, today. It seemed all of them were above him. A flock of white birds on the wing, thick in number and so silent it was as if they did not truly exist. They paced his boats, hovering above them, easy and steady, like a soft shield of protection. No cries from them. No mewing. No diving into the water for a fish to feast upon, not like they would do when his men drew in their nets from the water, near home. Then, they would steal anything they could, like rats. But today? 

Today, they were his honor guard. Caoimhín chuckled. What a silly thing to believe. Something a child would think. Something Mícheál might still think, him being the sensitive one. The one still connected to the earth. The one who had warned them it would come to this. Who had all but begged Caoimhín to follow his head and not his heart. Who had been labeled coward by many, but who also bore the honorable marks of battle. 

Caoimhín cast a gentle look back at his brother. Received a near smile in answer. Younger by two summers, his face was even more open and honest. His hair like the rich earth that brought forth grains. His eyes soft and the color of slate. One could see how their features lightly shadowed each other, but where Caoimhín was like the trunk of Fedlimid, Mícheál was the branches of Aoibhinn, the gentle willow, who stood with her sisters by the narrow stream passing their settlement. The younger man was just as powerful as they in his willingness to bend and not break. It was with no hesitation Caoimhín now thought of him as the bravest of them all. For he had foretold what would happen and had refused to be set aside, not even from the ordeal to come. Not even from today.

I may have found it...

I'm doing the opening as a prologue...and here is how it's turning out. Nowhere near perfect, yet, but getting there:

The sky is pure in its beauty and grace. And there is no wind to fight us. On such a day as this. A day of ending. Of pain. Of anger placed aside. This day should be dark and sad but instead claims joy in every way.

Manannán holds back his storms. Calms the sea. Lets the world seem whole and alive and filled with promise as he stands on the distant waters. Watching. Waiting to see if all is fulfilled. It would seem our mother’s plea to him was successful.

Our mother.

Morriggan. 

Calling us forth to seal a pact no one wished for. But which was needed to end the battles between us and the clans of Hibernia before the land became barren of life.

We float high above in a space three times the height of the sharp, dark cliffs below. The angry white creatures of the air swirl between us and the still, still sea. So quiet and easy, even as it rushes up to the rocks at the foot of that black wall of land. They silently hover over three fine vessels cutting through the water, so far below. They offer the illusion of protection to them.

Protection.

Those vile, shrieking, biting beasts can protect nothing. They could give only a warning as we approached to do battle. Could only cause us a moment of hesitation in our attack. However, that was hesitation enough to give the clans time to hide our prey from us in ways we could not counter.

Now? They were worthless, even unto themselves. Only hiding a clear view of those small, sleek crafts carrying our enemy to our point of destiny. A tiny bit of land they call Inish Ciuin.

As a triangle, they whisper across the tender waves. No sails unfurled but oars dipping down and pulling in quick crisp motions. Worked by men strong and burdened with memories, whose scars from battle match ours, in number and meaning. All have seen death in its worst phases, yet still they follow he who led them there.

He whom we most despise.

At the fore of the lead vessel, he stands. Full of himself and his abilities against us. Certain it was only by his hand our defeat grew close. Believing without question his cleverness is what made us agree to this pact. Our derision swells against his bold arrogance. Had he not received help from the gods, soon he and all his men would have been sent to the world below.

Such stupid beings, men. They decide what is and is not, and nothing shall sway them from their belief. It would be laughable, but this is no time for laughter. This is only the time of sorrow...and ending.

They called us the Cailleach Bhéara, for wont of a better understanding, even as our mother told them differently. She did not form us to be such childish things. We are Harpyiai, Robbers From the Air. And her mission to us was simple, if unkind. To end a prophecy. 

Instead, it shall be fulfilled. 

That understanding has become key to this moment.

Reading...

I'm reading a Dover edition of The Tale of Genji to give me an idea of how to figure out the language I need for the opening of Darian's Point. I knew of it but I had not read it. I happened upon it when I stopped at a book shop while out and about on errands, this afternoon, almost on a whim...and there it was with a row of other Dovers.

They tend to be cheap but decently bound copies of books that are in public domain. That way, they don't have to pay royalties, and they have a nice deep library of them. They also used to be exclusively paperback, but seems they've expanded into hardcovers that are relatively inexpensive.

Lady Murasaki has a nice, arch style that's giving me ideas. This translation by Arthur Whaley is quite readable. That can a make a huge difference. When I first tried to read Anna Karenina, by Tolstoy, it was a very literal translation into English...which made it hard to get into. But I found one that was much smoother and it became my favorite book. Their translation of War and Peace was a close second.

Unfortunately, Russia's actions in Ukraine and the brutality of her invasion have led me away from Russian literature. It's revealed too much about the true nature of the Russian people, and I can't look at the books in the same way, anymore. I feel like the humanity and beauty of Tolstoy's writing...and Chekov's and Dostoyevsky's and Turgenev's...is a false portrait of the Russian people. Almost like a lie.

I can't really explain why I feel so strongly about that, I just do...and it really pisses me off.

The struggle is real...

I can't find the voice I want to use to tell the beginning of Darian's Point. I like verse for the harpies' comments; it has a greater heft when relating their actions and feelings and pain. But I can't do that all the way through; it would be unreadable. Yet when I write something in a narrative style, the verse makes those words seem childish and hollow.

I know it's still early and it did take me a while to find Brendan's voice for APoS. But I also remember how much work it was to get there...and that much of what I'd written I had to chuck because it no longer worked. Some of which I'd really liked.

I'm also wondering if I need the same voice and style to use throughout the three portions of the story. Should I go for a more ancient manner of speech in a Gaelic form for the first part? Or maintain the verbal style of Brendan's father, when he's telling the myth? Use a straightforward narrative style in the second part? And do first person in the last part, from the viewpoint of D'Arcy? She's a young Irish woman manipulating Perry O'Brien, the last descendent of Caoimhín's, into confronting the horror cursing his family.

I don't want to go first person with Perry. I don't want readers to know if he lives at the end or sacrifices himself to end the curse. If he's telling the story, that pretty much establishes what happens.

But seriously, what I've worked up so far is on the level of bad Danielle Steele gothic romance nonsense. What someone once told me was a modern bodice-ripper. I'd like to think I'm better than that.

I'd like to...

I blame DST...

Woke up in a foul mood, this morning, and it sort of messed with the whole day. I'd like to think it's due to Daylight Savings Time coming around, again, but I think I was also having a rough dream. All I remember from it is that I was asking Elizabeth II why we didn't have a pastry with our tea...and I think I was upset about it.

It's really weird, but whenever I recall any part of a dream, not long after something happens that reminds me of it. Like the dream is an advance warning system I've got, or something. I dunno. It's just happened so many times that I can't shrug it off as weird. It's just part of me.

I was raised Presbyterian, and they basically believe in predestination. I don't really understand all of it; we didn't go to church that much. Neither my mother nor my grandmother could drive, so we didn't have a car...and the church they belonged to was a mile and a half away. If Nana planned to attend services, she'd call a cousin of ours who lived close by and ride with her.

Mom and I would go along, usually, and I'd do the Sunday School thing as they did their thing, but it never really stuck. It stayed like that till mom decided since her second husband was Catholic, becoming Episcopalian would be a good a compromise.

Spoiler alert...it wasn't.

Now I'm an atheist. I see what's going on in the world with that beast in the White House joining forces with that beast in Moscow and doing all they can to destroy not only Ukraine but also the United States. And I see tens of millions of Americans worshiping him like a god...and it just proves to me God does not exist.

We're simply part of a chaotic existence that will end, someday. And maybe the books I've written will live on after me and maybe they won't. I just don't know. All I can do, right now, is keep pressing forward in ways I already do and try not to let it wreck me.

I halfway think the dream I was having, last night, was telling me it's not going to be good.

Second part of the outline...

A seagull sees Caera is obviously with child and reports it to Morriggan. She casts runes to find it will be a male child, and confronts the Dagda, vicious argument. No longer a secret that can be kept. She's more upset about him getting a lowlife woman pregnant with than him screwing around. Keeps the child’s sex quiet.

Morriggan's child arrives and takes after Caoimhín’s dark looks. The Dagda realizes and now can throw her own infidelity in her face, which pisses her off more. She refuses to accept the girl, but the Dagda won’t let her give her away. Considers taking her to the Ui Briuins. That makes Morriggan relent and act like she cares for the child.

But then she casts runes and learns her daughter and Caera’s son will wed and bear a son, who will bear a son...and their blood will be cursed till the death of the last Ui Briuin. 

Morriggan calls her adult daughters. This prophecy cannot be allowed to occur, so they cast runes to find Caera. Their plan? To kill her and the boy. 

Caera is gathering reeds and is separated from other women when she is surrounded by a mist. 4 figures appear -- 3 of them Morrigan’s daughters...and then Morriggan drifts up and cuts Caera’s throat.

Baby’s back in the compound, safe. 

Caoimhín is en-route back with kill when hears of Caera’s murder. He is beside himself with grief. At first, he is accused but has alibi; hunting with brother and father. Witnesses tells of the mist surrounding Caera for a moment. Caoimhín’s father says, “That’s how the Tuatha de Danann came to island.” 

Caoimhín, father and men go to Tara and confront The Dagda, who is shocked. “She had my son?” Morriggan is furious that he knows. “So what if the child was a boy?” The Dagda realizes what Morriggan has done and tells her, “If you touch him, you are dead.”

She reminds him he coerced a mere woman into sex. Not exactly innocent. The Dagda acknowledges he did wrong and renounces Morriggan as his wife. He walks across Ireland to the Cliffs of Moher, as penance, then washes his sins away in the waters far below.

Morriggan snarls about the hypocrisy of men and their attitude towards women. With the help of her daughters, she forms The Dagda’s sins into 7 harpies, forbids them to ever harm a female, and sets them loose on the land to kill every male child they find (hoping to get Caera’s boy).

Slaughters occur. Caoimhín and his father build an army to fight the creatures. They manage to kill three of them, but at great cost. Even Morriggan is horrified by what she has started, but the harpies cannot be controlled by her. They're viciously upset at her cold birthing of them and snarl, “Why no man for us? Why only loneliness?” Plan to keep killing. 

Morriggan joins with The Dagda to force a compromise by helping to kill another harpy. This finally convinces the creatures to back down or they will be annihilated. They agree to live in the caves of the Cliffs, safe from men, and come out only during storms to feed on fish in the sea.

But as an inducement, every hundred years a young man of the Ui Briuin bloodline is to be offered in sacrifice to them. Morriggan finally realizes her actions have made certain the prophecy is fulfilled...and she is devastated by it.

This section of the story ends with a replay of first scene, this time from Caoimhín's POV as he offers himself up as the first sacrifice.

Rough outline

This is part of what I've got for the first outline of the beginning of Darian's Point:

Opens with three harpies flying high above, watching Caoimhín Ui Briuin and his men cross the sea in small boats. Waiting for them are Morriggan and The Dagda, the leaders of the Tuatha Dé Danann, at Darian’s Point, a peninsula on Inish Ciuin, a small island near the Cliffs of Moher. 

The men are battle-scarred and angry. They have come to offer one of their own as a sacrifice, for peace. Caoimhín declares himself to be the one. Morriggan is not pleased, and neither is the Dagda, but they have to accept.

They go through a ritual. A mist builds, blocking out everything, then the three creatures swoop in and Caoimhín is killed as he begs forgiveness from Caera. 

Five years earlier, Caoimhín and Caera talk of wedding, she’s gathering reeds. Playful and in love, everything seems perfect. He hears a horn signaling a new hunt party has formed, so rushes off. 

Shortly after, the Dagda approaches, a blond, elegant, handsome man. He sees her. Talk. He’s headed home but a storm is coming. Probably won’t make it. She takes him to their crannog.

Caoimhín’s father agrees to provide the Dagda shelter for the night, even though the Tuatha Dé Danann have been rather haughty with the darker, more earthy Ui Briuins, whom they see as lowlifes. He's even given a hut of his own, to honor his high standing.

The storm blows in. Caera serves him, and he flirts with her. She’s flattered and reciprocates. 

Caoimhín returns from the hunt with just one boar. He sees Caera with the Dagda and is jealous. Father tells him to cool it, the man is a guest. Caoimhín storms off. Caera is angry with him, then she is seduced by the Dagda...but in a way that veers close to rape.

Seagull sees and goes to tell Morriggan. Furious that he’s with a lowlife woman, she casts runes to find the one Caera cares most about, and it’s Caoimhín. Morriggan finds him atop the Cliffs of Moher, looking out over the stormy ocean. She seduces him...and becomes pregnant by him.

Caera also winds up pregnant. Everyone thinks it’s Caoimhín’s, but he denies it. They are forced to marry, but he will not sleep with her. “Dream of your god-man.” 

Many months later, Caera has a boy. “Born with hair the color of moonbeams, and eyes as blue as the sky...and already open.” This is not considered good. The Ui Briuins have dark hair and brown eyes, so everyone now knows the child is not of their bloodline. Caera admits baby is the Dagda’s. That Caoimhín has never been with her.

Caoimhín refuses the child and Caera. His father takes on their responsibility, angry with Caoimhín for his unwillingness to accept human weakness. Hopes he doesn’t regret it.