Reader's Review: "Becoming Nikki" by Ashley Elliott

Synopsis from Amazon:

What would you do if you were given the opportunity to rebuild a broken relationship?

Alec and Nikki Scott are the perfect ice dancing duo, executing flawless technique and brilliant performance abilities each time they compete. No one doubts their camaraderie, not even their closest friends.

But looks can be deceiving. Off the ice, their relationship is in shambles. Ice dancing is the only thing they have in common anymore... and Alec wants to quit.

Just as Nikki feels like their relationship can't get any worse, an unexpected tragedy crashes into her life. She's left struggling with a difficult choice as her opinion of her brother slowly starts to change.

Whatever she decides, she knows her life will never be the same.
>>>>>

My Review:

This book was especially exciting to read because I was actually one of the first ones to see the rough draft of this novel in its first stages. The author and I happened to be in the same writing group, so when she started posting snippets of some of the scenes of this ice dancing brother and sister team, I and the other members of the group did not hesitate to encourage the pursuit of the tale in our efforts to foster the development of quality literature.

First of all, I applaud the solid premise. Brother and sister ice dancing team with dreams of competing on a national and Olympic scale find these dreams shattered when the brother has a diving accident. Where do they go from here?

The issues this story deals with are very real and pertinent to the target age group, the young tweeners who are still trying to figure out who they are, much less how they should fit in with the people around them, particularly their own siblings.

A book rises and falls by its characters. I have seen books with a great premise and a fantastic setting... But all of this was rendered flat and monochromatic by the cardboard-cutout characters. If one can go to any one page in a book and only read the dialogue, and someone who has never read the book can still picture the kind of person speaking, then the characters are strong. 

That being said, I couldn't help noticing that all the girls on the "cast" of "Becoming Nikki" tended to sound alike, and all the boys sounded alike, which might have been detrimental, but Elliott makes it work by developing people with differing tastes. They may talk alike, but the difference in the sorts of things they talk about helps the reader be able to tell them apart. So, full marks for characters. (Except Bennett was kind of cheesy... Based on a friend of the author's, perhaps?)

Not only does the dialogue need to be strong, but it also needs to be realistic. A fourteen-year-old will discuss things that interest or concern someone with the responsibilities of a fourteen-year-old, and she won't use a lot of multi-syllabic words or complicated terms to do it. 

While the dialogue in "Becoming Nikki" is fairly realistic, there were times that I felt it a little bit over-cliched. But maybe that's just me; and maybe it is how teens behave, somewhat, but overplayed and repeated to the point of cheapness, at least when put in a novel. Maybe I'm complaining too much.

I will say that the dialogue was strongest between two characters; the weakest was Nikki's inner monologues. I felt like the way Nikki talked to herself showed probably more ignorance stretched over a longer period than the author perhaps intended. But as a writer myself, I understand the difficulty of such things, so I don't discount it as a total loss. Elliott makes a valiant effort to make her point, and it certainly shows.

Also I got more annoyed than entertained by the repetitive cheesiness of Bennett. I mean, there are cheesy pickup lines that actually manage to be clever, and there are proper times to use them. Unfortunately, the character apparently missed the clever ones and used the ultra-cheesy ones far too often. Cute, but not quite.

The plotline as a whole fell a little contrived, since most of the driving force relied on characters being clumsy and falling and hitting their heads. Not to spoil anything, but using concussions as a vehicle for reconciliation is a bit much. I could understand using the first concussion as the "Inciting Moment".... But then to basically repeat it when all should have been said and done in the denouement seemed like a cheap way out.

Additionally, I felt that there was sort of a disconnect between the blurb and the title of the story. I mean, sure it's from Nikki's perspective, but I never quite got the sense of "becoming" as one might expect from a book with this title. Also, (*minor spoilers*) I didn't ever feel like the situation was quite as dire or "revolutionary paradigm shift" as the blurb made it out to be. Just an observation--and yes, it did influence the scoring. Yes, Nikki has a choice to make, but it never really came off as totally earth-shattering.

Other than that—and the strangeness over the amnesia (but again, that just might be me personally; who knows but the author is writing from experience?)—the plotline of the book did progress at a reasonable pace as the characters worked through their issues.

I will say, the resolution is good. It wasn't Mary-Sue-ish, in that the main characters overcome the challenge to become the undisputed champions of everything (as Mary Sues are wont to do) but it leaves the reader with the satisfaction of knowing that the characters are going to be all right, and better people for having gone through this experience. (Though Bennett's pickup lines never got any better...)

Overall, "Becoming Nikki" is a solid read, and ****4 STARS**** is a pretty great debut for Miss Ashley Elliott! I look forward to more from her in the future!

Further Reading: (Family Dynamics/Clean Reads//Trauma/Drama/Realistic Fiction)
The Vemreaux Trilogy--Mary E. Twomey
       -The Way 
       -The Truth
       -The Lie
The Painter Place Saga--Pamela Poole
       -Painter Place 
The Goode-Grace Mysteries--Cyn Mackley
       -American Goth
Dawn of Steam Trilogy--Jeffrey Cook
      -First Light
      -Gods of The Sun 
      -Rising Suns 
The Shaudrey Universe Series--J. E. Mueller
       -Fire's Song
The Time Tree Chronicles--Lisa Rae Morris
       -The Emergence 
The Cadeau Series--Connie Olvera
       -Who Can You Trust?
The Alexander Legacy--Sophronia Belle Lyon
       -A Dodge, A Twist, and A Tobacconist 
       -The Pinocchio Factor 
 

Serial Saturday: "The Telmar Trilogy, Vol. 3: The Legacy of Telmar" Part 1

"Melanie was about halfway through the opening when her
sensitive fingers felt a sensation they ought not have: grass..."

" . . . And it is with great pleasure that I am able to present to you the Graduating Class of 1949!"

A rousing cheer went up from the crowd. A great weight seemed to drop from Peter's shoulders as he stood after that long ceremony. He grinned hugely as he looked behind him for his family and saw Melanie jumping, clapping, and waving for him.

How much she had changed from the pale, pathetic, terrified creature they first met! She had become a regular part of his life as easily as a coat-rack.

And as silent as one, too, Peter thought to himself.

He was not five paces away when Melanie, unable to contain herself, ran forward and threw her arms around Peter. He laughed and returned the hug, his long robe fairly swallowing the petite girl. Lucy joined her at Peter's side, then Edmund, and soon the whole family gathered in a congratulatory group hug. When it was over, Mr. Pevensie took the opportunity to congratulate his son in a more masculine manner—a handshake. "I'm proud of you, Peter."

Peter nodded, "Thank you, sir."

By this time, the rest of the family was on the way back to the auto. "Hurry up!" Lucy called over her shoulder, "Maybe we can reach Demark Hill in time to see Susan!"

Susan! Peter felt a tug at his heart. For six long years after her absolute denial of Narnia, Susan spent an increasing amount of time with fellow student Benton Northwyn. Peter tried once to confront him on his impropriety with Susan, but the arrogant, knowledgeable young man had reassured him at first, but then defended his actions, and at the last discussion, Benton had turned downright patronizing! Susan, of course, did not appreciate this "interference," when she heard of it, and felt free and independent to confront Peter about it.

Ever since that day when she defined maturity as rejecting Narnia, she had become very fixated with everything else "grown-up": parties, shopping, lipstick, and boys. Poor, temporally minded Susan! Even Lucy, her one-time confidant, was not fully aware of the circumstances, only that she rarely heard two words from her sister any more.

The Pevensies arrived at Demark Hill just as the principal ended his speech. Melanie's quick eyes saw Susan first, and she grabbed Edmund's arm and pointed.

"There!" he cried for everyone else's benefit. They all began waving and cheering.

She didn't appear to even notice them, though Peter saw her glance their direction and deliberately turn away.

"Who is that boy?" Mrs. Pevensie asked, as they saw her smile and run to catch the arm of a tall, dark-haired young man.

Peter sighed. "Benton Northwyn," he answered his mother, "he's a school-mate."

His mother noted her son's face and raised an eyebrow. "Ah, I see."

A small noise at Peter's side caused him to look down. Lucy was making a valiant effort not to cry. "She didn't see us," the young girl murmured, "she didn't even notice us." Peter put an arm around his little sister. She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Peter, will she ever come back?"

Peter knew Lucy meant "back to the house," but it struck him how that question could mean—on a deeper level—"back to the family."

The quadrangle stood bare now. Peter sighed again, "I don't know, Lu."

[…]

The deaf girl quivered with excitement as she ascended to the second floor, down the short, narrow hall, and up a tiny, narrow flight of stairs to the attic.

The attic at Ketterley House proved to be a place not often frequented by anyone other than mice, rats, and spiders. A thick grey mantle of dust covered everything, thus making the few objects in the room nearly indistinguishable from their surroundings.

The beam from the torch reflected on something, and Melanie froze. A shiny black spider nearly as big as her palm cowered in its web right in front of her face. When she shined the light on it, the spider immediately crawled away, leaving Melanie to destroy its web and proceed in peace. She crept forward cautiously, her head just an inch from the low ceiling.

In the near back corner she saw a flat, square object with the merest hint of checkers underneath he dust. Gently, Melanie brushed away the dust to reveal a chessboard with a burlap bag (presumably containing the chess pieces) atop it. Melanie picked up the bag and hung the drawstring around her wrist. Carefully, she moved to pull the chessboard out of its place.

Too late she noticed the stack of hatboxes resting on one corner of the board. The whole tower teetered and collapsed all around her. Melanie dropped the torch and the bag and covered her head with her hands.

When all was finally still, Melanie looked to where she dropped the torch. It occurred to her that the beam now pointed to an odd variation in the wall where once stood the stack of boxes.

Melanie's scalp prickled with curiosity. She cautiously made her way into the corner, chess game forgotten, and pressed on the variance. She felt it give slightly. Encouraged, she felt around the edge until she found a board that protruded enough to pry back with her fingertips. The whole section scraped outward like a small door.

Melanie nearly had to curl into a ball to fit through the opening. She crept through the door and into a dark tunnel. Only then did she remember the flashlight, but there was not enough room in the tunnel to turn around for it, so she had no choice but to proceed without it. In the pitch-darkness she could see a small patch of light ahead, so she fixed on that and crawled forward one step at a time. Melanie noticed that the tunnel was strangely clean when compared to the dust and cobwebs in the attic, but before she had time to wonder about this, she reached the patch of light. It was shorter than she originally assumed, but by sliding down onto her face, she could slither through the opening.

Melanie was about halfway through the opening, when her sensitive fingers felt a sensation they ought not have: grass. Warily, she continued forward until she was fully outside the opening.

She slowly made her way to her feet and looked around. She turned back to the opening she had recently exited.

"A tree," she remarked—and heard herself say it!

Melanie grinned. Tree or no tree, she knew only one place she had ever been where she could hear and speak.

Lady Melanie had returned to Telmar.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

To read the full chapter, click -->HERE<--

"Brittanica Cycle: The Red Dragon of Wales" Excerpt--Outsmarting the WRAITHS

 

Drake watched the whole thing from just a few blocks away. He chuckled maliciously behind a dirty scarf as he hunched the stocking cap low over his face. He studied the movements of the officers, and knew they carried scanners, but what were they scanning?

Surely he didn’t have any evidence to leave, since he only emerged from that bunker about once a month. Whitaker must be getting paranoid about something.

A female officer passed by on the raised concrete slab—the old name, back when people actually used the roads, Drake knew, was “sidewalk”—just in front of Drake. He dared to make eye contact with her. She shuddered at the creepy old man and passed on.

Drake snorted inwardly; newbies. They trusted the tech more than their own biological senses. He wondered who was training the new recruits these days. His old trainer, Trevor Magnum, would have never allowed such a novice out in the field. Magnum had been one of the “old-school” trainers, the sort that took pleasure in actually shorting out the tech, depriving the recruits of the tech that had become so mainstream, just to watch them squirm with discomfort at using their organic “equipment” rather than the tech.

The woman stopped, and Drake knew a pan-scan was coming. He waited till the scanner registered his hulking, disheveled figure, then—just for the fun of it—Drake moved swiftly into step behind the slowly-pacing novice. She didn’t even shoot him the quick eye flicker that used to be the body’s involuntary response to an erratic movement in one’s field of vision. She had all of her concentration on the info streaming to her receptacle from the scanner. Drake passed by a coat hook beside a dining booth and instantly, the scruffy Walker was gone, replaced by a spit-and-polished gentleman on his way to a bit-bar to unwind after a long day at work.

Drake saw the woman flinch as the tech alerted her to a discrepancy. She turned to glance over her right shoulder as Drake skated by on her left. For good measure, he tapped her shoulder and muttered a distinct, "Excuse me."

Didn't that send the tech ringing! Suddenly the young woman was all business, dispensing orders to everyone in the vicinity to present themselves for inspection, since her scanners had picked up physical evidence and aural confirmation that there was a fugitive nearby.

Unfortunately for the operative, the altercation happened at the same time the roadways unleashed floods of foot traffic from two directions. The already-bustling sidewalk was inundated with new, unscanned entities—meanwhile the one who tripped the alarm was already two blocks away, snickering maliciously to himself. He found a small "Connie shack", the sort of tiny convenience store where only the desperate and the reprobate dared tread, and shifted inside. The cashier, so high on the drug kopetrine that he could practically dispense it by breathing, swayed back and forth on his feet behind the tiny counter. Drake didn't doubt that the man kept his thumbs tucked in the bit-register to avoid keeling over. There was only one other customer, a man flipping through a print mag from the rack at the back of the store. Drake clapped him on the shoulder, and nearly caused the upset of the entire shop.

The man swore in fright and dropped the mag.

"Oh, it's you," he sighed with relief. "Thought you might get held up by the spooks I saw on my way down or something."

Drake allowed only the slight flicker around his lips to show the man how much he appreciated the humor. He drew his wallet and displayed a picture of the man, dressed in a custom tux, striding behind a posing dignitary couple with a dark-haired elfin waif in stunningly-designed high fashion clutching his arm.

"Did you enjoy yourself that night, Wasp?"

The indulgent smile and the way the lad's finger caressed the image of her face told Drake all he needed to know. Wasp nearly lost himself in reminiscing his evening with rising pop sensation Miryelle Scaroni before he felt the tug on his receptacle that told him Drake was drawing out his wallet.

"Hey!" Wasp cried, reaching toward his pocket.

Drake already had his wallet out, but he couldn't get past the biometric clasp. He glared at Wasp.

"We had a deal," he growled, shoving the wallet back at him. "You work for me, I get full access; no bio clasps!"

Wasp took the wallet back with a sneer. "You want full access, do your dirty work yourself!" He activated the key and spoke the voice command: "Jasper Harvey Kerrigan." His wallet activated at the sound of his voice saying his full name, and he relinquished the wallet to Drake as images flickered by from within the grand auditorium. 

As the son of a prominent patron of several Assembly members, his status as a High-flyer granted him access to the Upper-grade info, and thus to all High-level events—access that Drake exploited since the day they met: Jasper had doped up on kopetrine and ridden a Descender all the way to the Street, where the either would have fried his receptacle and his brain if Drake hadn't found him. Jasper had been so incoherent that he gave his name as "Wasp." Drake subsequently coerced the lad who essentially owed Drake his life into working for him, even providing him with an alternate receptacle program with the Wasp identity so that all data he acquired could be offloaded by Drake without detection from the security forces or Jasper's own family, who regularly patrolled his externals after the Streetwalking incident.

Drake finished culling the files—both audio transcripts and visual images—and patted Jasper on the shoulder.

"You be good," he said the fatherly words in a rather threatening tone.

Jasper nodded and left the store.

Drake browsed the selection of snacks and mags in the store. The back corner even held racks of garish jackets and caps—the kind tourists might be convinced would help them "blend in", but in reality, made them easier to identify as non-locals, who referred to the garments as "tourist rags," or tou'rags.

Outside the Connie shack, the female WRAITH from earlier had tracked a stray Witness from the earlier security fiasco. Someone was breathing newly acquired info this far down the street. The amount never changed, but its presence among the corrupted, anonymous either lit up on the scanner, highlighting the area on the screen with fluorescent coloring. Whoever it was had definitely entered the shack; the operative resolved to wait until the bloke emerged. She kept her eyes on the two glowing masses of info in the readout screen. One didn't move; obviously, it belonged to the attendant in the shop. The other slowly circumnavigated the confined space in an erratic pattern. All the info coming into the WRAITH's receptacle confirmed that this person was in the thick of the action earlier; if he ended up being her objective, so much the better.

Five minutes ticked by, and still the moving blip wound its way around the store. It hovered in the back corner for another two minutes. The WRAITH felt the signal in her nervous system that told her she had three minutes till the Ascender arrived to take her and the rest of the squad back to HQ. But you didn't become a WRAITH by packing it in when the shift bell rang. She kept waiting; once she brought this guy's ass in, they'd forgive her apparent insubordination.

The hotspot wavered in the center of the building. Still, she waited with her eyes fixed on the screen. Finally, the hotspot made its way toward the back of the store. The WRAITH operative smiled grimly. Scuttling between obstacles, she snaked her way across the street and down an alley toward the back, keeping close tabs on the hotspot the whole time. Her whole body buzzed. The Ascender had arrived, and if she did not start heading that direction right this second, she could risk being stranded on the nightmarish Streets of Wales until she could acquire the right info to summon another one. She gritted her teeth against the sensation and steeled her resolve. Now was the moment of her ascension; very soon she would advance through the ranks straight to that sweet spot near the top that she had always coveted. Soon they would record her name and people would breathe this moment the world over—

The door swung on its hinges. For the very first time, the WRAITH operative took her eyes off the readout screen and glanced up in the hope of laying actual organic eyes on the man who had avoided official Witnesses for years.

A shape emerged from the depths of the store—a small egg shape, sniffling and whooshing as it went. The readout screen bleeped, and the WRAITH glanced down to see if the tech had managed to fail her for the first time in her knowledge. Sure enough, the hotspot of sensitive info appeared to hover in front of her position. Screaming in rage, the WRAITH operative used her fury to fuel her mad dash to the Ascender. She made it just as the final chime sounded and the motor kicked into gear. A comrade grabbed her wrist and hauled her up.

"What was that all about?" He asked.

The woman felt a shudder as she foresaw the debrief when the data of her five-minute insubordination came into view before her superiors.

"Nothing," she said, and the word tasted like bile in her mouth.

>>>>>>>>>

Also from the "Red Dragon of Wales":

-Prologue

-"Rebooting Drake Ross"  
-The Dragon Walks

"Brittanica Cycle: Red Dragon of Wales" Excerpt

 

Drake paused and adjusted the angle of his fedora, resting it just a hair's breadth above the collar of his slate-grey trenchcoat. Donning dark leather gloves, he passed through a door that took him to an alleyway filled with acrid black masses of the scummy air the locals bitterly called "either"—leftover bits of aether from the Cloud so polluted by residue from every other resident of the country that breathing it meant instant receptacle overload unless one possessed a filter (the effect was a euphoric high and total disorientation, so some of the wilder youths would venture down there to "snort either" without leaving the Descender) or minimal credibility for those accustomed to picking through what amounted to an informational landfill for any bit that could be of use.

Revulsion caused Drake to wince and draw a sharp breath—then he grimaced and covered his face as the nearly-palpable bits of info burned the sensitive membrane inside his nose. He reached for his receptacle and activated the filter; normally he would ignore the filthy smog—he'd always had a death wish, reboot or no reboot—but today, he could not afford the attention. The filter had a reverse feature: whatever of the cleaner bits of info he inhaled, these were the only bits he exhaled as well. He did not absorb the info, and neither did he add any info of his own.

Drake's quick ears caught a high, sustained whine cutting through the hubbub of normal Street life. He glanced upward as an egg-shaped hover-bot enter the atmosphere from above. He maintained his pace as some of those around him foolishly stopped and pointed. Several ejaculations issued from a narrow alley, and a couple miscreants emerged and tried to run, but froze as the bot aimed the smaller end at them and tagged their receptacles. It moved on, punctuating the whine of it's motor with periodic whooshing sounds, as it took in the black "either" and searched for any contraband info—the trademark programming of a Sniffer. Drake remembered the two boys' wallets in his pocket and he grinned maliciously. Accessing them with his receptacle, he put a bit of info on each: both were high-level rumors, and both contradicted each other. He left the wallets on the sidewalk behind him and withdrew to a corner to watch the fun.

He nearly had to duck as the Sniffer came barreling toward the info it "smelled." It hovered over the two wallets, "sniffing" madly till Drake began to wonder if Sniffers ever hyperventilated. Clearly it did not realize that these wallets were not carried by a person, nor could it snag the wallets without verifying the information—but which one should it verify? Back and forth it wavered, till at last the info came that discredited both bits. The Sniffer shot back into the stratosphere. Drake laughed and moved to retrieve the wallets.

"One o' these days, yer antics'll get ye disconnected, laddie," a dry voice commented behind him.

Drake turned as a pile of trash shifted to reveal the face of the man wearing it. He grinned, showing the six remaining black incisors that allowed him to eat solid food still.

"I been wonderin' when I'd see yer face, Master Draconis," said the man.

Drake nodded. "D'you have something for me?" He pocketed the wallets and moved closer.

The dirty man laughed. "Don't I always? You know I was a spy in th' War, don't you? Ol' Skin-eye, they called me. Ah, those were th' days—"

"Yeah, yeah," Drake waved a hand. "Save it for later, Corey; right now I need info from the Gala."

Corey grinned again, almost preening his repulsive garments. "Did you see me?"

Drake recalled the image that contained a pile of trash remarkably like this one secreted behind several bushes where no one would look because it was so obviously trash.

"I did," he said. "You're lucky that Skyline security scans receptacles when it can't see faces."

"A Face with no face," Corey chuckled. "That's what you wanted, i'nnit?"

"Yup," Drake responded curtly. "Now, spill."

"Awright, awright, keep yer safety on! Now, I was waitin' in this sweet little hideaway near the shrub'ry, right before an alleyway, see, cause nobody looks at trash in an alleyway, know it? People is worried 'bout blokes seein' 'em go inter the alley, they don't pay no mind ter anybody wot's already in there, 'specially if that somebody hides all stealthy-like under a pile o' toss—"

"Corey!" Drake snapped, stemming the rambling flow of words. "What did you see?" He struggled to keep his cool.

"I'm gettin' t' that, okay? anyways, I was sittin' there, and who should saunter on my way but Shawna Barstowe!"

"Barstowe?" Drake repeated, as his receptacle drew up images of her at the gala, dressed in the latest fashion and duly escorted by— "The Chief 's wife? What did she want?"

"Oh, Drakey-boy, it was juicy! She's standin' there all pert-like, an' this bloke up'n' says—"

"What bloke?"

"What Bloke?" Corey fairly exploded. "Why, The Bloke! Captain Whitaker hi'ssel'!"

The weight of the info immediately pressed down upon Drake's mind. He felt rooted to the spot and light as a feather in the wind in the same moment. He could hardly speak, his mind spun so fast.

"W-wh—how... What did he say?"

Corey fixed the younger man with a pronounced stinkeye. "If ye want me ta tell ye, ye's gorra stop interruptin', ye know?"

Drake nodded without saying a word.

Corey forged ahead, placated.

"He chatted ta Mrs. Barstowe like they was old friends, an' then 'e starts in with summat like, 'I'm still waiting for your answer.' and she gets to fussin' an' says 'The answer's yes, you heartless old—"

"Never mind what she called him," Drake spoke over his friend as the panhandler repeated the epithets with particular vim. "Answer to what?"

Corey shrugged one shoulder. "Dunno; even after she told him yes, he asked if 'it' was ready—that's all 'e ever said, 'it'—an' she said she had it an' I thought I saw a stick or two change hands."

"You thought?" Drake snarled. Could this at last be the elusive scandal he sought. "Corey, tell me right now exactly everything you saw at that precise moment, or I swear I am going to—"

"'Alf a moment! 'Ere now!" Corey shoved him away with surprising strength for one so emaciated. "Whippersnapper! I was watchin' 'er at least—He stayed outta sight, the old bag—saw the street lights glint offa her pretty diamond necklace, she was wearin' somethin' by Queen somebody—you know the one—and she was all anxious about somethin', standin' from foot to foot, and... Yeah, after they talked, I saw them touch hands, and she said somethin' like 'Hope it's enough' and they parted ways."

Drake smiled; it certainly had been a handoff, from what Corey described. This was just the start he needed. "Thanks, Corey," Drake grunted, and stepped away from the hobo.

"Oy! Drake," Corey waved a grimy hand. "Better watch yersel' round these parts. There's spooks about, in street clothes no less."

Drake blinked as he processed this information. "What are WRAITHS doing on the Streets?"

Corey shrugged again. "Dunno; just thought I should warn ye, seeing as ye might be able to find them, being one of 'em back in the day an' all."

Drake nodded, wincing as his filter scrubbed out references to his former identity that sprang from his organic mind. In programming his memory chip he had included all of the skills of an officer of the Welsh Representative Assembly Information Tech Hit Squad, but nothing that ever referenced him by name, as that would be illegal and also a beacon for the authorities to find him where he hid. These tech security officers were known by their acronym, WRAITHS, or, by the disenfranchised, “spooks.”

“Thanks, Corey,” said Drake. “I’ll keep a weather eye.”

“You do that.” Either Corey had suddenly developed a manic tic, or there was something he wanted Drake to see without appearing to look.

Drake surreptitiously slid his eyes over to the spot Corey indicated a man sat at a dingy table in front of a grungy café, nursing a tall stein of something. He’d been sitting there the whole time, this down-on-his-luck Walker. Drake nearly concluded that Corey was being paranoid. Then the man raised the tankard to his lips and tipped his head back, downing the whole thing. Drake chose that moment to continue on his way.

By the time the disguised WRAITH lowered the stein, his quarry had all but vanished. But the officer had been prepared for this. Scratching his hairless forearm under the rough fabric of his Streetwalking garb, he shuffled on to the next checkpoint. A woman admiring the distressed clothing in a shop window spotted the Walker and suddenly decided to enter the shop. Five minutes later, a Descender loaded with uniformed WRAITHS penetrated the either.

Also from the "Red Dragon of Wales":

-Prologue

-"Rebooting Drake Ross" 

Works-in-Progress Wednesday: The Art of The Flip

When I first started writing, everything was on the computer. I would write whatever I could come up with, save the file, leave it, and the next chance I got I would return and write some more. Sometimes, I would be out of the house, and a great idea for the story would pop into my head. The trouble was, by the time I got home and opened the file, the great idea would be gone, leaving me "stranded" with only the barest recollection of what I was going to do. It was especially terrible if I had to leave off writing in the middle of a sentence or a scene/conversation. How in the world was I going to figure out what I had originally thought of to do next when I had no plan and no way of knowing?

Then I discovered the joy of small, purse-sized notebooks. Being of the age when I carried hardly anything in my purse anyway, this seemed like the perfect solution to my dilemma. Out and about, and struck with a great idea? Pull out my notebook and jot it down! Pretty soon it got to the point where I would be just writing the whole story right there in the notebook (or several) and consolidating them into one document on the computer. That is, assuming I had every part that I had written (there were several times when I didn't have the "right" notebook with me when an idea struck, so there would be this random passage in the middle of an unrelated notebook; on the other hand, I would have the "right" notebook with little parts missing in between) and also that I could read my own handwriting. Sometimes I would take to writing things backwards or in code so that I wouldn't be teased by unappreciative siblings about it. It took a little longer to read that way when I got around to transcribing, but at least I could write neatly without the self-consciousness.

I think it was during this period that I learned The Art of The Flip. At least, that's what I am calling it now. 

At first it was just rote transcription from paper to screen, but as I started writing more, I naturally started plotting more, and this plotting helped me get through sections that I would normally get lost in. From there it became a process of "flipping" a list of plot points into an actual story.

That's really the tricky part, isn't it?

It's actually why I haven't been blogging as much lately: first, because working full-time doesn't allow for much else; second, because the thing I am working on isn't exactly a novel. It's a narrative that is going to become a screenplay, but it is also an example of the way a "flip" works.

If you're like me, you do better with landmarks than distances.

When you're giving me directions to a place I have never been, don't tell me "It's x miles west of here." That means nothing to me. But if you were to say, "It's over near the grocery store behind that pizza place." Then I know exactly what you're talking about.

In writing, I discovered, I'm the same way. Whether it's a certain line of dialogue, or specific conversations and scenes in a certain order, I tend to write best when I have "checkpoints" or "landmarks" I can go with. Anymore, this is basically the way I write: I get the whole plot into one continuous bullet-point list, I decide where the chapter divisions should be, and I write from there.

For example, the scene might start like this:

 

>>>>>

-leaves Morgan, returns to the main hangar

-Dave is at the table, messing with something

-Takes it away, he has twisted the two parts together

-It's actually a weapon, but Paul didn't know that, freaks out

-Paul thinks he broke it, but Dave takes it back and fixes it so it's not dangerous

-Paul tells Dave table is off limits, to go away and find something else to play with

>>>>>>

Once I have that, I need to think of what the characters are saying to convey both what needs to be happening in the scene, and also a bit more about their character. Of course, with limited time to actually access the file and write, I need to have more than just the stakes in place. So I take the plot and I work through the scene in my head, using lines of dialogue as guiding ropes, if you will.

The scene will turn into something like this:

 

>>>>>

(Returns to the room, Dave is over by the table full of equipment)

D: I take back everything I said; this job is getting cooler by the minute! (Fiddling with something)

P: Whoa, whoa, hey, what are you doing?

D: I was just—

P: (Takes it away) Careful with that! It's some highly volatile equipment and it hasn't been catalogued! What have you done? (Starts trying to pull it apart)

D: Careful! Here, let me. All I have to do is just—(he twists and it comes apart easy) There, good as new!

P: Okay, for you (puts the weapon back on the table) Off-limits. Go find someone else to bother. Tell Marcia you want a tour or something.

>>>>>

Some might be tempted to stop there, right? I mean, this is going to be a screenplay anyway, why not just leave it in script form?

But I need to go further. There is already a screenwriter for the project, and I need to give her the small nuances of direction that will help the scene take place, not just a bunch of people standing in a room saying stuff. Writing a "transcript" may be easy, but when I get that out of the way, it makes flipping it over to a narrative easy, too. 

And, FLIP!

 

>>>>>>>

Dave stood at one of the many tables piled with alien artifacts. Some of it was weaponry, some were artifacts. The one now in Dave’s hand used to be in two pieces, Paul knew. Somehow the kid had gotten them tangled together, and they clicked and glowed ominously.

“Hey!” Paul cried, crossing the room.

“I take back everything I said,” Dave gushed, probing the device. Every so often, a small spark shot from its surface. “This place is getting cooler by the minute!” He held up the device like a pistol and actually aimed a spark toward the bank of steel file drawers. The bolt pinged off the metallic surface.

Paul lunged for it. “Whoa! What do you think you’re doing?” He wrested it from Dave’s hands. The device hissed and sparked angrily in his hands, sending spurts of electricity through his fingers.

Dave tried to excuse himself. “I was just--”

“Ow, dangit!” Paul fought to get the pieces apart again, but it seemed like the entire surface now carried a charge. He fingered it gingerly, trying to figure out how to rectify the situation. He scowled at Dave. “You don’t go around just messing with stuff! These are highly volatile artifacts and weapons, and some of them haven’t been catalogued yet!” He received another shock and roared in pain.

“Here, let me.” Dave reached in and placed his fingertips at various pressure points. The glow dimmed somewhat. Wayne relinquished the device. “All you have to do is--” Dave twisted slightly, and the strange glow died altogether. He handed the separate pieces back to Paul. “There, see? Good as new!”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Okay, for you,” he accepted the pieces and laid them on the table, “Off limits! Go bother someone else for a while!” He gestured toward the open door that would lead back to the lobby. “Go tell Marcia you want a tour of the facility or something.”

>>>>>>>

See how it works? The dialogue is all basically the same in Phase 2 and Phase 3; the order of events in Phase 1 still matches the way things end up in Phase 3... The difference is I added the dialogue tags and the movements, and all of a sudden you can tell the difference between Dave and Paul, right? They become separate people, instead of fluid roles that could be adopted by the same person. Even the device Dave is messing with becomes more detailed as I go back through and add the narrative--and yet it all still flows because the dialogue is still consistent.

 

There's an additional benefit to using this method: I can write the segments days apart, and not in chronological order this way. As long as I have the plot I can write the dialogue. As long as I have the dialogue I can write the narrative. I can write the dialogue alone because it's fast, and then when I'm done I can go back and flip it into a narrative.

Why do it this way? Because I have heard of a lot of writers who struggle with dialogue. They get so caught up in the narrative that any time a character opens his mouth the whole thing falls apart. In fact, I would say that dialogue flow is what separates the good writers from the ones who still need to practice before they publish their next book.

Perhaps dialogue is the framework of a novel. If you try to write a novel with only dialogue—unless you're a seasoned screenwriter and really good at conveying emotions and movement in a "transcript"—the reader might get the impression that he's looking at a house with nothing but the frame and windows and doors.

The narrative is the walls and roof of the house. It's not the whole house, because if you try to "build" a novel with just narrative, there is no way for your readers to get inside your novel without the whole thing collapsing on itself.

Deciding on the plot will help the dialogue flow because you know where you're going with the story; once the dialogue flows, the narrative will naturally flow because you're filling in the gaps between the verbal with non-verbal actions, which makes the narrative more lifelike. Machines can read lines of dialogue, but it takes human movements to make them feel like real interactions.

A well-balanced novel, I think you'll find, is a narrative driven by the dialogue. Figure out what your characters are saying first, then add the little movements, tone of voice, the small quirks that we do when we're talking without even realizing it. Skip the dialogue altogether and it's like reading a silent movie: not quite as much fun, and, if I am not mistaken, sort of missing the whole point of reading a novel, right? The dialogue can provide transition from one scene to the next. What a person says can tell us how they think. What their body does when they talk, how they move from one area to the next, that will tell us more about who they are. Taken together, the characters come to life and we actually care about them more than we would about plain text on a page.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some flipping to do. 

Flash Fiction: The Prince and The Rose

Came across this on Google+, all credit goes to the original artist on DeviantArt

"That is a beautiful rose," thought Prince Raul. "Surely the fairy cannot refuse the will of the Prince. Just one rose will not spoil the entire enchanted garden!" So saying, he lifted the glass cover. 

Instantly, the blossom began to wither in the open air. Raul replaced the cover in haste, but it was too late.

The fairy stood before him, in all of her majestic fury.

"My prince," she said, "why have you sought to take that which is not yours?"

Raul scowled defiantly. "I know not what you mean, Sylph! This garden lies within the bounds of my father's kingdom. Thus it is the King's land!"

The fairy watched him sadly. "I see that none of the grace that prompted your father to freely apportion this land to the Fae has passed on to you, his heir. You have laid hands to seize the property of another in the name of the crown which you prize so highly, thus, in consequence, you are hereby condemned to live in isolation for the rest of your days."

Tenderly as a summer breeze, the fairy replaced the cover, restoring the rose to its full vitality. She returned her gaze to the prince.

"You are young, Your Highness, and there is yet time to mend your ways and avert this terrible consequence. On the eve of your twenty-first birthday I will again visit you, and if you show me the same courtesy afforded by your father, you will yet escape the punishment you have incurred."

Prince Raul, stricken to his heart with guilt and anger that the fairy would presume to punish him for just wanting a rose, only nodded and seemed to accept his fate.

But the fairy had not finished. "Have care, Prince Raul," she warned. "The form with which I greet you ten years hence may not be the same one in which you see me now."

"How will I know it is you, then?" The Prince demanded.

"I will give no warning," she replied, "save this: when I come, I will bring you this very rose, that you might see it and remember. Are we agreed?"

"Yes," said Raul, and ran out of the Fairy's garden.

As time passed, the Prince quite forgot the fairy, the rose, and the warning. He carried on in his foolish ways, using his money and his status to garner the adulation of the crowd every bit as vain and selfish as he was. Many fair young damsels greatly desired to become his bride, but Prince Raul would always find some flaw, however small. Nothing but the very best would ever satisfy him.
At long last, the Prince came of age, and he welcomed only the kingdom's richest nobles to celebrate with him. There was drinking and dancing and singing and the Prince reveled the most. At the stroke of midnight, a knock sounded at the door. A servant discretely made his way to the center of the party to inform the Prince that a visitor awaited him. Annoyed at being interrupted, and only the smallest bit curious, Raul reluctantly followed the woman. A few of his guests followed blindly, for of course, wherever the Prince went, some kind of entertainment was sure to happen.

Standing upon the threshold of the palace was a hunched, wrinkled form. A beggar woman, dressed in nothing stronger than a rough woolen cloak patched many times over.
"Well?" the Prince demanded. "I am here; what do you want?"
"May the gods smile upon Your Majesty," croaked the woman. "I only mean to give the young Prince a gift on his birthday." She held out her hand. In it was a magnificent rose in full bloom.
The Prince scoffed, "You would give me a flower? I have all the gardens I want!"
The old woman didn't waver. "This single rose is the most precious thing that I have, and I would give it to you freely, my Prince."
The prince laughed. "Oh, freely, eh?" He turned and winked broadly at the crowd gathering behind him. "There is nothing you want from the Prince of the realm in return for your most precious flower?"
The woman persisted, inching closer. "Please accept this," she rasped.
"No!" Prince Raul thundered. He shoved the woman back out into the snow. "Begone, beggar! I'll have nothing from your hand!" He turned his back on her and made to close the door.
The crowd behind him cheered, and prepared to get back to their revelry.
Before the door had quite shut, the Prince heard a single word.

"Stay."

A strange sensation, borne of a distant memory, came over the prince, and he stopped and turned again to face the woman. She had risen to her feet with far more grace than he expected for a woman of her age.
"You will have something from my hand," the woman said, her voice stronger and fuller than before, "but it will no longer be your choice to accept it."
She reached up with pure-white hands as smooth as glass and threw off her cloak.
Instantly, the old crone was no more, and in her place stood the fairy from the garden he had raided when a boy. As the last stroke of midnight echoed through the frozen night, Prince Raul remembered the warning, and knew that his time had come.
"Young Prince," said the Fairy, "Did I not tell you I would come? Did you not recognize the rose that I brought?"
The Prince watched as she picked up the wilted rose, and it restored to the large, healthy bloom in her hand. He fell to his knees before her.
"I am sorry!" he begged. "Please, do not smite me! I only saw the cloak, but I realize my mistake now! See, I will invite you in--"
"You only saw the cloak," the Fairy repeated his words. "You were so intent on the outward appearance of another that you failed to see what a valuable gift she could offer. Now you will pay the price."
"Please!" In desperation, the Prince reached out to seize the rose--but only succeeded in pricking his finger on one of the thorns. His blood shone bright red on the green stem.
"Here now is the sentence," the Fairy declared quietly. "Since you could not see past my tattered cloak, I will give you a skin which shall repulse anyone who looks on it!"
The Prince could only watch in horror as hair and claws sprouted from his hands. Very soon, he was wholly transformed into a hideous beast.
The Fairy continued, "Since you are so adamant to have this rose, that you would snatch it from my very hand--then I will make your fate and the fate of this rose entwined! See, the petals begin to fall." She produced a glass cover like the ones that had been in her garden. "Outside the cover it wilts quickly, as you know, thus you may preserve it for a while longer under the cover--for as soon as the last petal falls, this form will be permanent upon you."
The prince moaned in agony at the thought, and his voice came as a mighty roar that struck terror in all of his guests. He could hear them screaming and running to escape this castle and the ferocious monster, just as eagerly as they had flocked to the door of the handsome prince.
"There is only one way for this spell to be broken," said the Fairy. "If you can find someone who does not make the same mistake you have, someone who can see beyond a hideous face and see the value of the person within--then, and only then, will this form leave you, and you will regain your human appearance."

So saying, she left the Beast Prince inside the castle empty of all others, and she was never seen again.
 >>>>>>>>>

Part 2>>>>>>

Serial Saturday: "The Telmar Trilogy, Vol. 2: Her Ladyship of Telmar" Part 7

"Happily, Susan addressed a final invitation
to a certain dark-haired someone...."

 

Finally, the long-awaited holiday arrived, and Peter began to discuss with Susan the idea of hosting a holiday party.

[…]

Invitations were sent accordingly, and the responses came in short order. Eustace even asked to bring a school-chum of his, a certain Jill Pole. "We have a lot to tell you," he hinted in his letter.

Susan wondered what their cousin meant, but Peter suggested replying in the affirmative. As she was writing the reply, Susan saw an opportunity. "Since we're letting Eustace bring a friend," she asked Peter, "might I invite one as well?"

Peter's eyes twinkled mischievously. "What happened to your small party, Su?"

Susan rolled her eyes, and Peter laughed, "You may invite whomever you want, it's all right with me."

Happily, Susan addressed a final invitation to a certain dark-haired someone. Perhaps if He were there, she wouldn't feel so vulnerable.

The day of the party came, but it did not turn out as "safe" as Susan hoped it would be. Benton was late in coming, and the bulk of what Eustace and Jill "had to tell" turned out to be their most recent adventure in—where else?—Narnia.

"It couldn't possibly have been anywhere else!" Susan groaned to herself. She tried to change the subject. "That's a very beautiful dress you're wearing, Jill."

The girl shrugged. "It's Narnian, what can I say? I wonder that you and Lucy don't have dresses of your own."

Susan stiffened; would Benton ever show up? Finally, she heard a knock at the door. "Benton!" she cried happily when she answered it. There he stood, with snow in his dark hair, a twinkle in his eye, and a cake in his hands. "Come in!" she welcomed him, accepting the cake and setting it on the table with the rest of the Christmas goodies prepared by the women of the house.

Susan introduced Benton to everyone else, but just at that moment, the festive Christmas spirit had set her brothers and sister reminiscing about "that first Narnian Christmas." Susan worried that Benton would feel left out, so she directed him to the sofa on the far side of the room, away from everybody else. Benton tried to wave off her concern for him, but it was obvious that he did feel somewhat like an intruder. Susan was intent on showing him that all his teachings had not been in vain, and soon she and Benton were comfortably chatting away, uneasiness completely forgotten.

Presently, Lucy ran up and seized Susan's hand. "Oh Susan! We need another couple for the Snow Dance Eustace learned in Narnia! It's great fun! Won't you join us?"

Susan froze. She could feel Benton's eyes bearing on her. Unbidden, the memory leapt up in her mind of the marvelous Narnian dances, far more intricate and enjoyable than any in England. Would Benton really think ill of her if she appeared to humor her sister? But, truly, she thought, after all he's done for me, would it be discouraging to him?

Susan nursed in herself a desire to prove her merit to Benton. "Oh," she said pettishly, as she knew he would want her to, "there you go with Narnia again!" She sighed in that grown-up-memory way that is so aggravating to children, "What wonderful memories you kids still have! Fancy your still thinking about those funny games we used to play when we were children!" She glanced triumphantly at Benton, eager to bask in his burst of congratulation.

But the only "burst" that came was the tears from poor Lucy's eyes. She was too crushed to speak, but only rushed out of the room, crying. Susan's sensitive heart pricked her terribly, and she suddenly realized in humiliation that the whole room had heard her unfeeling comment, and not only Benton.

Benton himself, seeing the start of a potential family feud and having no desire to be caught in the middle, whispered to Susan, "I'll wait outside."

Susan grasped his hand as he left, "Benton, wait . . ." What had gone wrong? She saw Benton, waiting in the entryway. Good, he had not left; now Peter confronted her.

"Susan, what is the matter with you?"

Susan attempted an air of nonchalance, but in her bewilderment it came across more like insolence. "Don't know what you mean," she returned.

"You know very well what I mean, Susan Pevensie!"

Peter's tone was more stern than Susan had ever heard him use, except as K—no! She mustn't!

Peter continued, "Ever since you've taken up with that Benton fellow, you've put on airs and been altogether miserable! And now you've wounded your own sister with your pride, just as Edmund did under the influence of the White Witch!"

Susan's temper flared at the insinuation, and she set her jaw. "The White Witch doesn't exist, Peter! I wonder what's gotten into you, that you believe it's all still real! I can't believe you're encouraging it! You've got to face the facts Peter! The game is over! You may be older in years, but I don't believe you're really grown up until you realize that Narnia is dead."

>>>>>>

How will Peter respond? What will happen to Susan? Read the full chapter by clicking -->HERE<-- 

NEXT VOLUME: 

"The Legacy of Telmar">>>>