Pages

Wednesday, October 28, 2020

WIP-It Wednesday for October 28, 2020

 PG Forte: I found a new-to-me review recently for This Winter Heart that included a suggestion that I turn the story into a full novel. Ah, would that I could. Hopefully, the next best thing I can do it to write more in the same world. Here’s a sneak-peek at Lightning in a Bottle, the next book in the Winter Hearts series. 

 March came in like a lion. Storms battered the Eastern Pennsylvanian countryside for days. Rain fell practically without surcease. It flooded cellars, and drowned fields, and swelled even the laziest of rivers into muddy, white-frothed cascades. A wild wind raged and screamed, rattling doors and windows, tearing tiles off of rooves, and whipping the branches of venerable old trees as violently as though they were mere saplings. 

Sheltered within a stand of such trees, stood a small, sturdy building. Unremarkable from the outside, it housed the workshop and laboratory of one of the greatest minds of the nineteenth century, the late inventor Dr. Charles Winter. Inside, illuminated by whatever meagre daylight made it through the rain-spattered skylights, forgotten machinery hummed quietly as it continued to carry out its appointed tasks; circulating the fluid in the large glass tank, regulating its temperature, filtering and replenishing as needed to maintain the proper balance of nutrients and medicaments.

Powered by hydroelectricity, and supplied with water from one of those selfsame, swollen rivers, the system was intended to run indefinitely with only the most minimal maintenance required. But the storm had other ideas. 

Lightning arced across the sky. It splintered an overhanging branch, causing it to crash through the building’s roof. At the same time, electricity surged through the pipes. Wires melted on contact. Equipment shorted out and died in a blaze of sparks, and the excess power caused over a dozen Leyden jars to explode at once. The tank itself was briefly electrified, shocking its sole occupant into awareness and waking him from his chemically induced slumber. 

Test Subject #M1.253.62 struggled to remain calm as he found himself catapulted into an agonizing world of jumbled sensations and incomprehensible blackness. Pain wracked his body as he gasped and retched in an effort to force air into his fluid-filled lungs. He was terrifyingly conscious of his heart beating within him; its odd, faltering syncopation was nothing at all like the strong, steady rhythm for which it had been designed. 

 Something had gone wrong.

Tuesday, October 27, 2020

THE DAY OF THE WHITE GOLD - a SciFi Flash Fiction by Linda Mooney

THE DAY OF THE WHITE GOLD
A SciFi Flash Fiction
by Linda Mooney

Arthur hurried into the hospital lobby and went straight to the stairs leading up to the second floor. Reaching it, he automatically turned to his right and briskly walked down the long corridor to room 47. The door was closed, so he gave it a rap with his knuckles.

            “Come in!”

            He entered the tiny room to find Kellie already sitting up in bed. She smiled at him, which he returned.

            “Hey, you look great!” he told her, and it was no lie. “You look a hundred times better than you did the last time I saw you.”

            She chuckled, then clutched her side as a spasm of pain crossed her face. “Ooh, don’t make me laugh.”

            He closed the distance between them to give her a kiss. She wrinkled her nose at him when it ended. “Your lips are cold.”

            “And yours are warm,” he murmured. “Warm mine up then.”

            She eagerly accepted his challenge, her hands clutching the front of his heavy jacket. This time when they parted, he nuzzled her nose. “I can’t stay long, but you probably know what today is.”

            “Yeah.” She nodded once. “That’s all I’ve heard people talk about the past couple of days. I wish I could be out there with you. I wish I could be in the middle of it, helping and having fun like everyone else.”

            “So do I,” he admitted. “But you’re still not over your emergency appendectomy. Speaking of, have you seen the doctor this morning?”

            “Yes.”

            “And?”

            “He said I can probably go home a week from tomorrow. They have to make sure I don’t have any sepsis or infection. Artie?” She tugged on his coat. “I’d give anything to have some snow. I don’t care if it’s leftovers. I just want to be able to touch it, and smell it, and maybe taste it. You know?”

            He understood perfectly. “I can’t promise anything. The guards are very careful about saving every flake they can. You know as well as I do that every drop matters.”

            Every Drop Matters. The yearly credo was pounded into their heads by the government when this one day arrived.

            “Where are you scheduled to work?”

            “Down by the main square.”

            “How much are they forecasting?”

            “Should be a bumper crop this year! They’re expecting at least seventeen inches. The Water Department says we’ll need at least eleven inches to meet our water demands next year.”

            She smiled. “I hope we get that much. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a surplus? That way we won’t have to worry about having to drink recycled and re-purified water the last couple of months before the next snowfall.” She glanced over at the window, and joy lit her face. “Artie! Look! It’s started!”

            He turned to look outside in time to see a couple of errant flakes slowly drifting past the glass panes. “I gotta go. Take care, Kel. I’ll be back as soon as I can to tell you all about it.” He gave her another kiss. A quicker one, but just as tender. She gave him a goodbye wave as he rushed from the room.

            He made it to the supply depot just as the troops were handing out the snow shovels. Getting in line to receive his, he found himself behind Dryce Cochard. Dryce swiveled around and flashed him a grin.

            “You ready for this, Art?”

            “Just as ready as I can be.” He peered upward at the thickening gray clouds. “Do you think we’ll get those seventeen inches the scientists are predicting?”

            The man gave a derisive snort. “I stopped believing those lab docs years ago. Remember, it was them who told us this planet had an abundant water supply. That’s why we migrated here in the first place.”

            “But they later admitted they must have seen the results right after the snowfall,” Arthur pointed out.

            “Yeah, well, it didn’t help us at the time, did it?”

            They advanced forward in line. After receiving his shovel, he and Dryce were directed to the small tent that had been erected nearby. There, they were reminded of where their work detail was located.

            They piled onto the magnetic sleds, along with several others, to ride to their work station. By this time the snow was falling harder, and in thicker lumps. Dryce let out a whoop of joy and began scraping up the layer already covering the pavement. “Every drop counts!”

            Although this was a time when everyone was involved in the back-breaking work of trying to save every bit of moisture falling, it was also a time of celebration. Arthur joined in the occasional snowball fight, and often paused to catch flakes on his tongue. Their pure taste was indescribable. He smiled like a fool as he brushed several from his face. Without this snowfall, the settlement would perish. They, as well as all plant life, would die of dehydration. There was no going back to the planet they’d once called home. It no longer existed.

            They were allowed ten-minute breathers. During his break, he watched as the others toiled to pile the sleds with the snow. Once loaded, the crafts would jet straight to the factory, where the white gold was converted into water and stored for future use.

            He also saw people eating the snow, luxuriating in its crisp, unadulterated flavor. He thought of Kellie, stuck in her hospital bed and unable to enjoy this moment that occurred only one day every year. Everyone would be sore, their muscles aching when tomorrow came. But for now, just for today, all the work was worth it.

            The whole settlement labored through the day as the snow fell without let up. It wasn’t until after dark, late into the night, when the flakes stopped falling. The Day of the White Gold was over. It was time to put away their shovels until next year and go home.

            On his way back to the storage facility, Arthur watched as crews went about with their hoses and containers, vacuuming up every stray and melted drop. Even though it was mostly filthy, that water would be used on the gardens, and not filtered for human consumption.

            He was exhausted, he was hungry, and he was cold. But he couldn’t go home. Not yet.

            He trudged back to the hospital where he’d promised Kellie he’d tell her all about how his day had gone. Marching up the stairs, he noticed his boots left wet footprints on the stone steps. It didn’t matter. The wetness would soon evaporate.

            When he reached her room, she was waiting for him. He went over to kiss her.

            “I watched the news. I think I saw you when they panned over the square,” she told him. “Was it fun? I mean…”

            “It was glorious,” he informed her. “It was everything we’d hoped for.”

            “The scientists say we got a total of twelve and a half inches! It’ll be enough to get us through all next year!” Her face was flushed from the excitement. At least, he hoped so.

            Arthur placed a hand to her forehead to check for fever. Kellie giggled at his touch. “Oooh, your hand’s like ice! Why aren’t you wearing your gloves?”

            Like ice. The remark reminded him.

            Reaching inside his coat pocket, he withdrew the one glove. Carefully, he extracted the small, marble-size ball of compacted snow he’d saved for her. Tears rose in her eyes as he handed it over.

            “I know how much it hurt for you to miss this day,” he whispered. “So I brought you a piece of it.”

            She took it from him and slipped it into her mouth. Rolling it around on her tongue, she sighed contentedly. “It tastes so good. Thank you. I know the risk you took to bring it to me.”

            Rather than reply, he leaned forward to kiss her again. And this time she let him share the melting snow’s clean taste on her tongue.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

New!

MIMSEY
Humorous Fantasy Romance
Word Count: 24.5K
$1.99 e / $6.99 p

Mimsey Goddess lives a simple life, chatting with Nim, her pet sloth, scaring a robber or two, saving the occasional life…you know, normal things for a demi-goddess. For centuries she’s enjoyed this life, scratching the sexual itch when she feels it, moving on when the need arises. But when she meets Silas, he brings up feelings she’s never felt before.

A routine stop at the market for Silas Barnett turns into anything but when he helps stop a robbery, and he’s intrigued by the old lady brave enough to take on the crook. Never having much of a family of his own, he’d always wanted a feisty grandmother like her, and he can’t help but want to spend time with her.

Though as much as he likes her, Silas doesn’t exactly see Mimsey in the same light as she wants him to, so she introduces him to Maude—young, beautiful, yet another lady throwing Silas for a loop, and after one date she has him completely under her spell. Still, she’s not what he’s looking for, and Mimsey feels guilty for forcing it.

When a jealous tattletale sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong, Mimsey must answer to the higher powers. For she’s committed the ultimate crime according to the gods and goddesses—she’d fallen in love with a mortal. And she must pay with his life.

Warning: Contains a lethal cantaloupe, a weekly poop, beer, third time's the charm, a vicious revenge, and a chance at love for two people who never expected to find it.

Excerpt and Buy Links

Monday, October 26, 2020

HERE BE NEWS for Monday October 26, 2020

 

 



Monday, October 26

Welcome to HERE BE NEWS, where each monday we bring you all the latest from the fantasy romance authors at Here Be Magic:




New!

LOVE LITES
A Collection of Romantic Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Paranormal Vignettes
by Linda Mooney
(Rated G to R)

Word Count: 18.2K
$0.99 e / $6.99 p

      Stories Included are:

INNIE - Katherine shows her shifter husband the value of a good innie.

A BOTTLE OF LOVE - Fighting a full-blown cold, the last thing Marlow expected was a handmade gift from Liston.

THE COLOR OF ROSES - She may be a cyborg, but DeShay wants to experience what human women do...like painting her toenails.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY - Stacie and the rest of the spaceship's crew teach Gallas how to celebrate.

THE SLOT MACHINE - Wendell wins his heart's desire...whatever that is.

LADDER OF GLASS - Darra gives a heartfelt confession to her dead father.

SONG OF RELIEF - Ysidra learned it from her husband, who came from the future.

MY WORST - Carra tempts her husband, Vector, to do his worst.

PICKLES 'N ICE CREAM - When Dia asks her alien husband, Favan, to pick up dessert on his way home, he learns what it could mean.

BONDED - Peg is branded a witch and sentenced to be burned, but her new friend has other plans.

AN INFINITY OF KISSES - Illustra gets a late-night visit from a secret admirer.

THE DAY OF THE WHITE GOLD - One day on the planet determines how much water they'll have for the rest of the year.

THE GHOST OF KRISMAS PAST - Tina relives the day she lost her beloved husband...only to find out it's not forever.

COLD FAIRY MOON - When Brinn joins Sassa in watching the new year's celebrations, he ventures to suggest they have one of their own.

Excerpt and Buy Links




October 21: Nicole Luiken offers a glimpse of her WIP Where Lost Things Go

October 22: Deborah A Bailey discusses the right POV for your book.





Eight years ago, Ophelia Leonides's husband cast her off when he discovered she was not the woman he thought she was. Now destitute after the death of her father, Ophelia is forced to turn to Dario for help raising the child she never told him about. 
Dario is furious that Ophelia has returned, and refuses to believe Arthur is his son - after all, he thought his wife was barren. But to avoid gossip, he agrees to let them spend the holidays at his villa. While he cannot resist the desire he still feels for Ophelia, Dario despises himself for being hopelessly in love with a woman who can never love him back. 

But Dario is wrong: Ophelia's emotions are all too human, and she was brokenhearted when he rejected her. Unsure if she can trust the man she desperately loves, she fears for her life, her freedom and her son if anyone else learns of her true nature... 


Excerpt: 

Candlelight glimmered in the gold of his wife’s hair and Dario could not keep his gaze from straying down the length of the dining room table to where she sat, quietly chatting with her son over supper. He’d never expected to see her seated here again, presiding over his table as she used to do. Yet here she was once more, just as in seasons past.  

How many nights had he sat here reveling in the sight of her—her exquisite beauty, her ineffable grace—anticipating the night to come, when he’d have her once more in his bed... 

 “And Papa said we might go riding together sometime too,” Arthur confided in eager tones. Dario started, his attention captured by the unexpected appellation. 

 “Did he now?” There was a distinctly hesitant note in Ophelia’s voice. She shot a fearful glance in Dario’s direction. Arthur appeared not to notice his mother’s concern. “Yes, and I met his horse—Leveche—and he told me what her name means and...” 

His voice trailed off and then he, too, glanced nervously in Dario’s direction. “It is all right that I call you that, isn’t it, sir?” 

 Dario ground his teeth, uncomfortably aware of those two sets of eyes trained so anxiously on his face. Arthur’s eyes pleaded with him to say yes. What Ophelia’s eyes had to say about the matter he didn’t know, for he refused to meet them. His initial instinct was to deny the boy’s request, to insist he address him more formally; but then he reconsidered. Where was the harm in it, really? As long as he kept them here on his estate, shielded from the busybodies and the gossips, why not indulge the boy? “Certainly,” he said at last and hurriedly returned to his meal, unwilling to be drawn into any more of their conversations. He could not, however, resist taking one quick look at Ophelia’s face. The smile that curved her lips, the radiant gleam in her eyes as she gazed back at him caused his breath to hitch and his chest to grow tight. She’d always affected him like this and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to indulge himself, as well—to have his wife once more in his bed, to see if he could not give her cause to smile at him several more times before the morning broke. 

 Dario paused, shocked by the direction his own thoughts had taken. His wife? Could he even call her that anymore, knowing her for what she was? On the other hand, wasn’t that precisely how he did still think of her? Annoyed with himself, his appetite gone, Dario slammed his fork down on the table. 

 He should have divorced her long ago. Religion be damned. She’d been absolutely right to have questioned his motives this morning. He’d been lying to himself for far too long. 

 She was no one’s wife. He did not wish to bed her. 

 He groaned softly. It had been hard enough trying to pretend that was the case with her gone. Sitting here face to face, it was completely useless. No matter how many times he repeated the same empty lies, he still could not make his heart believe them. 

 Buy links are available on my website, along with the link to a free short prequel titled This Winter Night.

Saturday, October 24, 2020

Bring It Back(list) – This Winter Heart by PG Forte



Eight years ago, Ophelia Leonides's husband cast her off when he discovered she was not the woman he thought she was. Now destitute after the death of her father, Ophelia is forced to turn to Dario for help raising the child she never told him about. 
Dario is furious that Ophelia has returned, and refuses to believe Arthur is his son - after all, he thought his wife was barren. But to avoid gossip, he agrees to let them spend the holidays at his villa. While he cannot resist the desire he still feels for Ophelia, Dario despises himself for being hopelessly in love with a woman who can never love him back. 

But Dario is wrong: Ophelia's emotions are all too human, and she was brokenhearted when he rejected her. Unsure if she can trust the man she desperately loves, she fears for her life, her freedom and her son if anyone else learns of her true nature... 


Excerpt: 

Candlelight glimmered in the gold of his wife’s hair and Dario could not keep his gaze from straying down the length of the dining room table to where she sat, quietly chatting with her son over supper. He’d never expected to see her seated here again, presiding over his table as she used to do. Yet here she was once more, just as in seasons past.  

How many nights had he sat here reveling in the sight of her—her exquisite beauty, her ineffable grace—anticipating the night to come, when he’d have her once more in his bed... 

 “And Papa said we might go riding together sometime too,” Arthur confided in eager tones. Dario started, his attention captured by the unexpected appellation. 

 “Did he now?” There was a distinctly hesitant note in Ophelia’s voice. She shot a fearful glance in Dario’s direction. Arthur appeared not to notice his mother’s concern. “Yes, and I met his horse—Leveche—and he told me what her name means and...” 

His voice trailed off and then he, too, glanced nervously in Dario’s direction. “It is all right that I call you that, isn’t it, sir?” 

 Dario ground his teeth, uncomfortably aware of those two sets of eyes trained so anxiously on his face. Arthur’s eyes pleaded with him to say yes. What Ophelia’s eyes had to say about the matter he didn’t know, for he refused to meet them. His initial instinct was to deny the boy’s request, to insist he address him more formally; but then he reconsidered. Where was the harm in it, really? As long as he kept them here on his estate, shielded from the busybodies and the gossips, why not indulge the boy? “Certainly,” he said at last and hurriedly returned to his meal, unwilling to be drawn into any more of their conversations. He could not, however, resist taking one quick look at Ophelia’s face. The smile that curved her lips, the radiant gleam in her eyes as she gazed back at him caused his breath to hitch and his chest to grow tight. She’d always affected him like this and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to indulge himself, as well—to have his wife once more in his bed, to see if he could not give her cause to smile at him several more times before the morning broke. 

 Dario paused, shocked by the direction his own thoughts had taken. His wife? Could he even call her that anymore, knowing her for what she was? On the other hand, wasn’t that precisely how he did still think of her? Annoyed with himself, his appetite gone, Dario slammed his fork down on the table. 

 He should have divorced her long ago. Religion be damned. She’d been absolutely right to have questioned his motives this morning. He’d been lying to himself for far too long. 

 She was no one’s wife. He did not wish to bed her. 

 He groaned softly. It had been hard enough trying to pretend that was the case with her gone. Sitting here face to face, it was completely useless. No matter how many times he repeated the same empty lies, he still could not make his heart believe them. 

 Buy links are available on my website, along with the link to a free short prequel titled This Winter Night.

Thursday, October 22, 2020

How to Pick the Right POV for Your Book

Before I started writing novels, I wrote short stories in First Person point of view (POV). The stories often came to me that way. I'd hear the character's voice, then I'd start writing. Of course, getting ideas isn't always that simple. I wish it was! 

But, what are we hearing? Is the character telling us who they are? Or maybe they're having a conversation with other characters. We have to get to know them before we write their stories. 

The thing is, there are times when a lot of characters pop up and we get overwhelmed with ideas. That's when it's time to take notes and prioritize which story to start first. 

The best part is having so many ideas that you can make a list of books to work on. The challenging part is when you start working on a book and you have to find out who the characters are. I'm a "pantser" and not a plotter. For me, the characters drive the story, as opposed to me creating a plot first. 

That's why I spend a lot of time listening to the characters first - getting to know them and what the story is about. I think that's the key. We have to find the character's voice and their reason for being. We have to know what the character wants and what they'll do to get it. 

When I write, I often start out with first person POV in my initial drafts. I write down scenes and conversations that come to mind. Then, as I go along, I start to develop the story. Even with that  preparation, I'm not always sure what POV to use. 

Here are some ways to decide on a point of view for your book:


1. What is the easiest way for you to write the story? This may seem very simple, but it comes down to choosing the best way to get your words on the page. When you start writing, is there a POV that comes to you naturally? Or do you end up struggling to tell the story? 

2. What's your genre? I've read a couple of thrillers in first person POV. I'm not usually a thriller reader, so I could just be picking outliers in the genre. But, I have enjoyed reading those stories because I've felt close to the narrator. In a story where there is danger lurking, or deception to be revealed, I think a First Person POV can be very appealing. It makes you feel that you have some inside knowledge of what's going on. 

3. Is it a personal story? When you're telling a story that reflects a deeply personal experience, a First Person POV will be the best way to go. There are women's fiction novels that do this very well. Particularly when the main character is questioning her life and looking back on past experiences. 

First Person & Deep Third Person 

First person is the perspective of the character. If they don't know something, it can't be part of their view. You may know that their current love interest may disappoint them. Or that their "meet cute" will be the love of their life. Or that the dragon shifter is really a long lost prince or princess. But if your main character doesn't know it, they can't reveal it in their thoughts.

In some ways, I think First Person is very similar to the Deep Third Person POV. In that point of view, the reader gets a very up-close-and-personal view of what the character is experiencing. It all depends on the distance you're giving between the reader and the character.

Third Person Limited is probably the most popular POV these days, but Deep Third Person can be fun to try - especially if you're not comfortable writing in First Person. 

You'll notice that I'm not mentioning Second Person POV. It's not as popular as third and first, and I feel it would take a bit of work to get it right. However, there's nothing wrong with giving it a try, if you like. But, keep in mind what the conventions are for your genre. If your readers aren't into it, it won't be the best choice. 


Part of the fun (and sometimes the stress) of writing is trying new ways to tell your stories. Things have changed from the days when Third Person Omniscient (where the narrator knows the thoughts of all the characters) was the popular choice.

 Don't be afraid to experiment. Choosing a different POV for your book might enhance your creativity and open up ideas that you hadn't thought of. 

Wednesday, October 21, 2020

WIP-It Wednesday for October 21st

  Welcome to our new feature, WIP-It Wednesdays where any of the authors of HERE BE MAGIC might drop by to give you a glimpse at one (or more) of our Works-In-Progress.

 Nicole Luiken here: Hi! This snippet is from the first few pages of a paranormal romance called Where Lost Things Go. I'd love to know what you think of it. Enjoy!

Chapter One

Miranda froze at the wheel. Her mental rehearsal of her upcoming interview hiccupped to a stop as the world outside jumped into sudden sharp, and horrifying, focus. 

No cliffs loomed, no axe murderers blocked the road, but the dull residential street ahead was utterly unfamiliar. She couldn't spot a single landmark or street sign.  

She was lost. Again. 

On the whole she would have preferred an axe murderer. She could have run him down and kept going. 

The car's digital clock read 3:47, only thirteen minutes before her appointment. Her stomach hollowed out. Her eaten-on-the-run lunch of soda crackers and Cheez Whiz churned in her gut. “Whatever you do, don't be late,” James had warned Miranda when he'd finagled her the interview for a plum receptionist job. “J.D. likes everything to move along at a fast clip.”

 Miranda hunched over the steering wheel of her twelve-year-old Mazda, the red leatherette hot and sticky under her fingers, and pleaded with the Universe. “Can I take a rain check and get lost tomorrow? Or her next day off? That would be ideal, but really any day but today.”         

She loved the idea of the world being a mysterious place with many unexpected nooks and crannies, but this made the sixth time she'd become lost this month. She’d always had a slight propensity for getting lost—okay, okay, a major talent—but her record hadn't been this bad since her teens.

At the next street corner, Miranda slowed to a crawl in the vain hope of reading the street sign. If any such sign existed, it was totally obscured by a large weeping birch. Half-wishing an axe murderer would show up so she could borrow his hatchet and do some chopping, Miranda kept driving. 

It had been sunny when she started out, but here in the Place Where Lost Things Go perpetual twilight ruled.

Hang on. You don’t know for certain yet if this is The Place Where Lost Things Go. Maybe she was still in Edgeport. Maybe this was just an older area of the city she’d never stumbled on before.

She turned left at random at the next intersection, but nothing changed. The sidewalks were mazed with cracks—stepping on them would have meant breaking not just her mother's back, but every bone in her body. Weeds poked out of the crevices, but even the dandelions appeared sickly and stunted. The yards were unkempt, either full of dead grass or swallowed up by six-foot tall hedges. The houses all looked the same: bare of paint, the colour of dirty athletic socks. Derelict.

The whole neighbourhood was... spooky. Whenever she tried to get a better look, or catch a house number, the buildings seemed to waver as if made of folded shadows instead of ordinary brick or wood. Most damning of all, she had the road completely to herself. The only car in sight, parked on somebody's front lawn, was a rusty blue 1950s-era pickup missing its driver-side door. 

Miranda glanced at the dashboard clock again. Only six minutes remained now. Even if J.D. Enterprises miraculously appeared around the corner, she’d be cutting it close.

Something flickered in her peripheral vision. Had that been a fox? No. When she turned her head she saw an Asian girl in a pale yellow dress, running.

Relief coursed through Miranda as potent as brandy. In all her trips to the Place Where Lost Things go, she’d never seen another human being—and animals only rarely. Thus, she’d either been only ordinarily lost or she’d driven out of it.

She drove past, spirits high, expecting at any moment to see another car or a cyclist. Even the beginnings of rush hour traffic would have been welcome. Instead the same empty streets greeted her. She still couldn't spot any street signs, and—Miranda’s pulse jumped—she didn't see any street lights either. 

Every street in Edgeport had street lights. Every city, town and hamlet in the country probably had them. She was still in the Place Where Lost Things Go. What the heck?

Despite the whine of her car's air conditioning, sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Tendrils of curly dark hair had fallen out of her French roll to tease at her cheeks. No doubt her flowered sundress would soon sport sweat stains. So much for her carefully cultivated interview look.

The position was for receptionist. Miranda had already filled in once for the woman going on maternity leave and knew she could do the job in her sleep. James had sworn she would be a shoo-in. And when he’d asked her point-blank about her bank account, she’d been forced to admit it could use some beefing up. And she had been looking for a change from waitressing. And it was only for three months. She could put up with playing human voicemail machine for that long.

“Why today?” Miranda asked the Universe. Callously, the Universe didn't answer, but inside she knew the cold truth: the day didn't matter. She'd gotten lost yesterday, too, and probably would again tomorrow.

It was getting easier to get lost and harder and harder to find her way out again.

Desperate, Miranda tried to remember what she'd done as a child. Back then she'd had complicated rules for getting un-lost, like Always Go Forward, Never Go Back. Usually that was enough to do the trick, but in the face of the ticking clock—only four minutes left now—she needed to bring out the big guns. Time to try Rule Two: Find Something.

The rule sounded like nonsense. Find what? Where and how? But once Miranda started looking her gaze was immediately drawn to a splotch of yellow in all the drab gray. 

It was the girl in the yellow dress again. She kept glancing behind her as if worried. She would break into a trot, then slow after a few steps, exhausted.

The hair along Miranda's nape lifted. How had the girl gotten ahead of her? She was only driving 25 mph, but still much too fast for the girl to have caught up. Her shoulders tightened.

She slowed even more as her car pulled abreast of the child. Up close, the girl looked to be around seven or eight years old and had a mix of Asian and European features with epicanthic eyefolds, a snub nose and straight black hair split into pigtails. Her shoulders were hunched as if she'd been walking for miles. The sheer hopelessness on her thin face reminded Miranda of photos the Great Depression. The pale yellow dress was dusty, and the ribbon at the back was untied, the ends dangling and forlorn as if the girl had no mother to tie them up.

Whether or not she was still in the Place Where Lost Things Go or not, Miranda couldn't drive past her, not again. She was firm believer in Fate and this had big, heavy, karmic fingerprints all over it. She stopped.