https://developers.google.com/search/docs/crawling-indexing/consolidate-duplicate-urls Teagan Kearney/G.N. Kearney: Writer: 2015

Fantasy: why do I write in this genre?


Truth becomes fiction when the fiction's true;
Real becomes not-real where the unreal's real.

The above quote is from the Chinese classic, Dream of the Red Chamber, and if you look at Wikipedia's list of top selling books of all time, six out of the top eight are fantasy, or have strong fantasy elements, so I'm not alone in being a fan of the genre. But why is fantasy, and I'm using the term loosely as there are many sub-genres, so popular?

I'm taking it as a given that genre delineation is a marketing tool used to direct readers to a particular type of book, because all stories, irrespective of genre, share the same basic requirements: a protagonist, a plot, and a setting.

Human protagonists experience a range of emotions, which enables readers to engage with them, and even those that are not, for example, robots or little furry animals, exhibit some or all of the same feelings. Whether your character is Leopold Bloom, Bilbo Baggins, Scarlett O'Hara or Miss Marples, readers must want to follow their journey, and find out what happens to them. A character's relationships, and their success or failure in this area of life are part of the emotional appeal of a story.

The term plot is used to describe the sequential events that take place within a story, and follows the standard dramatic arc of increasing internal and external tension, climax and resolution. From folk tales and myths to Greek tragedy, through Shakespeare's comedies to modernist novels, you find this convention. The reader's expectations about character and plot are present whether you read or write crime/detective, magic realism, rom-com, fantasy, fan fiction, or the genre known as literary fiction, and if you tick these boxes, you have a chance of satisfying readers.

For me, the setting of a fantasy novel offers a greater opportunity to bend the rules, although sub-genres such as urban fantasy or postcyberpunk, take place in the world as we know it, or use elements of our world with plenty of gritty kitchen sink realism thrown in. We owe a great debt to the myths and folklore of our ancestors, which we are adapting and passing on to the next generation. Tolkien's use of Norse mythology in Lord of the Rings springs to mind.

A more tricky aspect of genre writing is the framework created by established books which generates limitations. Fairies, elves, and space explorers are generally good, whereas trolls, goblins, and aliens are the standard baddies (except E.T. of course). On the other hand, you could have fun playing with these accepted norms, and feature a teenage troll worried about his complexion, although I'm sure the robot who constantly cracks bad jokes has been done. It's a delicate balance for genre writers to follow these conventions and yet introduce something new and original. If a writer is successful in doing so, their contribution is added to the cannon for later writers to follow.

As a reader and a writer, it's the otherness of fantasy that is its greatest appeal to me, and because the genre is generous, it can include romance, mystery, and be a thrilling tale of suspense on as epic or small a scale as the writer wishes. Sometimes the further we travel in our imagination away from the external world perceived by our senses, the more understanding we gain.

Writing Update:
In January I'll start outlining book three of my urban fantasy trilogy, Samsara, (Books One and Two are available), and until then, I'm editing a science-fiction/fantasy nanowrimo novel. Some years ago, I wrote a fantasy novel, and digging the manuscript out from the depths of a drawer, and reworking it is on the to do list. Although I've written in other genres, I keep returning to fantasy and my first love—sci-fi.

I was very happy to be interviewed earlier this month by the fantasy author, Kellie Steele, and you can find the interview on her website, as well as information about her debut novel, White Ghost and the Poison Arrow.


Useful Links:
http://kellie-steele.weebly.com/blog/

Today's haiku:
snow lies on the ground
one red apple left hanging -
blackbird finds a feast.

Join me on Twitter at: @teagankearney

Thanks for visiting my blog, and please do leave a comment.
To all story lovers out there, good reading, and to those of you who write, good writing. 

Happy Halloween



Well, I did it! I have to admit getting this book ready for publication by my self-imposed deadline of Halloween became a marathon this week. Pulling everything together, keeping an eye open for anything from a extra space between words to a hole in the plot so large no one had spotted it, and trying to stay sane, has been interesting to say the least.

So, if you're a fan of the genre, I hope you'll read the first chapter below, and like it enough to download it from Amazon or Smashwords.

And if not, have a happy Halloween!

Blurb alert:

Why is a rogue vampire targeting young women who bear a resemblance to Tatya? A master vampire, a shaman, and the alpha of the local werewolf pack team up in an unlikely alliance to defeat the new threat to Orleton's citizens. The second book in the Samsara Trilogy sees Tatya face a challenge that will make or break her. 


Vampire Sacrifice ©

Chapter One: Starting Over


They stood on a narrow unstable tower of rock jutting out above the encroaching maelstrom. The shriek of mountains shattering pierced the air; she watched as a thousand black splinters punctured the demon’s body and face as he fought for survival. Stinking yellow-green sulfur fumes seeped through the long thin slashes opening round them. The abyss was close.
She realized if the barriers sundered, he would do his best to drag her down with him. If he couldn’t have her, no one would.
Hellish screams rent the air as those he’d left behind eons ago howled their satisfaction at the prospect of their revenge at his return.
His face contorted; black and yellow bleeding into the brilliant blue of his eyes. “This is not the end,” he snarled baring his teeth, ignoring the low thrum of disintegration.
Tormented twisted shapes bulged towards him, trying to reach and haul him through the fragile barrier. Daemons howled and reached through the fabric of their world to pull them both into theirs.
His hands tightened around her neck, and she watched, frozen, desperate, terrified as a drop of red blood bloomed on his lip and slowly fell towards her.
Then the voice of another, chasing the nightmare away. “It’s okay, Tatya. It’s over. He’s gone and can never come back.”
And the golden link connecting her to the voice pulsed with reassurance and conviction.
Tatya jerked awake, covered in sweat, legs entangled in the bedding making it impossible to move. She froze at the sound of footsteps in the corridor till she remembered where she was.
The door opened, and Eva’s tousled blonde head and sleep filled eyes appeared. “The same dream?”
She nodded. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No problem. It’s five thirty, and I wanted to be up early anyway. Coffee?”
“That’d be great. You up for a run before I leave?”
“You bet. Let’s see who’ll beat who today.”
They grinned at the old joke.
After pulling on a sweat top and pants, and downing a quick coffee, Tatya followed Eva down the steep cliff path to the beach. The house was in an isolated spot and saw only occasional visits from a few hardcore surfers. The tide was out, and the dampened sand created a firm surface for their morning jog.
Eva lasted an hour before staggering to halt, and gasping for breath. “How you do it is beyond me, but I’ve had enough. Don’t stay too long, I’m making pancakes for breakfast.”
Once Eva had left, Tatya let herself go, racing back and forth on the mile-long stretch of white sand for another hour. When she felt the kinks easing from her body, she stopped running and stood for a moment staring out to sea. Thin gray clouds lay in a line along the horizon, and the pale delicate blue sky hinted at fine weather after yesterday’s spring storm. This morning the water was as peaceful as a sleeping babe, its surface smooth and glasslike, tiny wavelets surging and retreating, sushurring softly on the seaweed and driftwood strewn beach.
She remembered the recurring nightmare.
She sat with others, young and old, men, women, and children on a beach. They shared a fermented drink laughing, joking, drinking, eyes twinkling, and teeth glinting in celebration. Red-orange flames danced under the bright moonlit solstice sky. The bard stared at her across the fire. He’d seated himself opposite where she couldn’t avoid his gaze. He smiled, his blue eyes hypnotic as dark gold snakes covered in flickering black lines crawled out of his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth and slithered towards her. She turned to Vanse for help, but as she touched his arm, he disintegrated into ash. Then the half-daemon, half-vampire grabbed her, and she was back on that ledge fighting for her life.
The memories and dreams never truly left her. And along with the dreams came thoughts of Vanse. Sometimes she dumped her pent-up lifelong hatred of everything vampiric onto him. At others, when she could scarcely breathe at the thought of being separated from him, she wondered why she was putting herself through the unnecessary torture of staying away. It was all she could do to stop herself driving as fast as possible to Orleton.
To say the relationship between them was complicated was an understatement. Vanse had saved her from the half-daemon, half-vampire, Angelus by giving her his blood, so for a time she’d been connected to both of them. Until she’d killed Angelus. But to keep the demon in hell, she and Vanse needed to stay connected. She could cut him off for short periods, but when either of them thought of the other, the link sparked. Regrettably she had no power over his thoughts. She did her best to rationalize the emotions he aroused in her, telling herself she’d deal with the situation when she returned to Orleton.
She’d miss the sea––its vast unceasing movement and unending changes of color eased her inner restlessness. But she would miss Eva more. They’d been roommates in college, and Eva had offered her shelter and solace while she grieved for the loss of her Aunt Lil and Sean. Tatya laid both deaths at Angelus’s feet; his need for her powers had destroyed the people she loved. She had never been able to confirm it, but her aunt’s illness must have had a psychic origin, with Angelus the most likely culprit. But she hadn’t died from her illness. The monster had orchestrated her death using Sean as his instrument.
The link flared and faded. She was always conscious of her connection with the vampire master. Sometimes it felt as if he was checking in on her, making sure she was managing. But he was discreet, didn’t push her. She knew he was waiting for her to initiate contact. And it was true he was never far from her thoughts. How could he be? If her memories were correct, she’d loved him for many lifetimes. And he’d waited, and saved her repeatedly over many lifetimes.
This new mixture of demon, vampire, and human blood that ran through her arteries and veins had changed her. The alteration to her metabolism after linking with Vanse hadn’t been obvious at the beginning, but during the months since, she discovered she beat Eva at every physical activity they undertook––unlike college when her friend had been the sporty one winning trophies while she practiced Tai Chi in the park. These morning runs on the beach had presented an opportunity to explore the potential of her body. Being able to run faster, for longer was only one change: when she tired, she recovered quicker; she didn’t need as much sleep; her skin glowed and her hair, already thick and curly, shone with deeper red highlights, and grew quicker than normal. She wondered how long her lifespan might be, seeing as how she was a hybrid, and wasn’t certain if she had the right to call herself human anymore.
Another benefit she enjoyed, and took great advantage of, was eating as much as she wanted, when she wanted, with no effect on her weight. In fact, her metabolism quickly burned up every calorie she consumed. She was often hungry and felt guilty at the huge amounts of food Eva prepared for her each mealtime.
As if she’d heard Tatya’s thoughts, Eva’s voice floated down from the top of the cliff. “Yoo-hoo! Breakfast is ready! You’d better get a move on!”
She was right. If Tatya had any chance of making her goal of being in Orleton tomorrow afternoon, she’d have to leave soon.
Looking at the long empty stretch of sand, she smiled. Coming here had been good for her. She’d needed time and distance to get the events of last autumn into perspective. At one point, she’d considered moving here, buying a property nearby, but her roots were in Orleton. Apart from Vanse, who she suspected might compel her to return if she didn’t do it of her own free will, she missed her friends, Bill Corwin, the local sheriff, and her mentor, Changing Sky, not to mention the people who came to her for healing. She’d grown up in the small mid-western town, knew it well, was familiar with its people, and didn’t want to resist its pull.
Even though the cliff path was a steep climb, Tatya was barely out of breath when she reached the top, and strode into Eva’s kitchen. She breathed in the delicious smells: fresh orange juice, coffee, piles of pancakes, and a large bottle of maple syrup were spread out on the kitchen table.
“Eve, you’re an angel.”
“That’s understood, but eat while the food’s hot. You can shower after. There’s your latte, and I didn’t forget the extra shot.”
Tatya eyed the large pile of pancakes on her plate with relish, before sloshing a generous amount of syrup over them. “Mmm ... my favorite! Seems a shame to leave when I’ve just gotten you trained.”
“You’re welcome anytime, Tat. You’ve always got a place here.”
“Yeah, you, me, and Jimmy. A cozy threesome.”
“You can keep me company when he’s away. Seriously, Tat, my door is always open for you.”
Tatya stuffed another chunk of maple syrup covered pancake into her mouth.
“Hey! Go slow there’s plenty more.”
“I may need to hire a cook.”
“How are feeling about seeing your old place? You think you can handle that yet?”
Tatya flashed on the image of Aunt Lil’s house, her childhood home after her parents’ tragic deaths in a train accident, with black clouds of smoke rising into the sky as it burned to the ground. She shrugged, serving herself more pancakes and syrup. “I haven’t been back since the fire, so I won’t know till I see it, but I won’t be going out straight away. I’ll finish getting the shop and my living space set up. Readjust to seeing the town again. Then when I’m ready, I’ll go take a look.”
Eva refilled their coffee cups. “Do you aim to rebuild? Or are you thinking of selling?”
“Sometimes I think I’ll do one, sometimes, the other. Watch this space. I’m not making any impulsive decisions. No matter what happened that place holds precious memories.” She patted her stomach. “I’m stuffed. That was delicious. Thanks, Eva. You’ve put me back together. And not for the first time either. You’re a real friend. You need anything from me, just ask, and I’m there for you.” As her confidante in college, Eva had salvaged Tatya’s broken heart from more than one relationship that ended in disaster. “You told Changing Sky you’re coming?”
The mention of the shaman brought a smile to Tatya’s face. “Nope. I haven’t told Bill either. I saw them both when I signed the contract on the building the other month. It’ll surprise everyone, but it’ll be so good to see them. I’ll need more sage bracelets and I need to restock all my supplies. The whole lot went up in flames along with the old house. That’s how I think of it these days. The old house.” Tatya was quiet for a minute as thoughts of happier times surfaced.
“It won’t be easy seeing people. The smallest thing can trigger memories.” Eva’s voice was anxious, the mother hen seeing her chick totter off on her own.
“I know. But avoiding it isn’t going to make it go away. And I need to work. I’ve been thinking of getting someone in to help establish the herb plots.”
Neither said anything, but Sean’s presence hung heavy between them. He’d been her best friend and partner in the herbal business they’d started two years ago.
“Be careful, though. Remember that card. You’ve pulled it every single time I’ve done a reading for you.”
Eva was a fortune-teller. A good old-fashioned seer who used a crystal ball, the I Ching, and her specialty, Tarot cards, which she taught Tatya how to use during her stay. The card in question was the Abyss.
The memory of Vanse turning to ash from her dream came to mind. “But in a certain way, there’s danger at every step. You can get killed just crossing the road.”
“In New York or Los Angeles, yeah. But Orleton?”
They laughed. The only time there was even a hint of a traffic jam in Orleton was the 4th of July parade, or on the odd occasion when the Winnebagos blocked Main Street during the tourist season.
“You haven’t forgotten any of your new outfits have you?”
One day Eva had surprised her by taken her on a trip to San Francisco’s Uptown Oakland district, dragging her from one shop to another, insisting she needed at least a few smart outfits for the next chapter in her life.
“People judge by appearances. You’re not a college grad anymore. You’re an upcoming business woman, and your clothes should reflect that.”
“And this is coming from a woman who wears hippy tie-dyed skirts from the sixties?”
“Hey, I’m a fortune-teller. I’m allowed to be eccentric. You should see some of my competition’s outfits.” And they’d giggled as Eva described get-ups ranging from the stereotypical gypsy to the Siberian shaman.
An hour later, standing by the truck, Tatya looked around for the final time. The stubby brown hills nearby, the darker purple mountains further away, and as she turned, the dark line of Prussian blue of the ocean in the distance. With her heightened senses she could hear the waves, soft in the background, and she breathed in the fresh salt sea air. Staying here had purified and healed her body and her mind.
“Looking forward to the first road trip in your new baby?” Eva asked, opening the passenger door of the vehicle and dropping Tatya’s bag on the floor.
Tatya had spent a part of her aunt’s inheritance on a brand new shiny black Chevy truck. She’d never owned a new vehicle. Every single one of her previous cars and trucks had been second or third hand. “I can’t wait to see how it handles. A long drive will give it a chance to stretch its muscles.”
“What time will you get there?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to take it slow, enjoy the scenery.”
“Drive safe.”
“Come here, you. Thanks. For everything. I mean it. I won’t forget. I owe you big time.” She put her arms around Eva and hugged her tight.
Listening to the engine’s smooth purr, as she headed for the freeway, she calmed the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She knew why she was nervous. Vanse. She’d put him out of her mind over the winter, while she cried her heart out over the two people she’d lost, and mourned their passing. Now she had to return to the land of the living––or in Vanse’s case, the land of the undead.
The link flared, as his emotions, knowing she was returning, poured through the connection, and her body shook with the strength of his feeling. She slowed down, and summoning her power, she cut the link. A short sharp cut. Her hands and fingertips glowed as she gripped the steering wheel. Good. Eva’s psychic exercises were working.
She no longer leaked power, a powder keg waiting to blow. She was stronger physically and psychically. He’d caught her unawares, that was all, but she’d be prepared next time. He should know overwhelming her wouldn’t make any difference to how she felt about him. Sparks would fly and rules made clear when they met. Keeping her speed down till her anger calmed, power retreated, and her hands steadied, she fixed her eyes on the ribbon of road ahead. But as she drove, her thoughts kept circling back to the tall dark and handsome vampire.
Vanse had waited centuries for her, but she’d comprehended nothing of this, till knowledge of her past lives had awakened. The trouble was in her first life she’d loved Vanse, and each time they’d met, that love had rekindled. When Vanse halted her transformation she’d experienced the intense emotions a newbie vamp has for its maker. This was now layered on top of memories of her love for him from the past. Vanse was waiting for her to return. Tomorrow she’d be in Orleton, and unable to avoid him. The problem was, despite her protests to the contrary, the thought of seeing him a shiver of anticipation up and down her spine.



Vampire Sacrifice, Book Two of the Samsara Trilogy, is an ebook available from:




Check out my short stories and flash fiction on Wattpad (magic realism, sci-fi, crime, romance and women's fiction), just click on the images on the 'Short Stories' tab at the top of this page. Or if you're interested in something longer, I've previously published two novels - and one is free if the genre is to your taste. 


Join me on Twitter: @teagankearney 

I've just joined Pinterest, so if you're over that way, check out my pinboards: https://uk.pinterest.com/teagankearney/



Thank you for visiting my blog, and please leave a comment. To all story lovers out there, good reading, and to those of you who write, good writing.


Vampire Sacrifice, Book Two of the Samsara Trilogy, is an ebook available from:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/589194












Not a lazy post but a tribute ...


I didn't post a blog last month, because I was on the last stretch on editing and tweaking my WIP, Book Two in the 'Samsara Trilogy', before sending it off my editor. I'm still hoping to make my self-imposed publishing deadline (end of October - paranormal, Halloween, etc.) and my brain was glued to this one task. Currently the cover and blurb are being readied, which makes me sad and excited. Sad because, even though there are bound to be some issues to address, I'll soon be leaving the characters and story which have occupied so much of my inner world this past year; and excited because the book will soon be published - which is a thrilling adrenaline-fuelled nerve-wracking exercise. Watch this space ...

So I want to use this post to thank the following bloggers. I have the utmost admiration for those writers who post on a regular basis, as well as continuing to work on their novels. These people write not just good, but consistently excellent blogs, and I urge you to at spare a few minutes of your day to check them out.


Carol is witty, makes a great job of being an L-Plate Gran, and has just released her latest Victorian crime (Sensation) novel, Death & Dominion.

Yolanda's intriguing poems reflect her thoughtful approach to life.

Vashti is a lively, friendly blogger, author of The Basement, and she hosts a haiku prompt on Fridays.

Squid is a generous, supportive, Irish writer who released Honeysuckle Lane, his debut novel this August.

http://paulareednancarrow.com
A writer and performance artist who always has something interesting and insightful to say.

A blog chock-full of helpful advice for indie writers.

Writer and book critic, Anne successfully published her debut novel, Sugar and Snails, in July.

One of the most helpful people I've ever met, Christine blogs on a number of subjects, including the wildlife in her garden, and released the second book in her Reluctant Detective series Traces of Red this August.

Chris hosts one of the best websites offering support, information and resources for indie authors that I've come across.

Charli's lively blog is the centre of a literary community, and she hosts a weekly Flash Fiction challenge every Friday.

These are only a few on my list, and there are many more great blogs out there I've yet to discover. I know time is short for all of us (if only it would stretch when you're doing something pleasurable instead of shrinking), but popping in and out of these pages always lifts my mood. IMHO each and every one of them is worth your time and effort.



Check out my short stories and flash fiction on Wattpad (magic realism, sci-fi, crime, romance and women's fiction), just click on the images on the 'Short Stories' page. Or if you're interested in something longer, I've published two novels - and one is free if the genre is to your taste.

Join me on Twitter: @teagankearney

Thanks for visiting my blog, and please leave a comment. 
To all story lovers out there, good reading, and to those of you who write, good writing.



Gearing up again ...


Writing Update

Resting a novel between drafts is a necessary step, but after finishing the first draft of Book Two of Samsara, (the paranormal trilogy currently occupying my internal landscape) I felt as if I had a permanent itch. Keeping busy with other projects was like slavering the spot with calamine lotion which provided only temporary relief. However returning to edit with a fresh eye is worth the wait.

My experience is limited, but so far, writing each first draft has been different. The first draft of Book One, Tatya's Return, came out in a flood. Written during the 2013 nanowrimo it emerged on to the page with noticeably greater ease than the earlier battle with my debut novel. The first draft of Book Two has been trickier; half-way between a vigorous love making session and a bout in the boxing ring, where I finished up exhilarated and exhausted. Editing will be the re-match, and despite the effort involved in endlessly pressing Ctrl+F, Ctrl+V, I’m eager to start. 

When revising, I use a method similar to triage. Like a doctor with a patient, I tackle the most drastic tasks first, before turning my attention to the smaller, if more painstakingly labour intensive, but equally necessary jobs needed to achieve good health. 

My first step is a read through, so I print out a hard copy. Next, red highlighter in hand, alert and poised to strike, I’ll go through the manuscript making notes. These could refer to plot, dialogue, characters, action, or setting. For example, I’ve already decided to move the inciting incident forward. This is bound to have a knock-on effect, and require re-jigging of subsequent sections – but that’s part of the course. When I’m finished, even an Alan Turing would have trouble decoding the massacred pages, and Jackson Pollock would be proud of me.

This stage complete, back to the laptop to make these changes, then on to the grammar/spelling/style edit for which I use Pro Writing Aid. One thing I’ve invested in during this breather is an upgrade from the free version of this software program to the premium edition. I spent a chunk of my break trying this out on my 2012 nano, and couldn’t believe how much easier the process was, and how much more quickly I worked through the bruising list of corrections.

A second read through – aloud and taking it slow while paying as much attention as I can muster, correcting as I work, in spite of which something always slips through. When I’m confident the edition I have is acceptable for others, I send it off to my beta-readers, which creates another breathing space.

This rhythm of intense engagement, followed by a putting aside, allows a fresh perspective, and curbs the tendency to develop the wood for the trees syndrome. How long you rest your work depends on the individual, but Stephen King in his On Writing suggests a minimum of six weeks. And this is how long I’ve taken, while still giving myself a decent chance of meeting my deadline of publishing in October.

If this creates the impression of organized efficiency, that’s wonderful, but the actuality will be fairly chaotic, because I’m also re-decorating the living room. This includes sanding and re-painting book cases and tables, plus periodic attempts at clearing the garden to create a path so I can foray out for supplies!

A recent twitter conversation between writers focussed on the topic of so long as I’m writing, everything is okay. Now while this may not be a universal truth, it’s something I wholeheartedly endorse at this point in my life. I've become that bouncy enthusiastic kid in the back seat of the car who’s forever asking ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Well, the answer is yes, and I can’t wait to start!

Today’s Haiku
SUMMER
sun shining through glass
glitters over surfaces -
refracting jewels

Useful Links:
Two editing software programs - both with free online editions.
https://prowritingaid.com
www.grammarly.com

I’d love it if you checked out either of my novels, or popped over to Wattpad and read any of my posted stories ... just click on the links to the right.

Join me on Twitter at: teagankearney@modhaiku

To all story lovers out there, good reading, and to those of you who write, good writing.

Maisie's Blind Date



This month I’m sharing a short story I wrote so long ago, the original was on a floppy disc - luckily I had a hard copy. A few details needed updating, but women searching for partners in today’s western society no longer depend on parents and marriage brokers, but take matters into their own hands - which in turn creates a world of possibilities for writers. I hope you enjoy this light-hearted look at the dating game.

Maisie's Blind Date


If you’re only going to be attracted to one man in a hundred, then move the other ninety-nine through as fast as possible, said ‘Finding Your Soulmate’, Maisie’s latest bible, and she’d taken the advice to heart. Hence her current anxious state of mind as she waited in a coffee bar amid the hubbub of St Pancras Station on her forty-eighth blind date.

Perched on a stool like a bird on a thin branch about to snap, Maisie gazed disconsolately at her reflection in the window.  Squeezing water out of what remained of her expensive salon-styles curls, she decided taking the afternoon off work and paying a fortune to go from iron-straight blonde highlights to auburn ringlets had been an expensive mistake. Not listening to the weather forecast, and so minus her new see-through umbrella, resulted in a hair style resembling her granny’s perm. Some days, she didn’t know why she bothered.
 
But the truth? She knew why she was making the effort; she wanted a man. One of her own. Maisie enjoyed working in her chosen career of marketing, and was doing well as her recent promotion testified; with good friends and an active social circle, there was no reason to complain. But she wanted someone to travel by her side on the path of life, someone to share the ups and downs with, someone to have children with, someone to laugh and grow old with - in other words, a best friend, a companion, and a lover.

Maisie had tackled the problem methodically: read every book available on the topic; followed advice given by friends, family and work colleagues; joined a gym, lost weight and firmed muscles; been colour assessed and had numerous make-overs; drunk endless lattes at popular cafés, been out and about and generally available.

This year she’d tried out six new hobbies at various evening classes, drawing the line at macramé, dropping them one by one when time revealed Mr. Right didn’t have any interest in these particular subjects. She’d joined several online dating websites, and, in spite of the constant scrolling involved, dated no one she desired to spend more than five minutes with, let alone the rest of her life. She’d placed ads in the ‘Personal’ section of every local and national newspaper, and gone on an endless succession of blind dates with every eligible man anyone within her circle had even vaguely heard of. Was she too fussy? Were her standards too high? Was compromise, like those tv estate agents explained, the name of the game?

Start with friendship someone said. You need something to hold the pair of you together when the lust clears from your brain. Malcolm, Jon and Dave had qualified for this category, but, sadly, in their cases the lusty phase hadn’t been present. All in all, Maisie had given the whole affair top priority and attempted to conduct her search in a business-like manner. She had met, and genuinely liked, some of her dates, but so far had come nowhere near finding ‘The One’.

Maybe she should give this guy a miss? She contemplated the idea for a minute, but determination wasn’t her middle name for nothing. And what were her options? Nope, the search must continue. Today she was meeting her friend Beth’s second cousin, Bill. Or was Bill the second cousin’s best friend?

Aware of a sudden desire to use the bathroom, and figuring she’d enough time to dash across the station and back, she placed the book she’d said would identify her prominently next to her coffee. But what if this Bill arrived early and didn’t wait? She’d done that once, when for no reason an attack of nerves struck and she’d fled, leaving a probably very nice young man standing alone and vulnerable outside a theatre.

‘Excuse me?’

The man behind the counter barely glanced at her.

‘I’m popping to the Ladies and leaving my book by my coffee so my friend knows I’ve arrived. Is that okay?’ She took the grunt she heard as acknowledgement, racing off and navigating her way through commuters and luggage at top speed. Checking herself in the mirror before leaving the loo, she decided a quick flick of lipstick would have to do as there wasn’t time or money for plastic surgery. A few minutes later, Maisie re-entered the coffee bar completely out of breath and collapsed panting onto her stool, grateful her date had not yet appeared. Recovering her poise, Maisie’s adrenaline based buoyancy dissipated as the designated meeting time ticked passed. A dark cloud of rejection hovered on the horizon. Despondently she picked up her book.

‘Hi.’

Maisie gazed up into a pair of eyes so full of humour, she beamed right back at their owner.

‘Bill?’

‘Sorry … Bill couldn’t come. He’s been unavoidably delayed. He … er … asked me to come in his place. I’m Tom.’ He reached out, grasped her hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

From that moment on the afternoon just got better and better.

Tom first took her to an exhibition at the South Bank, and in his company, despite the grey damp day, she felt as if she was basking in warm sunshine. She didn’t remember ever having an interest in 1930’s poetry, but somehow that day it was the most fascinating topic on the planet. And they talked about every subject under the sun. Maisie had never experienced feeling so comfortable with someone so soon after meeting them. It was as if she’d known him her entire life.

Afterwards she couldn’t recall what or where they ate, although she was aware the meal was delicious and the surroundings elegant. When they finished eating, they took a leisurely stroll along the Embankment, captivated by the illuminated London Eye as it turned in the night, its reflection flickering in the Thames.

‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ Tom murmured softly in her ear.

Fear and suspicion sprang fully formed into her mind. Was he married? A single father with ten children? A bigamist? A serial killer?

‘I told a lie when we met.’

Maisie’s brain froze, a mist formed in front of her eyes, a fog paralysed her brain, her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and a sense of impending doom descended. She didn’t deserve this. She was young and her whole life lay ahead of her.

‘I’m not a friend of Bill’s, and he didn’t ask me to come in his place,’ Tom continued.

Maisie couldn’t even nod, but stared, barely blinking, mesmorized by the shiny buttons on Tom’s jacket.

‘The truth is Bill turned up at the station. He arrived a moment after you dashed out. I informed him you were unable to stay, but you left the book so I’d know who to give the message to.’ He put a hand under her chin, raising her face so she had to look at him. ‘You see, from the first moment I saw you, I knew I had to meet you.’

Maisie let out the breath she’d been holding. Her vision cleared, and the hum of traffic impinged on her consciousness again.

‘You must think me crazy. Can you forgive me?’

Maisie looked over the dark river watching each wavelet catch the light for a brief second as she considered the import of his words.

‘Maisie?’

Without warning, she turned back to him, and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Kiss me,’ she said.

THE END

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