HELIUM

Aurora lounged in a cocoon of luxury. She caressed the soft skin of her curvaceous figure. Her exposed belly appeared flattened with muscles. A long, silk skirt hung low around her hips. Her beaded brassiere sparkled with sequins. Colorful scarves adorned her head. Long black hair hung to her waist, shimmering under an exquisitely jeweled headpiece.

She couldn’t complain about her exorbitant surroundings. Rich tapestries draped the walls of her bedroom. The enormous bed easily accommodated ten women. Plenty of room for a sultan and his harem. But only she occupied its satin sheets and vibrantly colored silken pillows.

Her head, cradled in opulence, dreamed of escaping from her solitary confinement. She’d lost track of time. How long had she been here? She craved human contact. Imprisonment kept her from the outside world. With no windows and no doors, Aurora nearly lost her mind.

She could never leave this room. Not unless her master allowed it. She wondered what had happened to him. Hours turned to days, days into weeks, and weeks into months. What if he never returned? Did anyone else know he’d trapped her in this room?

Aurora heard a noise just outside her bedroom walls.

“Aurora, I’m home,” her master said, his voice resonated the air.

Aurora smiled with anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see him, couldn’t wait to abandon the solitude of her surroundings.

She stood up and adjusted her scarves just so. She checked her appearance in the mirror, pleased with her beautiful reflection. She walked to the center of the room, waiting for her master to release her.

Aurora’s eager form shifted into a gaseous state. The helium rose her spirit up into the air. She ascended upwards, exiting through the roof of her bedroom. She landed before her master. Her form relinquished it’s gaseous state, returning her to a human-like existence.

“Hello, Master,” the genie said, finally released from her bottle.

ZINC

Luke kicked off his flip-flops and wiggled his toes in the hot sands of Playalinda Beach. Holding his brand-new Billabong surfboard, his sky-blue eyes scanned the glassy waves pounding the purity of the shores at his favorite place to surf. Playalinda Beach, part of Canaveral National Seashore, remained unblemished from any commercial development which tarnished most of Florida’s beaches.

He inhaled the salty scent of the ocean as the mist of the crashing waves lightly sprayed his face. He tossed his head to the side to remove his overgrown, sun-streaked, blonde hair from his eyes. He examined the waves, smiling at their four-to-five foot peaks as he contemplated the optimal place to put in his six-foot surfboard.

Turning to the left, he looked north towards New Smyrna Beach, the shark-bite capital of the world. Luke enjoyed the view of nothing but waves, sand, and vegetated dunes diminishing in the horizon. He turned to the right to a view just as beautiful, plus one Space Shuttle nestled against Launch Complex 39A off in the distance at Kennedy Space Center.

After deciding to start slightly north of his current location, he speared the tip of his surfboard into the sand, allowing it to stand upright. He slowly removed his Def Leppard T-shirt from his tanned, muscular upper body and threw it on the sand along with his towel. He removed his car keys from his Lightning Bolt board shorts and wished he had a girlfriend to tote all of his crap.

He opened his small canister of Zinc Oxide and dipped two fingers into the thick, cold goop. He rubbed the white sun-protection on his nose without a thought about protecting the rest if his body from the harmful rays of the sun. He grabbed his wax and slowly rubbed it on his surfboard. Luke inhaled the coconut aroma as he meticulously covered the areas where he’d soon plant his feet to ride the waves.

He grabbed the leash connected to the surfboard and secured the velcro strap around his left ankle. He pulled his surf board out of the sand, tucking it under his arm as he walked north about fifty-yards. He trekked through the sinking sand of the shoreline and tossed his board flat into the water. After guiding his floating board until the water reached his thighs, Luke lay his torso on the board and paddled through the glassy waves.

The water temperature felt perfect, warm enough to avoid the hassle of his wetsuit, yet refreshing enough to invigorate him. His arms stroked through the water as he paddled towards the open Atlantic Ocean. As the remains of a crashed wave rolled towards him, he automatically submerged the tip of his board into the water while simultaneously lifting his powerful upper body to allow the wave to flow between him and his board.

Luke paddled past the waves and sat up on his board. His legs dangled in the water as he admired the unusual clearness of the salt-water. He watched the bait fish swim briskly below him and almost wished he couldn’t see the bottom of the ocean floor. He silently debated if he wanted to see what swam in the waters beneath him; sometimes ignorance is bliss.

He regretted watching Shark Week on the Discovery channel the night before. He wished he’d never learned the close proximity of sharks to the shores of Florida’s beaches, or how sharks often confused the dangling limbs of surfers on their boards with edible seals. Luke couldn’t risk the ridicule of his friends calling him a pussy because he felt afraid to go into the water, so he sucked up his fears and said a silent prayer.

A rush of excitement filled his lungs as he saw a perfect wave rise towards him. He rotated his board to face the beach and dipped his arms into the water to paddle towards shore. He felt the wave lift him and the board up as the force propelled him forward. Luke placed his hands on the board and his strong forearms quickly pushed up as his feet automatically planted themselves on the rear half of the board.

Luke kept his knees bent as he squatted on the board. Using his hips, knees, and feet, he rotated the board back and forth as he rode the four-foot wave perpendicular to the shoreline. With the wave tunneling behind him, he rotated the board up, attempting to catch air. He felt the board coming out of the water and rotated the board back down onto the wave. He wiped out face first into the wave, swallowing salt water as the board leash yanked him towards the shore.

Praying nobody he knew witnessed his wipeout, he stood on the ocean floor in waist deep water until his bearings returned and his head stopped spinning. His ankle throbbed with pain as he recalled the fin of his board scraped him during the wipeout. He lifted his injured limb out of the water and examined the small amount of blood oozing out of the scrape.

Something swooshed near his legs, and Luke prayed the cause was merely the swirling current from the recently crashed wave. He hopped back up on the board and paddled out beyond the breaking point of the waves. He sat on his board, letting his feet dangle in the water below.

Luke saw the shark fin about twenty yards out, swimming perpendicular to the shore. He gently lifted his dangling legs out of the water, cursing for not remembering something so simple as blood attracts sharks. He lay on his floating board with all of his appendages safely out of the water, praying for the recognizable bull shark fin to pass by.

In an instant, the fin turned towards the shore, heading straight for him. Oh shit! Luke paddled frantically, scared to have his arms in the water, but more scared to risk floating on a surfboard as a shark swam towards him. As he paddled faster than he ever thought humanly possible, he heard the screams of sunbathers watching in horror from the shore.

Luke never looked back to gauge the shark’s location, he just kept paddling. He felt a strong force lift him up as his board and body rose. He knew the feeling all too well. He’d just caught a wave. Squatting up on the board, he rode the wave all the way to the shore. When the board fins dragged the bottom of the shallow waters, Luke hopped off of the board and onto the safety of the sandy beach, never looking back.

ARSENIC

Penelope stood in the attic of her ancestral home. She loved the hexagon-shaped stained glass window which dominated the top floor of her Victorian Mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans. She stood at the antique wooden podium and looked down at a group of tourists gawking at her home. She wondered if they knew how close they were to getting cursed today.

Penelope opened her spell book with the utmost respect, just as her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother did before her. Her lineage, along with her powers, traced back to the seventeenth century.

Penelope put the finishing touches on her love potion, and raised her arms above her head. She recited the words from her spell book, enjoying the ritual of her craft. It surprised her to run out so quickly. She kicked herself for not brewing the love potion in bulk sooner than today. But with Valentine’s day coming up, the orders poured in. With word of mouth increasing her sales dramatically, she barely scrounged enough ingredients together to make her final batch.

She heard a knock at her door. Are you kidding me? She closed her spell book and covered it with the black, embroidered silk cloth. She descended two flights of stairs, growing impatient with each subsequent knock her visitor delivered. If he only knew who lived here.

Penelope checked her appearance in the foyer mirror, her long black hair hung straight against her tall slender frame. Her creamy white complexion made her mismatched eyes stand out. Although most believed her one blue eye and one green eye made her a freak, Penelope knew it a sign she inherited the strongest powers of Witchcraft. Her family prayed to birth girls carrying the blue eye/green eye trait.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. Are you Penelope Manchester?” the man asked, tipping his hat like a Southern Gentleman.

“Yes, I am,” she said, admiring his good manners. Maybe he knew, after all?

“My name is James Toliver, identification 1975690. I’m an agent with the Internal Revenue Service,” he said.

“You're with the IRS?” Penelope asked.

“Yes, Ma’am. Our office made several attempt to contact you. I’ve telephoned and sent letters, but I haven’t heard a response. I’m glad to see you are alive and well, Ma’am. But I hope to schedule a time to meet with you to discuss various tax matters,” he said.

“Sure, now is as good of a time as any. Please, won’t you come in?” Penelope asked, only because he acted so nice to her.

“Thank you, Ma’am. You have a lovely home,” James said, entering the enormous mansion and marveling at its exorbitant furnishings and décor.

“Thank you, would you like a cup of tea?” Penelope asked.

“I’d love some, if it’s no trouble, of course,” he said.
“Excuse me while I put the kettle on,” Penelope said, disappearing into the kitchen.

“How did you find out about me?” Penelope asked, returning to the agent in the living room.

“When I audited a friend of yours, he tried to deduct your spell casting services from his income. He showed me a receipt for $5,000. Did Kyle Smith pay you to curse someone? He said it was a necessary expense for his business. Never in my 30 years with the service have I witnessed such a ridiculous deduction,” the agent said.

“Oh, yes, I remember Kyle. Did he tell you if it worked?” Penelope asked. Her blood boiled with anger.

“I didn’t ask, that’s not my job. I have a copy of your tax returns for the last several years, and I’d like to ask you a few questions,” the agent said, his tone turned harsher.

“My CPA, Terri, prepares my taxes. All of my income derives from my great-grandmother’s Dynasty trust,” Penelope said.

“Yes, I can see, your taxable income exceeds over five-million dollars each year. But I’m afraid you’re not reporting all of your income,” James said.

“I don’t understand, I pay over a million dollars in taxes every year. How much more do you want?” Penelope asked. She felt furious to pay the government so much money, especially after the way the authorities treated her ancestors.

“Do you earn money from your potions and spell casting services?” James asked.
“I suppose, but it’s nothing compared to the income I receive from my trust fund,” Penelope said.

“I’m afraid you must pay taxes on your income derived from all sources. However, your accountant can deduct your costs related to your, uh, business,” James said.

“I have to pay taxes on the money I make from Witchcraft?” Penelope asked, trying to control her anger.

“I’m afraid so,” James said. He turned his head towards the kitchen as the tea kettle whistled.

“Excuse me while I see to your tea,” Penelope said.

She hurried to the kitchen and removed the boiling water from the stove. She poured the steaming water in the tea pot, feeling furious at the nerve of this man. Taxing my Witchcraft income? Seriously?

Penelope took the back stairs straight to the attic, carrying her teapot with her. She retrieved her dark magic spell book from the bookshelf and blew off the dust. Her family only practiced good magic, but they made exceptions for demons and bad people. She felt this man fell under the latter.

She found a potion she’d never used before and lacked confidence in its success. She scrounged the required ingredients together and placed them in the steaming pot of tea. Penelope lit a candle and raised her arms above her head as she read the words to cast the spell.

As she closed the pages of her ancestral spell book, she added a sprinkle of arsenic to the Tax Man’s tea, just to be sure.

SULFUR

“Thanks for traveling across the Atlantic Ocean to join me on this excavation, Tommy,” Victoria Ventures said. She hugged her ruggedly handsome colleague.

“When a beautiful woman calls and asks me to leave the harsh winter in Scotland to play in the dirt with her in sunny Florida, I take the first flight out of Edinburgh,” Tommy Garrison said.

“You came at the best time, we finally cut through all the bureaucratic red tape so now we can start getting our hands dirty," Victoria said.

“How did you find this place?” Tommy asked.

“A condo developer demolished an old hotel near Walt Disney World. When they dug the hole for the basement, they found an entrance to a cave,” Victoria said.

“Just a cave? I thought you mentioned an excavation every archeologist dreams about,” Tommy asked.

“I promise you, Tommy, it will be. I haven't told you the best part yet, come on,” Victoria said with a wink.

They walked the cave system for over an hour, covering the distance of almost two miles. They barely spoke as they hiked through the spider web-like tunnel system. Victoria's excellent physical condition made it easy to keep up the intense pace. Her excitement to show Tommy her discovery motivated her to practically run to the find of a lifetime.

“I'm glad you marked the path with ropes, if I got lost I’d never find my way out again,” Tommy said.

“I’ve walked this tunnel so many times I don’t even need the rope anymore. But it’s good to have just in case,” she said.

“Like the guy who killed the Minotaur in Crete, didn’t he use a rope to find his way back out of the labyrinth?” Tommy asked.

“I forgot how nerdy you are,” Victoria said. She laughed, poking fun of her college boyfriend.

“Yuk! Did something die down here? It smells like rotten-eggs,” Tommy said, holding his nose to mitigate the foul smell.

“We’re getting close now. You smell the sulfur commonly found in hot spring water,” Victoria said.

“This all reminds me of how they discovered the ancient Roman baths, in Bath, England. During the Victorian era, hot water started leaking in someone's basement. They started digging and uncovered the archeological find of the century,” Tommy said.

“Sorry I’m walking so fast, but I’m anxious to see the look on your face when you see what I found,” Victoria said.

“You mean what your team found,” Tommy said correcting her.

“What I’m about to show you no one else has seen, at least no one still living,” Victoria said. She grinned at the joy of teasing Tommy. His perplexed look proved priceless.

“I’ve been in a holding pattern waiting for you to arrive. I need a diving partner, and no one will take the risk. The cave dead ends into a hot spring,” Victoria said.

“Sounds fascinating, but I imagine the fear of diving in an undiscovered hot spring sounds intimidating,” Tommy said.

“It’s not exactly undiscovered. In fact someone discovered it thousands of years ago. They left markings. The Ancient Egyptians discovered it before the Spanish did 500 years ago.

“Okay, now you just gave me the biggest hard on. Did you say the Ancient Egyptians were here?” Tommy asked.

“Yes, but I’m not an expert in hieroglyphics, that’s one of the reasons I called you. I merely possess the most basic knowledge, and I don't recognize much,” Victoria said.

“No one has ever found evidence of the Ancient Egyptians in the new world. But we studied Egyptian hieroglyphs together in graduate school. I’m surprised you’re so rusty. I recall feeling furious when you earned an ‘A’ when I got stuck with a ‘B+’,” Tommy said.

“Do you regret turning down your fellowship at Harvard to be with your father in Scotland after his heart attack?” Victoria asked.

“Not as much as I regret not staying in the States to be with you,” Tommy said, feeling his heart ache for the missed opportunity with his college sweetheart.

“You’re here with me now,” Victoria said, smiling through her bashful feelings.

“So if the Spanish found this cave in the 1500s, why haven’t we heard anything about the discovery?” Tommy asked.

“I think I know why this place is still a secret. Look here. Our predecessors left warnings,” Victoria said. She shined a light on the cave wall a few yards away from the start of the hot springs. She and Tommy stared at the engravings.

“Don’t feel bad for not recognizing the hieroglyphics, they’re not Ancient Egyptian,” he said.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Something older, Sumerian perhaps,” he said.

“The one below it is written in Spanish,” she said as she translated.


Do not touch the water, or you will watch everyone you love die

Ponce De Leon


“Come on, we’re almost there,” Victoria said.

She grabbed Tommy’s hand and led him to the start of the hot springs. She pulled out her lighter and ignited the incense to mask the pungent smell of sulfur. She shined her flashlights on the control box for the lights she recently installed. She placed her finger above the “on” switch and looked at Tommy.

“Ready? 3, 2, 1,” she said, as she pressed the switch and the lights shone brightly on the hot water springs. A layer of steam hovered several inches above the milky water.

“Oh my God, the only thing stopping me from diving in is Ponce De Leon’s warning,” Tommy said.

“I have a confession to make,” Victoria said, grinning up at Tommy.

“No, please don’t tell me you risked your life by touching the water?” Tommy asked.

“Only by accident. The other day when I installed the lights, I tripped and stumbled. My hand automatically reacted by going down to brace my fall. It accidentally landed in the water,” Victoria said. She held her right hand up to show Tommy.

Tommy gently took her hand in his and examined it. He enjoyed the intimate moment of caressing Victoria’s hand. He ran the tips of his fingers over her soft skin as he admired her youthful hand. He instinctively pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“Your hand is as beautiful as I remember. It’s like you never dug in the dirt in your life,” Tommy said, still holding her hand as his strong feelings for Victoria came rushing back, filling his heart with love again.

“I know. That’s just it, until the other day, my right hand looked as rugged and aged as my left. Here, look,” she said, holding her left hand next to her right to allow Tommy to compare the astounding difference between the two.

Tommy looked at her hands and jerked his head back, shocked at the sight before him. While Victoria’s right hand appeared youthful and unblemished, her left hand resembled his own--wrinkled, rugged, and covered with tiny scars from digging in the dirt for a living.

“When I noticed the change, I initially thought it healed from the medicinal powers of the hot, sulfur spring water. But then I did an experiment, and I realized this is something much more,” she said.

“Victoria, no, what are you saying? It can’t be,” Tommy said.

“My cat is fifteen years old and ready to be put to sleep, but I can’t muster the courage to say goodbye,” Victoria said.

“You still have that calico cat from college, Amaretto?” Tommy asked.

“Yes, I brought her down here, carried her in one of those papoose things mothers use to tote their infants around. I submerged her in the water for only a second, and now she’s as good as new,” she said.

Tommy stared at Victoria incredulously; his eyes bulged from his head as the shock settled in. “Do you mean you discovered…”

“The Fountain Of Youth.”

NITROGEN

Ida ran late for her 11 a.m. tour of the Ponce De Leon hotel in St. Augustine, Florida. She only needed to descend three flights of stairs to get from her corner room in the tower to the start of the tour in the grand entrance. But today, as most days, she needed to drag herself out of the bed.

She cursed herself for staying up so late dancing and drinking with her friends. Her husband, Henry, yelled at her and made her go to her own room before the sunrise. “But this is the beginning of the season. I want to stay up and watch the sun rise at the Castillo de San Marcos,” Ida recalled pleading her case.

Ida looked down at her ivory lace dress and admired the intricate stitching of her new frock. She noticed her corset cutting into her ribs. She never remembered putting it on this morning, nor did she recall removing it last night. These lapses in her memory concerned her, but not as much as they concerned her husband. She found huge blocks of time, hours or days, often unaccounted for. She blamed the spirits for this, while Henry blamed the opium.

She felt the brooch at her throat and wished she had a mirror in her room to ascertain if her appearance proved acceptable for society. Damn you, Henry. Why did you take my mirror away? I’m not crazy, I won’t hurt myself.

Ida found her way to the grand entrance to find the tour already in progress. Stephanie always spoke during the tours, while Ida merely helped guide the crowd of guests throughout the hotel. Ida tried to speak on occasion, especially when Stephanie said something wrong. But Ida’s corrections were always met with strange looks, like she was crazy.

Ida spotted the group outside in the courtyard as Stephanie said, “Notice the centerpiece of the fountain is actually the hilt of the sword turned upside down.” Ida smiled at the beauty and uniqueness of the fountain in the courtyard of her husband’s famous hotel in Florida.

She watched the group pour back inside the grand entrance. Ida looked in horror at the wardrobe of the hotel’s guests. She’d never seen the latest fashions from Paris, but it shocked her to see so many women showing their knees.

Ida followed at the rear of the group as they turned right into the receiving room. Ida loved this room because it was the only one which never changed. And the beautiful Tiffany Chandeliers hung magnificently down the long length of the room. Her favorite part of the tour was next.

“When guests first arrived at the Ponce De Leon , the women and children were brought in here while their husbands paid for the hotel. Back then, woman were not allowed involvement in financial transactions,” Stephanie said.

“How much are these Tiffany chandeliers worth,” a guest asked.

“The Ponce De Leon hotel converted to Flagler College in 1968. Many items were sold, but not these chandeliers and the stained glass windows. We had these chandeliers appraised a few years ago, and because of their rarity, they are truly priceless. The Tiffany stained glass windows upstairs in the dining hall were appraised at $36 million,” Stephanie said.

Stephanie led the group to the other end of the long room. She pointed at the glass casings containing photographs of Henry Flagler and his family.

“Here is a photograph of Henry’s first Wife, Mary Harkness. She died young and Henry married her nurse, Ida Alice Shroud, who is photographed here. Henry had Ida declared insane and kept her locked away in the tower until she was institutionalized in 1899. In 1901 Florida passed a bill making incurable sanity grounds for divorce. Henry immediately divorced Ida who remained institutionalized until her death in 1930. In 1901, Henry married his third wife, also named Mary, who is photographed here,” Stephanie said.

“It’s a lie! I’m alive and I’m standing right here. I’m not dead and I’m not crazy,” Ida shouted.

All of the guests in the room heard her this time. They all turned and looked at Ida. But they didn’t seem to be looking at her, they looked through her.

“Did anyone else hear that? I thought I heard someone screaming right in front of me,” one of the guests said.

“I heard something too. And it is freezing right here in this spot. Look, I can see my own breath,” another guest said. She exhaled her breath into the air to demonstrate it turning into white smoke from the cold.

“It’s from the nitrogen in the air. When ghosts appear, they carry a strong dose of nitrogen with them. It’s what makes it feel so cold when they’re near,” Stephanie said.

“Excuse me, did you say ghost?” the guest asked, instinctively stepping away from the cold spot.

“Yes, Flagler College is haunted. One of the spirits is Henry’s second wife, Ida Alice Flagler.”

SILVER

“You’re fired!”

Cat, short for Catherine, heard the dreaded words from her now ex-boss.

She didn’t feel surprised to lose her job in the recessed economy. When the stock market tanks, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to calculate all the brokerage houses on Wall Street suffered. It surprised her the layoff didn’t happen sooner, and she patted herself on the back for holding her head up high and taking it like a man.

She exited her building on Wall Street with her generous severance package in hand. She looked up at the sky where the Twin Towers once stood and felt the sun warm her face. So this is what daylight feels like during the work week? Unsure what to do with herself, she stepped into the nearest bar.

“What can I get you, Cat?” the bartender, Mike, asked.

“Chilled Petron with a Corona light back,” she said, looking at Mike with her sad, baby-blue eyes. Cat appreciated the lack of questions. When she glanced down the long line of bar stools, she noticed lots of “suits” occupying the bar with a drink in front of them.

The bartender poured the clear goodness without judgment. An abundance of Wall Streeters found themselves without a job these days, but a depressed economy and record unemployment equated thriving business for bar owners.

Cat savored the shot and declined another round. She exited the bar without speaking to anyone. Day drinkers craved solitude. She felt lightheaded as she walked down the sidewalk. A liquid lunch proved a new experience for her.

She decided to take advantage of her newly found free time to try new experiences. That’s probably why she found herself walking into a strip club called “The Silver Pole.” The sign in the front window “auditioning dancers” drew her in like a mosquito to a bug zapper.

“Nice, the naughty librarian look, let’s see want you got,” the manager of the Silver Pole said.

“Can you play Ten Seconds To Love, by Mötley Crüe?” Cat asked. She licked her lips and arched her back, the job interview started now.

“Dirty girl, you’ll make a fortune here,” he said.

Cat really felt like dancing, and her buzz blocked any hesitation about taking her top off. She stepped up on stage and removed the pins which held her long brunette hair in a chignon. She tousled her hair to frame her perfect ivory complexion and slowly moved her hips from side to side.

She grabbed the “silver pole” and thought the name ironic because manufactures typically forged stripper poles from either brass or aluminum. She twirled her six-foot slender frame around the pole and kicked her leg up over her head to provide a nice view of her thong.

Cat let the music take her away. She closed her eyes and gyrated her hips, picking up the tempo to the music. She unbuttoned her blouse and revealed her voluptuous breasts spilling out over her Victoria Secret black lace bra. She shimmied out of her skirt as she bent over, giving her future employer a fantastic view of her toned ass.

She circled back to the pole and twirled herself around without stumbling in her three-inch stilettos. It amused her to think the same power suit appropriate for a Wall Street broker doubled as a great costume for a stripper.

She went on her knees and tried not to think of all the germs on the stage floor. She approached the manager sitting in the front row facing the stage, also known as pervert row. She desperately needed this job to pay her exorbitant rent in Manhattan. She licked her lips and stared into his eyes as she removed her bra. The look in his eyes resembled that of a kid in a candy store. This is just too easy.

Cat grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face between her naked breasts. She pushed her puppies together and nearly smothered the guy.

“You’re hired. Come back at 4, the joint picks up as soon as the stock market closes,” he said. He stood up and grabbed his crotch to adjust his positive reaction to the Silver Pole’s newest dancer.

Cat put her clothes back on and smiled at her good fortune. She found a new job within an hour of losing her old one. And this one didn’t require her to think past which pair of shoes to wear.

Fifty dollars a lap dance added up quick. In the first hour, Cat cleared five-hundred dollars. If she worked ten hours a day from four p.m. to two a.m., she’d cover her expenses for one month with one day’s work. She laughed at the thought of making so much more money taking off her clothes as opposed to managing other peoples’ money.

Now she planned to manage her own money. After she set aside enough tax-free tips to cover her expenses for a year, she planned to dump the rest into the stock market. The same depressed stock market which cost her a job on Wall Street, proved to make her a killing when it came back.

Cat found her silver lining: the fortune she’d make by dancing at the Silver Pole.

Everything I Learned About Writing I Learned From My Mother

I couldn’t have done it without her! There I said it. My mother, Leslie Strickland Talley, is the reason I write today. She encouraged me every step of the way. She told me countless tips about writing, particularly about getting started. I never bought any books about how to write. I just listened to my mother. And guess what? She proved right about everything, at least with regard to writing.

With my debut novel, Carbon Copy, and mother’s debut novel, Make Old Bones, coming soon from Wild Child Publishing, people ask me, “Why did you start writing?” I love sharing the story about my mother. Then they ask, “How did you start writing?” Both are excellent questions.

After answering these questions countless times, I’ve discovered something. People enjoy hearing the story of the “why.” But I also learned many people are interested in writing themselves. And they are particularly eager to hear about the “how.” I’ve even inspired others to start writing, including my 10-year-old son. They figure if I can do it, then anyone can do it. I’m not sure what that says about me, but it thrills me to inspire others.

Now I’m sharing the story of the “why” and the “how” I started writing my story.

WHY I STARTED WRITING

“I know this girl who looks exactly like you!” That’s why I started writing. I’ve heard this for years, and my response never changes, “I must have been cloned.” And that is how my debut novel, Carbon Copy, was born.

But I didn’t start writing immediately. In fact, I thought about it for eight years before I typed a word of text on my laptop. But the reason why I decided to write is because of my mother.

When she started writing her debut novel, Make Old Bones, she’d let me read each chapter as she completed it. I wanted to know what happened next. I’m her biggest fan. She claims she kept writing because I wanted to know the rest of the story. All the while, she inspired me to start writing. And I had an idea: cloning.

HOW I STARTED WRITING

Before I delve into the “How,” I first want to share the tips from my mother. Her tips initially came in the form of a speech she wrote for Toastmasters when she was my age now. She even won a few trophies for her speech. I’m not going to dictate her speech. That’s her baby. But I am incorporating many of her brilliant suggestions, with her permission, of course. Plus, I added some advice of my own.

 Start writing anywhere
 Write down your ideas ASAP
 Know that inspiration can come from anywhere
 Stop worrying about not knowing your entire story
 Write in your creative spot
 Write what you know
 Write often because writing sparks more writing
 Stop when you know what will happen next
 Join a writers’ group
 Make writing part of your routine
 Be patient because writing takes time

Start Writing Anywhere

Start writing anywhere. You don’t need to start writing a story at the beginning. You can start writing at the beginning, the middle, or the end. You don’t even need to start with your story. You can start describing a character or a place.

Many writers rarely write their novels sequentially. My mother wrote all three of her novels this way. I now chat with many new authors. Some of them write sequentially and some of them do not.

When Margaret Mitchell wrote Gone With The Wind, she wrote the beginning last because she couldn’t decide where to begin her story. I’m an avid GWTW fan, by the way.
I started my first book at the beginning. Then I wrote the ending. And I filled in the middle chapters last.

For my second novel, Body of Gold, I first wrote the early middle when my heroine met her hero. Then I wrote the end. Then I filled in the rest of the middle. And finally, I wrote chapter one last. I pulled a Margaret Mitchell because I hadn’t decided where my story starts. Now that I think about it, I also pulled a Scarlett O’Hara: “I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

My third novel, Tin Roof, is the sequel to Carbon Copy which also features my

heroine, Lilly Allen. Since I pictured the ending in my head, I wrote it first. Then I wrote chapter one, and now I’m writing the middle.

I just proved my own point, you can start writing anywhere. I started my first novel in the beginning, my second in the middle, and my third with the end. But before I started writing my first story, I wrote a description of my heroine, Lilly Allen, and her twin, Luther Allen. But before I wrote my character descriptions, I jotted down my ideas.

Write Down Your Ideas ASAP

Write down your ideas the instant they enter your brain, unless you are driving, of course. In that case, write it down the minute you stop. Not all of your ideas will come to fruition, but writing your ideas down sparks the creativity process.

My mother keeps more than one notebook. She carries a small one in her purse and she keeps a big one by her bed. Every time she gets an idea, she writes it down so she doesn’t forget.

Before I had children, my mother and I enjoyed a mother-daughter weekend in Savannah. After touring one of the historic mansion homes, she thought of a how her heroine, Clarice, discovered a major clue. She sat down on the bench in the garden and rummaged through her enormous purse. (The purse I carry now is even bigger, by the way.) She retrieved her notebook and wrote down her idea.

It took several years, but she incorporated her idea into her second novel, The Closer The Bone. I enjoyed the weekend in Savannah with my mother. We took the trip before I started writing myself. But I will never forget the experience of witnessing her inspiration firsthand. And for the record, my mother had forgotten about her inspiration in Savannah until she read this article.

Before I sat down to write Carbon Copy, I started jotting down ideas in a notebook I kept by my bed. I did this for eight years. I still have the notebook. Maybe it’ll be worth something on eBay one day. When I look back, I’m surprised how many of the ideas never even made it to the first draft. But many of them did.

I’ve actually used a cocktail napkin to write down one of my ideas. My husband, Garrison, and I visited Charleston in 2004 for our ten-year wedding anniversary. We were in a pub and noticed many patrons had written on one-dollar bills and stapled them to the wall. We did that too. I wonder if it’s still there? But it sparked an idea, the ending of my third novel, Tin Roof. I wrote it on a cocktail napkin. At least I think I did. Did I mention we drank a Guinness or two?

Not only do my mother and I write down our story ideas, we also jot down phrases. Between the two of us, we here countless entertaining sayings. We both live in the South, and Southerners are full of great prose.

Another source of entertaining one-liners are my many girlfriends. They always keep me in stitches with their colorful commentary. The one who cracks me up the most is my girlfriend, Heidi. I even based the character, Britta on her. Britta is a minor character in Carbon Copy, she plays a bigger role in my sequel, Tin Roof. That’s the book I’ll incorporate one of my favorite sayings of Heidi’s, “She must have one of those special mirrors where that shit looks good.”

But the single most productive source of entertaining sayings is my father, Frank. He is a character and a hoot. One of my mother’s leading characters, Otis, in Make Old Bones is based on my father. In fact, my mother and I often fight over who has the rights to his sayings. For now, my mother and I follow the standard shotgun rule, “I call it.”

With technology the way it is today, I no longer use a notepad to jot down my ideas. I use my cell phone. Initially, I sent emails to myself. But keeping track of all of those emails and printouts of emails grew cumbersome.

Then I discovered my AT&T Tilt had Microsoft Word and Excel. And I went to town. I write down my ideas and phrases and save it on my phone. I periodically transfer the documents to my laptop. I’ve even written at least a dozen chapters on my AT&T Tilt. Now I’m the proud owner of an iPhone. Since it is a product of Apple, it doesn’t support Microsoft, so I use the Notes application. “There’s an app for that.”

You never know when inspiration strikes. Make sure to have some form of writing device available. Use whatever works best for you. As long as you write it down somewhere. And for the record, my mother still uses her notepad.

Know That Inspiration Can Come From Anywhere

Now that you’re armed with some form of writing device, how do you find the inspiration? You don’t. Inspiration finds you. I never understood how, but it does. Places inspire me. A scene appears in my head, and I write it down as fast as I can.

Most of the time inspiration hits me while I am at the location. My mother refers to this as “sense of place.” Once she and I have a distinctive place in mind, all kinds of ideas creep into our brains. I admit it’s a scary thought.

My trip to Charleston six years ago opened the floodgates of inspiration. So many ideas swam in my head and I literally couldn’t write them down fast enough. I’m glad I did, because I just started writing Tin Roof, which is set in Charleston. And I had all of my ideas jotted down and ready to go.

When I started writing Carbon Copy, which is set in New York City, I’d only been there once before. But now, coincidentally, I travel there once a year for work. Yes, I still have my part-time day job. For the last six years I’ve visited the Big Apple. I attend a three-hour meeting, and my husband and I stay for three nights, on someone else’s dime.

I’ve enjoyed many pints at Fraunces’ Tavern, window shopped at Tiffany & Company, explored the New York Stock Exchange area, and walked through the lobby of the Plaza. All of these places found their way into Carbon Copy.

So much inspiration in one place is unusual for me. Most of my inspiration comes in smaller doses. We hold Disney World annual passes and take the boys several times a year. On one of our many trips, the idea hit me about how Grier hides Lilly on Disney property. I wrote it down immediately and emailed it to myself. But it took dozens of trips before the inspiration struck.

I’ve visited the Florida Keys several times in my life. While riding over one of the numerous bridges, I saw so many tiny islands. I thought, who knows what type of secret things could transpire in such a remote location. Read Carbon Copy and find out.

Stop Worrying About Not Knowing Your Entire Story

“But I can’t start writing until I know the entire story.” I hear this from my friends who want to write. Once I tell them, “No you don’t,” they feel relieved. Telling my story about how I wrote the first two novels, inspires my friends to start writing.

My mother knew who the murderer was before she started writing, Make Old Bones. In fact, she knew most of the story. When she told me her third novel, A Bone To Pick With You, was almost finished. I asked her is she knew who the murderer was. She said she “hadn’t decided yet.”

I remember reading the murders in her last two books. I said, “ I didn’t know you were going to kill so-n-so.” And she said, “Neither did I, it just happened.” Then I asked her if she knew who did it. And she replied, “I have no idea.”


Write In Your Creative Spot

Find your creative spot and make it inspire you. My mother’s second novel, is set in St. Augustine, Florida. I got married in St. Augustine, and I live their now. She took dozens of pictures of the City and posted them on a bulletin board above her computer. Not only do the pictures inspire her, but they also remind her to write.

When I write, I sit in my formal living room in my comfortable wingback chair. I prop my feet up on the ottoman. I use at least two pillows and my fleece Florida Gator blanket. In fact, I’m sitting in my creative spot now as I write this article on my HP Mini.

I initially chose this spot because it’s quiet. But more importantly, it’s always kept clean. While the rest of my house may not be immaculate, my formal living room and dining room are always presentable. There is nothing more distracting to a writer than thinking about how dirty their house is. As long as I don’t see the toys on the floor in the other rooms or dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, I’m not distracted by them. My husband can vouch for this.

The first item I placed in my creative spot was a laminated chart of the Periodic Table of the Elements. The name of my website is www.ElementsOfMystery.com. My idea is that each one of my novels will contain an element from the Periodic Table.

Garrison and I first brainstormed the idea of Elements of Mystery while drinking German beer at the European Street Café in Jacksonville. Our oldest son, David, only a few months old at the time, slept peacefully in his infant carrier. A quiet baby, a cold beer, and a few moments with your spouse is a treasured moment.

I remember telling Garrison how I struggled with my title. Since my debut novel involved cloning, I wanted a title which alluded to cloning. My first thought was Doppelganger, a German word for deadly double. But when I discovered it was already a book and a movie, I nixed the idea.

I fantasized about writing more than one novel. I loved the concept of a recurring theme in the titles of my books. Janet Evanovich uses numbers, One For the Money, etc. Sue Grafton uses letters, A is for Alibi, etc. James Patterson uses a portion of a nursery rhyme in many of his novels such as Along Came a Spider and When the Wind Blows. My mother’s novels each contain the word “Bone.” She refers to it as her Bone Series. My husband is full of suggestions for future titles for his mother-in-law, but they all involve phallic imagery.

I told Garrison about the title Carbon Copy. We recognized Carbon is an element from the Periodic Table. I believe Garrison first said, “What about Elements of Mystery?” We loved the idea and toasted his brilliance. The very next day, he bought me the domain name www.ElementsOfMystery.com. But for the record, Garrison has yet to read a word of Carbon Copy or Body of Gold. He says he’s scared to death about what my mind can conjure up.

I have no particular order planned as I weave my way through the Periodic Table. I write whatever inspires me. My cousin, Patricia, told me she can’t wait to read Ytterbium. I told her it will follow Thulium. For those 99.99% of you who didn’t understand the joke because you’re not intimate with the Periodic Table, Thulium immediately precedes Ytterbium on the Periodic Table.

The only item I’ve added to my creative spot since I started writing is a framed
8 x 10 of Carbon Copy’s book cover. It has really inspired me to write my second book. Publication proves the best motivation ever.

Once I began writing, I discovered I can write anywhere. My HP mini weighs less than three pounds. I can stow it in my enormous purse. If I have at least fifteen minutes, I can write something.

I’ve written in the park while my sons played on the playground. I’ve written on long car rides. (I wasn’t driving.) I’ve written while sitting in my Jeep waiting in the pick-up line at my sons’ school. I’ve written, about Karate in fact, while my sons attended XMA class. XMA stands Extreme Martial Arts. My sons and I are all First-Degree Black Belts in Taekwondo. I just love saying that.

Write What You Know

My mother always says, “Write what you know.” But I’m fairly certain that’s not what she had in mind when I wrote my steamy sex scenes. My first novel contains only one. But my second novel boasts three. When my mother read the sex scenes in Body of Gold, she told me I had a comma splice, and thought I’d be excommunicated.

I didn’t follow her advice for my first novel, Carbon Copy. It’s about cloning. The only thing I knew about cloning before I started writing was that people kept telling me I look like someone they know.

Although I had limited knowledge about cloning, I knew my main characters, because some of them are based on real people. My heroine Lilly is based on me. Lilly’s twin brother is based on my brother, Damon. He is only thirteen months younger. We were almost Irish twins (siblings born within one year.) Charlotte, the overbearing mother of Lilly and Luke, is obviously not based on my mother. My mother is wonderful. But I have many friends with overbearing mothers. "And that’s all I’m going to say about that."

Not only did I know some of my characters, I knew all of the locations in my story. I’ve been to all of those places--New York City, Key West, Disney World, and The Swamp. In fact, when I visited these locations, I felt inspired to write a scene in my book.

However, in my second novel, Body of Gold, I followed my mother’s advice and wrote what I knew. My heroine, Chelsea, is a hedge-fund manager and a First Degree Black Belt. I’m a CPA and a First Degree Black Belt. When I started jotting down ideas for Body of Gold, I was a yellow belt. I remember waiting in line at Disneyland sending emails to myself as the ideas came to me. And there is a scene at Disneyland in my second book.

The only downside to writing what you know, is that you probably know too much. You always want your novel to feel realistic, but remember to write to your audience. I tried to “dumb down” the financial information as best I could. Much of the financial lingo flew right over my mother’s head. But then again, when the stock market tanked in 2008, my mother thought it didn’t affect her because she owned mutual funds.

Although it was over her head, she raised an excellent point. With three steamy scenes and a love story, Body of Gold evolved into a Romantic/Suspense novel. Carbon Copy is a Mystery/Suspense novel. The romance adds a different audience which I needed to accommodate.

In my mother’s novels, her heroine runs a Bed & Breakfast. My mother has never ran a B & B in her life, but she’s stayed at dozens over the years. She also cooked and cleaned for my father, brother, and me. She always said she felt like a maid. Thanks, Mom.

My mother knew her characters. Her heroine, Clarice, is based on herself. Clarice’s husband, Otis, is based on my father. Their children, twins Kitty & Pat, are based on my brother and me. My mother’s characters from Make Old Bones are mentioned in Carbon Copy. In fact, my heroine, Lilly Allen, is the niece of my mother’s heroine, Clarice. It’s interesting to read the similarities and differences of my mother’s character based on me and my character based on me. And interestingly, my mother and I each made the character based on my brother, Damon, a real slob. He’s a neat freak in real life. And I’m being kind.


Stop When You Know What Will Happen Next

For those writers who experience “Writer’s block,” this is for you. Imagine sitting at a blank computer screen and asking yourself, “Now what?” Always, always, always have a place to start for your next writing session. Remember what I said about how hard it is to start writing? That applies to each writing session. If you don’t know what you plan to write about next, guess what? You’ll find no motivation to sit and down and write.

Following this advice will avoid the blank page syndrome. In fact, my mother told me this before I started writing. And guess what? I always had a place to start writing something. I’ve found that knowing what is going to happen next motivates me to make the time to write.

In fact, I took her advice to the extreme. I keep a list of “things to write” on a spreadsheet. Remember, I’m a CPA. I keep my list on my cell phone too. That way if I ever have at least fifteen minutes, I can start writing a chapter. I also incorporate my list into my outline. Then I denote “finished” , “need to write” , “started” , or “need to modify.” When my mother read this article, she asked, “And you think your brother is anal retentive?” I swear, I’m not.

The best part of keeping lists is the euphoria of crossing things off of your list. Now my writer’s block derives from distractions and lack of time. I guess I shouldn’t refer to my husband and sons as distractions.

Write Often Because Writing Sparks More Writing

I get most of my story ideas when I am sitting at my laptop writing. When my head is engrossed in my story, more ideas come to me. It just takes the persistence to sit down at my laptop and write. In fact, I finally felt as if I’d arrived when I typed as fast as my fingers allowed. I saw the scene in my head, and my fingers barely kept up. It felt like reading a book. I didn’t know what would happen next until I typed the words into existence.

When I’m trying to fill in the holes in my story, I wish I had a wheelbarrow. But simply thinking about all of the gaps in my plot spawns the solutions to fill in the holes. Sometimes I feel the more I write, the more work I need to do. If I add one thing to my story, it affects four more things which I have to go back and modify. But each time I sit down and write, re-write, and edit, my story improves.

I can’t count how many times I’ve re-read Carbon Copy and made changes. In fact, each time I went through my manuscript, I changed something. But eventually I found myself with a final product worthy enough to submit.

Join a writers’ group

My mother joined a writers’ group years ago. They still meet every month. It helps to have someone else review your work as your story progresses. It gives my mother motivation to write. Every month she tells me, “My writers’ group is next week, I better write a chapter so I have something to share.”

My main writer’s group is my mother and me. She lives less than two hours away, so I get to see her at least once a month. I like to have something for her to read, edit, and critique every time we get together. It helps to have an audience, someone to write for. It’s discouraging to write if you think “no one else will ever read this, so why bother.”

Make Writing Part Of Your Routine

One of my largest writing hurdles to overcome is time. Who has enough time? Let alone, the coveted commodity of spare time. That’s part of the reason Carbon Copy took me five years to write.

Ernest Hemingway wrote from six a.m. to noon everyday. He even kept those hours even after staying out all night. Margaret Mitchell wrote all of the time. Even before she wrote Gone With The Wind, she spent hours writing letters to her friends and family. Remember when people used to write letters and mail them?

I changed jobs six years ago. I used to work those grueling tax seasons. I wrote about one-hundred pages during what I now ironically refer to as my “previous life.” The ironic part is I didn’t have one.

Then transitioning from crazy overtime to only fifteen hours a week, I noticed the amount I wrote didn’t increase. I filled my days by exercising and spending more time with my boys. But I never made the time to write more. So I learned to make time to write.

I have Fridays off. And during ten months of the year, my sons are in school. I write on Fridays. My goal is to write at least one chapter a week. I figured it’s a reasonable goal I can attain for the rest of my life. If I write a chapter a week, that’s one book per year.

But I’m an overachiever. Last Friday I wrote almost three chapters, and I wrote a total of five for the week. That’s my record. And I exceeded my goal because I made writing part of my daily routine.

After I drop off my sons at school, I have a good hour before I start my day job. Guess what? I write then too. It’s amazing how much I can write when I have peace and quiet. But even without complete serenity, I’ve learned to tune-out my surroundings and write. After I pick up my sons from school, I have an hour or two to write before I start dinner. Even on the days we have an activity such as Karate, cubs scouts, baseball, or football, I still squeeze in an hour of writing in the late afternoon.

On the weekends, we enjoy the glorious days of not over scheduling ourselves. The boys play outside with their friends. My husband works on his laptop in between cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner. (I just love to rub it in.) And I write. The beautiful Florida weather is distracting. So I sit outside on the patio and write. Not so much in July and August when it is 110 degrees in the shade. But making writing part of my daily routine proved crucial to writing more because writing takes time.

Writing Takes Time

It took me five years to write Carbon Copy. However, I wrote my second novel, Body of Gold, in less than a year. Each of my mother’s novels took her two-three years to write. But she wrote the second half of Make Old Bones in thirty days. My friend, Michelle Rhyne, wrote her debut novel, Original Sin, in three months. Margaret Mitchell wrote Gone With The Wind in ten years. It doesn’t matter if it takes three months or ten years, as long as you finish. But in order to finish, you must start!

Summary

I hope you enjoyed the story of the “Why” and the “How” I started writing. I pray this inspires many of you to start writing. So remember: Start writing anywhere. Jot down your ideas ASAP. Know that inspiration can come from anywhere. You don’t have to know your entire story. Write in your creative spot. Write what you know. Write often because writing sparks more writing. Stop when you know what will happen next. Join a writers’ group. Make writing part of your routine. And finally, be patient because writing takes time.

You don’t need a degree in English, Literature, or Creative Writing to become a writer. I earned my B.S. in Accounting and Masters in Taxation from the University of Florida. And now my debut novel, Carbon Copy is getting published because everything I know about writing, I learned from my mother.