Survivor news

A few days ago, I wrote a very intense, emotional scene close to the end.  Prior to this, I’d re-outlined the bulk of the ending chapters.  I’m going to kill off two characters.  Both were unexpected, but especially one of the MC’s love interests.  I’m using his death as a catalyst for her to discover…some things (sorry, that would be a spoiler!) about herself.  I think it will be stronger.  I also don’t much care for this character — he’s, well, a jerk.  I made him that way.  He’s a sharp contrast to her other love interest (who survives, by the way).

I added in more of an element that I skimped on from before.  Was going to touch on it; now, it’s becoming more central.  Will it work?  I’m not sure, but I’m trusting my muse on this one.

The evil people get their due, the groundwork for Ghost will be set up, and the MC will have her own HEA.  It’s not a total HEA like in romance novels, but it’s an HEA that is true to her and what she goes through.

And boy, she goes straight to hell–and lives to tell about it.  I still get shivers.

Here’s a short snippet.  With the caveat that this is raw first draft and thus has not been edited at all.

I looked at the strange gravestone as if I’d never seen it before.  I looked around me — the graves surrounding me like silent sentinels.  The wet grass.  The cool breeze.  The sunlight.  Two trees to my left, identical, their branches intertwined as if…

As if they were married.

The name on the gravestone had to be wrong.  He wasn’t dead.  I’d just seen him a few weeks ago.  Yes, that was it.  This was a terrible mistake, someone’s idea of a cruel joke. 

In my lap sat a small bouquet of tulips.  I caressed the petals with a fingertip, realizing with a jolt that I must have brought them here.  For what?  I saw the freshly dug mound, and it hit me, like a physical blow.  All the air rushed out of my lungs.  My heart pounded frantic.  Skipping, jumping.  My thoughts swirled around, making no sense to me whatsoever. I was looking at Brad’s grave.  It wasn’t a mistake.  It was real.  So real I could reach out and–

My fingers grazed the stone.

–touch it. What had happened to him?  And why couldn’t I remember? No matter.  I took a breath, then another. It is real it is real it is real— a mantra, over and over again, sang in my mind.

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