So, not realizing what day it was, I only just now got onto the blog. Checked to make sure that murder scene day was tomorrow.
I discovered it was today. My reaction?
"Nooooooo!" Fall to my knees shock! Hands outstretched, in the classic Hero-desperation mode! How did I lose track of days? And how did April pass me by so quickly?
So, today is murder scene day. And that means it's also First Kiss blogfest day. And I still have--well--a *little* bit of time.
So, this is a WIP that I posted a teensy bit of, the other day. I want to give a bit of background; the mc is a lawyer involved with a murder trial. His POV changes, but this is his re-imagining of the ordeal--he becoming the murderer, himself. It's the only thing I have prepared to toss your way, at the moment, although it needs some work. And, it's actually quite short! Here it is.
In his mind, he saw Mrs. Haroldson. This time, she was wearing a red dress. He saw her with the neighbor, the two of them sitting together on a couch, her neck bent back in laughter at something funny he had said. The ringing noise in his ears screamed at him. He knew what to do. He went to his house, got a gun, and returned. The neighbor was afraid of him, but Emerson didn’t hear a thing. He shot him five times, though he was dead after three. Mrs. Haroldson looked, then. She screamed at him, but he couldn’t hear. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could see it. He could feel it. White, smooth skin, and this time, it was cold.
OK, now go read the other entries at Anne Riley's page--she's the one who started that 'fest.
Again, a little background.When I write stories, I usually feel like the major players are receiving the first kisses (or at least the first ones that count). In this case, this is the first kiss that counts, to the mc. And, it's with an escaped convict. So that should fit in with both 'fests, right? I hope this will satisfy (and be short):
“I’m not changing the rules,” he said. He took a step toward her. “I can’t.”
“Just stay back, okay?” she said.
“You still don’t believe me,” he said, and she thought he seemed insulted.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. She leaned back. “I think you’re going to kill me.”
He stepped toward her, and she stiffened against the refrigerator. He stood and stared at her for a moment, and then he grabbed her arms, pulled her forward, gently tipped her head back, and he kissed her.
He tasted of peanut butter and bitterness, of iron and of steel. He kissed her, and she knew, she knew, that he needed something, and it wasn’t to kill her.
He stepped away, then, and she stared at him, all too aware that her breathing was shallow and that her shirt was all wrinkled.
“I didn’t do it,” he said. “What they want me for.” She stared at him, and flinched, and knocked one of the magnets against the floor. She was sweaty all over, she realized. She was too hot.
And now, go read others at Melissa's blog. And see you tomorrow for some bar-hopping stories....hopefully...