#novelistnet

[heavens-tiny-daggers]

Lanie coughs, scuffing dirt beneath the toe of her shoe. “I did come. But not with the express purpose of seeing your sorry face.” She’s not interested in furthering the conversation, already steering her friends toward the club entrance.        “Wait!” Max blurts, reaching out to grasp her arm. She attempts to tug it away with a huff of defiance. “Just… save one dance for me. Give me that one chance. That’s all I need. Just one.”       She lets out a long-suffering sigh, tired of his repetitious desperation. “You want a dance?” She shifts, so they’re face to face. She may be a full foot shorter, but she still holds herself as if looming, casting shadows over him, hands pressed to her hips. With this stance, in her stars and stripes, she embodies the real Lynda Carter, golden lasso in hand. She reaches up to tug the collar of his white tee. Max leans down to meet her, eager for something. Anything. From their current position, they could be whirling on their own dance floor, no music necessary.         Lanie lets the moment build, lets his anticipation grow into that something. Lets him believe she’ll give him just a slice of anything. He’s putty in her hands, utterly intent on her hands on him, the curl of her fingers, the soft breath against his cheek. His heart gives a hearty thump against her hand. “You’re worth a hell of a lot less.”         And then she lets him go.

Time, Regardless | Sophie M.L. Pink

[heavens-tiny-daggers]

When your female characters have no time for the romanticised stalker narrative

Max Marsette clears his throat, pushing himself off the shelf holding his casually cool reputation in tact. Something about the illusion shatters, a soft transmutation into something else, a miniscule first hint of the true personality beneath. He approaches the checkout desk. Lanie continues to ignore him. The neglect rankles him, enough to knock his nonchalant mask off kilter. He runs his fingers through his shoulder-length hair to steady himself with a breath and waits. The slightest self-important smirk unfurls across his face. There. The illusion’s back in place. Order restored.

Lanie remains undeterred.

Seconds pass. Lanie turns a page of her book, taking her own sweet time to appreciate the feel of the pages between her fingers.

He clears his throat. She reaches across the desk, palm up, expectant. But he has no book to give her, nothing to scan, nothing to stamp. So he’s of no use to her.

“Lanie...” he draws out her name finally, obnoxiously teasing it out syllable by syllable, as if to return the barb for being slighted.

“No,” comes her own terse, monosyllabic reply. “Not today.” She flips another page,  still not looking up. Utterly bored.

“Tomorrow then?” he pushes where she clearly does not want to be pushed, his question laced with foolhardy hope.

“Not ever.” She finally lifts her gaze for the briefest of moments to glare back at him from over the rim of her glasses.

“I think you'll want to change your mind...” He raises a brow, leaning sidelong into the desk.

Lanie lets out a humourless snort. “I highly doubt that.”

“Are you sure?” Max tries, unable or unwilling to take the hint. Lanie’s expression goes from uninterested to outright cold. “There's a Halloween party this Saturday at Tempus. You should come.”

This time, Lanie’s had enough. She slams her book down against the table top and leans in to give him the unadulterated attention he so desperately craves. His narcissistic grin is back. The scowl she greets it with should have been enough to slap the smug look off his face. Lanie’s all but five seconds away from doing just that. 

“I'd rather saw my own fingers off with a rusty spoon than spend a night in a club with you.” Lanie's mouth twists in disgust. “Now get out before I call campus security and report you for harassment.”

“You wouldn't.” Max smirks at her knowingly and leans ever closer.

Lanie grabs the phone at her elbow, holding it to her ear. Her fingers poise on the dial as she watches him intently for his next move.  “Try me.”

–Time, Regardless | Sophie M.L. Pink

[heavens-tiny-daggers]

The sun drops out of the sky, not the gradual sinking of day’s end, but the warning of a storm oncoming.  The clouds curl like plumes of smoke, into the deepest, brackish black. And they move, an undulating roll of angry nebulae, a death crawl to swallow up the very space it conquers.         With it comes a figure, guiding its march toward the little stucco house and the two young men promised within. Deftly sharp manicured nails cleave to the hem of skirts, rucking them up for ease of ascending the small flight of stairs leading to the humble home. It’s a simple dress, a snapshot out of time, billowing ebony about her ankles, where dark boots taper into a narrow heel. She’s corsetted, cinched painful tight around the waist, alabaster shoulders bare. The contrast of her pale skin against her dark clothes leaves her ghostly and she glides through approaching mist. Her wild mane of blond hair hangs in a ruffled, voluminous tease, this ghoulish hint of a woman freshly slunk out of her grave. She’s vampyric. In the way she walks. The way she holds herself. The way her lips gleam blood red, stark against the fog pulling her in. Unlike these carnal night crawlers, she has no need for invitations at the door. Her clever harpy’s talons do the work. A turn of the knob, a creak of the door.

Time, Regardless | Sophie M.L. Pink

[heavens-tiny-daggers]

Marnie slides her delicate frames onto her face, expecting to suddenly see the world in a different light. All she sees is Tom, who throws a pair of aviators over his eyes. She has to admit, messy hair and dorky sweater aside, he looks good.      “Let’s roll.”       Marnie’s not sure what fantasy he’s recreating, but she plays along as she matches his stride, purposeful and prepared to face anything that comes their way.

Time, Regardless | Sophie M.L. Pink

[heavens-tiny-daggers]

So things are going great with Tom and Marnie’s first real interaction...

The steady weight of a palm circles along her spine as she spits the lingering taste of vomit and her mother’s treachery. Electricity crackles in her fingers as her instincts kick in and grip at slim wrists. A body crumbles down next to her none too gracefully with a wounded oomph!

“I don’t care,” Marnie grits out, preparing to rise to her feet. Tom lets out a beleaguered sigh and grabs her before she can steady herself.  “I don’t care. I want her dead. In every timeline, in every iteration. Get off me!”

“No.” Tom’s grip holds firm, even when she attempts to take a swing at him, elbowing him in the face in the process.

Marnie’s teeth grit. “My father’s dead.”

Tom shakes his head, vehement, before shaking her. “He’s here. Marnie. We’re in 1989. He’s here.”

Marnie accidentally smacks him in the face as she reaches up to cup her hands to her mouth. “Sorry,” she murmurs absently, head reeling.

[heavens-tiny-daggers]

She never wanted to return here, to the dilapidated, rotting foundations of her childhood home. Gone are the walls, gone are the many storeys, the columns, the winding staircases. Now even the boarded up windows, affecting abandonment, are lost to grimy black soot and white ash.        She did that.        All that's left is a charred, empty lot, in an overgrown garden of weeds, trunks of trees cracked through and fallen in the aftermath of lightning strikes. Even now, electricity crackles beneath her skin, a jitteringly warm welcome home she knows she can't fully abide. The memory of hellfire makes the current dance in her veins. Her body's wound tight, ready for a fight.        But is her heart? Is her mind?

Time, Regardless | Sophie M.L. Pink

[heavens-tiny-daggers]

Crystal stands two feet away, clinging to a jagged wall of rock. She’s an unusual sight, stripped of her typical imposing, dark gothic gowns and ruby stilettos. Today, she’s barefoot, in a Grecian style sea foam dress, cordoned about the neck and waist. It’s less fabric than Marnie’s ever seen her in, so thin, the press of her breasts shows through the translucent material. Her ordinarily elaborate braids are tied loose in one long rope over one shoulder. Wisps of hair have already slipped out, to blow in the afternoon breeze about her face. She’s a siren risen from the deep, her harpy’s maw a bright salmon's coral, ready to strike.

Time, Regardless | Sophie M.L. Pink

[heavens-tiny-daggers]

His white blond hair glints gold like a beacon in that fading sunlight. More accurately, it’s the colour of straw, and not so far off in aesthetics either, sticking up in all directions as it is. There’s a certain agelessness in him, despite his obvious youth, his long, skinny body engulfed in a sea of fabric from a black hoodie two sizes too large for him.         Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he stuffs his hands into the pouch of his sweater. There’s something immensely awkward about him. He’s not by any means conventionally attractive. His hazel eyes, bordering on green, are slightly too big for his face, giving him an oddly startled deer in the headlights look. The full effect of his uncouth appearance makes him look as though he’s just survived a lightning strike and stumbled out of the aftermath in a daze.

Time, Regardless | Sophie M.L. Pink