Story Snippet 1

Hello friends! On some great advice from multiple people, I am taking a few months away from A Very Silly Way to Die before beginning my edit. I have it printed out and bought red (Dixon Ticondergoa!) pencils and everything. Simply cannot wait to dive into that in the new year. I hope you enjoy it in its current form, though!

In the meantime, I am writing some scene snippets. I have so many ideas for other novels, in addition to the Very Silly sequel(s), that I feel I must explore those now. I also have the start of a memoir I probably mentioned and that will likely land on my substack if I publish any of it.

The snippet below would be part of a longer work. Hope you like it 😊

No Winner, No Loser

“You can’t decide whether you wanna slap me or hug me.”

I pause, and my outstretched hand slows to a halt; its journey to the doorknob swiftly abandoned for the promise of whatever conversation might evolve out of that last comment from him. I spin around quickly, making sure to lock and narrow my brown eyes at his green the way I always do when entering the vicinity of my greatest work-adversary. In this moment it is particularly important as he has been his particular blend of infuriating and funny today, and I am therefore a predictably swirling mass of aggravated and enthralled.

But I cannot let him see that, so he gets my most active-bitch-face instead. At least, that’s the plan.

“In what universe would I ever want to hug you?” I say, and an invisible jolt of electricity zaps me in the stomach for the briefest moment, as I realize that my tone was all wrong.

I had intended it to be scathing. Instead it came out soft. Almost cloying. In a bid to save face, I sneer at him as if the sweetness was solely sarcasm.

But my sneer has zero effect (and my annoyance flares) because he isn’t looking at me, but instead gazing at the drop ceiling of the supply room as if it holds the perfect answer to my question. Yes, supply room. It's too big to be called a closet, even though his current proximity is making the space feel decidedly enclosed.

“If I’m honest, I don’t actually think you wanna hug me,” he says while still looking up, but then drops his eyes back to mine. I instinctively glance away, but instead of moving my attention to the meticulously curated shelves of pens and post-its to my right, I, for some reason, decide to examine his neck tie. It’s emerald today. It’s his best one, I think. I’m not sure because I only keep them ranked mentally, and they tend to switch positions.

Realizing my attention has drifted, I clear my throat and my head shakes infinitesimally. Involuntarily.

I recover quickly and say in a blessedly stable-sounding voice, “Well, what a rare occasion, you’re right.” Then, I smile in an intentionally faux-cloying way just to lend some legitimacy to my earlier slip and spin back to the door.

“Aren’t you interested in hearing what I think you wanna do to me?”

The air I suck in through my nostrils, regrettably, makes a sound. I believe some would call it a gasp had the air entered my mouth instead, but my lips are slammed shut in an effort to control my reaction to his words.

I cannot remember him ever using this tone with me. Lascivious is the only word for it. Only, that can’t be correct because it runs counter to our typical jousting banter, and we have an unspoken agreement to stay on banter-brand at all times.

But he’s breaking the agreement; it’s shattering into shards that pierce my shoulder blades, and that’s what makes me nose-gasp not of my own volition.

Suddenly, he’s directly behind me, his body heat meeting mine, air molecules mixing. We’re not touching, yet we are. Chills erupt over my shoulders, and I forget that it’s my turn in the verbal joust. The feel of his breath on my skin—on the back of my neck, I’ll have you know!—causes my mind to wipe blank.

“I think you want to shut me up,” he says, his voice lowering an octave. “And I don’t think a hug or a slap would do it.”

I let out what I believe could be called a shuddering breath, which would be tragic for me in regards to whatever silent war I have been engaged in with this man for months.

It would be.

Except that I both hear and feel the same shuddering breath leave his lips a moment later and land on my skin like the confession it is.

Something in me snaps and I lunge forward, grasping the door handle. My mental walls come slamming down. A battle cry of retreat! retreat! retreat! resounds through my mind. As I pull open the door, I’m met with the wide eyes of a sweet temp who has been manning the front desk today.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she says, but I wave her off and assure her that I was just leaving.

I float past her, feeling anything but light, and instantly make the mistake of looking over my shoulder.

He’s standing frozen, mouth agape. As the temp attempts to move past him, he doesn’t step aside. She does a nervous little giggle as she squeezes through in the small gap between his statuesque form and the printer paper shelf.

I face forward again, feeling his eyes on me as I walk away. My metaphorical hand hovers over my mental tally card of wins and losses as I note that, for the first time, I don’t think either option is accurate.

For me, or for him.