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Monday, November 17, 2014

Bag of Bones

Deep under the earth, the clock knows no bounds. Rotting in chains, awaiting the devil's hounds. Sweltering in the soil so close. The one to call, flaming and gross. Spells abound, mumbled and cursed. Spat from scaly lips, tightly pursed. Should the ground split, part open or ply. Hell will give birth, demons will fly. She cannot be set free from earth or stone. For she will come calling, she lives for your bones.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Hostage sample

Ivy glanced into the smoky spot light and grinned. It didn't even bother her that her heels were now stained with beer. In front of the mic was where she belonged. Even if it was in front of 86 over worked, drunken slobs.

Her fingers rolled over the taught strings of her guitar and she took a deep breath....

~Kara Stefanowich 'Hostage'

The Escape

She struggled to get to her feet. Her back was killing her and her knees were bleeding.

She squinted as she looked around. It was dark here, always so dark. She hadn't seen the sun in days. Everything here was so strange. She began to wonder how long she' been adrift.

She looked out over the purple sea to find that same moon that had followed her throughout the darkness....
#art #inspiration

~Kara Stefanowich

Love and War

He looked down at his hands. Closing his eyes tightly, he focused on the details of what he knew he had to do.

It was always a struggle. Being born into a world of war. Never having a family, never having friends, it made him crazy. What was it for if not for love or happiness?

He opened his eyes and looked through the fiery clouds beneath his feet. For peace, he thought. It was all for peace. ...

He used his sub angelic powers to see through the ash and smoke to the mortals millions of miles below.

What a waste of life. He glanced from place to place, from one end of the earth to the next. They're given everything they need to flourish and still they choose to self destruct. He clenched his fists and bowed his head in sadness....
~Kara Stefanowich


Even as his heart beats no more, he burns with ache of love lost. Not death nor hell can dig their claws so deep as this. His gray skin, already cold with decay is pummeled by tears from heaven. He is forsaken. He is not allowed.

The Old House

Blustery winds assaulted the shutters. They beat against the windows as if insisting they be let in. The glass clattering in the frame rang down the halls. The silence in between clatters sent chills through the rooms. Cobwebs floated in the air, dust stained the floors and shadows swayed on the walls, in a slow dance with darkness...

~Kara Stefanowich

The Unexpected

He rubbed his eyes and tried to pay attention to the road. He'd just finished another 10 hour shift and the dark, empty roads were starting to give him tunnel vision.

The rain had melted some of the snow onto the roads making them shine under the white headlights.

He squinted his eyes looking ahead. He that.... He sat forward looking hard through the windshield....

Suddenly the tires screamed as he gasped and slammed on the brakes! The car swerved, fishtailing across the yellow lines.

White knuckling the steering wheel, he nearly hyperventilated. His chest heaved quickly. His eyes were wide as dinner plates. As smoke poured from the brakes all around the car he couldn't speak, he couldn't move and he couldn't take his eyes away.

Without warning she dropped to the ground so heavily she bounced.

His heart stopped as he watched her land. His hands came off the steering wheel slowly and immediately began to tremble. He hoped they'd stop when they found the door handle but it only got worse.

She wasn't moving, but once he got out of the car he could hear something....a gurgle or whimper perhaps?

His knees could barely support his weight. He found that his hands weren't the only part of him trembling. His mouth was suddenly dry as a dead leaf hanging from a dead tree in October.

He took a step...then another. He tried desperately to get spit to form in his mouth. Should he get back in the car and drive like hell? Should he call for help? Who would believe him? They'd lock him up for hitting her!

He took another step. The moonlight glared through the midnight sky creating a dark blue hue that made shadows across the road.

She still wasn't moving. He took another step. Soon, he was several feet in front of his car. He swallowed hard and moved closer. She was facing away from him on her back. Her arms and legs outstretched and still.

He tried to crane his neck to see her face without walking around her. "Hey." He said waiting to see if she'd move. " okay?" His voice trembled.

Suddenly, a loud rumbling began to shake the ground he stood on. He looked around frantically. Fog began to thicken. A sound came from the woman. He jumped and looked back at her to find her staring right back at him with the most horrified expression on her face.

A flash blinded the night and they were gone.

The car sat alone, engine running, headlights on, all alone in the dark misty night.
~Kara Stefanowich

Monday, September 1, 2014

How I prepare myself to write a book

Right now, I'm preparing to wrap myself into my latest book, TAG. It's a Suspenseful Thriller about a pair of serial killers who suddenly clash when one killer wants out of the game and his partner decides to keep him in by force.

In order to keep my mind fresh and entwined with the characters, I had to research serial killers. I've used one killer in specific to focus my psyche on, Ted Bundy. I keep a printed copy of his bio with his photo on it pinned to a cork board I have hanging in front on my laptop. Hanging next to that there is an image of a man in a snowy wooded setting. Another image of an old beaten shack in the woods in the winter also hangs on my board.

The idea is to get all kinds of photos and facts and surround myself with them while I'm writing the story. This way it gets difficult to become distracted or lose focus. I try to keep my mind sharp with the facts that I print out and hang up. I sometimes draw pictures of the way I see the characters in my mind and write brief facts about them underneath to keep me on track.

I also listen to music that strikes the mood of whatever I'm writing. If I'm working on a scary action scene, I might put in a fast paced metal CD, something to get my blood pumping. An angry song or collection of them. Thank goodness for ITunes. They make this task much easier. LOL!

If I'm writing a sexy love scene, I might listen to Paula Cole or George Michaels. Something like that.

I do my best to engulf myself in the story. And every story I write becomes more and more involved. The next one must always be better than the last one.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Struggling for Success

As a writer I've been beating my head against my desk trying everything and anything to get noticed. And when 'nothing' comes back I can't help but wonder if I'm a terrible writer.

I'm sure I'm not alone in the 'Struggling Writers' club but it sure feels like it. I've hired marketing platforms. I've emailed all my local media mediums such as News Stations and Newspapers but still, here I sit, popping excedrin and praying for a break.

I apologize if my rampant "BUY MY BOOK" tweets are pissing off my followers. I certainly hope they are understanding and ignore them instead of unfollowing me. I also want to apologize to my friends on Facebook for the occasional push. Unfortunately, I've found that without the push I make 0 sales. Not that I'm making much with the push. LOL!!

So, what do I do? I've been reading articles in the New York Times and found that I really don't care about the authors they advertise. I know who they are. I've read their books. Quite frankly, the stream lined authors and books are too......well......streamlined. As a writer I want to read something new. I want to see new styles and fresh faces. Not that the 'been there and done that' Authors are no longer interesting writers, its just that with all the millions of other writers out there I shouldn't have to keep hearing about the one's I've read since childhood.

A contributor to Forbes wrote an article on a subject much like this one. She was right on the money.

Why do we have to be published by a traditional publisher in order to be noticed? I've been reading manuscripts from friends that have been far more appealing to me than books that have gone through  a bagillion edits and a dozen reforms. I don't need a fancy cover to catch my eye. I was always taught never to judge a book by its cover, anyway. Its content I look at. Perspective. I love the different ways people write. Such different styles and points of views. It's really amazing. I think if publishers were more accepting and open minded there would be a lot more successful writers getting published and even more money being made.

The readers are out there. The reason it's so hard for publishers to sell books is because the books they market are just too generic. Readers have been there and done that. We want something new.

As a writer, I want to be that 'something new'. Deep down inside I know my writing is very good. Maybe even more than good. But I'm judged by something as simple as the fact that I have no publisher. And when being judged by publishers, they simply say that the genre isn't what they want right now.

Genre??? Really???

Am I a good writer? Is the story well written? Is the subject matter popular? Is there a low number of editing errors? Am I young, fresh, hip, easy to work with and open to new ideas?? WELL???????

Where are all the good publishers?????

Why do I need them?????

I'm so frustrated. But I will say this, I will never give up. I am certain that writing is what I want to do for the rest of my life.


Monday, January 6, 2014


She woke up before the sun with her husband's eager hands tenderly tracing her thigh up to her hip suggestively. She smiled, rolled over and embraced him lovingly. "Good morning." she whispered as he covered her lips with his.

"Good morning." he responded not leaving her lips for long. He reached down taking the bottom of her night gown and lifting it up.

She sat up to help in his efforts, lifting her arms allowing the gown to slip right off. Suddenly, his expression changed.

"Oh my God, honey! What the hell happened to you?" he cried looking her over.

"What?" she gasped looking down at herself.

"You're covered in scrapes and bruises! What on Earth have you been doing?" he asked now sitting back and looking her over in shock.

"I don't know." she said shrugging it off. "It's just a few bruises." she looked at him and smiled, reaching for him.

He backed away another inch or two. "Just a few?" he asked sarcastically. "Give me a break. That looks awful!" he shook his head. "Look, one here on your shoulder. There's 3 on your hip! Your shins are a train wreck. Your arms look like someones been grabbing you and swinging you around......My gosh!" He sat there staring at her bewildered face.

She had no idea what to say. She didn't remember any specific incident. "I'm sorry, I don't know how they came about." she shrugged.

He backed away and got up pulling a pair of jeans on.

"Oh, come on!" she whined.

"No way! I might break you!" He sniffed and headed down the hall.

She reluctantly got out of bed. Stretching her arms out, she yawned as she began to walk into the bathroom. The yawn was a good one and it made her close her eyes tightly as she walked.

*BANG*......"Ayoy!" she yelped. When she opened her eyes she realized she had run into the door frame. She rubbed her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" her husband called from down the hall.

"Yeah, yeah." she mumbled making her way into the bathroom and closing the door. Shaking her head she dropped her night gown on the floor and started the shower. Scratching her head and briefly glancing at her shin she mocked her husband under her breath, "Your shins look like a train wreck." in a snide voice.

She rolled her eyes and stepped into the tub not realizing the water hadn't really warmed up yet. The cold water was shocking causing her to instantly tense up and slip on the unprotected bath floor right into the wall of the tub with her big toe. She gasped at the pain in her toe and cursed under her breath but her attention was far more warranted on the temperature of the water. She quickly maneuvered herself around and turned the hot water higher. It quickly obliged and she was finally able to shower in piece.

"Mom!" a familiar voice called from outside the bathroom door. "Hurry up, I gotta pee!"

She sighed heavily and quickly tried finish shaving the leg she started. She didn't even notice the nick at her ankle that was bleeding rather heavily, nor did she notice the nick just below her knee cap that would certainly reopen a few times since it was right in the bendable part of her knee.

She quickly grabbed a towel and stepped out onto the tiled floor not remembering that she had thrown the bath mat in the wash the day before because her husband stood on it with his boots on after coming in from the snowy, muddy mess outside. She slipped and banged the same big toe that was just battered in the shower into the wall. Sucking in air and holding it while she cussed heavily under her breath, she realized how close she'd come to falling all together and hitting her head on the toilet. So she calmed herself, rubbed her throbbing toe and just gave thanks that she didn't bite the big one.

Once she made it into the bedroom, she got herself dressed and opened the door to head down the hall when she bumped into her husband who was there with a cup of coffee.......which she was now wearing all down the front of her shirt. She jumped at the scolding heat from the coffee, then hurried to strip the hot shirt off and dry herself with the towel she'd just thrown in the hamper.

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry, honey." her husband said helping her clean off. "Are you okay?" he asked for the second time since they'd awoke.

"Yes, I'm fine." she said smiling and pulling on a new shirt over her now reddened skin.

They finally made their way down the hall. Her husband set off to the kitchen to make her another cup of coffee when suddenly, the dog came barreling into the room and jumped on her in a happy "Good morning" kind of way, wagging his tail and licking her face.

"Get off me, you cow!" she laughed trying to get the burly dog off of her. Not wanting to get down, he resisted and dragged his overgrown claws down her entire body till he finally made it back to the floor were he gave up and headed for his food bowl.

"Mom, I'm hungry."

She headed for the kitchen and began preparing breakfast. With her husband walking back and forth preparing his now second cup of coffee, and with her son wandering around the kitchen to see what she was making him, she didn't even realize the dog had decided to lay down right behind her feet. She quickly turned to return the milk to the fridge and tripped over the big dog who didn't even budge as she careened to the floor, milk and all. It was only when he saw the free milky treat on the floor that he got up to clean the mess walking over her in the process.

"Oh my god, honey!" her husband clambered to pick her up. As he got her up, the look on her face was priceless. She had the Elvis lip lifted and her face was dripping with milk. She limped her way to the nearest wall having twisted her ankle on her way down. Her chin felt fat and she had squished a boob pretty badly on the floor when the dog walked over her.

"Hon...ney?" The word was as broken as her breath. She was pretty sure her lung had been squished under the same step of that damn dog.

"Yes?" he asked in a mildly panicked tone, looking at her as if she was going to ask him to call an ambulance.

"I think......*coughs*....I know what happened." she finished adjusting herself with a foot raised against the wall.

"What? What happened, when?" he looked confused.

"How I got all the bruises." she looked at him annoyed. "It was marriage." she laughed. "Marriage happened."

I must say, that this is just a made up snippet I decided to do that reflects my life rather well. I'm just trying my hand at a little bit of comedy. What did you think? :)