This week's blog challenge writing prompt focuses on family members, friends, and pets who made it into my books.
That's easy: None of them. Like "My Secret Life," aspects of people I know and like become attached to characters, but no character is so closely drawn as to resemble a specific person. On the obverse, people whom I know and dislike do make it into my stories. Let's just say they're not written to elicit reader support.
There's the supercilious association president in Cassia, who treats our heroine with disrespect because he considers her utterly inferior. The unreasonable clients in Rowan who demand service and state expectations that go far beyond contracted scopes of service come from my experience.
When it comes to bad bosses and/or clients, one might say I have plenty of material from which to draw ... and I do.
I don't know why those people make it into my books and not the wonderful folks whom I'm privileged to know. Perhaps it's because I don't want to share those good people. I want to hold them close. Or perhaps writing out the rotten ones is cathartic, a way of relieving the stress of their toxic impact upon my life. Regardless, I'm happy to be rid of them.
Pets don't often feature in my books, which seems strange because I'm surrounded by them. However, there's Chester, the spitting attack bunny in Tiger in the Snow. Yes, rabbits really can spit. They have pretty good aim and distance, too. And, yes, they're surprisingly aggressive and territorial. Want to mess with a bunny's mind? Rearrange the accessories in its cage. That infuriates them.
I've got stories to tell about our house bunnies (different from dust bunnies).
I will say that when we saw Tangled, Disney Studios' 2010 animated retelling of Rapunzel, my husband, our children, and I all exclaimed "Stasia!" at the introduction of equine character Maximus. The personality resemblance to my old mare was, in a word, uncanny.
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Falco ignored the comment, his opinion of the weaselly fae ambassador to the gnomes was hardly higher than his opinion of the gnomes themselves. Instead he said, “I request a regiment to rescue the witchbreed.”
“You left her there?” the king blurted. Falco bowed his head in shame.
“With or without the regiment, I will go back for her. I owe her no less.”
“You owe her a great deal more,” the king said. “How long has she been incarcerated by these humans?”
“As best I can estimate, about a year.”
Falco nodded, feeling the drain of her weakening body and spirit upon his own life force. “It is my soul that keeps her alive now.”
“Then go, Lord Captain, and uphold Daimónio Refstófae honor and duty,” the king ordered. “You may take three warriors of your choosing with you.”
Falco bowed with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, your majesty.”
“Don’t thank me just yet, Lord Captain. When you return, you’ll complete the mating with this witchbreed. Don’t expect her to thank you when she might have preferred the mercy of death.”
“No, your majesty.”
Falco bowed and departed. Filled with a sense of increasing urgency and valiantly resisting the pull of xanani sleep, he marched to the garrison where the Daimónio Refstófaes’ elite warriors lived.
“Captain!” came the surprised acknowledgement as his warriors leaped to their feet and stood at attention. “We did not know you had returned.”
“At ease,” he commanded. “I returned only moments ago. And I will leave only moments hence. I need three volunteers to accompany me.”
“It if please you, Captain, we would appreciate more information,” his lieutenant said, speaking for them all.
“I was taken prisoner by the humans. They were aided by djinni,” he reported in clipped syllables. “They held a fae-blooded female there. I used her blood to break the iron with which they shackled me and now I must retrieve her.”
Falco’s ears pinned flat against his head as he growled a promise, “There will be blood.”
Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.
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