Writing in the Mountains

I snuggled pups, worked in the garden, and cleaned the pool this afternoon. And after a short nap this evening, I crept into my office to work.

I am up in the wee hours of the morn struggling with some character flaws in a novel I have been working on for some time. It's not a common practice to share my writing with others, but for the first time, I thought I would.

I enjoy so much making new friends on the the internet through MySpace and my new blog site. I often get asked, "what do I do, exactly." And I giggle a little bit because my life is somewhat that of a chameleon. I have written so much about the farm and how it benefits my family and that I also teach dance in the Arctic, but I am also a writer. I am especially inclined to write in the political and espionage genres.

Below you will find an excerpt from my current novel.

Chapter Twelve

Al, Big Mike, and Hugh go to play blackjack, but I spy Johnny heading to the men's room. This is when I make my move. I am wearing a figure hugging black silk dress. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was being watched closely.

I rush for the ladies room stall and sit delicately on the toilet. I can hear someone enter the room and I slip open my purse to make sure the gun is inside.

I hear the distinct sound of a knife leaving its sheath. I know this sound well. When I used to go hunting with my Grandfather, the other hunters always wore them on their belts. I knew then that Johnny was inside.

A single gunshot. No screams, no struggle, no lingering stares. I gingerly tiptoe over the body and emerge from the restroom with not a hair out of place. I comb my shoulder length hair back into one hand and calmly walk around the corner and straight into Agent Beard.

"Nice job Mrs. Silva.”

"Please... call me Allie."

The guys that had been with Johnny knew what just went down. No one was going to wait for Johnny or the police to see what went on in the ladies room. The three men dashed out of the hotel.

Johnny lies mortally wounded on the floor. Blood covers his dark Pendleton-type long sleeve shirt. His once spit-shined Italian loafers are splattered red. His dying hand clasps the gold cross hanging from his neck. Two cops enter the bathroom along with two more security guards.

Once I am alone, outside of the building, the adrenaline and assuredness wear off and my hands start to shake uncontrollably. I cannot believe what has just taken place. It won't be long 'til it gets back to Nicky that his 'boy Johnny' has been hit. And not long after that 'til he figures out my involvement. I know now that I have to get the hell away from Nicky Shaff.

But I am thankful that I carried the gun. And even more grateful that my Grandfather taught me how to use it.