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Welcome! Today I have the privilege of hosting RWISA Author, Nonnie Jules!

A talented writer and supportive member of Rave Reviews Book Club, or RRBC.

Please feel free to comment or share.

EXCERPT FROM THE SEQUEL TO DAYDREAM’S DAUGHTER

(I’ve decided not to preface this piece with any details.  I’d like for the readers to try and “figure” out the direction this piece is going in.  Have fun!)

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LEEZA

“Are you gonna buy me a drink or, are you just gonna sit there and stare at me?” Leeza asked the stranger at the bar.

“Uh, sure.  What are you drinking, pretty lady?”  Swirling to and fro, the man gripped the ridges of the bar to keep from falling from the bar stool.  “Hey, bartend, give this pretty lady what ‘er she wants and put it on my tab.”

Leeza looked him up and down.  Although not bad on the eyes, he didn’t strike her as a man with deep enough pockets to have a “tab” anywhere, but, who was she to judge?

“Vodka on the rocks,” she said, gesturing to the bartender.  When her suitor heard her request, his eyebrows shot up.

“Sure you can handle that strong of a drink, pretty lady?” he asked, still teetering.

“That’s not all I can handle.” Her suggestive wink was all the invitation the stranger needed to move a little closer, in spite of the fact that he could barely stand.

“So, what’s your name, pretty lady?” he slurred.

“Anything you want it to be, honey,” she replied.

“Really?  Well, I want your name to be Available.  So, are you?”

As he sat waiting for her response, she was reminded of her puppy, Scratches, paws perched on the windowsill, awaiting her return home from work.

“You gotta pay to play with me,” she nudged.

“Well, honey, you finish up that there drink of yours, and let’s head up to my room.  I’m in town on business and I would love the company of a beautiful woman going by the name…Available.”

In one fell swoop, she turned the glass up and the vodka was gone. The stranger’s eyes bulged again.  Clearly, he’d never seen a woman down a drink like that before.

Turning away from the bar and grabbing hold of his tie, Leeza led the way to the elevator of the hotel…the stranger following close behind, like a leashed dog.

“What’s your curfew, pretty lady?”

The elevator doors had only partially closed when she took her hand and grabbed his penis through his pants.

“I’m a big girl, single with no kids…does that sound like someone with a curfew?” she asked, as the ring of the elevator signaled their arrival to their destination.

Stumbling ahead of her, the stranger swiped his key and pushed opened the door.  Leeza walked past him, falling backward onto the bed.

“C’mon over here and let’s finish the party we started downstairs,” she said, kicking off her heels and propping her legs up on the bed…spread-eagle.

Balancing as he walked, the stranger stood over the bed with a huge grin plastered across his face.  Judging from the growing bulge inside of his pants, it was easy to discern that a grin awaited her there, too.

“C’mere.  You look as if you’re really happy to see me.” Leeza forcefully took him by the tie once again and pulled him on top of her.  When she began frantically unzipping his pants, he held her by the wrists to slow her down.

“Whoa, filly…what’s your hurry?  You said you didn’t have a curfew so why the rush?  Don’t you even wanna know my name?” he quizzed.

“Well, I thought your name was Ready since that’s the way you came across downstairs.”  Feeling a bit toyed with, Leeza’s smile exited. Being toyed with was the one feeling she hated most.

“You’re a funny one, aren’t cha?” he chuckled.  “Ok, well let’s ‘git to what we came here for!  By the way, my real name’s Jim.  Now tell me yours…”

“Nothing’s changed,” she whispered in his ear.  “I’m still…Available.”

Switching off the lamp, she proceeded to undress him by the orange glow of moonlight trickling through the window.   This was a typical night for Leeza;  raunchy sex with yet another man she didn’t know, nor cared to.  After a while, she just lay there and let him have his way.

Then, just as quickly as it had all begun, the party was over…at least, for her. The banging inside her head warned of the onslaught of another massive headache and there was no getting away from it.

Her enjoyment of the night’s events came to a screeching halt as the next one started to take over.

CHRISTY

Jim opened his eyes to a blonde pointing a gun in his face.  Startled, he scanned the room for the brunette he’d brought back with him the night before, but, she was nowhere to be found.

“Give me your wallet!” the blonde demanded.

“Who are you?  And, where is Available?” he asked, his eyes still searching.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t want to know what you’re talking about, capiche?  My name is Christy and I’m not going to ask you again.  Give me…your wallet.”

Jim pointed to his clothes that he’d been stripped of the night before, strewn across the floor.  “You didn’t ask me the first time,” he said.  “My wallet’s in there. Take whatever you want, just get outta my damn room.”

Christy stooped to pick up the pants, throwing them at him; the gun, nor her eyes, hardly ever leaving the target as she moved.

“Hey, I don’t take orders from you. Remember that. Now give me everything in there that’s spendable.”

Jim snatched the bills from his wallet and threw them at her.  “Here, this is all I have,” he muttered, his tone laced with anger.

“I saw plastic.  I want those, too.  And don’t make the mistake again of throwing anything at me,” she warned, raising the gun to remind him who was in charge.

Jim mumbled something as he gently placed three credit cards on the bed.  Christy snatched the cards up and backed slowly towards the door.  Her hands had barely touched the door handle when she heard Jim yell, “Get out, you bitch!”

Pushing herself away from the door and calmly walking back over to the bed, she could see the fear which had quickly taken up residence in his eyes…the moment when he knew he had pushed too hard.

The growing smirk across her lips catapulted into a full-blown sneer as she lifted the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

“Don’t you ever call me a bitch again.  I told you my name was Christy.”

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Nonnie Jules

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Oh Yah! I’ll show ya!

A short example of the “show, don’t tell” technique used in writing 

Jackson Cruz scratched nervously at the bed bug bites that covered his torso. The cigarette burn scars, Jackson had never held a cigarette, on the back of his right hand stretched as it squeezed the grip on the nine-millimeter pistol. The bank employees and their customers simultaneously cringed. Jackson squinted up at the security monitor on the wall and noticed that he was standing in front of the height chart fixed to the door jamb. His spiked hair poked his vertical dimension up an inch. I wish. 
Things had gone way too far! The money from the last two bank robberies was buried near a beautiful lake located miles from this overpopulated, crime-ridden cesspool. It rested in the exact spot where he hoped to build his dream home. Nature called to him. He preferred the company of animals to humans.
Growing up, he’d been the runt in a family of six boys. The whole brood, including mother and stepfather had been crammed into a two-bedroom apartment owned by a slum lord. Things hadn’t worked out. Even blindfolded, he could still make a sleeping bag out of old newspapers and plastic bags that would see you through a snowy winter’s night. In his later teens, Jackson worked sporadically, he was still picking wood splinters from his hands.
This was supposed to be his last “job.” The clock on the wall indicated 9:30 am. The bank should be nearly deserted. Instead, he was sharing oxygen with a dozen customers, plus four staff. He should have just bailed.
The cause of the unexpected company escaped him, until his eye caught the tear away calendar at the service desk. How had he missed such an obvious fact? The calendar declared that today was Friday, July 1. The last business day before the holiday weekend. He should have been alerted by the unusual number of American flags hanging from businesses and porches as he drove up here in the Mustang that was now parked less than a block away, its tampered ignition wires hanging out from the steering column. The broomstick with the leg straps had been discarded in a nearby bush.
Everyone is right! I am an idiot! Jackson began to grind his knuckle into his temple as punishment. The knuckle fit perfectly into the raw flesh.
“We have you surrounded!” An amplified voice came from outside, somewhere near the front door.
Jackson kissed the cross on the necklace that hung around neck. Nanna had given it to him for Christmas when he was a child. It’d always fit perfectly. There’d never been a need to lengthen the chain. He knew, that at this very moment, she was watching him through a hole in the floor of Heaven, and her heart was breaking.
The only solace for him now, was that he wouldn’t be returning to the grimy root cellar he shared with his brother. But then again, if he didn’t do something quick, the rest of his days would be spent looking through iron bars.
Lying on the floor, only steps away, a woman who looked to be in her seventies clutched a Louis Vuitton handbag to her chest. On her trembling wrist was a plastic band covered with glued-on sparkles. A poorly shaped heart, cut from construction paper with the crayoned words I luve u, was fixed off-centered on it.
It was “do or die” time.

This is a short example of show, don’t tell. Good books should be full of this writing style. Though to make the story more realistic, it may be necessary, at times, to include jargon that is exclusive to members of a certain occupation, social group, or time period (I apologize if I have forced any readers to consult Google). The usual goal is to include clues that most people today can easily identify with.
You can be sure that someone else burned Jackson with the cigarette, since he’d never even held one.
Being the runt of six brothers, he was probably bullied. When things didn’t work out, he became homeless. Probably for awhile, since he could make a bed out of newspaper blindfolded. We know he lived in a northern city because he’d survived snowy nights out there.
He eventually found some work in what was most likely construction (splinters in his hand).
Obviously, he’d hot wired the Mustang. The broomstick and leg strap contraption needed to reach the pedals, tells just how short he is. The fact that his childhood necklace still fit him indicates that he is also very slim.
He is self deprecating and self abusing. Everyone is right! I am an idiot! His knuckle fit perfectly into the raw skin of his temple – he’s done this many times.
The fact that he lives with a brother shows that he has reconciled with at least one member of his family.
The presumably wealthier and older woman lying on the floor? Take a wild guess who made that bracelet for her.
It was “do or die time.” I’d say that woman’s day is about to get a whole lot worse.
There are also a number of other clues that are contained in this clip. Can you spot them?