Writing is something that has always been a
part of my life. When I was young I’d write stories about anything I thought
was interesting. As I got older the act of writing became so much more than
jotting down stories about my neighbour’s quirky cat. It was a way for me to
express what I felt passionate about and wanted others to know. Writing fiction
is no different, at least for me it isn’t. When I sit down and begin a story, I
need to have passion in order for the words to flow. I need to connect with my
readers the way I connect with my characters.
When I began thinking of ideas for my first
book, Chasing Clovers, I knew I
wanted to write a novel that would touch my reader’s lives. This was a long
thoughtful and time consuming process. I wrote character biographies that were
so in depth I wondered if I’d ever actually write the book. However, this
process was essential to me and my writing. I needed to know my characters well
enough to write about their trials and tribulations—to be able to feel empathy
for them. I wrote Chasing Clovers in three months and a year and a half later I
signed on with Imajin Books and it was published. Since then Chasing Clovers
has been on Amazon’s Bestsellers list four times for Western, and romance.
With my second novel Lakota Honor, I wanted
to push myself to write something different. My publisher gave me the idea of
trying out Paranormal. Once I was able to wrap my head around what I’d put in
the book to make it paranormal, I delved into creating my protagonist,
Otakatay. He was a tortured soul, striving to fulfill a promise he made years
before. A hired killer, he hunted innocent women, crazy women—witkowin in
Lakota. What makes Otakatay different from any other assassin is that the
reader will grow to love him—they will weep for him. They will want him to find
the acceptance he’s been searching for.
Excerpt:
PROLOGUE
Colorado Mountains, 1880
The blade slicing his throat
made no sound, but the dead body hitting the ground did. With no time to stop,
he hurried through the dark tunnel until he reached the ladder leading out of
the shaft.
He’d been two hundred feet below ground for
ten days, with no food and little water. Weak and woozy, he stared up the
ladder. He’d have to climb it and it wasn’t going to be easy. He wiped the
bloody blade on his torn pants and placed it between his teeth. Scraped
knuckles and unwashed hands gripped the wooden rung.
The earth swayed. He closed
his eyes and forced the spinning in his head to cease. One thin bronzed leg
lifted and came down wobbly. He waited until his leg stopped shaking before he
climbed another rung. Each step caused pain, but was paired with determination.
He made it to the top faster than he’d thought he would. The sky was black and
the air was cool, but fresh. Thank goodness it was fresh.
He took two long breaths before he emerged
from the hole. The smell from below ground still lingered in his nostrils;
unwashed bodies, feces and mangy rats. His stomach pitched. He tugged at the
rope around his hands. There had been no time to chew the thick bands around
his wrists when he’d planned his escape. It was better to run than crawl, and
he chewed through the strips that bound his feet instead. There would be time
to free his wrists later.
He pressed his body against
the mountain and inched toward the shack. He frowned. A guard stood at the
entrance to where they were. The blade from the knife pinched his lip, cutting
the thin skin and he tasted blood. He needed to get in there. He needed to say
goodbye. He needed to make a promise.
The tower bell rang mercilessly. There was no
time left. He pushed away from the rocky wall, dropped the knife from his mouth
into his bound hands, aimed and threw it. The dagger dug into the man’s chest.
He ran over, pulled the blade from the guard and quickly slid it across his
throat. The guard bled out in seconds.
He tapped the barred window on
the north side of the dilapidated shack. The time seemed to stretch. He glanced
at the large house not fifty yards from where he stood. He would come back, and
he would kill the bastard inside.
He tapped again, harder this
time, and heard the weak steps of those like him shuffling from inside. The
window slid open, and a small hand slipped out.
“Toksha ake—I shall see you
again,” he whispered in Lakota.
The hand squeezed his once,
twice and on the third time held tight before it let go and disappeared inside
the room.
A tear slipped from his dark
eyes, and his hand, still on the window sill, balled into a fist. He swallowed
past the sob and felt the burn in his throat. His chest ached for what he was
leaving behind. He would survive, and he would return.
Men shouted to his right, and
he crouched down low. He took one last look around and fled into the cover of
the forest.
BIO
Kat
Flannery has loved writing ever since she
was a girl. She is often seen jotting her ideas down in a little black book.
When not writing, or researching, Kat enjoys snuggling on her couch with a hot
chocolate and a great book.
Her
first novel, CHASING CLOVERS became an Amazon’s bestseller in Historical and
Western romance. This is Kat’s second book, and she is currently hard at work
on the third.
When not
focusing on her creative passions, Kat is busy with her three boys and doting
husband.
1 comment:
Nice excerpt
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