Aislinn O'Shea

I just finished my July reading Frenzy and wrote up reviews for the six books I read to post to Fresh Fiction. I must say, the variety in the reading pool I had this month was interesting. If you haven't yet, check out a few of these when you have time:

Heather Graham, Dust to Dust; a promising new series in urban fantasy of angels, demons, and the end of days, December 2012 and romance. Humans aren't the only ones in this world that will be called up to fight for good.

S.J. Day, Eve of Destruction; part of a series, you will want to catch the first, but more Angels battling for us mere mortals.  A very interesting take on Cain and Abel, with the female lead in the middle.

Vicki Pettersson, City of Souls; fourth in the Signs of the Zodiac series, all great reads, weaving an alternate world in Las Vegas that is full of action. Archer must fix what she broke in the last novel, perhaps by complete sacrifice, but she has already given up her childhood love and her sister. With all this character has been through and given, she is still very human.

Michelle Sagara, Cast in Silence, The Chronicles of Elantra; this fantasy series has a great heroine who I love watching develop through the series. In this fantasy world, one young outcast may be all that stands before it's destruction by the shadow.

Patrice Sarath, Red Gold Bridge; an interesting urban fantasy, second of two books, of which I felt I needed to have read the first. Multiple points of view and intertwining plots made this enjoyable. Two realms, gateways that are alive, and the fate of both realms resting in the hands of a few.

Alyson Noel, Blue Moon; a young adult series, the Immortals, of a new immortal girl, the immortal boy who waited over four hundred years for her, and the rogue immortals out to destroy them.

Sorry, I give vague descriptions, only to make you go and read about them yourselves.  Enjoy!

Third period Spanish class has never been one of my favorites. I was the only person taking the third year class that could still butcher the language whenever I tried to speak it. My mouth and tongue just could not agree to work together to make the ‘rrrrrr’ sound.

Mr. Cortez was about halfway through his oral hypnosis of Don Quixote de la Mancha. I was close to going comatose, along with half the classroom, as his monotone voice dragged on when suddenly the fire alarm started to blare through the school; to the applause of a few students I might add. 

We began to be corralled toward our fire exit which was just pass the auditorium. Mrs. Blake, the Vice Principal, suddenly appeared out of the auditorium and abruptly halted us, directing us in the other direction toward the fire exit that was further away. Once she saw that we were heading in the right direction, she disappeared again back into the auditorium.

I knew the moment my mind set on the idea, it was a bad decision, but the digging was strong in the back of my mind. This had something to do with my dream.

I slowed my progress until I was the last in the crowd moving forward toward the exit. When I was sure no one was noticing me, I slipped into an open classroom. I paused long enough to give the others time to be out of the hallway, before I cautiously peered out the doorway. Once I was sure there was no one else in the hallway, I quickly headed toward the auditorium. 

The alarm was piercing what little bit of relief the Tylenol I took earlier for my headache. It didn’t help that with each step closer to the auditorium, my gut clenched tighter from a fear growing in the back of my mind. I knew I should not be heading to that auditorium, but I couldn’t stop.

I froze at the door to the auditorium when the fire alarm suddenly silenced. As I stood there, trying to hear voices or movement from the other side of the door, I was hit with the memory of what Ashley had last said to me. Why did she not want me going in there? I was the one with the dreams. What did she know?

I pulled on the large brass handle on the auditorium door while peering in to see if there was anyone around. Slowly stepping in, I saw the seats were dark and the curtains on the stage were drawn. I rushed down the aisle, keeping low and quiet, not wanting to be caught. I just knew that would not be good for some reason. When I came to the stage, I went to the backstage door on the right since it was open. Behind it was a small set of stairs that led up to the backstage area and access to the stage. There was no sound at all; complete silence. So thick it was deafening. The stage lights were on, and I could see the back of the set now. As I came around one of the set walls, I froze in complete terror. It was the room I had drawn from the dream. It looked like some sort of medieval room, with stone looking walls, sconces, and candles. There was a large iron gate to the left of the stage as well. 

My chest began to tighten as my anxiety level increased. The walls started to feel as if they were moving in on me. I had to get out of there.

Suddenly I heard voices coming from the same direction I came in. I had to get out, but I couldn’t go the way I came now. I frantically looked around looking for a way out. The gate; it seemed the only way. It was across the left stage entrance. I didn’t notice the puddles of water across the stage until my foot slipped in one as I made a turn around a prop. I swallowed a small scream as I went down. I lay still for a moment, trying to hear if anyone heard me fall, my breathing now panicked and painful from the anxiety pressing in on my lungs. As I pushed up to head on toward the gate, I noticed the water felt thick, and sticky. I looked down at my hands, and realized it wasn’t water; it was blood. 

I could feel the bile building as my stomach tried to revolt against me. The sharp metallic smell of it was all around me now and I thought for sure I was going to lose it. I turned around, still kneeling in the blood, eyes widening with fright. There, behind me, was the source of the blood. Ashley lay on the floor, her right arm extended over her head, her left beside her, wrist shredded. God, it wasn’t me in the dream, it was her.

My foster parents were already off to work for the day by the time I dashed out of the house; both sharing the early commute into the city with other workers, so I never needed to worry about them complaining about my running late or missing breakfast. As long as I made it to school on time, attended, and kept my grades decent, I would never hear squat from them on the subject. They felt they were there to ensure my poor innocent butt got a secure environment to grow up in, and a decent public education as that was what they were being paid for. As for the love and understanding part some parents gave, they didn’t feel the need since I was not truly theirs, which was fine with me, as I felt similar toward them.

I stumbled up the steps of the bus to add to my embarrassment of having to run to catch the bus before it took off. Luckily I was able to latch onto the padded railing that separated the front seat from the stairwell and kept myself from going face first onto the upper landing.

I smiled stiffly at the bus driver, whom I don’t think ever smiled a day in her life. Ms. Sanders’ weathered hand reached over to pull the door sharply closed behind me. I was glancing over the whispering and snickering faces to find an empty seat when suddenly there was a hand grabbing my left arm pulling me toward that same front seat whose railing helped me save face, literally.

“Hey Orphan Annie, I saved us the front seat.” Ashley flashed a grimace of a mixture of amusement and sympathy at me as my balanced waivered and I landed awkwardly in the seat next to her.  

Orphan Annie was her nickname for me. Some child welfare worked decided that the two year old girl with the moppy red hair and freckles should be named Annie. Not Anne or Anna; my official birth certificate states my name as Annie Riley. Contrary to popular belief, Orphan Annie was not originally a cartoon strip, but a poem by the poet James Whitcomb Riley in the eighteen hundreds. Apparently, the worker who named me was a fan. I didn’t come with a dog, but I was found with a doll, which I am ashamed to say I still have to this day. I don’t know if I have kept it because it is a part of who I may be, or as a reminder of who I am. Honestly, I don’t know about the orphan part personally. Does being abandoned make you an orphan if they can’t find a parent?

Ashley Danvers was one of only two people I called friends, as well as being my best friend. I knew she saved that front seat for me, and not for her. She hated riding in the front of the bus, always considered the un-cool seat on a bus. The only reason she would be in that seat was because she knew I would be a little bit more at ease with the confines of the bus and crowd with the open stairwell in front of us. I returned her awkward smile with a warm one of my own as I replied softly “thanks”.

Ashley stared at me for a moment raising an elegant brow, and then bunched up her teen vogue perfect nose at me totally ruining the glamour affect. “You had a bad one last night didn’t you?” she asked quietly, if anyone could speak quietly on a school bus.

I shifted uneasily in my seat, pulling my backpack into a hug on my lap before turning to answer her with a shake of my head. 

“Why, do I have dark circles again under my eyes?” I asked as I grabbed the front railing to stop from losing my balance as the bus took a sharp right turn.

Ashley dug into her purse and pulled out a protein bar. She let out a bit of a snort as she replied “no more than usual, but you look worried.” She shoved the protein bar into my hand.

“Eat this; you need it more than me.”

“Thanks, again” I gave her my best grateful smile, but waited until she turned around to chat some new health food to Evan Griggs in the seat behind her then I quickly shoved it into my backpack. She may be the health nut, but I can’t stomach anything that doesn’t come directly from a plant or animal.

After another stop and a couple quick turns in which I had to brace myself again to avoid landing face down in the isle, Ashley turned back from her conversation with Evan. Leaning her back against the window, she crossed her slim arms, placing well manicured fingers at her elbows and stared at me. I knew what she was waiting for; she wanted to know about the dream.

“Well” she prodded with a perfectly plucked eyebrow arching up in inquisitive look. I could never do that by the way, nothing about me showed any type of flare like Ashley’s movements could possess.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye while still facing forward toward the vast front window of the bus. She knew I could never give her very much detail about the dreams, but she felt it was good for the soul to try and talk it out. Ashley was so into the body soul connection thing.

 “Not much to say, you know that.” I reached into my backpack, pulled out the journal, and handed it to her. 

“There are always some clues, if you are writing the stuff down like I told you to.” Ashley gave me a questioning glare. She knew I would much rather let the dreams fade away at times and try to go on with my day, but she felt there was too much to learn from them. She believed every dream I had was a premonition.

I turned to meet her glare. “Just because there was one instance where my writing this stuff down proved the dream was similar to something that happened that day, doesn’t mean they are all premonitions.” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “You haven’t been able to prove any of the others.” Before Ashley replied, I added, “Beyond a shadow of a doubt.” 

Ashley stopped her rebuttal, but not before sticking out her bottom lip, which just happened to have the brightest red cherry lip gloss I have ever seen, then turned to my entry in the journal. No, she couldn’t piece together the notes and drawings in my journal to use as absolute proof of the dreams foretelling things that were to happen, but I had the proof. In some instances I found it easier to replay my dream out loud, to a digital recorder, while I wrote and drew in the journal. Ashley has never heard these recordings, and only because they scare the living daylight out of me when I play them back and find they do match events that happened later on. Right now Ashley was amused with my dreams and it was a fun hobby for her to try to interpret them. I was afraid that if she knew they were more than mere coincidences, I may lose one of my only two friends, and I couldn’t afford that. Better only I thought I was a loony.

As I watched Ashley, she read over the notes. Suddenly her perfectly peach complexion took on an ashen appearance. She looked ill. I reached out to her, laying my hand on her arm. 

“Ash, what is it.”

Ashley glanced over to me, biting her lip as if to hold her tongue, but didn’t say a word to me. 

“Ash, come on, are you trying to freak me out here?” 

Ashley started jabbing the picture in the journal over and over with her finger, as she responded with an agitated voice, “What is this supposed to be? Why did you draw this?”

I pulled the journal toward me to look at what she was pointing toward, having to tug hard from her death grip as she would not let go of it.

“That was the place in my dream,” I replied looking into her now worried if not somewhat accusing eyes. “I know it’s ridiculous.  I mean, where are you going to find some castle or something like that around here, but that’s what I remembered before it was gone. Why, what’s wrong with you?”

Shaking her head quickly, she pointed again, “and that? What are those; eyes?”

I pulled the journal closer to me. Sure enough, there was a pair of eyes; wide frightened looking eyes seemingly looking over the scene. That chill I had this morning just started creeping up my spine again.

I took a shuddery breath and glanced over toward Ashley. “I don’t remember drawing that.”

“What do you mean, you don’t remember?” Ashley looked as confused as I felt. 

“I must have doodled that when I was trying to remember more.”

Ashley glanced back at the dark eyes staring up from the page. “That’s an awfully good doodle.” She muttered. “I can feel them looking at me.”

At that moment, the bus pulled up in front of the school, jerking to a stop. I really hadn’t noticed we were there already but then I felt students bumping against me as they passed exiting the bus. I began to feel the anxiety rise in the pit of my stomach, as my personal space went quickly down to nothing. Unfortunately, most phobias don’t travel alone, and I had a touch of Enochlophobia to go with my Claustrophobia. There is something about the crowding of people that gives me the feeling of the walls pushing in on me, thus the connection. And one of the bad things about being phobic is if you aren’t prepared for the situation, it can make you physically ill. Normally I am prepared for the rush of bodies at the bus stops, but I was too caught up in Ashley’s response to my journal drawing, and had let my control slip a bit. 

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to wash away the anxiety. Ashley shoved the journal completely into my hands abruptly, jerking my attention back to her.  Then she turned to her own bag, gathered it up, and nearly crawled over top of me to get out the bus. I placed the journal back into my pack and flew out of the bus after her, partly to get out into the open before I lost the Tylenol that was in my stomach. She was halfway across the front courtyard of the school before I finally caught up with her.

“Ash, stop,” I panted as I caught up with her. “What’s going on?” But she wouldn’t stop. Finally, I had to grab her by the arm and force her to stop. I pulled her to a stop by grabbing her left arm, but as I did her free arm starting swinging toward my face. Both shock and fear raced through me at the same instance and without thinking, my left arm came up to cross in front of my face to block the blow that never made contact.

“Oh my god, Annie, what the hell did you do to your arm?” I looked under my blocking arm to see her arm frozen in mid swing, and her eyes were focused on what was left of the scrape on my arm. I flinched as she moved to take my arm into her hands to look at it. It no longer looked like something that was healed, but now red and swollen, and you could make out the edges of what seemed to be a cut running the length of the wrist. It was like I was healing in reverse, from a cut I had not received yet.

“I don’t know. It didn’t look this bad when I woke up.” She didn’t look like she believed me. “I didn’t do it to myself if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I stared at her with complete disbelief and confusion. Concerned about Ashley’s actions, my voice came out somewhat shaky. “Oh, okay, now, do you want to tell me what just happened here?”

Ashley was intensely staring at the mark on my arm. She licked nervously at her lips, her eyes intently examining my arm, and twisting it at the same time. My free hand ran over my head while I tried to figure out what she was doing, glancing around as everyone gawked at us as they walked by.

Still holding my arm in her hand, she looked up toward my eyes and I froze. She was holding me with the most feral look I have ever seen on anyone, let alone Ashley. I mean, this girl didn’t have a scary look to her. She was girl next door; next top model material. The scariest look she had ever pulled off may have been starring down the innocent person holding the Louis Vuitton handbag she wanted to purchase. The look she had now gave a screaming voice to her eyes, and they were not yelling charge it. Her vibrant blue eyes were as cold as steel, yet there was an intense heat coming off of them.

I jerked my arm out of her grasp as her touch began to feel hot against my skin. She shook her head as if suddenly realizing what she was doing wasn’t quite right. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to jump you like that. It’s just the drawing. I know that place,” she muttered under her breath. Looking down while she brushed her hands on her thighs she took in a deep breath then slowly releasing it in a heavy sigh, as if trying to regain some sort of control she had lost. When she did finally look back up to my confused stare, her eyes were back to their bright sky blue.

I rubbed my hands up and down my arms, trying to push away the sudden chill that was climbing up them. “You know where this is?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s the auditorium, here at school. We’re doing Romeo and Juliet.” She turned on her heel while motioning me to follow her into the school.

It took me a moment to make my feet move, but I was soon shuffling along behind her like a lost puppy. What was up with her weird reaction to my dream? Ashley was always excited to try and be a Nancy Drew when it came to my dreams. Always trying to figure them out and prove I was some sort of oracle. This was the first time I have seen her actually show any form of apprehension.

Ashley stopped in front of her home room. “Look,” she paused, glancing around as if to see if anyone was eavesdropping on our conversation, “I can’t explain anything right now. Just do me a favor?” She crossed her arms across her chest, waiting for my confirmation apparently.

“Oh kay, what?” I anxiously answered.

Once again, Ashley glanced nervously around while she shifted from one foot to the other. It was so unlike her usually perfect model like appearance that exuded confidence. She actually looked unsure of herself. “Stay away from the auditorium until after school.” She said softly.

When I looked at her in total confusion instead of answering back, she grabbed my shoulders and insisted, “Annie, I mean it, not until after school. Got it?”

I wiggled out of her grasp, adjusting my pack and stepping back from her. She was scarring me. “Ok, ok. I won’t.” I replied with my voice hoarse from the dry fear building up in my throat. Something was so not right with this picture. I turned and rushed off to my home room class.

Another nightmare came and went. That is the life that I have been living with now for the past year. I crawl into bed every night wanting to have a good night’s sleep after a long day, only it has never been that restful; instead nightmares. Nightmares that I am realizing are some sort of prophetic dreaming of things that are going to happen in or around my life. But this one just took a turn from the others; this one was extremely dark and bloody.

Breathing deeply with a sigh of relief that is was finally morning I swiped the back of my hand across my brow to wipe the beads of sweat that had formed as a result of the nightmare. My hand was shaking as I reached over the side of my bed to grab the journal I kept on the floor. It was full of notes and drawings of previous dreams and nightmares in my personal attempt to keep some sort of hold on sanity in my life. The dreams would never stay in my mind long after I woke up.  The nagging feeling that there was something I should be remembering from them was constantly gnawing at my conscious. I found that if I could write down or draw some of what I dreamt, instead of letting the images completely slip away, the biting feeling would not dig so deep at me during the day, and I could have a normal day.

I quickly jotted down clue words that would carry a sharp image, but not quite a complete story line. I would use these words later to help recognize a situation and hopefully get some sort of déjà vu to make myself aware that I was heading into what I dreamt about. It didn’t always work, but having that little bit of information, always seemed to put my mind more at ease.

I switched from keywords to sketching. I drew the one part of my dream that seemed to be the most intense and visible. It looked like room, though it only showed one wall, with what looked like rough stone walls or a very bad paint job. The windows were very high, small, and rectangular. Everything was in shadow, so nothing was distinctly clear in my drawing. I tried to show bright light pouring down from above somewhere and water forming puddles on what looked like a stone floor. 

In my dreams I don’t witness myself as an outsider. I am a participant.  My view of the room seemed to be coming from that wet floor. I remembered seeing my hand laying palm up, in another puddle, yet this one was darker than the others. I began to feel a distinct chill crawling from the base of my neck out across my shoulders as the realization hit me. No, not darker, it was red and thick; blood. 

Since most of my dreams were in black and white, to see a color shocked me to say the least. I tried to pull more about the image into colors, but they were not there, just the puddle underneath my hand. 

I rubbed the eraser of the pencil into my right temple as my head began to ache from the strain. There was only one more thing that I could remember, and it wasn’t something I could see and draw. It was a feeling; a feeling of complete heartbreak. With my head in my hand, I finished sketching away on the paper.

The dream faded too quickly. I knew there was something more there, but I could not remember. I rubbed at my temples deep with my fingers, willing myself to hold on to that last fleeting part of the dream, but I couldn’t. It was lost.

I leaned back into my headboard and with a hazy gaze I looked at the image I had drawn. My head was truly hurting now. Closing my eyes I gently massaged just over my brow trying to relieve the pressure. “Please,” I moaned, “don’t let this become another migraine.”

Opening my eyes, I focused now on the drawing. It was rough, as I am no Victoria Frances when it comes to drawing, but I could get a pretty good idea of what I was trying to draw on the page. It looked like some sort of medieval room with the stone walls and floor. I couldn’t think of anywhere I would find this type of room around here. There were no medieval or gothic type homes or buildings that I knew of. I was hoping this meant that it was really just a dream, something Anne Rice may have spurred since I was reading one of her books last night. Yet, I couldn’t get rid of that nagging feeling that it wasn’t, and that I needed to figure out what this room was. As small as it seemed, I knew I definitely didn’t want to be caught in it. I am claustrophobic.

I shook off the butterflies dancing in the bottom of my stomach and padded off to the hall bathroom, my bare feet slapping out a cadence on the hardwood floors as I go. As I quickly took care of my morning routine, I tried to find some piece of memory from the dream that was now completely faded out of my mind but sighed when I accepted that it was gone now. I grabbed a couple Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet and took them with a handful of water from the faucet to wash them down. Another lovely side affect of trying to remember my dreams was always a headache as well, if not migraines. Those I could definitely live without.

When I got back to my bedroom, I dressed quickly in my usual school fare of a black polo shirt, khaki skirt, knee high socks, and Mary Janes. Thank god for mandatory uniforms. No brain waves needed for that task. I quickly brushed my mane of dark auburn hair just enough to smooth it out, glancing into the wall of mirrors at the image. 

My bedroom was one of the larger ones in the house, with a bay window filling it with the bright morning light, and on the first floor. I think it was originally supposed to be a den, but it was converted to a bedroom for me due to the openness of it. My foster parents’ master bedroom was upstairs, which offered them more privacy, along with two other bedrooms that were being used as an office and craft room. My bedroom had none of the fancy interior design traits to it that most of the house held. Brenda, my foster mom, was a subscriber to House Beautiful and dreamed of someday having shots of her interiors flaunted within its pages. But my room was plain; just the basic dirty white, or ecru as they like to call it, and basic twin bed, one dresser, and a computer desk. Upon discovering my fear of small enclosed places, my foster parents added the wall of mirrors which gave the room more of an impression of space. One of the few efforts they put into showing they may actually care. 

In the mirrors, I saw the skinny, freckled, bushy haired freak almost everyone at school tried their best to avoid.   My amber eyes almost glowing in contrast to the dark auburn of my hair and pale cheeks.  I haven’t been and will most likely never be a heartbreaker. Long gangly legs and little if any chest, made me look more like a stretched out twelve year old than the sixteen year old about to go on seventeen that I was. I never saw much in that mirror I liked at all.

After growling at myself for lack of some sort of teenage beauty, I picked up a hair tie from my dresser and bunched the mane that is my hair back into a high ponytail. That’s when I noticed what seemed to be the remnants of a nasty scrape on my left wrist. It didn’t hurt, and it looked to have been there a few days, as it wasn’t scabbed over, but pink like it was well on its way to being healed. I brushed my fingers along it, trying to get some sense of memory as to when I could have done it, but nothing came to me.  God don’t tell me my dreams are becoming physical now as well.

I caught the time on my alarm clock out of the corner of my eye. “Shit, I’m going to be late.” I grabbed my backpack with my school books from the wobbly chair at my computer desk, pausing only briefly to pick up the journal from my bed and stuffing it into the pack. I hurried out the front door to catch the bus which had already stopped at the street corner two houses down.

Spent the morning doing the normal picking up around the home, brushing the ever shedding animals, and general personal hygine. The afternoon will be spent writing while my family are off swimming. It may sound like they will be having all the fun, but I am looking forward to actually writing in daylight hours for once, and not after midnight when all is usually quiet around here. Yes, I am the non-social catepillar, I know. Just waiting 'till the day I make my cocoon and come out the social butterfly everyone expects me to be.

After a month of jumping back an forth between a fourteen year old Jillian and the twenty-two year old Jillian, I have decided to focus on the twenty-two year old Jillian more. I am not abandoning the teenager, as what happens to her during those years are extremely important to developing the twenty-two year old and where she is today. I am finishing up first, the short story of where it all begins with Jillian, at age fourteen.

Starting in March, I will begin posting some of the scenes from Jillian's teen years. These are more for my benefit than for readers' entertainment, to help develop her to the young woman I am writing about now. Through these I will be developing some of the 'alternate' reality that she wanders in and out of, relationships that will either influence or carry on into my writing and of course the rules of magic. This said, no digs on format - these will not be complete stories, just flashes in the pan.

Fast forward...at 24 (future untitled phobia):

Jillian glanced around at the clutter in the small spare bedroom she called her office. To her dismay, it was getting beyond her ability to find things again, and she would need to set aside time to go through everything and either file for future reference, or file for the recycling bin. As adept that she was for anything electronically stored, she had no such ability for the actual paper trails. She spent her first couple years of her adult working life in many offices; going from one assignment to another perfecting her ability to manage other people's and eventually corporate lives. For some reason though, it never took hold for her own life. She always felt out of touch slightly with reality. Continually having to make apologies for missing an acquaintances birthday, party, and such. Perhaps that was more by subconscious design than by absent minded accident though.

For as long as Jillian could remember, she had never felt comfortable in front of as well as in crowds of people. She never felt she belonged anywhere she tried to fit in. Junior high and high school were pure emotional hell for her, besides the part caused by traumatic events. Even with all of the different clicks there are to be found in school, from the preps and jocks to the nerds and hoodlums, she could not find one niche that she felt she belonged to. Instead she learned to become a chameleon and quietly blend in wherever she found herself at the moment.

Adulthood proved to be just as bad, yet with fewer emotions. After puberty, she learned to shut down some of her emotions and just float, as she calls it, from one performance to another. One moment she would be the confident secretary who swiftly handled all office crisis with ease, and then in the next the happy go lucky girl out with the office girlfriends wooting it up at the local after hours watering hole, while all the time she just wanted to run and hold up somewhere with her back to the wall, alone.

Her sensitivity to others emotions and thoughts would constantly barrage her, and shutting those incoming missiles was a constant strain on her mentally. She once tried the professional route to 'fix' her problem, without the mention of possibly being empathic, but it was to no avail. Psycho versus psyche; two subjects that do not go together. She ended up seeing a psychologist who looked like a reject out of a bad 70's flashback. His idea of coming to the office professionally dressed was to rebel completely against the idea. She could tell that he was a back sleeper, as his tightly curled coal black, bushy like Jeff Lynn, hair was just that everywhere but in the back. The short beard he wore was kept in the same disturbed manor; sometimes it even contained the last thing he may have been snacking on as well. He wore dark rimmed glasses that were slightly larger than his face. Faded tee shirts and shorts were his normal business suit, only to be outdone by the knee high socks and sandals that he wore to accompany it.

This smartly and professionally dressed psychologist diagnosed Jillian with a fear of success, social phobia, and anxiety disorder. He prescribed a so called 'mild' medication for anxiety attacks, and did nothing but constantly ask Jillian why she thought she felt that way. The medication made her loopy, so she wouldn't take it, and the questions weren't getting her any answers, so the sessions lasted for only about a month.

To Jillian, the term fear of success just made absolutely no sense what so ever to her. To date in her life, everything she has ever set out to do, she has completed to some degree of success. She did well in school, then became constantly employed working with a temporary placement agency; never missing a week of work because she was well know as a quick learner and very good at the new skills she acquired. Even when she decided to work for herself, at the early age of 22 and few years under her belt, but many jobs, she had become comfortably successful at it. Not to say she was wealthy from it, but comfortably was more the bills got paid and she had a little to put back each month. So the term fear of success was ridiculous to her.

Her social phobia was a different animal. That was something she could have put an answer as to where it may have stemmed from; if the answer didn't make her sound delusional that is. Jillian just knew that if she had told the psychologist that she felt that the phobia came from when she was younger and had Haptophobia, or the fear of touch, and she learned, while being held in some alternate reality, that only the touch from those who had no innate magical essence within them would hurt her, he would have locked her up in the psych ward immediately. Alternate realities, magic, the Skywalker premise of the evil father trying to draw her to the 'dark side', things like that don't go over well in the real world where magic isn't seen as real...

This one:


Current phobia project:

Between Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and various other holidays I celebrate but others may not, I find it next to impossible to find time to write other than what I force myself to do for my stories. I was a rebel in high school english when I was required to keep a journal for grade, and it seems the habit extends well into my adulthood. It's not as much that I don't have anything to say; trust me, I have a lot of opinions, gripes, etc. It's just that most of the time there is too much traffic in my head. Instead, I find the need to focus that onslought of mental energy into another life; those of my characters. It does quite the job of keeping me sane - most of the time.

Phobia is still, still a work in progress. It has morphed several times in the last few months, but the plot has pretty much stayed the same. I have digressed my character in age, placing her into her teens and making this a young adult story now. She now deals with not only a severe phobia, but the loss of her parents, the move to a new school, town, way of life than she was used to and secure in before without friends and the only family a grandmother who was estranged from her mother. I am throwing a lot more obsticles at my character than before, a mystery within a mystery, and self discovery through coming of age. I have never worked this angle, so it will be quite interesting to see how I finish it. I plan on bringing her through teen to adult eventually - removing innocence violently to bring her to the brink of destruction of the good inside her to see if she perseveres; running the gauntlet from young adult into more of an adult graphic novel eventually. I have never seen this done, so I don't even know if it will work, but I can't stray from this course now. This story, my characters life, is so vivid in front of me now. Whether I ever sell or anyone ever reads it, it doesn't matter. I am compelled to write this and see it to the end. Obsession would be a good word for it.

I will start writing brief summaries of the chapters, to get a little feedback. I am also looking for readers, if anyone looks at this journal and is interested, please let me know. I am not a fast producer, as my day is filled between work, family, and home limiting me to the life of a night stalker as I write after midnight, so the process is slower than most I feel. Yet, I am proud to say, I am writing!

Ok.  I am trying to figure out where to start to become more extroverted.  Were does one go to meet and make new friends?  How do you do such a thing?  I have never had too much of a problem with business associates and the like, but when it comes to try and find people with like interests (to some degree) I never knew where to go.  My interests aren't exactly out there for all to practice.  Of course, there is the internet, but I feel that is a bit of a cop out.  Are we really meeting new people, or just posting the life we wish we had while interacting with others doing the same?  I can do that playing the SIMS.  I feel brash inviting myself to be someone's 'friend' on places like LJ or MySpace, but I guess that's the whole idea of the exercise.

First, I want to state that I will be using this 'Live Journal', unlike prior.  I resolve to actually try to keep a journal, and try my best not to embarrass myself at the same time.

Currently I am at FenCon, feeling so like a fish out of water.  I am not a fanatical fan, not a 'real' writer yet, and definitely not an outgoing person.  This is supposed to be a way of getting me out to meet new people, make friends and contacts, but I feel so displaced from everyone here.   I mean, I have nothing to be afraid of; in fact, I am not afraid of being here at all.  I am not afraid of meeting people.  Just as with my writing, I struggle as to where to start when it comes to meeting new people.  You so don't want to sound like the idiot or offend someone by saying the wrong thing.  Some writer I am - great at writing about the character afraid of their own shadow, then suddenly faced with a whole new reality where they must interact and overcome those fears in order to learn how to survive.  Yeah, I can write about it, but I don't seem to do well living it.  Oh well, I am making the attempt.

I love my family, don't get me wrong, but when you are trying to develop your writing, they can be so frustrating.  The creative Muse of mine is not always in cinq with their timing either.  I just get so frustrated, when my next scene begins to run strongly in my mind's eye, and then is interupted by the needs of others and gets lost in the foray.  The scene is still there when I go to finally (after everyone else is asleep usually) get to write it down, but the passion that was so strong earlier is missing.  Sometimes it takes days to find what was missing, which slows me down even more.  It's just frustrating!

Okay, I will admit I have played with this story already, about 25,000 words worth of it in NaNo in November.  I didn't even feel like I scratched the surface with that little bit.  Now that I am sitting down and getting really serious about riding the wave all the way to the end, my mind has taken on a severe distraction.  Same story, but what if I change the point of view?  I could expand more on the already behemoth story I was planning to write in first person.  Well, I figured I better get it out of my system now.  So, not only am I rewriting my previous 25,000 beginning to Phobia that is in first person, but I am also beginning it in third person all over again.

Why, why oh why....character development.  I can't bring my readers into my story totally blind to my leads past.  Sure, it can be done by more talented writers and the reader will go right along with it, but I feel I am leaving my readers too much in the dark this way.  So much so they may get lost and loose interest.  Not at all what I want for this story.  Plus there are several aspects of the leads past life that reflect heavily on her new life.  The result, third person story telling leading up to the current situation.  Now will I then stick with the original story in first person from that point on to complete it?  I have yet to find out.  

I know the ending, I just have to figure out how I want to get there.

Greetings

My name is Aislinn O'Shea, which translates roughly as dreamer of the fairy realm.  At least that is what I am told.  I have started this live journal project to track my progress writing my Phobia series.

What is Phobia you ask?  A persistent, abnormal, and irrational fear of a specific thing or situation that compels one to avoid it, despite the awareness and reassurance that it is not dangerous, as defined by the American Heritage Dictionary.  But you knew that, didn't you.  

What is this Phobia series is really the question now isn't it?  Phobia centers around young woman thrown into a world that she is not familiar with.  In the first installment, she awakens in a hospital with no memory and no answers as to how she came to be there.  Oh, and just one little thing more, she has a serious phobia, medically known as haphephobia, or the fear of touch.  For her, this phobia results in severe pain whenever touched by a mortal human being (yes, I said mortal) and an uncontrollable defensive reaction that usually ends the 'toucher' in some pain.  

She finds that the facts of the state of the world that are being given to her, just don't match up to what she believes they should be.  The world she has awoken in is in the midst of a cleansing of sorts.  A cleansing of Mage, or magically inclined human beings.  After a handful of misdirected mages attack and kill several mortal humans, the governments of the world decide to round them all up to either control or, in most cases, destroy them by accusing them of crimes against humanity.  This is all done through genetic fingerprinting of everyone in the world.  It was found that Mage carry an extra gene and can be identified by such.  

Magic to her is only something done in a stage performance or is written about in fairy tales or fantasy literature.  If it cannot be scientifically proven, it's not real, or at least that is what she believes from her shattered memory.  And guess who just so happens to have this gene...our lead.  

Then it goes from bad to worse.  Enter the obsessed DoMR agent (Department of Mage Regulation) who is convinced she is a threat to them and must be destroyed.  Or the psychologist/mage who wants to prove her a fraud.  Or what ever is behind the demon pursuing her, and tearing to shreds anyone who befriends or helps her.  

So let's tally here, no memory; what she does think she knows, doesn't seem to match up to the world she is in, so possibly scitzo?  Government agents want her dead; the doctor/Mage who is supposed to help her doesn't believe anything from her; someone or something is trying to kill her.  All of this and the emptiness created from not being able to have any human contact at all.  What else could go wrong?  Plenty.  She needs to find out who she is (or is not), how she got into this position, and who the real 'bad guy' is, all before she is killed herself.   

Prologue and Chapter 1 completed, yet not to my satisfaction yet.  I will most likely be tearing it apart later on.

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