Hailstorm howls and yowls, shapeshifter lovers.
There was one doozy of a hail and rainstorm—with lightning blasting the sky—two nights ago. The hailstones weren't large, but they blasted against the windows like gunshots. I always worry about the panes breaking.
The storm hit hardest during the last part of the president's address to congress...the internet connection went down...thus, I didn't get to hear the last part of the speech. Anyhoo, the rain was much needed, and more is needed.
And heck, I'm really grateful there was no tornadic activity, given there were tornadoes in this large, several-state storm system.
Okay, the writing is still happening...and as usual, I wish it was all going much faster...but, as usual, my time is limited by life circumstances.
Also, as an author, I still feel lost at sea, so to speak. If I had more time to write, I could be working on another WIP. Certainly, I hadn't planned on writing this type of romance as this point in time...but Symona and Daletori's story seemed right for the now defunct Boxed Set. Oh well...
Here's a little *unedited* snippet from Wyoming Wrangler. Symona is having flashback nightmare.
No...no, she cried out mentally, desperate to stop herself from plunging into the nightmare—only it wasn't merely the repeat of a bad dream . No, she'd lived this horror for real.
How many more dreams...?
...Symona scanned the mega truckstop before stepping out of her late nineties pickup, otherwise known as Old Faithful. As she filled her workhorse of a truck, the smell of diesel hung heavy in the humid night air.
Always on the alert, she kept watch on the activity taking place at the food island for truckers and highway travelers. Odd. Across the way—all by itself—an airport type of van with dark windows sat in a moon shadow, one cast by the long row of well-groomed bushes fringing the asphalt parking area. Beyond the tall sentinel-like bushes was a recently mowed field then woodlands—from what she tell in the darkness.
Finished gassing up her pickup, she glanced at the van again. Something was off. Her intuition buzzed alright.
Curiosity gnawed at Symona as she climbed into her truck, and quickly stuck the receipt in her bag. She started the engine slowly rolling toward the van.
A flash of movement in her peripheral vision caused her to brake fast. A dog ran in front of her pickup—what looked to be a shiba inu mix.
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Run on the Wild Side of Romance
