Author Spotlight: Cher Green
- When did you start writing?
- What’s your ultimate goal as a writer? How close are you to achieving that goal?
- If you have pets, what are they and what are their names?
- Who has influenced your writing and how?
- Tell us about your journey to publication.
- What does a typical writing day look like to you?
- Are you a plotter, pantser or a little of both? Describe how a story comes together for you.
- What advice do you have for writers who are on their own path to publication?
- When did you know you wanted to be an author? When did you realize it could actually become a reality?
- What does your editing process look like?
Geneva licked her lips, savoring the hint of sweet metallic blood. Allowed only a small amount of the delicacy, she craved more. As she stepped from the moonlit night into the quiet gallery, a shiver laced through her body. With each forbidden step, she searched for hidden dangers. If the clan discovered the deception, she’d be punished – of that she held no doubt.
With only her pale face visible beneath the black cloak, Geneva moved in front of the large painting. A majestic tree cast shadows over the landscape, children danced in play, and a young couple kissed by a lake. The sun glinted off a wine glass in the woman’s hand. Geneva ached to join such a scene, yet destiny tore her in the opposite direction – darkness. Gliding a finger across the canvas, she longed to be pulled within.
A hand gripped Geneva’s shoulder. Instinct screamed for her to flee. Instead, she prepared for the worse and turned. A scrawny man fidgeted in place. A starched, blue security uniform hung loosely from his wiry frame. He recoiled, stammering incoherently.
Geneva cringed at the reaction, but wasn’t at all surprised. The pale skin and death-filled eyes scared humans. Their fear saturated her soul with pain. She wished to be a part of their world, yet they refused to accept the breed. The paintings provided a brief connection to human normalcy, but it wasn’t the same as the physical, the joy of holding another.
“Miss, you aren’t allowed to touch the artwork.” The security guard stuttered, bowing his head.
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
The man nodded and scurried away into the shadows. Just another mortal afraid of the death wrapped tightly around her – without even realizing the source of fear.
Geneva lingered, prolonging the return to her dismal abyss. She wandered further into the gallery, beyond the normal viewing area. Gasping, she stared at the collection, each canvas bore her image. The clan would be furious. How had she been noticed? Every care had been taken, so for a mortal to have noticed … should she run?
Stepping closer, weak pulse quickening, Geneva studied the artist’s name scribbled across the bottom, Lewis Hunt. The normal life scenes were replaced by an overcast of death, her death, her lethal darkness. She’d allowed the dismal destiny to affect the life of a human, dragged him into the isolation. Now, yet again, she’d be exiled from walking among them, just like before. Geneva stepped away from the paintings. Love, lust, loss – like claws shredding flesh– swept her away to another place in time. She brushed away the lone tear and stared at the faint pinkish color. “Momma, Tessa…”
Pain squeezed what little heart she possessed. She had to get out of there, had to return home. Stumbling into someone, Geneva tried to go around, but he matched the movements, blocking every attempt. He gripped her shoulders. She looked up, half expecting the security guard.