Fun House

Day 3 of StoryADay September.

The Prompt:

Your character is lost in a maze with the instructions to find a very important document or treasure hidden in its center. Or perhaps the character has lost this important thing, and must find it before the wrong person does.

“Let’s go to the fair,” she said. “It’ll be fun,” she said. Literally, those were Clara’s words.

I had no interest in the fair. Cows, goats, chickens, and deep-fried everything held no appeal for me. What did appeal to me was Clara. I was into Clara.

It turned out the Clara wasn’t into the animals and food, either. She was into carnival rides. After two roller coasters, a spinning room with a dropping floor, and the Ferris wheel she drug me to the Maze of Mirrors.

It was late on a weeknight, so the few people who had been keeping us company were drifting away. We were alone in the funhouse.

Clara darted ahead, laughing as she dodged around corners. I followed, searching the glass in the flashes of light for a glimpse of her. Her laugh and smile bounced around me, pinging from one mirror to another.

The more I focused on the flashes of her face, the harder she was to see. I struggled to keep up, to follow the echoes of her voice as her laugh turned to a cackle.

I was frustrated with this game of cat and mouse. I wanted to catch her, now, but it felt like I was moving slower and slower, falling further behind.

Out of breath, I stopped. Gasping, trying to capture the air around me, I turned my focus from the hunt for Clara to the mirror inches in front of my face. An old man stared back at me.

I wheezed out an attempted scream and backed up a step, crashing into the mirror behind me. I sunk to the floor. The old man in the mirror sunk to the floor with me.

I turned onto all fours, crawling and dragging myself around the next corner, hoping to see the exit. Instead I found more mirrors.

My arms collapse, dropping me down onto the rough wood floor. I stared at the old man in the mirror, watching him grow older. Watching him turn to dust.

Clutch

Day 2 of StoryADay September.

The Prompt:

Your character’s an extremely talented pickpocket. He learned the skill when he was young and poor. Now he has a good job, a healthy bank account, and a respectable lifestyle, but he thinks it’s a shame to let such remarkable talent go to waste.

Clutch

I see him the moment I step into the ballroom. A blonde in a red sequined shift is draped over the left arm of his tux.

His right hand moves up, smoothing over his already slick hair. The raise of his arm reveals the weight hidden in his inner right jacket pocket. A wallet.

It’s been a long time since I’ve lifted one. There is no need to lift one now. But I am tempted to test my skills, see what I can win.

A smile flirts across my lips, my hands slipping down over my hips, straightening the cream-colored silk that flows from my shoulders.

I move through the room, establishing myself as a hugger. He smiles when he sees me, disentangling the blonde from his arm at my approach. “Julie, it’s been a long time.” He closes the distance between us.

I slide into his embrace, my hands skimming the surface of his shirt and jacket. He lingers a moment longer than he should. As I pull away, his wallet falls into the small clutch around my wrist.

I smile up at him, then look over his shoulder, moving on to my next admirer. “It is good to see you, George.”

I quickly work my way across the room, eager to escape and see what I have. Safely locked in a bathroom stall, I open my clutch and lift the worn brown leather laying inside. I flick past photos, ID, credit cards, and cash. A small haul, only eighty dollars. The payoff is the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

A plastic card slips from my fingers and falls at my feet. Emblazoned in gold foil are the words ‘The Royal Palms.’ The number 903 is etched on the back.

I close my eyes, imagining what I might find in the hotel room. A safe to pick. Jewelry left laying on the counter. Cash tucked into a suitcase. But I will have to move fast, before George notices he is missing something.

I tuck the card and wallet back into my clutch and head for a taxi. The drive to the hotel is long, my adrenaline surges with every mile. Deep breaths hold me together.

I skip the elevator, dodging most of the security cameras. Nine flights of stairs is too much for heels, so I slip them off and hike up my skirt for the climb.

I pause outside room 903, my hand resting on the surface of the door, my ear pressed against the smooth surface. I listen. I hear only the soft sound of forced air. I scan the key card and slip into the room.

I push the door closed behind me and drop my shoes to the floor. My eyes enter the room and I freeze. George is sitting on the bed, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “Julie. I was hoping it would be you.”

I keep my face calm, steady, the jumble of thoughts inside my head safely tucked away.

“This is a bit awkward, isn’t it?” George sets his bag of popcorn aside, and stands. “What do you think it’s going to cost you?”

I reach into my clutch for the only item I started the evening with. “Only another little piece of my soul,” I answer George as I pull the trigger.

 

The Kiss

Day 1 of StoryADaySeptember.

The Prompt: Today, write a story that features people disappearing.

Kissing Jake was a bad idea.

I knew how it would end. The same thing happened when I kissed Ben. And James. And John. And Dashiell. And Trent. And Sarah. Let’s not forget Sarah. I really thought it would be different with her.

Even knowing it would end badly, I couldn’t resist. Jake is just so… yummy. And kissing is so much fun. I’ve been staring at Jake’s lips for over a year, wondering how it would feel to touch them with mine. Wondering if he was the one, convincing myself this time everything would work out well.

So I did it. We were face to face, close enough that I could feel the drift of his breath against my cheek, making the tiny hairs on my face stand on end. I breathed him in, pulling his essence deep into me and leaned in.

My lips grazed his, all of my air escaping on a sigh. Jake pushed closer to me, taking in my air and exchanging for it his own. One moment of complete and perfect connection.

Then he disappeared.

I opened my eyes as the cool air replaced his warm lips on mine. “Shit. Every time,” I said to the boy who wasn’t there.

This made seven. Seven people I have kissed into oblivion. Not in a good way.

I plopped down on the hip-high brick wall behind me, kicking my heels against the rough surface as punishment. I was so sure that Jake was the one. The one I was meant to be with, the one I could kiss without him disappearing. I needed to find the person I was meant for soon, before I decimated the population of Ironwood.

A black mustang pulled into the parking lot, tires squealing in protest at the sharp, quick turn into a parking space. The driver’s side door opened, allowing Mark to unfold his long limbs and escape the tight interior. Damn, I didn’t need this right now. I couldn’t deal with the human I hated most after making the one I loved disappear.

His eyes landed on me, causing his lips to curl into a grin. “Kelsie. Were you waiting for me?” he called as he began swinging his legs in my direction.

I started to tell him “Hell, no,” but then saw the opportunity in front of me. No one else was here. The parking lot was empty of cars other than Mark’s. I could make him go away. Forever.

I allowed my face to relax into a welcoming, sultry smile. “Yes, actually, I was waiting for you.”

Mark’s feet paused, a quick hitch revealing that I had thrown him off. His face stayed smooth as silk. “Really?” His feet resumed their rolling rhythm as he closed the distance. He didn’t stop walking until his toes touched the brick beneath me, his legs leaning against the wall between my own.

I settled a hand on his chest, battling the urge to push him sharply away. I forced my fingers to curve into him, gripping the fabric of his faded T and pulling him toward me.

I swallowed hard, hoping he thought I was swallowing excess saliva and not the bile that was burning the back of my throat.

Mark’s eyes drifted closed as his grin became expectant. I had him.

I pulled him in close and took a steadying breath before I allowed my lips to meet his. His reaction was intense, his hands finding their way to me, one twining gently into the hair at my nape, the other sliding around my waist to nestle in the small of my back.

I felt the pull of his breath on mine and realized this was the longest kiss I had ever had. I pushed hard on his chest, forcing Mark to take a step away and open his eyes.

He was the one. Shit. 

When Stephen King and Scott Westerfeld mingle in my mind

I have several TBR lists. One for fiction, one for nonfiction, and another specifically for books about writing and the writing industry. The result is that at any given moment, I am in the middle of at least three books. The result is often like walking through a chemistry lab and choosing random chemicals to mix together. You never know what will happen.

Currently, I am rereading On Writing by Stephen King. At the same time, I read Afterworlds by Scott Westerfeld. These two had some interesting interactions in my mind.

King talks about the level of detail he likes to use in descriptions of character and setting. He is a bit of a minimalist, giving the reader a few small pieces and letting them fill in the rest. The result is that any character in a Stephen King novel isn’t really one that King created. The character is really created by the interaction of his chosen details and how the reader interprets and fills in the rest of the picture.

This got me thinking about movies. I don’t tend to like the movie versions of books I love. Partly because the story changes. But I think my real issue is that there is no interaction. In a movie, the visuals are determined for me. The director, actors, and other crew involved present their interpretation of the characters and setting to me. As a viewer, you are not involved in the creative process.

This is where Scott Westerfeld comes into play.

In Afterworlds, Westerfeld brings up what he calls the Anjelina Jolie paradox. Here’s the premise: When Anjelina Jolie is cast in a movie, that means that the world the movie occurs in is one in which Anjelina Jolie does not exist. Otherwise, people would comment on how much the character looks like Anjelina Jolie.

What follows from that is the movie version of a book actually occurs in a different world than the book did!

Not Your Average Juliet

            Alice slips through the front door, her angel wings rustling as they brush against the door jamb. She pauses, waiting to see if anyone noticed the soft sound. Voices drift from the room to the right, involved in conversation, oblivious to her presence.

            The angel drifts to the stairs and begins the journey up, careful to avoid the fifth creaky riser. At the second door on the left, Alice pauses, her hand resting on the brass door knob.

            With a single finger, she taps softly, twice.

            “Come in,” the voice matches the volume of her knock, and she almost misses it.

            The knob turns with ease, the door swinging silently on well-oiled hinges. Alice enters Max’s room, a smile upon her lips, heaven in her eyes.

            “You look lovely.” Max says, gesturing for her to spin. She does, her skirt floating out like a cloud around her. “Stunning.”

            Alice smiles, “You are looking handsome yourself. I like it,” she nods at the heavy velvet cape draped across his shoulders. “Is it time?” she asks, gliding to Max’s side and resting a cool hand on his cheek.

            Max nods. “Did you bring it?”

            Alice reaches into the folds of her white gown, withdrawing two vials from a hidden pocket.

            Max reaches out a hand, gently brushing the smooth blue glass. “They’re beautiful. Like you.”

            Alice blushes and ducks her eyes.

            “Shall I go first? I don’t think I can watch you do it.”

            Max nods, “Go ahead.”

            The angel hands Max a vial before uncapping the other. “I’ll see you in the next life,” as she brings the vial to her lips and tips the contents into her mouth.

            Alice sinks to her knees, then sprawls back onto the floor, her breaths already shallow. Max kneels at her side, gripping her hand tightly in his own. “Alice, wait…” he begins, but it is too late. The blue has already crept across her lips.

            Momentarily torn between life and death, Max pauses. It is almost too long. But he uncorks his vial and chugs the tiny beverage, falling to the floor beside his beloved angel.

            Alice gasps as she sits up, drawing air deep into her lungs. She turns to see the man laying beside her, her hands moving to his throat, feeling for a pulse that isn’t there. She leans close, resting her lips on his, feeling the chill already setting in. “You know I’ve always loved Romeo and Juliet.”

            Her hands move to his, plucking the empty vial and cork from his grasp, tucking them back into the pocket they came from. Her vial follows.

            Alice pauses near the door to look at her reflection in the mirror. Her skin is paler than usual, lips still slightly dusky. Her fingers reach to pinch her cheeks before she decides that the paleness enhances the costume.

            She glides out the door, down the stairs (again avoiding the creaker) and into the foyer. The voices are louder, now, and music has joined the party. Alice joins it, as well. The angel slides around the wall, taking a spot near the wall, watching the costumed couples dance in the middle of the room.

            No one notices her arrival. They never have.

            She wonders how long it will take for one of them to notice the body upstairs.

            A bottle of ketchup runs into the room, “Call an ambulance! Someone is hurt upstairs!”

            Chaos breaks out, cell phones are dug out of pockets, purses, and bras. Alice is serene stillness on the outside, but aflutter inside. Hurt? He should be dead.

            Alice moves closer to the ketchup, trying to overhear his conversation over the cacophony.

            “… some guy in a cape,” the ketchup bottle states.

            “Did …… for a pulse?” This from a nun.

            “No!” Ketchup turns and runs for the stairs. The angel follows.

            Alice arrives at the door to the room and sees that everything is fine. Max is dead. Ketchup is crying, the nun offering a hand on his shoulder as comfort.

            “Who is it?” the nun asks.

            “I don’t know,” Ketchup sobs.

The nun looks perplexed at tears for a unknown man. “It’ll be okay.” She pats him twice, then looks around the room for someone to rescue her. Her eyes glide right over Alice to the paramedics stepping through the door.

The angel drifts back out of the door and to the stairs, passing a stream of animals, demons, and cartoon characters looking to be part of the story. She moves out the front door and stands on the front porch, her hand resting on a pillar. Flashing red and blue dance across the canvas of her dress and wings.

The angel smiles and begins walking.

Camp NaNoWriMo (or, What I Did on My Summer Vacation)

I just did something crazy amazing.

I wrote a novel.
In 30 days.

You may have heard of NaNoWriMo (National Noveling Writing Month). The idea is to commit to writing a first draft of a novel (50,000 words) in the month of November. They also run Camp NaNoWriMo in April and July, which is the same concept, but with a little more flexibility-- you set your word count goal.

I participated in July. Initially, my goal was 50,000 words. I had a run in with an angry neck that prevented me from doing much more than laying on the couch for two days, so I ended up adjusting my goal down a bit, to 45,000 words. I hit my word count mark on July 30th. I wrote the last scene of my manuscript on July 31st. I wrote a novel.

When I finished, I was shell-shocked. Still am, actually. I printed out the manuscript (about 80 single spaced pages) and held it in my hands, staring at it. What is this? Where did it come from? Did I just do that?

Yep. I wrote a novel. I can't tell you yet if it's any good. When you write a novel in thirty days, there is no going back, no rereading. You are constantly moving forward, writing the next scene. If you realize there is a plot problem, you either adjust the scene you are currently writing to make it work, or make a note for later. There is no going back and fixing. I honestly couldn't even tell you much of what I wrote.

Starting next week, I begin the task of editing. That will start with me reading my story. (I just said my story!) I am sure that there are significant issues. But, here's the thing. My gut says it's not garbage. So my plan is to edit. A lot. Then I will find some kind(ish) souls to read it. To be nicely brutally honest. And I will edit again. Then, perhaps, I will send my baby off into the world. We'll see.

Oh, there is one other, completely random thing. Every time I see the words Camp NaNoWriMo, the theme song for the old Nickelodeon song "Salute Your Shorts" pops into my head. Feel free to sing along:

Ignite

Let me start with how I ended up reading this book.

I am attending CampNaNoWriMo (I'll have more to say about that next week). The WordNerds have been providing short videos to campers. The WordNerds are a group of six women who write. The videos they post talk about writing, publication, and books in general. I like them. They have good things to say, but more importantly, they seem like people that I would like in real life. Which makes me want to read the things they write.

So I hunted down Erica Crouch's first book. Erica is a young author (early 20s), so this book is a snapshot of the birth of a writing career. I have been known to read the complete works of an author, in chronological order. I like to watch an author grow. To watch them develop their voice and style through the stories they tell. I like to think that watching this growth and development will benefit my own writing. After reading this early book of Erica's, I am very interested to see where she goes.

The story she tells in this book is an interesting one. The basic question revolves around polarity. We live in a polar society: black vs. white, light vs. dark, right vs. wrong, good vs. evil. In a world where the majority tie themselves to a pole, what do you do when you realize you can't? What do you do when you realize you can't choose between good and evil? This book does not answer this question, but it is book one of a trilogy. I will be reading the rest of the story to see where Erica takes this!