Mediocrity

Day 6 of StoryADay May.
Prompt: Write the Real You

(Disclaimer from Susan: Like everything I write, this piece contains me. It also contains not-me. I leave it up to you to decide which bits are which.)

I am not a failure.

Most people would say that I am a success. But there would be the slightest moment of hesitation, the tiniest of pauses. I hear it every time someone praises my accomplishments.

I am never the winner of the big prize. I am never best in show, at the top of my class.

I am firmly rooted in the upper echelon of mediocrity. Before you say “Oo, but you’re good with words,” let me confess that I stole that phrase from an Indigo Girls song.

I was on the short list for the FBI, but not offered a position as an agent.

I was runner-up for Miss Teen Florida.

I was the puppeteer inside Audrey II instead of playing the part of Audrey.

This is my life. Always the bridesmaid. Never the bride. Never the best, but I’ll do in a pinch.

I keep moving. I keep trying on new roles, new skills. I am okay to good at everything that I set out to do. But never amazing. I haven’t found my thing. I am a Jack of all trades and master of none (again with the word-thievery).

Yet again, I am trying something new. An unexpected opportunity has fallen into my lap. The pay is good. The job demands a certain skill set. Cunning, planning, secrecy, bravery, determination. I have those things. The question, as always, is do I have enough to be great.

The job is simply explained. Kill Durrant Sarna. Make it look like a natural death.

I am tired of being almost the best. I will make myself the best at this thing.

Or die trying.

Butterscotch

Day 4 of StoryADay May
The Prompt
Write a story in the first person

I hate bananas.

My roommate quickly peeled hers and shoved a huge bite into her mouth. She looked like she enjoyed it, like it tasted good.

The skin was a bright unblemished yellow. It looked friendly, pleasant. So I followed her lead. I peeled the thick skin off the fruit and took a bite.

It was awful.

Smushy. Grainy. Slimy. A combination of all the wrong textures.

I gagged. But I choked the bite down. I didn’t want to insult my roommate.

Then the smell hit me. Moist. Heavy. Food gone past its prime. Overripe. I gagged again.

I hate bananas.

I add this to my short list of things I know about myself.

My pinky fingers are double-jointed.
I prefer green jello to red.
I can only fall asleep lying on my right side with my hands tucked between my knees.
I was born yesterday.

That’s how it feels anyway. My memory begins yesterday at 2:16 pm. I woke in this bed, in this room, in this gown.

Nothing happened before that moment.

They say I have a head injury. Total amnesia.

They say I was attacked yesterday morning. Someone hit me hard enough to erase me. But not hard enough to kill me.

They say I’ll remember who I am eventually.

They hope.

I don’t know if I hope or not. That really depends on who I was. I don’t know yet if I am someone I want to know. Or someone I’m better off forgetting.

Apparently I made someone angry enough to want to crush my skull. I don’t think that makes me optimistic to know me.

Maybe this is my chance to start over. I can make myself into anything. Anyone.

I close my eyes to let myself imagine. Brainstorm who I want to be. I take in a deep breath.

Butterscotch.

I smell the candies he always carries in his pockets. The candy he always has in his mouth. The warm malty caramel smell that washed over me just before the bat swung.

I remember.

And he is here.

Hunger

Day 3 of StoryADay May.
The Prompt:
Take the last line from your favorite book or choose one from the list below. Now write a short piece that ends with that line.

1. No one has claimed them yet.
2. “Let me tell you about it.”
3. Everything must go.
4. “Make me pretty.”
5. And it was still hot.

I am hungry.

Hungry enough that I have considered breaking off a sugary shingle, shoving it into my mouth, swallowing it whole. But I know the sugar wouldn’t fill me for long. In an hour, or less, I would be ravenous again.

I need protein.

And fat.

I have it. Tucked into the corner. Nestled in two cages. My protein trembles. But I can’t eat it.

This year, I am smart. I have a plan. A better plan. I have always lured lost children with my sweet treat cottage. I have trapped them in cages, fattened them up, threatened them with fire. In previous years I have made the threat reality. I have roasted them. Snacked on their succulent young flesh.

But they are small. This year I have a bigger plan.

I will wait for their families to come looking. I will trap them all. Roast them all. The bounty of fresh meat will let me sleep soundly through the long winter.

The hunger gnaws. I grow impatient.

I have turned on my oven. When it’s hot I will roast.

No one has claimed them yet.

What Happens in Vegas

Day 2 of StoryADay May
The Prompt
Write a story containing all of these words from a fourth grade spelling list.
Blame
State
Frame
Holiday
Relay
Waist
Pail
Gain
Raise
Mayor
Airplane
Remain

I blame Joel. It wasn’t his idea, but this is still his fault. I was joking when I said we should go to Vegas for the weekend. He jumped on the idea. Laughed. Said we should get married while we’re there.

I didn’t laugh.

I didn’t look at him, either. I focused on the frayed edge of my thumbnail. “Do you want to?” I asked.

He dropped down on his knees in front of me, waited for me to meet his eyes. Then he nodded.

I pushed out a short laugh. It was a proposal run in reverse.

So we did it. For the first time in my life, I left the state of New Mexico. I was nervous. I was scared. Shit. I was terrified. But I was with Joel.

He drove us through the night.

I bounced my gaze back and forth. First I watched Joel. He watched only the road ahead, looked for rabbits bounding into his path. Then I turned my eyes to the desert around us.

The window rolled down, I let the cool night air wash in and over me. I leaned my head against the frame of the window and closed my eyes. I held out my hand, let it fly in the wind we created as we passed through the night. I drifted.

A hand touched my shoulder. My eyes flew open and my arms bolted up, pushed away.

“Leigh. We’re here.”

I nudged my mouth into a shape sort of like a smile. “Sorry.” Before he could tell me again that it was alright, I turned and looked out the window again.

“Holiday Shores?” I asked.

“It was the only place off the strip I saw with a vacancy sign.”

“Where is the shore?”

Joel pointed over his shoulder. “Several hundred miles that way, I think.”

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. Dropped a kiss that said far too little on his lips. “You are a dork.”

“Yeah. But you like it.”

I shoved him away and climbed out of the car.

The sun was barely over the horizon but the air was already full and heavy with heat. I pulled what little hair was still held in my hair tie free and rearranged the wind blown strands into a bun. Mmmm. Cinnamon bun. I was hungry.

“I’m starved,” I said. “This shuttle didn’t provide meal service.” I thunked the hood of Joel’s car.

“I’ll relay your complaint to the tour director,” Joel said. “Let’s see if the stunning shores contain a restaurant.”

He moved beside me and slipped his arm around my waist, pulled me tight to his side. “Ready?” he asked.

I twitched my head up. As close to a nod as I could give him. I locked my thumb tight into his belt loop and pushed at the base of his spine. He took the cue and started walking, pulling us toward the Holiday Shores.

We walked up the steps and stopped at the front door. Fifteen panes of dusty fingerprints obscured our view of what waited inside. I reached out for the faux brass handle and pulled. The door swung open, revealing peace and chaos. Audio silence. Visual cacophony.

I tuned out the bright clutter, the fake flower leis and brittle plastic toys. I kept my eyes locked on the front desk. I Joel staring at the side of my face. I didn’t give him anything to see. I pulled us to the front desk.

Benji stood behind the desk. At least, that’s what his nametag said his name was. He looked like a Benji. Scruffy. Sandy brown hair. Deep brown eyes. A bright smile. Too sincerely friendly to be working in what appeared to be a fifth-string Vegas hotel.

I couldn’t deal with the chit-chat. I let Joel talk to Benji. I scanned the countertop. A display of dollar-a-pack collector cards caught my eye. Garbage Pail Kids. I hadn’t seen those since I was tiny. I pulled a pack from the display and held them out to Benji. “Can I charge these to our room or do I need to pay you for them?”

Maybe I interrupted some deep-guy conversation. Both Benji and Joel stared at me for a moment before Benji spoke. “I’ll add them to your bill.” Benji looked to Joel. They exchanged ‘the look.’ The ‘is she crazy- no, at least I don’t think so’ look.

“Sorry. I haven’t seen these in a while. I thought they were hilarious when I was little.”

Benji just smiled and slid a key across the counter.

Joel reached for the key and slipped it in his pocket before I could read the room number. Fine by me. I had no intention of touching it.

“Breakfast?” Joel turned to face the doorway behind us. Bright purple letters screamed ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET.

I raised an eyebrow and wrinkled my nose.

“It’s food,” Joel said.

I wasn’t convinced.

“What’ve you got to lose?” he asked.

“What have you got to gain?” I shot back. “Dysentery?”

“It’ll be fine.” Joel slid his hand down my spine, nestled it into the hollow at the base where it belonged. “Look, no corpses,” he said when we stepped into the restaurant.

I looked around. “No live bodies either.” A dozen or so empty tables were scattered across the floor between us and the silver train of steam tables. Not a waitress or cook in sight.

“Hello?” Joel called in an effort to raise the staff from wherever they were hiding.

Benji popped up at Joel’s elbow. “Oh. It’s seat yourself. Grab what you want. I’ll add it to your room charge.”

He disappeared again.

“Weird,” I said.

“A little,” Joel agreed.

“A little? What would make it big weird to you?”

He thought for a minute. “If the mayor were here.”

“The Mayor?”

“Yeah. Frank Sinatra. Old blue eyes.”

“He wasn’t the mayor, I don’t think.”

“That was his nickname.” Joel scrunched his brow and looked at me. “Right?”

I shook my head. “Uhm, no. I think it was Chairman of the Board.”

“Oh. But that would still be big weird. Frank Sinatra. Here. Now.”

I laughed and wrapped my arms around Joel’s neck. “I’m gonna marry you someday,” I whispered into his ear.

“I’m still hoping for today.” His breath fluttered against my ear. I still didn’t know if I was hoping for today or not. We were in Vegas. Quick weddings were half of why Vegas existed in the first place, right?

This is where I am. Held in Joel’s arms. About to eat from what might be the buffet to end all buffets via food poisoning. Trying to decide if today is my wedding day.

This is the moment when we are joined by Elvis. He walks through the door in his sparkly white suit, dark shades blocking my view of his eyes and half of his face. His dark hair is slicked back, an ebony reflection of the harsh fluorescents overhead.

Joel and I separate enough to stare. I am surprisingly unsurprised. It is Vegas, after all. But there is one detail that catches my attention. Elvis has a parachute strapped to his back.

I cut my eyes to Joel. He is already turning my way. “Where is his airplane?” Joel whispers.

“I heard that,” Elvis says. He moves straight toward us. “You two gettin’ hitched or what?”

Joel’s hand finds mine. His fingers interweave, gripping me, holding me here. With him.

“Mayyyybeee,” Joel stretches the word out, gives me a chance to cut him off.

“Yes,” I say. “We just needed an Elvis.”

I lift Joel’s hand in mine and kiss his knuckles. I will vanquish myself here, in Vegas, with Elvis. What will remain is Joel and I. Us.

Touch

It's the first day of StoryADay May!!
Prompt:
Write a story in 30 minutes.
Choose a character. Back them into a corner where they must do the thing they would never do.

Touch

I swore I would never touch her.

We all did. That was the first thing we had to pledge. Before Lady Elira would relax the charms that guarded the massive wooden door, let us into her haven, her world.

I didn’t understand fully what I was pledging at the time. But it didn’t matter. I would do anything Lady Elira asked. She saved me. She saved us all, I imagine. Not that we talk about it. We’d all like to forget our weakest moments.

In the interest of disclosure, I’ll give you the gist of my moment. Bear. Huge black bear. My sword knocked away by a clawed paw along with two fingers. Moments from being dinner, Lady Elira blew the bear away. Vaporized it.

Then she returned my fingers, tucked me into her chariot and brought me to her home.

She offered me sanctuary. Safety. All she asked in return was that I not touch the maiden in ice.

I’d love to touch her.

I’d love to shatter the ice that surrounds her. It is so clear, so perfectly formed, that it looks like a thin pane of glass. I’d love to punch through it, lay my hands on the delicate beauty it encases.

Lady Elira says that a single crack in the ice would kill the maiden within. The ice keeps her, preserves her somehow. Without it, she will die.

So I don’t touch.

I can look at her, though. And I do. All the time. I watch her face. I imagine she listens to our conversations. I see flickers of amusement crinkle the corners of her eyes, tweak the tips of her lips.

I see the fire burning in her eyes. I imagine that it burns for me.

I watch her now. My dusty boots thrown up on the table, a mug of cider clasped in my hand. The chatter of Lady Elira’s men surrounds me. I am not part of it. I am in my silent bubble, my eyes locked on the maiden’s.

A crack of thunder peels at the door. The huge slab of wood splits down the middle, then crumbles into a shower of splinters.

My boots hit the floor. My sword swings free, ready to slice the intruder, protect the maiden.

The doorway frames the empty night.

The men and I look at each other. We shift, uneasy on our feet. It’s hard to fight what you can’t see. Harder when you don’t know if anything is even there.

I move. Ten steps take me to the foot of the maiden, put me between the empty doorway and her frozen form. I will die for her.

Benley steps to the doorway, tips his head around the frame, looking for the unseen enemy. He is greeted with a blast of fire. He is gone.

Fire.

It will destroy her.

I have to get her out of this room, away from the flames that reach like tentacles now into the room.

I turn to face her. I have to move her. I have to touch her.

I spread my hands wide, tenderly brush my finger tips against the surface of her shield.

Her eyes light. I know I don’t imagine the burst of brilliance this time.

The ice shatters, falls at my feet. I open my mouth, a wail of despair already bursting from my throat as my eyes lift from the glittering ground to take in her face one last time.

Her hand snakes around my wrist. “The lady lies,” the maiden says as she spins and pulls me with her through the remnants of flames and into the night.

My April Reads, The Weight of Zero, and Waiting for Mania

In April, I finished 9 books:

Wolves of the Calla by Stephen King
New Millenium Writings 2011 by Don Williams ed.
The Weight of Zero by Karen Fortunati
Structuring Your Novel Workbook by K.M. Weiland
The Moon and More by Sarah Dessen
Someone Not Really Her Mother by Harriet Scott Chessman
The Dream Thieves by Maggie Stiefvater
The Naturals by Jennifer Lynn Barnes
Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow

I posted a review of The Weight of Zero on Goodreads (If you already saw that review, keep reading. I have added more thoughts below):

Honesty time: I was very reluctant to read this book.

Let me explain why, and why I ended up loving it.

I went to see Sara Megibow give a talk to members of SCBWI. (The talk was great, but that’s not the point.) At the end of her talk, Sara gave away a pile of books. I ended up with an advanced reader’s copy of THE WEIGHT OF ZERO. The back cover copy describes a story of a girl who is dealing (poorly) with bipolar disorder. Possibly interesting, I thought. The book went into my massive “to be read” pile.

A few weeks later I stumbled across a Writer’s Digest post looking at successful queries. This one was Sara Megibow talking about the query letter she received from Karen Fortunati. Something in the way Sara described the book made me pause. This was starting to sound like a book that had an agenda. My experience with books that have an agenda is that the story is usually lacking. Maybe I wasn’t interested in reading this book, after all.

THE WEIGHT OF ZERO made its way to the top of my pile. I opened the book to find a letter from the editor at Delacorte Press. She talked about the importance of this book, both to her personally, and the world as a whole. She laid out the message of the book in black and white. Oh boy. Definitely a book with an agenda.

I started reading. And I kept reading. I read about half of the book in one sitting. Yes, this is a book with an agenda. More importantly, it is a great, well-told STORY.

Catherine knows that she has bipolar disorder. She has experienced both the crippling depression (she has named it Zero) and the euphoria and boundless energy of mania. She has tried to commit suicide while in the grasp of Zero before, and has a clear plan to succeed the next time Zero grabs her and crushes her under its weight. But she has one thing she wants to do before she dies. One thing. It’s a thing that would be on the bucket list of many teenagers if they made one.

Catherine goes after this one thing, the only thing she thinks she wants to do before she dies. Along the way she begins to accumulate other things. Things that are given to her that she didn’t know she wanted, things she didn’t know she needed.

Yes, there is a message to this story, an agenda. Hope is sneaky. Even when you refuse to acknowledge it, it can find a way in. Also this- you are not your disease. And this- you can live.

And I loved it. This is just a great story of a girl on mission. It just so happens that she is dragging THE WEIGHT OF ZERO on that mission with her.

Here’s the part I didn’t share on Goodreads. This is the personal stuff.

I’m familiar with Zero. I have felt his weight. He has sprawled on me in the middle of the night, on the brightest of sunny days. He has convinced me to make a plan. Not once, but twice. Once I followed through on my plan. Luckily, I was too young to know what I needed to know to succeed.

My visits from Zero were largely prompted by medical issues. As a teenager, I was told I would be in a wheelchair by the time I was twenty. Dead by the time I turned thirty. Couple that prognosis with extraordinary pain and it’s easy to see how Zero found me that time. His second visit occurred just after I had my second child. Swirling in post-partem hormones. Diagnosed with cancer. Circumstances opened the door and welcomed him in.

I made it through both of my battles with Zero. But I was waiting. Waiting for the rest.

My dad had bipolar disorder. So did his mother. It was possible that I carried that same genetic code. Most people with bipolar disorder are diagnosed before they turn thirty-four. I watched that birthday creep up on me. I waited for mania. With two major bouts of depression in my past, a single go-round with mania would probably be enough to give me the diagnosis I hoped to avoid.

Thirty-four happened several years ago. (Don’t ask how many. That’s not polite. :) ) Statistics tells me I should be in the clear. But I don’t trust statistics. Someone has to be in the 1%.

Now I don’t watch just me. I watch my kids. I watch the ADHD and impulsive behaviors. Studies have suggested a genetic link between ADHD, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia. It’s possible that I may have passed the genetic code onto my kids without expressing those genes myself.

So I watch. And I wait. I’m ready. For Zero and whatever friends he brings to play.

This Side of My Skin

It’s the 15th. That means I should be posting a new short story or bit of fiction.

Yeah.

I don’t really have one.

Here’s the thing. I finished revisions of my novel in the first week of April. It took all of my focus, all of my energy. It is done.

For now.

Now it’s April. April is Camp NaNoWriMo.

I can’t resist. I have to play. But I am nowhere near ready to jump in and start writing another book. So I am plotting.

The nugget of an idea that I started with has ballooned into four interlocking stories. Each of them is demanding that it needs its own book. So I am now plotting FOUR novels. At the same time.

Oh dear.

Bottom line: I haven’t written any new shorts in several weeks. I have nothing to share. I am starting to get itchy. I can feel the untold stories crawling under my skin. They want out.

But never fear. May is just around the corner. I will be participating in the craziness that is Story A Day May. Every day I will be given a prompt. The challenge: write a short story. Every day.

There are 31 days in May. My goal is to post new shorts on at least 25 of those days.

If you want to part of the chaos, you can find info about Story A Day here: www.storyaday.org

To atone for not having a shiny new fiction present for you, I offer this tiny snippet of a thing. This character will grow up to be one of the characters in the four stories. I think.

THIS SIDE OF MY SKIN

Jonas stands in front of me, flipping a coin into the air with his right hand and catching it in the palm of his left hand. The coin shifts to the right hand and back into the air. I watch the coin travel its orbit once. Then I look at Jonas. He never looks to see if the coin lands on heads or tails. Just keeps the coin moving, his eyes not even bothering to track its path.

His gaze seems to float in the air in front of him. His eyes stare, but not at anything. Maybe they are looking at images in his mind.

I wonder for a moment how long he can keep it moving before a hand trembles, fumbles, drops the coin. I imagine it rolling away, spinning free from him. Maybe then he will look at me. See me the way I see him.

I watch his eyes pull into focus and I quickly look away. I don’t want him to catch me staring. Not that I think he even knows I’m here. We are only ten feet apart, but it might as well be a million miles.

I am invisible to him.

I didn’t used to be.

We used to be friends.  We ran through the neighborhood in the summer, building forts and houses out of cardboard boxes and discarded bricks. We gathered empty yogurt containers to use as dishes in our pretend kitchen. He pretended his puppies were our children. I fed them worms and caterpillar larvae. I was a good mom.

I look down at my hands. The ring he bought out of a quarter toy machine looks up at me. It is tarnished. Again. I need to give it a fresh coat of silver paint, make it look new. Make it shine. 

I twist the ring around my index finger, feel the metal pull the skin as it turns. It burns. It could almost pull the skin free, rip me open. It is not tight enough.

I pick at the tender skin around my fingernail, peel away a strip of flesh. Underneath I am red, raw. Exposed. I want Jonas to look over, see this side of my skin. See that I am the same inside as I used to be.