Again, the middle of the month has snuck up on me. Typically, I post a new bit of short fiction around the fifteenth. But I am deep in the dark and spooky drafting cave where the bright flash of short fiction cannot reach. (Translation: All of my writing has been on my current novel in progress, I ain’t been writin’ any shorts.)
The current novel in progress is set in a school of the arts, which has sent me into the land of remembery. Even though I was in the theatre department at my high school, the editors of our literary journal were kind (or pitied me) enough to publish bits of my writing.
I have resisted the urge to edit myself, so here are the bits as originally published in Elan (Douglas Anderson School of the Arts Literary Journal).
Shears and Stripes
We sit in the small stick-shift truck
bumping towards the barbershop
with the candy-striped pole
inside we walk across the soft down of
the newly cropped hair to sit in
the old red chairs lining the wall
with their dull, worn leather
peeling off the seats
we never get our hair cut,
just chatter and jabber for hours
while we nibble on
the chocolate frosted donuts
that only taste good in the
small little shop with
the red and white pole out front.
Note- This poem is about five-year-old me visiting the barbershop with my grandpa. I miss you, Valter Vance.
Falling
He talks to me, and it becomes difficult to keep from jumping off the cliff. Even though I hate to fall, I think that eventually someone will catch me at the bottom and make it all worthwhile. But, that someone may not catch me and I’ll fall to the ground. Then I’ll have to pick myself up, wounded though I may be, and come face to face with the person who let me fall. If he let me fall to catch another, I’ll have to face her too. Sitting snugly in his arms, where I know it’s very comfortable to be. We’ll have one last long look and he’ll turn to walk away, carrying the princess in his arms. Then I’ll stand at the bottom of the cliff, watching him go. He might look back, or throw a word over his shoulder that will give me the motivation to turn to the cliff and begin the struggle to climb back to the top.
As I climb I think of the fall, the not knowing if he’ll catch me, or let me drop as he’s done before. I near the top and I swear I’ll never fall for him again. But in my heart I know that all he has to do is say my name, wrap his arms around my waist as he likes to do, or flat-out ask and I’ll gladly jump again. I’m a lemming, only a whole lot worse because I know what I’m doing and what it means when I step off the edge.
I’ve reached the top, and I look down. There he is. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, yet it feels like only yesterday. I step closer to the edge to get a better look, thinking all the while, “You’re too close, step away from the edge!” Do I listen? No. I waver there on the edge watching him looking up at me. He holds out his hand. I start to cry as I take the final step over the edge, and I’m falling again, again, again……..
Note- This one is about sixteen-year-old me and that’s all I have to say about that.
What writings do you have tucked away that you might rather forget you ever wrote?
Friday, April 14, 2017
Saturday, April 1, 2017
Bad Blood and Other March Reads
I finished twelve books in March:
Feversong by Karen Marie Moning
Miss Lonelyhearts & The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West
Origin by Diana Abu-Jaber
Bad Blood by Jennifer Lynn Barnes
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling (reread, audiobook)
Rose Under Fire by Elizabeth Wein
Forever by Maggie Stiefvater
Green-Light Your Book by Brooke Warner
Duma Key by Stephen King
Beautiful Days by Anna Godbersen
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling (reread, audiobook)
The Girl From Everywhere by Heidi Heilig
I had some thoughts while reading (and after I finished) Bad Blood:
This is the fourth (and final, I believe) book in The Naturals series. Once you let yourself fall into the premise (a group of teenagers who are profilers for the FBI) the series is very good. It’s pitched as a young adult version of Criminal Minds.
Most of the series focuses on the crimes surrounding this group of teens, both the crimes that gave them the skills they use as profilers and the crimes that continue to swirl around them. It features an interesting cast of characters, who are very well developed (the teens more than the adults around them, which is appropriate).
There was one exception to the general rule of well developed plot and character for me, though. The relationship between Cassie (the main character of the series) and Dean (who she is finally calling her boyfriend by the end of book four). We hear Cassie’s thoughts about Dean, and we see his actions toward Cassie. But the extent of their relationship is a bit fuzzy. There are a few moments where hints are given, scenes fade to a close without reaching their end.
Some of the same hints and fuzziness surround another couple in the story.
There are a lot of reasons not to give specifics regarding a physical relationship on the page. Especially if you are writing YA. While the “acceptable content” for a YA book has changed a lot over the years, there are still people who have strong feelings about what can and can’t be in a YA book. Swear words, violence, and sex are usually the focus of these proposed restrictions.
As an author of YA, your goal is to present the world in a realistic way, which means cussing, sex, and violence happen. The sticky bit is knowing when are you representing reality, and when it isn’t necessary to the story.
It may come down to an author’s personal choice in the end. It may be the publisher’s choice in the end. I have no idea which was the case in Bad Blood. Maybe Jennifer just wanted to leave some things up to her reader’s imagination.
Maybe the more interesting piece of this, to me, is what is included in the series. There is violence. A lot of it. The ending of book four had a moment that actually made me gasp. It was horrific, it was violent, it was not what I expected. But it was exactly what had to happen.
So tons of violence. But no sex.
Then I realized that this is really a cultural thing. Across the board, I think we are more comfortable with kids being exposed to violence in TV, games, movies, books, etc. than we are with them being exposed to sex or other displays of love. This is often true in real life as well. Many of us would be more comfortable with our kids witnessing a fight on the street than a passionate kiss at a bus stop.
This is disturbing. Essentially we are saying that violence and hate are acceptable but love is not. It is okay to display your anger, but don’t show anyone your heart.
Given that this seems to be spread throughout our society, I’m not sure how we change it. Maybe instead of encouraging acts of defiance, we should start encouraging acts of love.
Feversong by Karen Marie Moning
Miss Lonelyhearts & The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West
Origin by Diana Abu-Jaber
Bad Blood by Jennifer Lynn Barnes
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling (reread, audiobook)
Rose Under Fire by Elizabeth Wein
Forever by Maggie Stiefvater
Green-Light Your Book by Brooke Warner
Duma Key by Stephen King
Beautiful Days by Anna Godbersen
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling (reread, audiobook)
The Girl From Everywhere by Heidi Heilig
I had some thoughts while reading (and after I finished) Bad Blood:
This is the fourth (and final, I believe) book in The Naturals series. Once you let yourself fall into the premise (a group of teenagers who are profilers for the FBI) the series is very good. It’s pitched as a young adult version of Criminal Minds.
Most of the series focuses on the crimes surrounding this group of teens, both the crimes that gave them the skills they use as profilers and the crimes that continue to swirl around them. It features an interesting cast of characters, who are very well developed (the teens more than the adults around them, which is appropriate).
There was one exception to the general rule of well developed plot and character for me, though. The relationship between Cassie (the main character of the series) and Dean (who she is finally calling her boyfriend by the end of book four). We hear Cassie’s thoughts about Dean, and we see his actions toward Cassie. But the extent of their relationship is a bit fuzzy. There are a few moments where hints are given, scenes fade to a close without reaching their end.
Some of the same hints and fuzziness surround another couple in the story.
There are a lot of reasons not to give specifics regarding a physical relationship on the page. Especially if you are writing YA. While the “acceptable content” for a YA book has changed a lot over the years, there are still people who have strong feelings about what can and can’t be in a YA book. Swear words, violence, and sex are usually the focus of these proposed restrictions.
As an author of YA, your goal is to present the world in a realistic way, which means cussing, sex, and violence happen. The sticky bit is knowing when are you representing reality, and when it isn’t necessary to the story.
It may come down to an author’s personal choice in the end. It may be the publisher’s choice in the end. I have no idea which was the case in Bad Blood. Maybe Jennifer just wanted to leave some things up to her reader’s imagination.
Maybe the more interesting piece of this, to me, is what is included in the series. There is violence. A lot of it. The ending of book four had a moment that actually made me gasp. It was horrific, it was violent, it was not what I expected. But it was exactly what had to happen.
So tons of violence. But no sex.
Then I realized that this is really a cultural thing. Across the board, I think we are more comfortable with kids being exposed to violence in TV, games, movies, books, etc. than we are with them being exposed to sex or other displays of love. This is often true in real life as well. Many of us would be more comfortable with our kids witnessing a fight on the street than a passionate kiss at a bus stop.
This is disturbing. Essentially we are saying that violence and hate are acceptable but love is not. It is okay to display your anger, but don’t show anyone your heart.
Given that this seems to be spread throughout our society, I’m not sure how we change it. Maybe instead of encouraging acts of defiance, we should start encouraging acts of love.
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
Jenny
I should be working on the first draft of my next book, but a character asked a question I can’t answer. While the back of my brain chews on that problem, I did some productive procrastination and wrote this short, inspired by a song, and having nothing at all to do with the song at the same time.
“Okay. You’re all set. Want me to give it a ring to test it?”
Finally. The Internet has caught up with me.
I don’t care at all about the phone. It’s a useless land line. But I nod at George. I think that’s his name. It’s what is sewn above the pocket of his shirt.
George whips out his cell phone and dials. The huge new phone sitting on my kitchen counter rings. It works. Which means the Internet and wifi work. Hallelujah.
“Are you gonna answer that?” George asks.
“No.” I give him an eye roll.
His smile falls off his face. “Oh. Well. Everything works.” He holds out a sheet of paper for me to sign. “This has your phone number and instructions for connecting to the wifi. Give us a call if you have any problems.”
“Thanks.”
I watch as George packs up his tools and heads out the door.
Ten seconds elapse before I am on my cell phone, setting up my connection to the wifi. I pull over the information sheet George left behind.
Then I see my new phone number. No way. I didn’t think that was a real number. Why would they do this to anyone? Why would they do this to me?
The phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Is this Jenny?”
Weird. No one has my number. Except George. “Yes?”
“I saw your number on the wall.”
“What?”
A string of giggles and a click. I hang up and drop the phone onto the counter.
Fantastic. I have a phone number guaranteed to draw prank calls.
The phone rings again while I am sliding a pizza into the oven. I glance at the caller ID. UNKNOWN. I ignore it.
Two hours later I am putting my office together. Hanging bulletin boards, arranging books on the shelves, untangling the miles of cable that make my computer work and connect it to the rest of the world.
The land line rings. I answer without checking the caller ID. Honestly, I’ve already forgotten about the morning’s events, about my unfortunate phone number.
“Hello,” I hold the phone between my shoulder and chin as I reach up to add another book to the top shelf.
“Jenny. You ignored my call earlier.” The voice on the other end is rich, rolling, masculine.
“Who is this?”
“Hmm. I don’t think I’m ready to give you my name. Let’s just say I’m someone whose calls you should take.” The words sound like an order, a command, but they feel more like a seduction. His voice is so smooth.
I feel my brows furrow, dig down deep into the flesh between my eyes. I turn from the bookcase and sit down in my rolly- chair. This may be a prank call, but so far it is entertaining, and a lovely break from work. I settle in for a bit of fun.
“Why is that?”
A chuckle. “It’s in your best interests. And mine. We have a lot to offer each other.”
“Okay…”
“You’re curious.”
“You’re vague.”
“Tell me what you want. Right now.”
The first thought that comes to mind isn’t one I’m willing to share with him, this man who is only a mysterious voice on my phone. It involves him no longer being on the phone. It involves him being here, with me.
“An idea,” I finally say. I hope he missed the pause.
He chuckles again. A chuckle that says he didn’t miss the pause, that he knows what I’m really thinking, what I really want right now. “Hopscotch,” he says.
The word knocks everything out of my head. It is so random, so not part of any thoughts that had come before. So innocent.
And exactly perfect.
“Oh,” I say, the word little more than a breath.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“I gotta go.” I hang up the phone without saying thank you, without saying goodbye. I have work to do.
Thirty minutes later I have a complete story board ready to send to my boss. It is probably the best work I have ever done. It is lovely. It is sweet. It is inspired. Inspired by my faceless voice of a man.
I have one tiny flicker of guilt as I press send on the email, sending the story board to New York. I didn’t give any credit to the voice in my ear. No acknowledgment that the idea was not one hundred percent my own.
I sit in front of the computer, tapping my fingers on the light wood surface of my work table. I hope they like it. But it’s not really hope. I know they’ll love it. That’s not what has me nervous. I’m not sure what does.
The phone rings. Not my cell. The land line. Again.
I pick up the phone and don’t say hello. I know who it is. Well, not really who it is. But I know it is the voice that said hopscotch.
“Jenny,” he says as my email pings with a new message. I click it open without answering the voice. A message from my boss. Gushing. Squeeing. Praise for my brilliance.
“It’s my turn,” the voice says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, pretending that I am as innocent as the storyboard I just created.
“I gave you what you wanted, what you needed, really. Now it’s time for you to give me what I want, what I need.”
“And what might that be?” A few fascinating, filthy images flicker through my mind. I’m not sure I would say no to any of them. I’m not sure I would say no to him. I wish I knew what he looked like, if the face matched the voice. I wish I knew if he looked like I was imagining him.
“You underestimate me,” the voice whispers, a rough caress in my ear. It is a promise. It is a threat.
“You can hang up now,” he says.
The line goes dead. I pull the phone from my ear and look at it, as if it can tell me what just happened. He says it’s my turn to give him what he wants, then hangs up without asking for anything. Weird.
My pondering is interrupted by the doorbell.
Every muscle in my body tenses, freezes. No way. It can’t be my mysterious phone man. It could be George, or a neighbor welcoming me to the building. Or a Girl Scout selling cookies.
But I know. I know it’s him.
My heart jumps into action, pounding blood through my body. I can’t get to the door fast enough. Then I pause, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the deadbolt.
Maybe I shouldn’t let him in. This whole thing is too bizarre to end well.
I turn the bolt.
I open the door and there he is. He is more glorious than I imagined. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Yes, I know it’s the cliche, but all those words fit him. They don’t even begin to describe him. They can’t capture the power, the force, that stood outside my door.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, as if he hadn’t just hung up on me thirty seconds ago.
“I’ve got a thing for Jennys.” His mouth tips, turns, curls into a grin. “And you answered my call.”
There is a sudden flare in his eye, a fire bursting into life. It is not desire. It is not lust. It is nothing human.
I shouldn’t have answered the phone.
“Okay. You’re all set. Want me to give it a ring to test it?”
Finally. The Internet has caught up with me.
I don’t care at all about the phone. It’s a useless land line. But I nod at George. I think that’s his name. It’s what is sewn above the pocket of his shirt.
George whips out his cell phone and dials. The huge new phone sitting on my kitchen counter rings. It works. Which means the Internet and wifi work. Hallelujah.
“Are you gonna answer that?” George asks.
“No.” I give him an eye roll.
His smile falls off his face. “Oh. Well. Everything works.” He holds out a sheet of paper for me to sign. “This has your phone number and instructions for connecting to the wifi. Give us a call if you have any problems.”
“Thanks.”
I watch as George packs up his tools and heads out the door.
Ten seconds elapse before I am on my cell phone, setting up my connection to the wifi. I pull over the information sheet George left behind.
Then I see my new phone number. No way. I didn’t think that was a real number. Why would they do this to anyone? Why would they do this to me?
The phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Is this Jenny?”
Weird. No one has my number. Except George. “Yes?”
“I saw your number on the wall.”
“What?”
A string of giggles and a click. I hang up and drop the phone onto the counter.
Fantastic. I have a phone number guaranteed to draw prank calls.
The phone rings again while I am sliding a pizza into the oven. I glance at the caller ID. UNKNOWN. I ignore it.
Two hours later I am putting my office together. Hanging bulletin boards, arranging books on the shelves, untangling the miles of cable that make my computer work and connect it to the rest of the world.
The land line rings. I answer without checking the caller ID. Honestly, I’ve already forgotten about the morning’s events, about my unfortunate phone number.
“Hello,” I hold the phone between my shoulder and chin as I reach up to add another book to the top shelf.
“Jenny. You ignored my call earlier.” The voice on the other end is rich, rolling, masculine.
“Who is this?”
“Hmm. I don’t think I’m ready to give you my name. Let’s just say I’m someone whose calls you should take.” The words sound like an order, a command, but they feel more like a seduction. His voice is so smooth.
I feel my brows furrow, dig down deep into the flesh between my eyes. I turn from the bookcase and sit down in my rolly- chair. This may be a prank call, but so far it is entertaining, and a lovely break from work. I settle in for a bit of fun.
“Why is that?”
A chuckle. “It’s in your best interests. And mine. We have a lot to offer each other.”
“Okay…”
“You’re curious.”
“You’re vague.”
“Tell me what you want. Right now.”
The first thought that comes to mind isn’t one I’m willing to share with him, this man who is only a mysterious voice on my phone. It involves him no longer being on the phone. It involves him being here, with me.
“An idea,” I finally say. I hope he missed the pause.
He chuckles again. A chuckle that says he didn’t miss the pause, that he knows what I’m really thinking, what I really want right now. “Hopscotch,” he says.
The word knocks everything out of my head. It is so random, so not part of any thoughts that had come before. So innocent.
And exactly perfect.
“Oh,” I say, the word little more than a breath.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“I gotta go.” I hang up the phone without saying thank you, without saying goodbye. I have work to do.
Thirty minutes later I have a complete story board ready to send to my boss. It is probably the best work I have ever done. It is lovely. It is sweet. It is inspired. Inspired by my faceless voice of a man.
I have one tiny flicker of guilt as I press send on the email, sending the story board to New York. I didn’t give any credit to the voice in my ear. No acknowledgment that the idea was not one hundred percent my own.
I sit in front of the computer, tapping my fingers on the light wood surface of my work table. I hope they like it. But it’s not really hope. I know they’ll love it. That’s not what has me nervous. I’m not sure what does.
The phone rings. Not my cell. The land line. Again.
I pick up the phone and don’t say hello. I know who it is. Well, not really who it is. But I know it is the voice that said hopscotch.
“Jenny,” he says as my email pings with a new message. I click it open without answering the voice. A message from my boss. Gushing. Squeeing. Praise for my brilliance.
“It’s my turn,” the voice says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, pretending that I am as innocent as the storyboard I just created.
“I gave you what you wanted, what you needed, really. Now it’s time for you to give me what I want, what I need.”
“And what might that be?” A few fascinating, filthy images flicker through my mind. I’m not sure I would say no to any of them. I’m not sure I would say no to him. I wish I knew what he looked like, if the face matched the voice. I wish I knew if he looked like I was imagining him.
“You underestimate me,” the voice whispers, a rough caress in my ear. It is a promise. It is a threat.
“You can hang up now,” he says.
The line goes dead. I pull the phone from my ear and look at it, as if it can tell me what just happened. He says it’s my turn to give him what he wants, then hangs up without asking for anything. Weird.
My pondering is interrupted by the doorbell.
Every muscle in my body tenses, freezes. No way. It can’t be my mysterious phone man. It could be George, or a neighbor welcoming me to the building. Or a Girl Scout selling cookies.
But I know. I know it’s him.
My heart jumps into action, pounding blood through my body. I can’t get to the door fast enough. Then I pause, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the deadbolt.
Maybe I shouldn’t let him in. This whole thing is too bizarre to end well.
I turn the bolt.
I open the door and there he is. He is more glorious than I imagined. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Yes, I know it’s the cliche, but all those words fit him. They don’t even begin to describe him. They can’t capture the power, the force, that stood outside my door.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, as if he hadn’t just hung up on me thirty seconds ago.
“I’ve got a thing for Jennys.” His mouth tips, turns, curls into a grin. “And you answered my call.”
There is a sudden flare in his eye, a fire bursting into life. It is not desire. It is not lust. It is nothing human.
I shouldn’t have answered the phone.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Compulsion and Other February Reads
I finished twelve books in February:
The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver
The Wolf of Tebron by C.S. Lakin
The Dirt on Ninth Grave by Darynda Jones (audiobook)
The Ruins by Scott Smith
Like Water For Chocolate by Laura Esquirel
Compulsion by Martina Boone
Harry Potter and the Cursed Child by J.K. Rowling, John Tiffany, and Jack Thorne
End of Days by Susan Ee
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling (reread, audiobook)
No Easy Target by Iris Johansen (Digital ARC)
Innocent by Scott Turow
Bright Young Things by Anna Godbersen
An impressive count for a month that only had 28 days, if I do say so myself.
Here’s the part where I say something profound about my favorite book, or one that made me think about something important, or feel something deep.
This is awkward. I am looking over this list, and I really just don’t have much to say.
Yes, there were books that I really liked (Compulsion might have been my favorite read of the month).
Yes, there were books that I didn’t like so much (names withheld to protect the innocent).
But there is nothing here that I feel I want to rave about. There is nothing here that made me have deep thoughts.
I just read. I’m okay with that. That is a large part of the purpose of stories, right? Entertainment. Escape.
In other news, I started writing a new novel this week. This is my fourth novel. Which is terrifying. And exciting. And feels completely unbelievable.
This novel is set in a school of the arts. Which makes the story both easier and harder to write. It’s easy because that was my high school experience. It feels like coming home and having everything be exactly the way I left it.
It is harder because I feel obligated to do it right. I am the voice of the world I loved in this story. (Not to mention everyone I went to school with may read the story, looking for themselves in it.) I have to create a fictional world that is every bit as rich as the real one I came from.
Now that I have made myself sound like an alien from another planet, I think I’ll stop.
What did you read this month?
The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver
The Wolf of Tebron by C.S. Lakin
The Dirt on Ninth Grave by Darynda Jones (audiobook)
The Ruins by Scott Smith
Like Water For Chocolate by Laura Esquirel
Compulsion by Martina Boone
Harry Potter and the Cursed Child by J.K. Rowling, John Tiffany, and Jack Thorne
End of Days by Susan Ee
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling (reread, audiobook)
No Easy Target by Iris Johansen (Digital ARC)
Innocent by Scott Turow
Bright Young Things by Anna Godbersen
An impressive count for a month that only had 28 days, if I do say so myself.
Here’s the part where I say something profound about my favorite book, or one that made me think about something important, or feel something deep.
This is awkward. I am looking over this list, and I really just don’t have much to say.
Yes, there were books that I really liked (Compulsion might have been my favorite read of the month).
Yes, there were books that I didn’t like so much (names withheld to protect the innocent).
But there is nothing here that I feel I want to rave about. There is nothing here that made me have deep thoughts.
I just read. I’m okay with that. That is a large part of the purpose of stories, right? Entertainment. Escape.
In other news, I started writing a new novel this week. This is my fourth novel. Which is terrifying. And exciting. And feels completely unbelievable.
This novel is set in a school of the arts. Which makes the story both easier and harder to write. It’s easy because that was my high school experience. It feels like coming home and having everything be exactly the way I left it.
It is harder because I feel obligated to do it right. I am the voice of the world I loved in this story. (Not to mention everyone I went to school with may read the story, looking for themselves in it.) I have to create a fictional world that is every bit as rich as the real one I came from.
Now that I have made myself sound like an alien from another planet, I think I’ll stop.
What did you read this month?
Monday, February 13, 2017
The Gallows Girls
In today’s episode of Chuck Wendig made me write it, I was given a choice of ten titles and told to go forth and write a story to match one. Go here to see the list of titles and what other writers have created. Here’s my story.
Sometimes we leave bits behind. Pennies. Stubs of pencil. Bites of bread. Things we tuck into our pockets to save for later. Things we forget about, at least on the surface.
The things are shaken loose when the rope snaps tight, our weight heavy on the noose. The rebound bounce of our bodies frees the prizes. Or the rustling of the boys as they swing our bodies, cut the rope, drag us away.
Sometimes we leave. But our bits are there, lying on the ground. In the pit.
It’s disgusting. The waste. Worse, the attitude. Helena and her boys have so much that they can’t be bothered with the bis we leave behind.
We bother.
We pick up after ourselves.
Today I watch. Like always. Yes, our presence is mandatory. But most of us avert our eyes, or just turn our gaze inward.
Most of us can’t bear to watch.
There is no way to avoid the sounds. The smack of wood on wood. The rush of skirts falling through air. The sharp crack of spine.
I find it easier to take if I can see the drop. I can blot the sounds a bit if my eyes are full.
Plus I can see the bits. See what falls, where it lands.
I am careful to keep my eyes away from her face as she stands waiting for the floor to drop. Meeting Sarah’s eyes would only speed the cycle. So I watch her hands. Sarah’s fingers twitch, memories of the signs and symbols that put her in he noose dancing through them.
My hands echo hers. I clamp the damp fabric of my skirt to silence them.
The floor finally falls.
Sarah falls.
I watch the hem of her skirt. A bounce. A continued sway.
Two objects fall from her to the pit below. Two bits of Sarah. Two bits of us.
I stand silent and staring as the crowd filters away, the sea of skirts retreating home. The boys come then, joking and jostling as they pull Sarah down, cut her free, drag her away. They don’t notice the single skirt still standing in the square.
Once they are gone, I slip forward, slide down into the pit. A glint of silver catches my eye. I let my fingers graze the surface of the the soil, the water, the fluids and lift the shiny.
I polish it on a fold of my skirt and turn it on my palm. A small mirror. Twice the size of a penny. Infinitely more valuable. I lift it to my lips and press a kiss to the glass. Into my pocket it goes.
Two bits fell.
I scan the muck, looking for the missing piece of Sarah. I don’t see anything. No sparkles. No shines. Not even a nub of brown bread.
Just mud. Endless mud.
I shuffle forward, sifting with my naked toes. Grit. Slime. Nothing with any sort of form. Nothing of substance. Nothing of Sarah.
Where is it?
I lift my hem and drop to my knees, plunge my hands deep. I close my eyes, let my fingers do their work. They dance, sing, call through the soil until the bit is in my hand.
I have Sarah back.
I open my eyes and smile, lift my face to the straggling rays of the sun.
“Oh, looky. Another one.”
My smile drops away. Two of Helena’s boys stand at the edge of the pit.
They watch as I scramble out of the pit, slip the bit into my pocket, smear the slop from my hands onto my skirt.
Then their hands are on me, wrapped tight around my arms as they pull me away.
I wonder which of us will come to retrieve my bits.
Sometimes we leave bits behind. Pennies. Stubs of pencil. Bites of bread. Things we tuck into our pockets to save for later. Things we forget about, at least on the surface.
The things are shaken loose when the rope snaps tight, our weight heavy on the noose. The rebound bounce of our bodies frees the prizes. Or the rustling of the boys as they swing our bodies, cut the rope, drag us away.
Sometimes we leave. But our bits are there, lying on the ground. In the pit.
It’s disgusting. The waste. Worse, the attitude. Helena and her boys have so much that they can’t be bothered with the bis we leave behind.
We bother.
We pick up after ourselves.
Today I watch. Like always. Yes, our presence is mandatory. But most of us avert our eyes, or just turn our gaze inward.
Most of us can’t bear to watch.
There is no way to avoid the sounds. The smack of wood on wood. The rush of skirts falling through air. The sharp crack of spine.
I find it easier to take if I can see the drop. I can blot the sounds a bit if my eyes are full.
Plus I can see the bits. See what falls, where it lands.
I am careful to keep my eyes away from her face as she stands waiting for the floor to drop. Meeting Sarah’s eyes would only speed the cycle. So I watch her hands. Sarah’s fingers twitch, memories of the signs and symbols that put her in he noose dancing through them.
My hands echo hers. I clamp the damp fabric of my skirt to silence them.
The floor finally falls.
Sarah falls.
I watch the hem of her skirt. A bounce. A continued sway.
Two objects fall from her to the pit below. Two bits of Sarah. Two bits of us.
I stand silent and staring as the crowd filters away, the sea of skirts retreating home. The boys come then, joking and jostling as they pull Sarah down, cut her free, drag her away. They don’t notice the single skirt still standing in the square.
Once they are gone, I slip forward, slide down into the pit. A glint of silver catches my eye. I let my fingers graze the surface of the the soil, the water, the fluids and lift the shiny.
I polish it on a fold of my skirt and turn it on my palm. A small mirror. Twice the size of a penny. Infinitely more valuable. I lift it to my lips and press a kiss to the glass. Into my pocket it goes.
Two bits fell.
I scan the muck, looking for the missing piece of Sarah. I don’t see anything. No sparkles. No shines. Not even a nub of brown bread.
Just mud. Endless mud.
I shuffle forward, sifting with my naked toes. Grit. Slime. Nothing with any sort of form. Nothing of substance. Nothing of Sarah.
Where is it?
I lift my hem and drop to my knees, plunge my hands deep. I close my eyes, let my fingers do their work. They dance, sing, call through the soil until the bit is in my hand.
I have Sarah back.
I open my eyes and smile, lift my face to the straggling rays of the sun.
“Oh, looky. Another one.”
My smile drops away. Two of Helena’s boys stand at the edge of the pit.
They watch as I scramble out of the pit, slip the bit into my pocket, smear the slop from my hands onto my skirt.
Then their hands are on me, wrapped tight around my arms as they pull me away.
I wonder which of us will come to retrieve my bits.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
The Book Thief (and other January Reads)
I finished 12 books in January:
Reversible Errors by Scott Turow
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
The Dark Tower by Stephen King (reread)
Everything Leads to You by Nina LaCour
Behold the Bones by Natalie C Parker
Limitations by Scott Turow
Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
The Grimm Legacy by Polly Shulman
The Ketogenic Diet by Kristen Mancinelli
The Silver Witch by Paula Brackston
Winter by Marissa Meyer
The Story Grid by Shawn Coyne
Two of these books were monsters- giant books that wrapped up a series (The Dark Tower and Winter), so I am surprised that I managed to read this many books this month. Two of these were audiobooks (The Book Thief and The Grimm Legacy), so that did help.
Overall, the month was full of great reads. But I’m going to talk about just one.
The Book Thief. If you have not read this book, it is set in World War II Germany. It focuses on one girl who has been sent to live with an older couple. This couple also takes in a Jewish man, hides him, protects him, saves him.
While the story focuses on young Liesel, it is told by a narrator who stands just outside her story. He does not clearly identify himself, but we know his job. His job is to gather the souls of those who have died. His job brings him near Liesel at the start of the story, where she catches his attention. Intrigued by her, he keeps an eye on her over many years and tells us her tale.
Like every book I have read set in World War II, there were parts of this story that horrified me, parts that made me cry, parts that made me angry, furious. What was different with this book was that it planted a little niggling nugget of confusion. A worm has lingered and wandered through me, growing and changing as time has passed.
All because of when I listened to this story. I started listening in late December and finished in early January. Unlike previous WWII stories I have encountered, this time I lived in a world where I could see the potential for the events of this story to happen in my world, my country, in my lifetime. This time, I wasn’t reading a story that showed me a piece of history, that gave me an opportunity to learn from past horrors. This time, I was presented with a past that could be repeated. I saw how it could happen.
Since I finished this book, our country has changed dramatically. The thing that maybe, might could happen has started to happen. I feel like I am at the scene of train wreck. I am watching the slow-motion slide into disaster. I want to be rid of this worm.
None of my lingering response to The Book Thief is what Markus Zusak intended. There is no way he could have, no way he could have seen the world shifting in the way it has.
Had I read this book in 2006 when it was released, my response would have been completely different.
Which has me thinking a lot about storytelling and what it can do. Stories have the ability to change people, change the way they view themselves and the world around them. That’s huge.
It’s a huge responsibility as a writer. The words that you write have power.
This responsibility has made me question what I am writing. My stories are not political statements, they are not morality lessons. I worry that the stories I tell don’t say enough.
I considered changing what I plan to write next. I considered writing a story with an agenda. A story that had a clear point, a clear moral. A call to action, perhaps.
I hesitated. Those aren’t the stories I am driven to write.
And that is okay.
My stories still have something to say. Their message is smaller, quieter. But no less valuable.
Some stories give us a message of hope. A promise that we can have the lightness, the joy, the happy that we want. They remind us what we are fighting for.
My point is, write your story, no matter what it is. We need them all. Make us laugh. Make us cry. Make us smile. Make us frown. Make us love. Make us rage. Make us dream.
“Stories make your heart grow.” — Winnie the Pooh
Reversible Errors by Scott Turow
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
The Dark Tower by Stephen King (reread)
Everything Leads to You by Nina LaCour
Behold the Bones by Natalie C Parker
Limitations by Scott Turow
Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
The Grimm Legacy by Polly Shulman
The Ketogenic Diet by Kristen Mancinelli
The Silver Witch by Paula Brackston
Winter by Marissa Meyer
The Story Grid by Shawn Coyne
Two of these books were monsters- giant books that wrapped up a series (The Dark Tower and Winter), so I am surprised that I managed to read this many books this month. Two of these were audiobooks (The Book Thief and The Grimm Legacy), so that did help.
Overall, the month was full of great reads. But I’m going to talk about just one.
The Book Thief. If you have not read this book, it is set in World War II Germany. It focuses on one girl who has been sent to live with an older couple. This couple also takes in a Jewish man, hides him, protects him, saves him.
While the story focuses on young Liesel, it is told by a narrator who stands just outside her story. He does not clearly identify himself, but we know his job. His job is to gather the souls of those who have died. His job brings him near Liesel at the start of the story, where she catches his attention. Intrigued by her, he keeps an eye on her over many years and tells us her tale.
Like every book I have read set in World War II, there were parts of this story that horrified me, parts that made me cry, parts that made me angry, furious. What was different with this book was that it planted a little niggling nugget of confusion. A worm has lingered and wandered through me, growing and changing as time has passed.
All because of when I listened to this story. I started listening in late December and finished in early January. Unlike previous WWII stories I have encountered, this time I lived in a world where I could see the potential for the events of this story to happen in my world, my country, in my lifetime. This time, I wasn’t reading a story that showed me a piece of history, that gave me an opportunity to learn from past horrors. This time, I was presented with a past that could be repeated. I saw how it could happen.
Since I finished this book, our country has changed dramatically. The thing that maybe, might could happen has started to happen. I feel like I am at the scene of train wreck. I am watching the slow-motion slide into disaster. I want to be rid of this worm.
None of my lingering response to The Book Thief is what Markus Zusak intended. There is no way he could have, no way he could have seen the world shifting in the way it has.
Had I read this book in 2006 when it was released, my response would have been completely different.
Which has me thinking a lot about storytelling and what it can do. Stories have the ability to change people, change the way they view themselves and the world around them. That’s huge.
It’s a huge responsibility as a writer. The words that you write have power.
This responsibility has made me question what I am writing. My stories are not political statements, they are not morality lessons. I worry that the stories I tell don’t say enough.
I considered changing what I plan to write next. I considered writing a story with an agenda. A story that had a clear point, a clear moral. A call to action, perhaps.
I hesitated. Those aren’t the stories I am driven to write.
And that is okay.
My stories still have something to say. Their message is smaller, quieter. But no less valuable.
Some stories give us a message of hope. A promise that we can have the lightness, the joy, the happy that we want. They remind us what we are fighting for.
My point is, write your story, no matter what it is. We need them all. Make us laugh. Make us cry. Make us smile. Make us frown. Make us love. Make us rage. Make us dream.
“Stories make your heart grow.” — Winnie the Pooh
Monday, January 16, 2017
Dry
This bit was written in response to a Chuck Wendig blog post asking people to write about something that scares them. This snippet is fiction, but feel free to pull tendrils of my broken psyche out of it.
I forgot my water bottle.
Not a big deal, really. I can pick up a bottle of water in the lobby of my building. I won’t even have to pay for it. Courtesy water for guests and employees. That’s me. An employee. Definitely not a guest.
I still need to drink.
I’m pretty sure I can make it through this fifteen minute bus ride. Fifteen minutes to a bottle of water.
My throat is parched. There is a tickle of a cough lurking there, threatening to burst free. A single swallow of water would wash it away, send it swirling down to my stomach.
I swallow. The trickle of saliva in my mouth is nowhere near enough. I cough. A single sharp bark.
Four heads turn to look at me. The eyes are nervous.
I meet the eyes of the man next to me. His eyes are a soft brown, they should be comforting. The skin around them is pulled tight, pinched at the corners into a frown. There is no welcome there.
I let my gaze drift down to his hands, to the stoppered blue glass held in them. His fingers tighten, curl around the cool surface.
I swallow again. I am not the only one to hear the click in my throat.
The man stands and moves away, taking his water to the safety of a seat further away from the thirsty girl.
A quick glance around shows all the bottles are guarded, held close. They are not for me.
A second quick glance to my arm shows that I have twelve minutes to go.
I close my eyes and try not to think about water. All I see on the inside of my lids is a vast ocean. Clouds overhead drip down, adding to the already swollen sea.
I want to wade in and dip my head, drop my jaw and take it all in.
Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Imaginary water, anyway.
I open my eyes and check my watch again. Nine minutes.
I lift my hand, intending to wipe sweat from my brow. My hand shakes, trembles and tumbles against my skin. There is not a single bead of moisture there. The skin on my forehead feels thin, fragile, stretched tight.
My hand falls, the tremors accelerating as it sinks to my lap.
I feel that same tremor inside. My cells quivering, quaking as they shrink ever so slightly.
I slump in my seat, my head tipping back against the unforgiving glass of the window. The heat from outside seeps through, scorching my skin. It steals more of my moisture. I have none to spare. I am dry.
My eyes drift closed. The lids scratch and scrape, sand blowing across the Sahara.
I was wrong. Fifteen minutes is too long.
I forgot my water bottle.
Not a big deal, really. I can pick up a bottle of water in the lobby of my building. I won’t even have to pay for it. Courtesy water for guests and employees. That’s me. An employee. Definitely not a guest.
I still need to drink.
I’m pretty sure I can make it through this fifteen minute bus ride. Fifteen minutes to a bottle of water.
My throat is parched. There is a tickle of a cough lurking there, threatening to burst free. A single swallow of water would wash it away, send it swirling down to my stomach.
I swallow. The trickle of saliva in my mouth is nowhere near enough. I cough. A single sharp bark.
Four heads turn to look at me. The eyes are nervous.
I meet the eyes of the man next to me. His eyes are a soft brown, they should be comforting. The skin around them is pulled tight, pinched at the corners into a frown. There is no welcome there.
I let my gaze drift down to his hands, to the stoppered blue glass held in them. His fingers tighten, curl around the cool surface.
I swallow again. I am not the only one to hear the click in my throat.
The man stands and moves away, taking his water to the safety of a seat further away from the thirsty girl.
A quick glance around shows all the bottles are guarded, held close. They are not for me.
A second quick glance to my arm shows that I have twelve minutes to go.
I close my eyes and try not to think about water. All I see on the inside of my lids is a vast ocean. Clouds overhead drip down, adding to the already swollen sea.
I want to wade in and dip my head, drop my jaw and take it all in.
Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Imaginary water, anyway.
I open my eyes and check my watch again. Nine minutes.
I lift my hand, intending to wipe sweat from my brow. My hand shakes, trembles and tumbles against my skin. There is not a single bead of moisture there. The skin on my forehead feels thin, fragile, stretched tight.
My hand falls, the tremors accelerating as it sinks to my lap.
I feel that same tremor inside. My cells quivering, quaking as they shrink ever so slightly.
I slump in my seat, my head tipping back against the unforgiving glass of the window. The heat from outside seeps through, scorching my skin. It steals more of my moisture. I have none to spare. I am dry.
My eyes drift closed. The lids scratch and scrape, sand blowing across the Sahara.
I was wrong. Fifteen minutes is too long.
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