Clarissa tugged the bedcovers up to her chin then rolled on to her side. She wrapped herself around her full body pillow. There was no where she needed to be today. Good thing. Her limbs felt like cement and the weather was gloomy, grey and wet.
She shivered. Raindrops hit the window then raced down the glass. After a few minutes of watching, she was confident that the left side had the faster track. Her eyelids drifted shut and she let them.
A few minutes later, she opened her eyes. Her head felt thick and heavy as if she'd spent the night crying. She had not. Her whole body ached. The barometric pressure weighed heavily upon her. The rain hit the window harder. A quick glance at the clock indicated her catnap had lasted two hours. She really should get out of bed.
There was no real reason to do so. No work clock to punch, no pressing engagements, nothing demanded her attention.
"This is why you should get a dog."
Clarissa closed her eyes and wished the illusion away.
"Give it up, Babe." The bed sank beneath Bob's weight as his arms wrapped around her from behind. "I'm every where you are."
"Go away, Bob." She shrugged off his weight. "It's too Alan Rickman."
"But I love you. Truly."
"Madly. Deeply. I know." She sighed and rolled onto her back. "It was a stupid movie."
"No. It was a great movie. She wasn't letting go. She wouldn't move on." Bob slid his hand across her midriff. "He came back so that she'd stop whitewashing their relationship into this perfect entity that it wasn't. No relationship is perfect. Ours wasn't."
"I remember everything, Bob." She rolled over to face him. "You drank the last of the milk then put the empty container back in the fridge. You never emptied the dishwasher or the garbage."
She picked his hand up to examine it. Cancer had eaten his flesh til all that remained was splotchy skin over brittle bones. Now his hand looked like it hand when he was young and healthy - broad with thick fingers and callouses and burn scars from working at the foundry.
"You left me."
"I tried everything, Clar. Chemo, radiation, drug trials, fad diets, supplements, colonics. I tried everything we could find to beat the cancer and stay with you."
Clarissa dropped his hand. "Go away."
"I can't until you forgive me."
"Fine.It's not your fault you got cancer and died, Bob. You're forgiven. Now leave me alone."
"Forgive me for the affair."
Shocked, she rolled over to face him. "You slept with my boss and didn't think I'd find out?"
"I didn't think you'd care."
"So now it's my fault?"
"No." He frowned. "I was the idiot. I was lonely and afraid of losing you so instead of being a man I flirted with Janet. She smelled like gardenias."
"She owned a florist shop."
"Yes, she did. And you came home all the time smelling of roses and men's cologne. So instead of being a man and having an honest conversation -" His voice broke. "Instead of asking you if you were leaving me for him, I slept with her."
"There was no him."
"I know that now."
"Because now that you're dead, you're omniscient?"
"No because Janet told me about the trick of spraying some of the cards with cologne so some women could make their husbands jealous. Juvenile but effective." He winced. "How did you find out?"
"When I quit my job to take care of you."
"Why would Janet say anything?"
"Because she was a mean-spirited bitch." Clarissa stared up at the ceiling. The stucco needed repainting. There was a streak of colour at the wall's edge.
"I am sorry. It was stupid. You're the only woman I ever truly loved." Bob touched her shoulder. "Why did you stay?"
"Because I did love love you. Truly. Madly. Deeply." She sighed. "Because I wanted you to get better so we could fight about it. I wanted you to realize I was worth so much more than to be cheated on, betrayed. Because I wanted you to beg forgiveness. You never did."
"I am now."
Clarissa dragged herself into a sitting position. The painting at the foot of her bed mocked her with its black and white message. Right and wrong. Good and evil.
She shivered and turned towards her dead husband. "No, you're not. This is all me, rehashing the same old argument we never had. Me, wanting a ghost to tell me all the things you never did. You're not real, Bob."
Her gaze met a blank wall. He wasn't there. He never was.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Friday, February 19, 2016
The mirror
Ally waved good-bye to her friends and pedaled home. This summer was going to be the best one ever. Three days since school ended and they'd already gone canoeing every day, swung off the rope into the cold water and seen Jason Harlen in his cut-offs.
It wasn't dark yet but Mom would have supper ready just as soon as Dad got home. Ally cycled past the bakery, over the train tracks and up the street. She hoped it was mac n cheese. Not the best meal for a hot day but still her favourite.
"Hey, Greg." She braked at the bottom of the hill that led to their front yard. Her younger brother hunkered down in the ditch, muttering at himself in a hand mirror.
"Freak."
"Pardon?" She swung off her bike and sat down beside him.
"I'm a freak."
"No,you're not." Ally put her arm around his thin shoulder and gave a small squeeze. "Why would you say something like that?"
"Billy Schmidt said I was a freak." He scowled at his face in the mirror.
"Billy Schmidt is a poppy-head." Her brother didn't laugh.
"Bobby and Ryan laughed at me. They said I even looked like a freak!"
"You don't look like a freak."
Greg stared at himself even harder.
Ally tried to take the mirror from him. He had a strong grip for such a little kid. "You're not a freak."
"Yes, I am. Look!" He turned his face up towards her.
"Where did you get the mirror?" She gently pried it out of his hands, one finger at a time.
"I snuck it out of Mommy's purse." His bottom lip quivered. "I'm a freak and a thief."
"You're not either one of those things."
"Yes, I am." He grabbed the mirror back from Ally. "They said I had big round eyes just like a freak. They said Mommy and Daddy are going to lock me away. That freaks don't belong in school."
"I'm going to punch all three of those boys." She leaned over Greg's shoulder so that both of their faces were reflected back at them. "Look. My eyes are the same as yours. Same shape. Round. We are not freaks."
"Yes, we are!" Tears flowed from Greg's eyes. "We're both freaks and some guys are going to take us away from Mommy and Daddy and make us live in square rooms with padded walls and we'll never be able to see each other again."
"We are not freaks."
"Yes. Yes, we are. We have big round eyes."
"Oh, for pity's sake!" Ally grabbed the mirror from Greg and threw it into the ditch. It broke into several big pieces. She'd come back and clean the mess up later. Right now, she had a bigger problem.
"Let's go inside and talk to Mommy. She has big round eyes just like we do and she's not a freak. She didn't get taken away from Grandma and Grandpa. C'mon." Ally tugged Greg to his feet. "Let's go inside."
"Mommy's going to be mad that you broke her mirror."
"I don't think so, Rusty. I don't think she'll blame me at all." She hugged him tight.
It wasn't dark yet but Mom would have supper ready just as soon as Dad got home. Ally cycled past the bakery, over the train tracks and up the street. She hoped it was mac n cheese. Not the best meal for a hot day but still her favourite.
"Hey, Greg." She braked at the bottom of the hill that led to their front yard. Her younger brother hunkered down in the ditch, muttering at himself in a hand mirror.
"Freak."
"Pardon?" She swung off her bike and sat down beside him.
"I'm a freak."
"No,you're not." Ally put her arm around his thin shoulder and gave a small squeeze. "Why would you say something like that?"
"Billy Schmidt said I was a freak." He scowled at his face in the mirror.
"Billy Schmidt is a poppy-head." Her brother didn't laugh.
"Bobby and Ryan laughed at me. They said I even looked like a freak!"
"You don't look like a freak."
Greg stared at himself even harder.
Ally tried to take the mirror from him. He had a strong grip for such a little kid. "You're not a freak."
"Yes, I am. Look!" He turned his face up towards her.
"Where did you get the mirror?" She gently pried it out of his hands, one finger at a time.
"I snuck it out of Mommy's purse." His bottom lip quivered. "I'm a freak and a thief."
"You're not either one of those things."
"Yes, I am." He grabbed the mirror back from Ally. "They said I had big round eyes just like a freak. They said Mommy and Daddy are going to lock me away. That freaks don't belong in school."
"I'm going to punch all three of those boys." She leaned over Greg's shoulder so that both of their faces were reflected back at them. "Look. My eyes are the same as yours. Same shape. Round. We are not freaks."
"Yes, we are!" Tears flowed from Greg's eyes. "We're both freaks and some guys are going to take us away from Mommy and Daddy and make us live in square rooms with padded walls and we'll never be able to see each other again."
"We are not freaks."
"Yes. Yes, we are. We have big round eyes."
"Oh, for pity's sake!" Ally grabbed the mirror from Greg and threw it into the ditch. It broke into several big pieces. She'd come back and clean the mess up later. Right now, she had a bigger problem.
"Let's go inside and talk to Mommy. She has big round eyes just like we do and she's not a freak. She didn't get taken away from Grandma and Grandpa. C'mon." Ally tugged Greg to his feet. "Let's go inside."
"Mommy's going to be mad that you broke her mirror."
"I don't think so, Rusty. I don't think she'll blame me at all." She hugged him tight.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Family
Nothing good ever follows the statement "things couldn't get worse". I learned that in spades the day we buried my brother.
My heart ripped in half by the loss of my twin. Grief was a living throbbing pain. Son of a BITCH, it hurt to breathe. I sank to my knees beside the grave and considered tunneling in.
The bizarre thing was we'd never been particularly close. We didn't have a secret twin language, finish each other's sentences or have similar tastes. We didn't even live in the same country.
Our parents Split when we were twelve years old, on the cusp of puberty. Naturally, they decided they should each take on of us to be raised by the same gender parent. Of course, they swapped kids for two weeks every summer. My brother and I barely knew each other.
Not much changed when we grew up, moved out and forged lives of our own. We met up every summer for two weeks with the parents and got to know each other as much as possible. It was a bit like a science experiment.
He was an engineer. I was a pharmacist. There was so little for us to talk about.
Yet.
Someone had shredded my heart and buried it with him.
No matter how estranged or distant we'd become no one had the right to diss family than family. No one had the right to kill my brother.
Except me.
Not much changed when we grew up, moved out and forged lives of our own. We met up every summer for two weeks with the parents and got to know each other as much as possible. It was a bit like a science experiment.
He was an engineer. I was a pharmacist. There was so little for us to talk about.
Yet.
Someone had shredded my heart and buried it with him.
No matter how estranged or distant we'd become no one had the right to diss family than family. No one had the right to kill my brother.
Except me.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Ally the adventurer
Ally stared out her bedroom window. It was kinda cool to be the only one awake in the house. Everything was quiet except the steady clip-clop of the horse pulling the milk truck down the street. It reminded her of the Olden Times that grandpa talked about when most things were delivered to the house, the phone was usually only used for emergencies and children respected their elders.
The horse and buggy passed out of her view and her gaze dropped to the side of the house. Her bicycle was propped against the front porch right where she'd left it yesterday after school. Ally didn't waste any time changing clothes, her pjs were warm enough.
She raced down the stairs as quietly as possible, made sure to skip the third step from the bottom because it squeaked. Once outside, she mounted her bike and pedaled down the street. There wasn't very much traffic but the sun was up. She could smell fresh bread from the bakery. It was on the other side of the railroad tracks though so she didn't pedal that way. Instead, she turned the corner on the right side of the tracks and followed along beside them.
A car's muffler backfired and startled her. She weaved and fell from her bicycle and landed in a pile of clover. A small buzzing sound made her look down at a honeybee gathering pollen. She lowered her face as close as she dared to watch it extract energy from the flower. Last week, they studied bees in school. Bees made honey. Ally loved honey. Ally loved bees.
She grinned as it flew from one clover to another further away from her. Ally hopped on her bike and followed the bee as it danced from flower to flower then away from the clover patch all together. It flew faster and further away. Ally had to really pedal to keep it in sight. It was such a tiny speck. It was a good thing there wasn't much traffic to distract her. Maybe the bee was flying back to its nest.
Ally crossed the train tracks then pedaled down to the canal bank. There were lots of apple trees along the water's edge. Maybe one of them was home to the bee. She couldn't see it any more.
She coasted to a stop. The sun was hot on her bare head and her breathing was labored. Even her legs felt tingly.
Ally took a good look around. Zoiks. She was a long way from home. Too close to the water, on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. She'd be grounded for life if Mom found out.
She turned her bicycle around and headed for home as fast as she'd left it. Mr. Dumas waved at her front the back of the bakery as she flew past. Mrs. D'Amico yelled at her as she passed the old lady hanging up her morning wash. Yuck, was that a brassiere?
She raced up the street to her own house. Daddy's car was still in the driveway so maybe Ally hadn't been gone too long. She dumped her bike on the front lawn and snuck up onto the front porch. If everyone was awake, they'd be in the kitchen by the back porch eating breakfast.
Ally's stomach growled. The front door opened with a screech and Mommy stood there. "Exactly, where have you been, young lady?"
"I went for a ride around the block." Ally hated lying but she hated being grounded even more.
"Really? Did you want to reconsider your answer?" Mommy held the door open for Ally to walk through.
"I went around a couple of times. It is a really nice day out."
Mommy squatted in front of her and plucked a clover leaf from her hair. "Were you near the train tracks?"
"Yes. I watched a bee gather pollen. We learned all about pollen last week. And how important bees are. It went from one flower to another. Mr. Donnelly says pollination is the most important role a bee carries in life."
"Did you follow the bee?" Mommy skimmed her hands down Ally's pjs.
"Oh, yes, it was very inter-" Ally slowed down. Oh boy. She was in big trouble. She could tell from the look on Mommy's face.
Mommy plucked a leaf from the top of Ally's sneaker and held it up. "Did you go down to the canal?"
"How can you tell from a leaf where I went?" Ally slumped onto the bottom step of the staircase.
"Mr. Dumas, Mrs. D'Amico and Mrs. Sullivan all called to tell me they'd seen you race past on your bicycle. They all said you weren't paying any attention to traffic. And Mrs. Sullivan wondered what kind of a parent would let her child out to play in her pajamas at six o'clock in the morning."
"Mrs. Sullivan saw me?"
"Well, Ally, she does live in the largest house in town - overlooking the canal." Mommy pulled Ally in for a quick hug. "Go to your room. You're grounded. Twice."
"Twice?"
"Yes, twice. Once for lying to me. And once for crossing the train tracks. Just be grateful I don't ground you three times for going down to the canal. You know you're not allowed anywhere near the water without Daddy or me."
"It's the first day of summer vacation. What am I supposed to do?"
"Sit in your room and be grateful the neighbours called me and not Daddy." Her mom slapped her lightly on the butt and sent her upstairs.
Ally slammed her door shut and flung herself onto her bed. She grabbed her pillow into her arms then rolled towards the wall. Fine. She would just stare at nothing all day. It's not like she'd gone swimming or stolen bread or gotten hurt.
It wasn't fair. She was eight years old. Not a baby. It was her first day of summer vacation. She should be out there exploring the world!
She sighed. Nancy Drew wouldn't get grounded for following clues. Maybe if Ally had come home with some honey...her eyes drifted shut.
It was going to be a long summer.
The horse and buggy passed out of her view and her gaze dropped to the side of the house. Her bicycle was propped against the front porch right where she'd left it yesterday after school. Ally didn't waste any time changing clothes, her pjs were warm enough.
She raced down the stairs as quietly as possible, made sure to skip the third step from the bottom because it squeaked. Once outside, she mounted her bike and pedaled down the street. There wasn't very much traffic but the sun was up. She could smell fresh bread from the bakery. It was on the other side of the railroad tracks though so she didn't pedal that way. Instead, she turned the corner on the right side of the tracks and followed along beside them.
A car's muffler backfired and startled her. She weaved and fell from her bicycle and landed in a pile of clover. A small buzzing sound made her look down at a honeybee gathering pollen. She lowered her face as close as she dared to watch it extract energy from the flower. Last week, they studied bees in school. Bees made honey. Ally loved honey. Ally loved bees.
She grinned as it flew from one clover to another further away from her. Ally hopped on her bike and followed the bee as it danced from flower to flower then away from the clover patch all together. It flew faster and further away. Ally had to really pedal to keep it in sight. It was such a tiny speck. It was a good thing there wasn't much traffic to distract her. Maybe the bee was flying back to its nest.
Ally crossed the train tracks then pedaled down to the canal bank. There were lots of apple trees along the water's edge. Maybe one of them was home to the bee. She couldn't see it any more.
She coasted to a stop. The sun was hot on her bare head and her breathing was labored. Even her legs felt tingly.
Ally took a good look around. Zoiks. She was a long way from home. Too close to the water, on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. She'd be grounded for life if Mom found out.
She turned her bicycle around and headed for home as fast as she'd left it. Mr. Dumas waved at her front the back of the bakery as she flew past. Mrs. D'Amico yelled at her as she passed the old lady hanging up her morning wash. Yuck, was that a brassiere?
She raced up the street to her own house. Daddy's car was still in the driveway so maybe Ally hadn't been gone too long. She dumped her bike on the front lawn and snuck up onto the front porch. If everyone was awake, they'd be in the kitchen by the back porch eating breakfast.
Ally's stomach growled. The front door opened with a screech and Mommy stood there. "Exactly, where have you been, young lady?"
"I went for a ride around the block." Ally hated lying but she hated being grounded even more.
"Really? Did you want to reconsider your answer?" Mommy held the door open for Ally to walk through.
"I went around a couple of times. It is a really nice day out."
Mommy squatted in front of her and plucked a clover leaf from her hair. "Were you near the train tracks?"
"Yes. I watched a bee gather pollen. We learned all about pollen last week. And how important bees are. It went from one flower to another. Mr. Donnelly says pollination is the most important role a bee carries in life."
"Did you follow the bee?" Mommy skimmed her hands down Ally's pjs.
"Oh, yes, it was very inter-" Ally slowed down. Oh boy. She was in big trouble. She could tell from the look on Mommy's face.
Mommy plucked a leaf from the top of Ally's sneaker and held it up. "Did you go down to the canal?"
"How can you tell from a leaf where I went?" Ally slumped onto the bottom step of the staircase.
"Mr. Dumas, Mrs. D'Amico and Mrs. Sullivan all called to tell me they'd seen you race past on your bicycle. They all said you weren't paying any attention to traffic. And Mrs. Sullivan wondered what kind of a parent would let her child out to play in her pajamas at six o'clock in the morning."
"Mrs. Sullivan saw me?"
"Well, Ally, she does live in the largest house in town - overlooking the canal." Mommy pulled Ally in for a quick hug. "Go to your room. You're grounded. Twice."
"Twice?"
"Yes, twice. Once for lying to me. And once for crossing the train tracks. Just be grateful I don't ground you three times for going down to the canal. You know you're not allowed anywhere near the water without Daddy or me."
"It's the first day of summer vacation. What am I supposed to do?"
"Sit in your room and be grateful the neighbours called me and not Daddy." Her mom slapped her lightly on the butt and sent her upstairs.
Ally slammed her door shut and flung herself onto her bed. She grabbed her pillow into her arms then rolled towards the wall. Fine. She would just stare at nothing all day. It's not like she'd gone swimming or stolen bread or gotten hurt.
It wasn't fair. She was eight years old. Not a baby. It was her first day of summer vacation. She should be out there exploring the world!
She sighed. Nancy Drew wouldn't get grounded for following clues. Maybe if Ally had come home with some honey...her eyes drifted shut.
It was going to be a long summer.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Ally to the rescue
"Mommy, Mommy. Come quick!" Greg burst through the front door open to let in a spring breeze. "You have to help Wyatt. He's stuck in a tree."
Ally and her mother ran to Greg's side. He was smaller than most of the five-year-olds in the neighbourhood, and often slower to understand things. "Where is Wyatt's mommy?"
"I knocked and knocked and knocked but she didn't answer." Greg threw himself into his mother's arms and wailed.
"She's having a nap with Mr. Miller." Ally stepped into her sneakers and laced them up. "I'll get Wyatt."
"Be careful, Ally."
She raced over to the park. She could hear Mommy and Greg behind her. It was reassuring to have an adult as backup but she would be fine. Ally had been climbing these trees for as long as she could remember.
Not Wyatt, though. He wasn't much bigger than Greg. The two little pipsqueaks went everywhere together, looking out for each other. Last week, Wyatt the accident-prone little monkey had fallen off the merry-go-round and hurt his arm.
"Up here, Ally." The very scared voice of her brother's best friend drifted down from the top of the highest pine tree in the park.
"Don't worry, I'm coming to get you." Ally scrambled up the tree bark then boosted herself to the lowest branch. How had Wyatt managed to get off the ground with a splint on one arm. She climbed the tree, hand over hand, foot over foot, branch to branch and asked herself that question over and over again.
"Hurry, Ally." His voice was quieter than before, almost as if he was scared speaking would make the branches move.
"Can you move at all, Wyatt?" She climbed quickly, closer and closer.
"Noooo." His voice trailed off. "I think the branch is gonna break."
"No, it's not, Wyatt." Ally could see his skinny white legs wrapped around the branch above her. "This tree is tough. Strong. Just like you."
"No, I heard it creeeaak," he whispered.
"Look at the cloud, Wyatt." Ally slowed to follow her own advice. "Are they moving?"
"Nooo," his voice wavered. Poor kid was going to start crying any minute now and then how would she get him down?
"That's good. It means no wind. Definitely not hurricane weather. Right?"
"I wouldn't climb trees in a hurricane."
"That's a smart boy." Ally pulled herself up level with Wyatt. The hand on his good arm clung to a tiny sprig on the tree trunk above his head. "Shimmy back towards the trunk."
His tiny bum wiggled until his back hit the tree. "Good man, Wyatt. Now slowly stand up."
"I can't Ally. I'll fall."
"Don't look down." As soon as she said it, he did. His lip quivered.
"Don't cry, Wyatt. Look at me." She stepped around him and out onto the branch. With one hand holding the branch above her, she held her other hand out to Wyatt.
"Take my hand, buddy." He shook his head. "Let go of the tiny branch." He shook his head again and his eyes filled with tears.
"Okay." She squatted down in front of him. "Slowly lift your leg up and stretch it out in front of you. I'll show you."
Ally dropped down so her butt landed on the tree branch then dangled her legs over the side. She scooted back a bit, further out onto the narrower part of the branch. Wyatt's eyes were huge and his lip trembled.
She slowly lifted one leg up and stretched it out on the branch. Then lifted the other. "C'mon. You do it."
Wyatt nodded then followed Ally's example. It took twenty times longer for him to do it than for her but all that mattered was his back against the tree and his legs in front of him. "Do your legs tingle a little bit?"
He nodded. Ally bent forward and rubbed some life back into his legs. "That happens to me sometimes when I sit too long."
She reached up and grabbed a higher branch then pulled herself up. "You can do it, Wyatt. Use that hand to pull yourself up."
He shook his head.
"Don't be scared. I'm right here. I can help you." She grabbed his elbow above the splint and held on. Not too tight, she didn't want to hurt him, but enough to steady him as he pulled himself up. He clung to the tiny branch and did just that.
"Good job, Wyatt. Ready to climb down?"
"How? I'm scared. What if I fall?"
"You won't fall. I'm right here with you. Do you want to go first or do you want to follow me?" Ally reached around him so that he was pinned between her and the trunk. "How about we do it together. You put your feet where mine are."
It took a long time to reach the ground that way but they made it. There was a crowd waiting for them when their feet touched dirt. All the kids cheered. Greg ran over and congratulated his friend on the adventure.
Ally's mom gave her a big hug. "That was a brave thing to do."
She hugged her mom back. "I don't know how he got up that high only using one hand to climb."
"Not well." Her mom laughed. "It took three hands to climb down."
She turned and swept the two boys into the hug. "What a good job you all did. I'm so proud of all of you."
Greg wriggled free. "Can we go play on the swings now? I want to swing as high as Wyatt in the tree."
The two boys ran off, neither scarred by the climbing mishap. "Boys!" Ally rolled her eyes and her mom laughed again.
"Girls will give you just as many sleepless nights, young lady."
Ally laughed, ran and tumbled forward into a carwheel. "Ta-da!"
"Ta-da, indeed." But her mother smiled and sat on the bench to watch all of them play with their friends. Wyatt's mom never did join them.
Ally and her mother ran to Greg's side. He was smaller than most of the five-year-olds in the neighbourhood, and often slower to understand things. "Where is Wyatt's mommy?"
"I knocked and knocked and knocked but she didn't answer." Greg threw himself into his mother's arms and wailed.
"She's having a nap with Mr. Miller." Ally stepped into her sneakers and laced them up. "I'll get Wyatt."
"Be careful, Ally."
She raced over to the park. She could hear Mommy and Greg behind her. It was reassuring to have an adult as backup but she would be fine. Ally had been climbing these trees for as long as she could remember.
Not Wyatt, though. He wasn't much bigger than Greg. The two little pipsqueaks went everywhere together, looking out for each other. Last week, Wyatt the accident-prone little monkey had fallen off the merry-go-round and hurt his arm.
"Up here, Ally." The very scared voice of her brother's best friend drifted down from the top of the highest pine tree in the park.
"Don't worry, I'm coming to get you." Ally scrambled up the tree bark then boosted herself to the lowest branch. How had Wyatt managed to get off the ground with a splint on one arm. She climbed the tree, hand over hand, foot over foot, branch to branch and asked herself that question over and over again.
"Hurry, Ally." His voice was quieter than before, almost as if he was scared speaking would make the branches move.
"Can you move at all, Wyatt?" She climbed quickly, closer and closer.
"Noooo." His voice trailed off. "I think the branch is gonna break."
"No, it's not, Wyatt." Ally could see his skinny white legs wrapped around the branch above her. "This tree is tough. Strong. Just like you."
"No, I heard it creeeaak," he whispered.
"Look at the cloud, Wyatt." Ally slowed to follow her own advice. "Are they moving?"
"Nooo," his voice wavered. Poor kid was going to start crying any minute now and then how would she get him down?
"That's good. It means no wind. Definitely not hurricane weather. Right?"
"I wouldn't climb trees in a hurricane."
"That's a smart boy." Ally pulled herself up level with Wyatt. The hand on his good arm clung to a tiny sprig on the tree trunk above his head. "Shimmy back towards the trunk."
His tiny bum wiggled until his back hit the tree. "Good man, Wyatt. Now slowly stand up."
"I can't Ally. I'll fall."
"Don't look down." As soon as she said it, he did. His lip quivered.
"Don't cry, Wyatt. Look at me." She stepped around him and out onto the branch. With one hand holding the branch above her, she held her other hand out to Wyatt.
"Take my hand, buddy." He shook his head. "Let go of the tiny branch." He shook his head again and his eyes filled with tears.
"Okay." She squatted down in front of him. "Slowly lift your leg up and stretch it out in front of you. I'll show you."
Ally dropped down so her butt landed on the tree branch then dangled her legs over the side. She scooted back a bit, further out onto the narrower part of the branch. Wyatt's eyes were huge and his lip trembled.
She slowly lifted one leg up and stretched it out on the branch. Then lifted the other. "C'mon. You do it."
Wyatt nodded then followed Ally's example. It took twenty times longer for him to do it than for her but all that mattered was his back against the tree and his legs in front of him. "Do your legs tingle a little bit?"
He nodded. Ally bent forward and rubbed some life back into his legs. "That happens to me sometimes when I sit too long."
She reached up and grabbed a higher branch then pulled herself up. "You can do it, Wyatt. Use that hand to pull yourself up."
He shook his head.
"Don't be scared. I'm right here. I can help you." She grabbed his elbow above the splint and held on. Not too tight, she didn't want to hurt him, but enough to steady him as he pulled himself up. He clung to the tiny branch and did just that.
"Good job, Wyatt. Ready to climb down?"
"How? I'm scared. What if I fall?"
"You won't fall. I'm right here with you. Do you want to go first or do you want to follow me?" Ally reached around him so that he was pinned between her and the trunk. "How about we do it together. You put your feet where mine are."
It took a long time to reach the ground that way but they made it. There was a crowd waiting for them when their feet touched dirt. All the kids cheered. Greg ran over and congratulated his friend on the adventure.
Ally's mom gave her a big hug. "That was a brave thing to do."
She hugged her mom back. "I don't know how he got up that high only using one hand to climb."
"Not well." Her mom laughed. "It took three hands to climb down."
She turned and swept the two boys into the hug. "What a good job you all did. I'm so proud of all of you."
Greg wriggled free. "Can we go play on the swings now? I want to swing as high as Wyatt in the tree."
The two boys ran off, neither scarred by the climbing mishap. "Boys!" Ally rolled her eyes and her mom laughed again.
"Girls will give you just as many sleepless nights, young lady."
Ally laughed, ran and tumbled forward into a carwheel. "Ta-da!"
"Ta-da, indeed." But her mother smiled and sat on the bench to watch all of them play with their friends. Wyatt's mom never did join them.
Friday, February 05, 2016
Surprise for Ally
After Daddy left for work, Mommy took Ally to the park. There were other Mommies there but her Mommy pushed Ally on the swing, so high she could touch the sky. Then they climbed a tree and watched the Nelsons' dog chase a ball. The dog had big floppy ears and a tail that swished the ground. It always ran over when it saw Ally then flopped so she could rub it's belly.
"Now that I'm four, can we have a dog, Mommy? I'll take very good care of him. I will feed him and take him for walks and play fetch. I'll rub his belly and give him baths when he's stinky. I'll share my Mr. Bubbles with him."
Mommy laughed. "You are a big girl now, Ally."
"Does that mean I can get a puppy?" Ally jumped off the branch and did a somersault just like the Bionic Woman. She had a dog. A bionic dog with supergood hearing. "He doesn't have to be bionic like Max. I don't have six million pennies."
"We'll talk about it later when Daddy gets home. He and I have a surprise for you."
The rest of the day was slow. Ally filled three colouring books, watched Sesame Street and took a nap and it still took FOREVER for Daddy to come home from work. Then it was supper time, her favourite mac and cheese with cut-up hot dogs, and Daddy talked about Mommy's day. "I hope you didn't overdo it, Helen."
Mommy rolled her eyes and Daddy laughed. He didn't like eye-rolling but tonight he seemed pretty happy. He and Mommy laughed at every little thing. Some times grown-ups were so silly.
After dinner, Mommy poured a big glass of Daddy's favourite beer. "No Magners for you," he said.
Mommy giggled then pulled Ally onto her lap on the couch. "Daddy and I want to talk with you about our big surprise. I hope you'll like it."
"I know you'll love it as much as we do, Chief."
"I knew it. We're getting a puppy." Ally hopped off her mom's lap and raced to her bedroom. She rooted through the toy chest until she found what she was looking for on the very bottom.
"He can sleep with Jerome." Ally handed over the old stuffed giraffe. "Just like I did when I was little."
"Oh, Ally." Mommy held Jerome close to her chest and breathed deep. She choked. "He's a bit old and dusty."
"That's very nice of you to share him." Daddy lifted Ally up into his lap on the couch beside Mommy. "We're not getting a puppy. We're going to have a new baby brother or sister."
"But I want a puppy." Ally's chin started to quiver. She wrinkled her nose to hold back the tears. She was four years old, not a baby. Everyone knew only babies cried.
"It. Will. Cry. All. The. Time. And. No. One. Will. Be. Able. To. Sleep." Ally hiccupped.
"It's okay, Chief. It won't cry all the time. It needs to eat, too."
"Allen."
"We don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet. What am I supposed to call the baby?" Daddy hugged Ally. "Babies grow pretty quickly and then you'll be able to do things together. It will be better than having a puppy."
"Rusty."
"Pardon?"
"We can call the baby, Rusty, until we know its real name." Ally sniffled. "I was going to name the puppy Rusty."
"Aw, Chief, Rusty will be a good brother or sister. You'll be able to do lots more with this Rusty once it - he or she - gets older."
"Like catch and fetch?"
"Yes, and you'll be able climb trees with this Rusty. Puppies aren't very good tree climbers."
"Do babies like to snuggle like puppies do?"
"Yes."
"Will I have to clean up after him like I would a puppy?"
"No, that's Mommy's job."
"Will Baby Rusty love me like Puppy Rusty would?"
"Of course."
Ally wrinkled her nose. Her eyes were wet again. "Will you love Baby Rusty more than you love me?"
"Definitely not, Chief." Daddy pulled Ally in tight for a bear hug. Mommy kissed the top of her head.
"Okay." Ally snuggled in deep for a moment and enjoyed her parents' attention.
"Wizard of Oz is on tonight." She wiggled free. "Can we watch it?"
"Absolutely!" Daddy crossed the room to turn on the television so it could warm up.
"Can we make jiffy pop?" Ally ran to the kitchen pantry and pulled one off the shelf while Mommy laughed and followed her into the kitchen.
Later, Ally snuggled between her parents on the couch and watched Dorothy follow the yellow brick road. Would there still be room for her when Baby Rusty came to live with them? Ally's friend Shelly said having a baby sister was the worst thing ever. She had to share her room, her toys, even her clothes. Worst of all, Shelly's sister was allergic to animals.
Ally watched Toto prance along beside Dorothy. Dorothy didn't have a brother or sister. She had the Cowardly Lion, the Tinman, Scarecrow and a little dog. Ally would like to be more like Dorothy.
"Can we send the baby back if we don't like it and get a puppy?"
Her parents laughed so hard she didn't hear the wicked witch scream at the flying monkeys. A dog would have been a nicer surprise.
"Now that I'm four, can we have a dog, Mommy? I'll take very good care of him. I will feed him and take him for walks and play fetch. I'll rub his belly and give him baths when he's stinky. I'll share my Mr. Bubbles with him."
Mommy laughed. "You are a big girl now, Ally."
"Does that mean I can get a puppy?" Ally jumped off the branch and did a somersault just like the Bionic Woman. She had a dog. A bionic dog with supergood hearing. "He doesn't have to be bionic like Max. I don't have six million pennies."
"We'll talk about it later when Daddy gets home. He and I have a surprise for you."
The rest of the day was slow. Ally filled three colouring books, watched Sesame Street and took a nap and it still took FOREVER for Daddy to come home from work. Then it was supper time, her favourite mac and cheese with cut-up hot dogs, and Daddy talked about Mommy's day. "I hope you didn't overdo it, Helen."
Mommy rolled her eyes and Daddy laughed. He didn't like eye-rolling but tonight he seemed pretty happy. He and Mommy laughed at every little thing. Some times grown-ups were so silly.
After dinner, Mommy poured a big glass of Daddy's favourite beer. "No Magners for you," he said.
Mommy giggled then pulled Ally onto her lap on the couch. "Daddy and I want to talk with you about our big surprise. I hope you'll like it."
"I know you'll love it as much as we do, Chief."
"I knew it. We're getting a puppy." Ally hopped off her mom's lap and raced to her bedroom. She rooted through the toy chest until she found what she was looking for on the very bottom.
"He can sleep with Jerome." Ally handed over the old stuffed giraffe. "Just like I did when I was little."
"Oh, Ally." Mommy held Jerome close to her chest and breathed deep. She choked. "He's a bit old and dusty."
"That's very nice of you to share him." Daddy lifted Ally up into his lap on the couch beside Mommy. "We're not getting a puppy. We're going to have a new baby brother or sister."
"But I want a puppy." Ally's chin started to quiver. She wrinkled her nose to hold back the tears. She was four years old, not a baby. Everyone knew only babies cried.
"It. Will. Cry. All. The. Time. And. No. One. Will. Be. Able. To. Sleep." Ally hiccupped.
"It's okay, Chief. It won't cry all the time. It needs to eat, too."
"Allen."
"We don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet. What am I supposed to call the baby?" Daddy hugged Ally. "Babies grow pretty quickly and then you'll be able to do things together. It will be better than having a puppy."
"Rusty."
"Pardon?"
"We can call the baby, Rusty, until we know its real name." Ally sniffled. "I was going to name the puppy Rusty."
"Aw, Chief, Rusty will be a good brother or sister. You'll be able to do lots more with this Rusty once it - he or she - gets older."
"Like catch and fetch?"
"Yes, and you'll be able climb trees with this Rusty. Puppies aren't very good tree climbers."
"Do babies like to snuggle like puppies do?"
"Yes."
"Will I have to clean up after him like I would a puppy?"
"No, that's Mommy's job."
"Will Baby Rusty love me like Puppy Rusty would?"
"Of course."
Ally wrinkled her nose. Her eyes were wet again. "Will you love Baby Rusty more than you love me?"
"Definitely not, Chief." Daddy pulled Ally in tight for a bear hug. Mommy kissed the top of her head.
"Okay." Ally snuggled in deep for a moment and enjoyed her parents' attention.
"Wizard of Oz is on tonight." She wiggled free. "Can we watch it?"
"Absolutely!" Daddy crossed the room to turn on the television so it could warm up.
"Can we make jiffy pop?" Ally ran to the kitchen pantry and pulled one off the shelf while Mommy laughed and followed her into the kitchen.
Later, Ally snuggled between her parents on the couch and watched Dorothy follow the yellow brick road. Would there still be room for her when Baby Rusty came to live with them? Ally's friend Shelly said having a baby sister was the worst thing ever. She had to share her room, her toys, even her clothes. Worst of all, Shelly's sister was allergic to animals.
Ally watched Toto prance along beside Dorothy. Dorothy didn't have a brother or sister. She had the Cowardly Lion, the Tinman, Scarecrow and a little dog. Ally would like to be more like Dorothy.
"Can we send the baby back if we don't like it and get a puppy?"
Her parents laughed so hard she didn't hear the wicked witch scream at the flying monkeys. A dog would have been a nicer surprise.
Wednesday, February 03, 2016
Ally's brother
"Ready to meet your baby brother, Chief?"
Ally clutched the vase of blue daisies close to her chest and nodded at Daddy.
He pushed on the door to Mommy's hospital room then stopped in the open doorway to crouch down and stare her in the eyes. "Mommy and I are very excited your baby brother is finally here."
Ally wanted to roll her eyes but didn't. Daddy hated it when she did that. He said five year olds should behave like smart girls instead of smart alecks. Besides, he was wearing his serious I-mean-business you-better-listen face. He placed his big hands on her small shoulders.
"There will be some changes in our lives and how we do things but you'll always be my special Chief. Ok?" He looked in to her eyes and waited.
"Ok, Daddy. Can I see him now?"
"Absolutely." He her her hand in his and led her to the side of Mommy's bed. Mommy's face was read and shiny and her hair stuck up in lots of different directions but she looked happy. really really happy. In her arms she held a long white bundle. "He looks like a pig in a blanket!"
Her parents laughed and the little hot dog opened his eyes. They were blue! Just like Ally's and Mommy's eyes. Poor Daddy. His eyes were green like grass and his favourite football uniforms.
A little hand moved at the top of the blanket. "Ten fingers and ten toes," Mommy announced.
Her baby brother turned his head towards Mommy's voice.
"Look how he tracks who's in the room." Daddy chuckled. "Do you want to hold him, Chief?"
Ally couldn't hold back a grin. A baby brother was way better than a new doll.
"Be careful. Hold his head. Like this." Daddy slid his arms beneath Ally's to help her support the baby's head.
Mommy gently lay him in her arms. "Got him?"
Ally nodded. Daddy pulled his arms away.
"I'm doing it! I'm holding my baby brother!" Ally turned her head to look up at Daddy.
The baby squeaked like a little mouse and Ally dropped him. She stood there holding the blanket as he tumbled from her arms straight to the hard floor. The heaviest part of him, his head, hit the floor with a wet thud.
Ally and Mommy both screamed. The baby just lay there, quiet and not moving.
Ally covered her mouth with her hands and hiccupped until the screams stopped. Big tears filled her eyes and made it hard for her to see him. She pretended she was a fort and the gate was closed. Nothing could get in or out. The screams and tears stopped.
A nurse ran in and scooped up the baby. "What happened?"
Daddy used his Big Boss voice to explain the baby fell. He didn't tell her Ally dropped him.
"I have a pulse."The nurse took him from the room.
Mommy started to cry quietly, like she didn't want to make any noise. Daddy held her by the shoulders. He didn't say everything would be okay.
Ally stood by the fort gates. Afraid to move. Afraid to make a sound. It was an accident but that didn't matter. She hiccupped back another scream.
Daddy held out his arms and Ally ran to her parents. With his arms around both of his girls, he told Ally it wasn't her fault. He didn't call her Chief.
But Ally knew he was wrong. It was her fault. Her baby brother was going to die and it was all her fault.
Both Robin Berkley and I wrote about brothers today, despite the fact that it wasn't one of our prompts.
Ally clutched the vase of blue daisies close to her chest and nodded at Daddy.
He pushed on the door to Mommy's hospital room then stopped in the open doorway to crouch down and stare her in the eyes. "Mommy and I are very excited your baby brother is finally here."
Ally wanted to roll her eyes but didn't. Daddy hated it when she did that. He said five year olds should behave like smart girls instead of smart alecks. Besides, he was wearing his serious I-mean-business you-better-listen face. He placed his big hands on her small shoulders.
"There will be some changes in our lives and how we do things but you'll always be my special Chief. Ok?" He looked in to her eyes and waited.
"Ok, Daddy. Can I see him now?"
"Absolutely." He her her hand in his and led her to the side of Mommy's bed. Mommy's face was read and shiny and her hair stuck up in lots of different directions but she looked happy. really really happy. In her arms she held a long white bundle. "He looks like a pig in a blanket!"
Her parents laughed and the little hot dog opened his eyes. They were blue! Just like Ally's and Mommy's eyes. Poor Daddy. His eyes were green like grass and his favourite football uniforms.
A little hand moved at the top of the blanket. "Ten fingers and ten toes," Mommy announced.
Her baby brother turned his head towards Mommy's voice.
"Look how he tracks who's in the room." Daddy chuckled. "Do you want to hold him, Chief?"
Ally couldn't hold back a grin. A baby brother was way better than a new doll.
"Be careful. Hold his head. Like this." Daddy slid his arms beneath Ally's to help her support the baby's head.
Mommy gently lay him in her arms. "Got him?"
Ally nodded. Daddy pulled his arms away.
"I'm doing it! I'm holding my baby brother!" Ally turned her head to look up at Daddy.
The baby squeaked like a little mouse and Ally dropped him. She stood there holding the blanket as he tumbled from her arms straight to the hard floor. The heaviest part of him, his head, hit the floor with a wet thud.
Ally and Mommy both screamed. The baby just lay there, quiet and not moving.
Ally covered her mouth with her hands and hiccupped until the screams stopped. Big tears filled her eyes and made it hard for her to see him. She pretended she was a fort and the gate was closed. Nothing could get in or out. The screams and tears stopped.
A nurse ran in and scooped up the baby. "What happened?"
Daddy used his Big Boss voice to explain the baby fell. He didn't tell her Ally dropped him.
"I have a pulse."The nurse took him from the room.
Mommy started to cry quietly, like she didn't want to make any noise. Daddy held her by the shoulders. He didn't say everything would be okay.
Ally stood by the fort gates. Afraid to move. Afraid to make a sound. It was an accident but that didn't matter. She hiccupped back another scream.
Daddy held out his arms and Ally ran to her parents. With his arms around both of his girls, he told Ally it wasn't her fault. He didn't call her Chief.
But Ally knew he was wrong. It was her fault. Her baby brother was going to die and it was all her fault.
Both Robin Berkley and I wrote about brothers today, despite the fact that it wasn't one of our prompts.
Friday, January 29, 2016
Marbles.
Robin Berkley's entry I'm enjoying how different we interpret the writing prompts.
A dozen shiny spheres clunked against each other as Ally tipped open the brown cloth bag Daddy had given her that morning at breakfast. They were warm and heavy in her hand. She looked around the playground hoping someone would offer to teach her how to play marbles.
A group of girls from her class huddled around a teen magazine, giggling. Another group of girls had linked arms and were skipping across the yard singing. Most of the boys were flicking hockey cards against the school wall while a few played catch with a deflated football.
Her little brother, Greg, sat beneath a tree at the edge of the playground. He'd arranged some empty beers cans into a windy twisting train. She watched him move the lead can forward and to the right. He used a stick to measure the distance between then cans then lined them all back up in their previous formation, just a few inches forward of their previous position. Greg liked angles, exact measurements and geometry even though those things made Ally's stomach hurt. She turned away. He was fine over there playing by himself.
She spied Tommy and Max on their knees in front of hole they'd scratched out of the dirt. Even though they were a grade older her than Ally, they sometimes talked to her on the school bus. Tommy always wanted to know what she had for lunch and Max always told him not to be a bully.
Ally crossed the yard to watch them. Tommy glared up at her. "What do you want?"
She held the bag out for him to see. "Will you teach me how to play?"
Tommy grabbed the bag and spilled the marbles onto the dirt. He sorted them out by colour and size. "I'll take this one as payment." He held up a large black marble full of white clouds like a misty morning before dawn.
Ally shrugged.
"Try to get your marble into the hole without knocking our marbles in." Max flicked a blue green marble as a demonstration. "Whoever has the most marbles in the hole wins all of them."
The three of them knelt down to play. It took a few tries for Ally to get the hang of it but she had one marble in the hole and two on the lip. Tommy's marbles were the furthest away and Max had two in the hole. His yellow marble clinked into Tommy's green one.
A squirrel ran past and Tommy kicked at it.
Ally yelled at him. Before she knew it, Greg barreled past her and shoved Tommy. "Leave it alone!"
Tommy shoved Greg down into the dirt. Greg kicked him and Ally threw herself on top of her little brother. "Stop!" she yelled at both of them.
"Leave the little kid alone, Tommy" Max tugged at his friend as a crowd grew around them.
A pretty blonde girl strode up to them. Her two equally blonde and pretty friends followed on her heels. Tracey planted herself in front of Tommy. "Leave him alone, Tommy or I'm telling Mom and Dad."
She whipped around so fast her long hair hit her brother in the face. "I'm Tracey." She held her hand out to help Ally up. "These are my friends Terry and Tonia."
"I know." Ally pulled Greg up with her and kept his arm around his small shoulders. He was still primed to fight. "We're in Miss Stickles class together."
"Do you want to be friends?"
Ally narrowed her eyes. Was this a trick? The 3 Ts didn't talk to any of the other girls. They went everywhere together and acted like no one else was in the world.
"Hey, anyone who takes on my brother is a friend of mine." The other Ts nodded. "I don't know why Max hangs out with him."
Max shrugged. "He's not all bad."
Tracey held out her hand. With a scowl Tommy dropped a couple of marbles into it. She dropped down onto her knees and flicked all three marbles straight into the hole.
Greg clapped and smiled. Ally released him. He walked back to the tree and his beer can train. A black squirrel sat at the base of the tree and watched him approach. It didn't run off or scamper up the tree.
That was one of the things about her brother. Animals trusted him. They liked to be around him. The only time he ever showed any temper was when one of them was threatened. Ally had spent most of his life protecting him from bullies like Tommy.
Tracey handed all of the marbles to Ally. "Justice."
Ally looked at her brother content beneath the tree. Tommy glared at his sister. "I didn't want them anyway. Marbles are a baby game."
Max rolled his eyes.
"Thank you." Ally fished through the handful of marbles searching for the black misty one. She handed it to Tommy. A peace offering. "Thank you for teaching me how to play."
He crinkled his face and kicked at the dirt. "Nah, you keep it. I cheated you out of it."
"Nope. It's only fair payment for the lesson."
Max cuffed his friend in the shoulder. "Take it, Tommy. It's a beauty."
Tommy grabbed the marble. "You're alright. For a girl."
The school bell rang to end recess.
"Want to play again tomorrow?" Tommy tucked the marble into the front pocket of his corduroys.
"She can't." Tracey looped her arm through Ally's. "We're going to show her how to flip her hair so she looks like one of Charlie's Angels."
Ally smiled to herself. Daddy was going to be so surprised when she told him he was right. Marbles did help her make friends. He would laugh because Mommy had said no one would want to be Ally's friend. She was too strange. She didn't know how to have fun.
Mommy was wrong. Ally had a lot of fun - especially when Tommy got beat by his sister. A girl. She had wanted to laugh until he looked like he was going to cry. He looked too much like her baby brother right then.
That made her sad. So she gave him the marble. It didn't mean anything to her.
Tommy ran ahead of her and shoved the marble under another guy's nose. "Look what I won! Suckers!"
A dozen shiny spheres clunked against each other as Ally tipped open the brown cloth bag Daddy had given her that morning at breakfast. They were warm and heavy in her hand. She looked around the playground hoping someone would offer to teach her how to play marbles.
A group of girls from her class huddled around a teen magazine, giggling. Another group of girls had linked arms and were skipping across the yard singing. Most of the boys were flicking hockey cards against the school wall while a few played catch with a deflated football.
Her little brother, Greg, sat beneath a tree at the edge of the playground. He'd arranged some empty beers cans into a windy twisting train. She watched him move the lead can forward and to the right. He used a stick to measure the distance between then cans then lined them all back up in their previous formation, just a few inches forward of their previous position. Greg liked angles, exact measurements and geometry even though those things made Ally's stomach hurt. She turned away. He was fine over there playing by himself.
She spied Tommy and Max on their knees in front of hole they'd scratched out of the dirt. Even though they were a grade older her than Ally, they sometimes talked to her on the school bus. Tommy always wanted to know what she had for lunch and Max always told him not to be a bully.
Ally crossed the yard to watch them. Tommy glared up at her. "What do you want?"
She held the bag out for him to see. "Will you teach me how to play?"
Tommy grabbed the bag and spilled the marbles onto the dirt. He sorted them out by colour and size. "I'll take this one as payment." He held up a large black marble full of white clouds like a misty morning before dawn.
Ally shrugged.
"Try to get your marble into the hole without knocking our marbles in." Max flicked a blue green marble as a demonstration. "Whoever has the most marbles in the hole wins all of them."
The three of them knelt down to play. It took a few tries for Ally to get the hang of it but she had one marble in the hole and two on the lip. Tommy's marbles were the furthest away and Max had two in the hole. His yellow marble clinked into Tommy's green one.
A squirrel ran past and Tommy kicked at it.
Ally yelled at him. Before she knew it, Greg barreled past her and shoved Tommy. "Leave it alone!"
Tommy shoved Greg down into the dirt. Greg kicked him and Ally threw herself on top of her little brother. "Stop!" she yelled at both of them.
"Leave the little kid alone, Tommy" Max tugged at his friend as a crowd grew around them.
A pretty blonde girl strode up to them. Her two equally blonde and pretty friends followed on her heels. Tracey planted herself in front of Tommy. "Leave him alone, Tommy or I'm telling Mom and Dad."
She whipped around so fast her long hair hit her brother in the face. "I'm Tracey." She held her hand out to help Ally up. "These are my friends Terry and Tonia."
"I know." Ally pulled Greg up with her and kept his arm around his small shoulders. He was still primed to fight. "We're in Miss Stickles class together."
"Do you want to be friends?"
Ally narrowed her eyes. Was this a trick? The 3 Ts didn't talk to any of the other girls. They went everywhere together and acted like no one else was in the world.
"Hey, anyone who takes on my brother is a friend of mine." The other Ts nodded. "I don't know why Max hangs out with him."
Max shrugged. "He's not all bad."
Tracey held out her hand. With a scowl Tommy dropped a couple of marbles into it. She dropped down onto her knees and flicked all three marbles straight into the hole.
Greg clapped and smiled. Ally released him. He walked back to the tree and his beer can train. A black squirrel sat at the base of the tree and watched him approach. It didn't run off or scamper up the tree.
That was one of the things about her brother. Animals trusted him. They liked to be around him. The only time he ever showed any temper was when one of them was threatened. Ally had spent most of his life protecting him from bullies like Tommy.
Tracey handed all of the marbles to Ally. "Justice."
Ally looked at her brother content beneath the tree. Tommy glared at his sister. "I didn't want them anyway. Marbles are a baby game."
Max rolled his eyes.
"Thank you." Ally fished through the handful of marbles searching for the black misty one. She handed it to Tommy. A peace offering. "Thank you for teaching me how to play."
He crinkled his face and kicked at the dirt. "Nah, you keep it. I cheated you out of it."
"Nope. It's only fair payment for the lesson."
Max cuffed his friend in the shoulder. "Take it, Tommy. It's a beauty."
Tommy grabbed the marble. "You're alright. For a girl."
The school bell rang to end recess.
"Want to play again tomorrow?" Tommy tucked the marble into the front pocket of his corduroys.
"She can't." Tracey looped her arm through Ally's. "We're going to show her how to flip her hair so she looks like one of Charlie's Angels."
Ally smiled to herself. Daddy was going to be so surprised when she told him he was right. Marbles did help her make friends. He would laugh because Mommy had said no one would want to be Ally's friend. She was too strange. She didn't know how to have fun.
Mommy was wrong. Ally had a lot of fun - especially when Tommy got beat by his sister. A girl. She had wanted to laugh until he looked like he was going to cry. He looked too much like her baby brother right then.
That made her sad. So she gave him the marble. It didn't mean anything to her.
Tommy ran ahead of her and shoved the marble under another guy's nose. "Look what I won! Suckers!"
Friday, January 22, 2016
String, glass and Bowie
Robin's entry in the challenge
Ally and her friends did cartwheels across the lawn while David Bowie sang about spiders from Mars on the stereo speakers her mom had blasting from the kitchen. It was a weird song. She tugged her pigtails out from her halter strap, took a few deep breaths and chilled at the edge of the front lawn. Gymnastic practice was hard work even if it did look like fun. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the street below but still, it was safer to practice their moves towards the house and away from the hill.
Terry, Tracey and Tonia all did back flips. It was strange not to have a name that started with a T but it wasn't the only reason she felt like an oddball in their group. Ally's parents were still married to each other. She only ever received one set of presents at Christmas and birthdays. No trips to Disney like Tonia took with her dad so he could tell her she was going to be a big sister thanks to her new mom. No pony lessons like Tracey got from her mom and new dad when they moved out of the old neighbourhood. Terry's parental bribes were more along the lines of concert tickets and the latest albums for all of her favourite bands. They'd replaced the Bay City Rollers three times because Ally and the 3 Ts wore it out. S-A-T-U-R-
"C'mon, Ally, get the lead out!" Tonia called.
She shrugged before tucking herself into a ball like the raccoon she'd watched roll across their backyard the other night. It was annoying the way her parents treated her like a little kid when she was 12 years old, practically a teenager. Ally was going to pierce her ears for her thirteenth birthday, just like Tracey did when she turned twelve.Mom and Dad promised she could. They said she'd been really patient with her brother Greg and all the attention he got because he was slow. Terry's brother called him a retard. Ally had punched him on the nose.
She'd been expelled for three days from school because she punched him on the playground during recess. If he had said at home she wouldn't have missed any school. Mom said she was disappointed that Ally felt the need to resort to violence. Dad took her outside and told her was proud of the way she stood up for her baby brother.
Almost as if she had conjured him up by thinking about him, Greg ran onto the front lawn and tried to stand on his head. Of course he fell over. He was as co-ordinated as a piece of string. If someone didn't put his body into the right position he fell over. A lot. He followed the 3 Ts to the edge of the lawn at the top of the hill. All stopped to tie up her shoe. It would hurt if she tripped over it while setting up a cartwheel.
"Look, Ally Bally Bee! I tumble just like you." Greg dropped to the ground and started to roll, backward down the hill.
"No, Greg, stop!"Ally ran across the lawn but it was too late. He'd slipped over the side and was headed for the street.
Greg giggled like a madman. Her friends screamed and Ally ran faster than she ever had before in her life. Halfway down the hill, with every breath in stabbing her throat, Ally got in front of her little brother. Momentum barreled him right into her legs and she fell too.
Blue sky, blue car, green grass. Blue sky, blue car, green grass. They flipped past her vision faster and faster til it was just blue and green. Everyone was screaming. She could hear them but had no way to stop. Blue green bluegreen bluegreenblue.
She wrapped her body around Greg's and tucked him beneath her as they slid to a stop. The screech of tires filled her ears and she waited for the hot steel bumper to hit her.
Ally's arms shook as Greg struggled to break free. If she could just keep him still, she'd be able to keep him safe. She just needed to hold on.
Weird. She could taste the coppery strangeness of blood but she hadn't felt the car hit her. Ally listened hard, tried to hear anything over her friends screaming. Greg pounded on her arm. "Let go, Ally!!! Let me go."
She smelled the older boy before she saw him. Incense and weed, her neighbour Doug always smelled like that. Her parents told him not to come around the house but sometimes he plunked himself in a lawn chair at the end of his driveway.
Ally opened her eyes. The blue VW bug sat a good twenty feet away. No dents on the hood or the bumper. "Are you alright?" the driver asked.
She nodded and sucked in a breath. Jeez that hurt. Greg climbed out of her embrace. "That was fun."
A gasp from the driver was followed by more horrified screams from the 3 Ts. She looked Greg over head to toe. He looked alright. He waved his arms around recreating the cartwheel somersault free-for-all that had carried them down the hill.
Why was it so hard to breathe? Ally looked down at herself. Nothing strange there. Man, her back hurt. She twisted but the boy, a high school boy with long blond hair and the greenest eyes she'd ever seen, put his hand on her arm. "Don't move."
She shivered. A high school boy touched her. Just on her arm. It was no big deal. But the 3 Ts were going to ask her lots of questions about how that felt. Jeez. It hurt to breathe. Her back felt funny. The boy looked like he was going to be sick.
"Don't move. You'll just make it worse."
"Make what worse?"
Greg stopped bouncing around her friends and came back to Ally's side. "Ally Bally." He squatted down to examine her closely. "Why do you have a big piece of glass sticking out of your back? mom said we should never play near glass. Never. It could hurt you."
"Glass?" Black spots popped and hopped around Greg's head. That was bad. Really bad.
"Yeah, a great big piece of broken glass."
The driver nodded. "Someone dumped a mirror into the ditch. You must have rolled onto the jagged piece when you came down the hill."
"Ally!" Her mom pushed her way through the 3 Ts and shoved the driver aside. Her face twisted then smoothed out into her serious Mom face. "Terry, Tonia, Tracey, please take Greg back into the house. Everyone have a glass of milk. There are cookies on the counter. Please stay inside until Mr. Robbins or I come to get you. Please."
The spots were more like a lava lamp, just blooping up and down all over her vision. Hmm, her back didn't hurt as much. How big a piece of glass could it be anyway?
"I love you Ally Bally." Her mom's voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel.
Everything was cold. Nothing hurt any more. Her last thought was of the mirror she'd tossed into the ditch the other day. The mirror she'd smashed to bits. Except for that one piece that reminded her of an icicle.
Bowie's voice drifted down the hill. "There's a starman, waiting in the sky."
Ally and her friends did cartwheels across the lawn while David Bowie sang about spiders from Mars on the stereo speakers her mom had blasting from the kitchen. It was a weird song. She tugged her pigtails out from her halter strap, took a few deep breaths and chilled at the edge of the front lawn. Gymnastic practice was hard work even if it did look like fun. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the street below but still, it was safer to practice their moves towards the house and away from the hill.
Terry, Tracey and Tonia all did back flips. It was strange not to have a name that started with a T but it wasn't the only reason she felt like an oddball in their group. Ally's parents were still married to each other. She only ever received one set of presents at Christmas and birthdays. No trips to Disney like Tonia took with her dad so he could tell her she was going to be a big sister thanks to her new mom. No pony lessons like Tracey got from her mom and new dad when they moved out of the old neighbourhood. Terry's parental bribes were more along the lines of concert tickets and the latest albums for all of her favourite bands. They'd replaced the Bay City Rollers three times because Ally and the 3 Ts wore it out. S-A-T-U-R-
"C'mon, Ally, get the lead out!" Tonia called.
She shrugged before tucking herself into a ball like the raccoon she'd watched roll across their backyard the other night. It was annoying the way her parents treated her like a little kid when she was 12 years old, practically a teenager. Ally was going to pierce her ears for her thirteenth birthday, just like Tracey did when she turned twelve.Mom and Dad promised she could. They said she'd been really patient with her brother Greg and all the attention he got because he was slow. Terry's brother called him a retard. Ally had punched him on the nose.
She'd been expelled for three days from school because she punched him on the playground during recess. If he had said at home she wouldn't have missed any school. Mom said she was disappointed that Ally felt the need to resort to violence. Dad took her outside and told her was proud of the way she stood up for her baby brother.
Almost as if she had conjured him up by thinking about him, Greg ran onto the front lawn and tried to stand on his head. Of course he fell over. He was as co-ordinated as a piece of string. If someone didn't put his body into the right position he fell over. A lot. He followed the 3 Ts to the edge of the lawn at the top of the hill. All stopped to tie up her shoe. It would hurt if she tripped over it while setting up a cartwheel.
"Look, Ally Bally Bee! I tumble just like you." Greg dropped to the ground and started to roll, backward down the hill.
"No, Greg, stop!"Ally ran across the lawn but it was too late. He'd slipped over the side and was headed for the street.
Greg giggled like a madman. Her friends screamed and Ally ran faster than she ever had before in her life. Halfway down the hill, with every breath in stabbing her throat, Ally got in front of her little brother. Momentum barreled him right into her legs and she fell too.
Blue sky, blue car, green grass. Blue sky, blue car, green grass. They flipped past her vision faster and faster til it was just blue and green. Everyone was screaming. She could hear them but had no way to stop. Blue green bluegreen bluegreenblue.
She wrapped her body around Greg's and tucked him beneath her as they slid to a stop. The screech of tires filled her ears and she waited for the hot steel bumper to hit her.
Ally's arms shook as Greg struggled to break free. If she could just keep him still, she'd be able to keep him safe. She just needed to hold on.
Weird. She could taste the coppery strangeness of blood but she hadn't felt the car hit her. Ally listened hard, tried to hear anything over her friends screaming. Greg pounded on her arm. "Let go, Ally!!! Let me go."
She smelled the older boy before she saw him. Incense and weed, her neighbour Doug always smelled like that. Her parents told him not to come around the house but sometimes he plunked himself in a lawn chair at the end of his driveway.
Ally opened her eyes. The blue VW bug sat a good twenty feet away. No dents on the hood or the bumper. "Are you alright?" the driver asked.
She nodded and sucked in a breath. Jeez that hurt. Greg climbed out of her embrace. "That was fun."
A gasp from the driver was followed by more horrified screams from the 3 Ts. She looked Greg over head to toe. He looked alright. He waved his arms around recreating the cartwheel somersault free-for-all that had carried them down the hill.
Why was it so hard to breathe? Ally looked down at herself. Nothing strange there. Man, her back hurt. She twisted but the boy, a high school boy with long blond hair and the greenest eyes she'd ever seen, put his hand on her arm. "Don't move."
She shivered. A high school boy touched her. Just on her arm. It was no big deal. But the 3 Ts were going to ask her lots of questions about how that felt. Jeez. It hurt to breathe. Her back felt funny. The boy looked like he was going to be sick.
"Don't move. You'll just make it worse."
"Make what worse?"
Greg stopped bouncing around her friends and came back to Ally's side. "Ally Bally." He squatted down to examine her closely. "Why do you have a big piece of glass sticking out of your back? mom said we should never play near glass. Never. It could hurt you."
"Glass?" Black spots popped and hopped around Greg's head. That was bad. Really bad.
"Yeah, a great big piece of broken glass."
The driver nodded. "Someone dumped a mirror into the ditch. You must have rolled onto the jagged piece when you came down the hill."
"Ally!" Her mom pushed her way through the 3 Ts and shoved the driver aside. Her face twisted then smoothed out into her serious Mom face. "Terry, Tonia, Tracey, please take Greg back into the house. Everyone have a glass of milk. There are cookies on the counter. Please stay inside until Mr. Robbins or I come to get you. Please."
The spots were more like a lava lamp, just blooping up and down all over her vision. Hmm, her back didn't hurt as much. How big a piece of glass could it be anyway?
"I love you Ally Bally." Her mom's voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel.
Everything was cold. Nothing hurt any more. Her last thought was of the mirror she'd tossed into the ditch the other day. The mirror she'd smashed to bits. Except for that one piece that reminded her of an icicle.
Bowie's voice drifted down the hill. "There's a starman, waiting in the sky."
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Tires, hockey, club, bakery and ivy
Follow this link to read Robin's Results. Mine are below
Tires gripped the asphalt as the car hit the icy curve too fast. The bungee cord holding the passenger door in place stretched to its point of no return. A white box slid through the gap before the door slammed shut.
Dave watched the retreating taillights and shivered inside the light hockey jacket he'd worn non-stop for the last two years. He slowly checked in both directions for oncoming traffic before he darted onto the road and retrieved the broken box. One red velvet cupcake stood straight in the center of the box while cookie monster, minion and spiderman cupcakes lay dented on their sides. Two Olaf cupcakes had fallen from the box to hit the pavement upside down. Dave grabbed those two by their paper liners and snapped them off just above their contact point with the road. Pleased with the day's bounty, food for the aching belly and a cardboard hat, he hurried back to the relative warmth and dryness afforded by the underpass. Nothing at his Ivy League school had prepared him for the harsh reality of a wind pelting him with snow with the level of ruthlessness a homeless man experienced.
As a journalist, he'd done his research. He had expected rough conditions, a scarcity of food and cruel people. His undercover stint as a homeless man had shown him the other side of things, the compassion, decency and creativity of people on both sides of the situation.
The freedom was unexpected. No longer a slave to deadlines, cell phones and demands of family. He thrived on the streets, living like a wild man dependent on no one or nothing that his wits in order to survive. No more country club, fancy cars or facials.
The freedom had been a surprise but no more so than the realization that he liked it. Dave bit down on Spiderman's head. Eighteen months after the assignment finished, he whooped as the sugar hit his malnourished bloodstream. He was never going back to civilization.
Tires gripped the asphalt as the car hit the icy curve too fast. The bungee cord holding the passenger door in place stretched to its point of no return. A white box slid through the gap before the door slammed shut.
Dave watched the retreating taillights and shivered inside the light hockey jacket he'd worn non-stop for the last two years. He slowly checked in both directions for oncoming traffic before he darted onto the road and retrieved the broken box. One red velvet cupcake stood straight in the center of the box while cookie monster, minion and spiderman cupcakes lay dented on their sides. Two Olaf cupcakes had fallen from the box to hit the pavement upside down. Dave grabbed those two by their paper liners and snapped them off just above their contact point with the road. Pleased with the day's bounty, food for the aching belly and a cardboard hat, he hurried back to the relative warmth and dryness afforded by the underpass. Nothing at his Ivy League school had prepared him for the harsh reality of a wind pelting him with snow with the level of ruthlessness a homeless man experienced.
As a journalist, he'd done his research. He had expected rough conditions, a scarcity of food and cruel people. His undercover stint as a homeless man had shown him the other side of things, the compassion, decency and creativity of people on both sides of the situation.
The freedom was unexpected. No longer a slave to deadlines, cell phones and demands of family. He thrived on the streets, living like a wild man dependent on no one or nothing that his wits in order to survive. No more country club, fancy cars or facials.
The freedom had been a surprise but no more so than the realization that he liked it. Dave bit down on Spiderman's head. Eighteen months after the assignment finished, he whooped as the sugar hit his malnourished bloodstream. He was never going back to civilization.
Monday, January 18, 2016
Writing prompts update
Robin Berkley and I have decided to join forces to do the writing prompts twice a week and share with our combined readers. Anyone is welcome to join us. At the very least, I hope you'll be willing to toss a few words or phrases our way.
The schedule will be Monday - gather prompts for two sessions.
Wednesday and Friday post the results of all that creative brilliance.
The library's writing group does something similar with paintings. Artists and writers inspire each other. I'm not sure which comes first but the art that comes out of it, printed and painted, are beautiful.
Writing prompts don't take the place of novels but they do a great job of kickstarting the brain. We like to make connections with even the most random of things. These exercises embrace those connections. A paragraph can lead to a scene which can lead to a chapter. Occasionally, they will inspire an entire novel. Most books start from one idea.
So. Wednesday. That's when you'll see what happens when you put tires, hockey, club, baking and ivy together.
Any other words you'd like to see us string together?
The schedule will be Monday - gather prompts for two sessions.
Wednesday and Friday post the results of all that creative brilliance.
The library's writing group does something similar with paintings. Artists and writers inspire each other. I'm not sure which comes first but the art that comes out of it, printed and painted, are beautiful.
Writing prompts don't take the place of novels but they do a great job of kickstarting the brain. We like to make connections with even the most random of things. These exercises embrace those connections. A paragraph can lead to a scene which can lead to a chapter. Occasionally, they will inspire an entire novel. Most books start from one idea.
So. Wednesday. That's when you'll see what happens when you put tires, hockey, club, baking and ivy together.
Any other words you'd like to see us string together?
Friday, January 15, 2016
New Year, new goals
I'm thinking of a slight revamp to the blog. My life is no less crazy than it has been the last few months. I've got at least two more months of this insane care-giver schedule. The blog will continue to be neglected if I don't change it up slightly.
Not writing makes me cranky. To be more accurate, it turns me into a grade A bitch but I was going for creativity over honesty. Today while waiting for my car to be healed at the garage, I wrote around 300 words. It needs a bit of tweaking before I share. The twist is dancing just on the edge of my consciousness.
The other thing I did today was find the photos of Stanley. I will scan them and see what they inspire. I did pick up a crow painting by Kathleen Thorsen.(I'm having trouble connecting with her website but that link will show you some examples of her work) It's encaustic which adds so much depth and texture to the painting. Go check her out.
Every week I'll post a short story based on writing prompts provided by you, either over here or on Twitter. So Monday, send me five words on any topic. On Wednesday, I'll post the story it inspires. That way, I'm back into a routine and the blog is active, even interactive.
Today's prompts were tires, hockey, baking, club, ivy. The last two words are still missing. Once I figure them out, I'll post the answers - on Monday. This week's schedule is a bit off just because it only came to me about an hour ago.
Depending on how Stanley's story goes, it will go up as a bonus treat some time in the next two months. Trips to the garage, and a break from caregiving, are not that frequent.
See you Monday!
Not writing makes me cranky. To be more accurate, it turns me into a grade A bitch but I was going for creativity over honesty. Today while waiting for my car to be healed at the garage, I wrote around 300 words. It needs a bit of tweaking before I share. The twist is dancing just on the edge of my consciousness.
The other thing I did today was find the photos of Stanley. I will scan them and see what they inspire. I did pick up a crow painting by Kathleen Thorsen.(I'm having trouble connecting with her website but that link will show you some examples of her work) It's encaustic which adds so much depth and texture to the painting. Go check her out.
Every week I'll post a short story based on writing prompts provided by you, either over here or on Twitter. So Monday, send me five words on any topic. On Wednesday, I'll post the story it inspires. That way, I'm back into a routine and the blog is active, even interactive.
Today's prompts were tires, hockey, baking, club, ivy. The last two words are still missing. Once I figure them out, I'll post the answers - on Monday. This week's schedule is a bit off just because it only came to me about an hour ago.
Depending on how Stanley's story goes, it will go up as a bonus treat some time in the next two months. Trips to the garage, and a break from caregiving, are not that frequent.
See you Monday!
Sunday, January 03, 2016
Animal Intelligence
National Geographic has a feature every couple of years about animal intelligence. It's a bar that's constantly being moved so they don't catch, or even surpass, humans in that area. Every time I turn on the news, I thinks it's too late.
Our multi-generational household is shared with two dogs, two cats, two parrots. All are rescues. The second parrot is the only one we went in search of. While they all comfort, love and entertain, they each teach me every day. The cats trick the dogs all the time, the dogs have taught us how to give them what they want and the parrots change the tone and inflection of common sentences to get an appropriate response from us.
Give any one of them an unfamiliar task and they will all find a way to complete it. Unless it's the cats. They never do anything they don't want to do.
With all this in-house entertainment, you'd be surprised how many videos I watch online of crows at play. They know how to have fun. Windshield wipers are an amusement ride, jar lids are toboggans and car hoods offer fresh snow on which to make crow angels.
Corvids, dolphins and octopus are the top three performers in self-awareness, intelligence and play. I've been fascinated by all three my whole life. Nothing will pull me out of a story faster than an author mocking animals.
I'm not back to typing full time yet but I have pulled out my sketchbook that is full of Stanley the crow. I think its time he got his own story. A little bit of romance, a touch of horror but definitely the happy ending he failed to receive in real life.
Our multi-generational household is shared with two dogs, two cats, two parrots. All are rescues. The second parrot is the only one we went in search of. While they all comfort, love and entertain, they each teach me every day. The cats trick the dogs all the time, the dogs have taught us how to give them what they want and the parrots change the tone and inflection of common sentences to get an appropriate response from us.
Give any one of them an unfamiliar task and they will all find a way to complete it. Unless it's the cats. They never do anything they don't want to do.
With all this in-house entertainment, you'd be surprised how many videos I watch online of crows at play. They know how to have fun. Windshield wipers are an amusement ride, jar lids are toboggans and car hoods offer fresh snow on which to make crow angels.
Corvids, dolphins and octopus are the top three performers in self-awareness, intelligence and play. I've been fascinated by all three my whole life. Nothing will pull me out of a story faster than an author mocking animals.
I'm not back to typing full time yet but I have pulled out my sketchbook that is full of Stanley the crow. I think its time he got his own story. A little bit of romance, a touch of horror but definitely the happy ending he failed to receive in real life.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Merry Christmas
Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Let the scent of orange and clove drift through your memories of Christmases past.
Keep your eyes closed. Inhale deeper. Warm butter, a hint of cinnamon. Perhaps a dash of ginger gives way to the scent of mustard, croissants and sausage.
Old Christmas tunes fill the air. Cheerful music about St Stephen, dragons and lambs all together on the most Holy Night. And in the distance the sound of children laughing in the snow, the sharp sting of snowflakes falling into young eyes searching the sky for their source.
The crinkle of wrapping paper, hastily torn and tossed aside. The clunk of heavy boxes, the whirr of robots and shouts of joy.
Then quiet as the baby lies beneath the tree, one tiny hand reaching towards the nearest twinkling light.
Peace on Earth. Goodwill toward man.
And love for all.
Keep your eyes closed. Inhale deeper. Warm butter, a hint of cinnamon. Perhaps a dash of ginger gives way to the scent of mustard, croissants and sausage.
Old Christmas tunes fill the air. Cheerful music about St Stephen, dragons and lambs all together on the most Holy Night. And in the distance the sound of children laughing in the snow, the sharp sting of snowflakes falling into young eyes searching the sky for their source.
The crinkle of wrapping paper, hastily torn and tossed aside. The clunk of heavy boxes, the whirr of robots and shouts of joy.
Then quiet as the baby lies beneath the tree, one tiny hand reaching towards the nearest twinkling light.
Peace on Earth. Goodwill toward man.
And love for all.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Attraction
The tang of citrus mingles with the scent of sandelwood just over my shoulder. I can feel your breath warm against my neck. Your strong arm snakes around my waist and pulls me into the safety of your embrace.
My belly quivers as your hand slides up and over the taut peak of my breast. Just a quick skim that catches my breath then your fingers trail up my throat. You tip my chin back and I open my eyes.
The shadowed blue of your gaze is filled with hate.
You know. Everything.
I open my lips to beg forgiveness. Your hand covers my mouth.
Pinches my nose.
I struggle for breath. My limbs flail. My gaze seeks yours, locks on while I search for any spark of the man who loved me. Who betrayed me before I returned the favour.
There is a frozen landscape of rage between us. My hands and feet grow cold. A mist covers my vision. My ears filled with the thunderous sound of an avalanche headed my way.
You shove me to the ground. My body is a shell of its former strength, inert and motionless on the ground where it fell. Jagged shards of oxygen stab their way to my lungs.
"Death is too good for you." I hear your footsteps leave the room then stop. The sound of a body dropping to the floor is followed by a wail of grief so primal it makes my body shake in fear fills the house.
You have found her.
I look at the spray of blood across my legs and skirt. I smile.
My belly quivers as your hand slides up and over the taut peak of my breast. Just a quick skim that catches my breath then your fingers trail up my throat. You tip my chin back and I open my eyes.
The shadowed blue of your gaze is filled with hate.
You know. Everything.
I open my lips to beg forgiveness. Your hand covers my mouth.
Pinches my nose.
I struggle for breath. My limbs flail. My gaze seeks yours, locks on while I search for any spark of the man who loved me. Who betrayed me before I returned the favour.
There is a frozen landscape of rage between us. My hands and feet grow cold. A mist covers my vision. My ears filled with the thunderous sound of an avalanche headed my way.
You shove me to the ground. My body is a shell of its former strength, inert and motionless on the ground where it fell. Jagged shards of oxygen stab their way to my lungs.
"Death is too good for you." I hear your footsteps leave the room then stop. The sound of a body dropping to the floor is followed by a wail of grief so primal it makes my body shake in fear fills the house.
You have found her.
I look at the spray of blood across my legs and skirt. I smile.
Monday, December 07, 2015
An abundance of cushions
A fork, a radio, full moon and a dump truck all flashed through my mind the other night. I'm not getting a lot of sleep but lying in bed, words flow like bioluminescence. I don't have the energy to write them all down but they soothe me to sleep. Eventually.
Sometimes they prompt scenes. This one started out as radio silence spoke volumes but morphed into something a bit more adventurous.
The brilliance of the full moon in August shone a spotlight on the dump truck parked beneath the bedroom window. Filled to the brim with an old battered couch and an abundance of cushions buried beneath tattered clothes, a broken radio and a drawer of cutlery missing all the forks, the truck looked as out-of-place as a rocketship in a lion's pen. The window on the far left of the second storey opened with a screech and muttered curse. One bare leg thrust through the opening to be quickly followed by a second leg then the rest of the body. With a rolling dive that would make Greg Louganis proud, the gangly teenager landed in the back of the dump trunk. After a brief fist pump, he folded his skinny arms and legs around his body and sank beneath the cushions.
With a soft crunch over branches on the back lawn the dump truck made its way to its next destination. To pick up the next runaway. It pulled onto the county road, just another working vehicle transporting its cargo to the space station down the road. There the contents would be sorted into trash to be burned and organic materials for biodiesel. The teenager's dream of space travel would be realized.
Sometimes they prompt scenes. This one started out as radio silence spoke volumes but morphed into something a bit more adventurous.
The brilliance of the full moon in August shone a spotlight on the dump truck parked beneath the bedroom window. Filled to the brim with an old battered couch and an abundance of cushions buried beneath tattered clothes, a broken radio and a drawer of cutlery missing all the forks, the truck looked as out-of-place as a rocketship in a lion's pen. The window on the far left of the second storey opened with a screech and muttered curse. One bare leg thrust through the opening to be quickly followed by a second leg then the rest of the body. With a rolling dive that would make Greg Louganis proud, the gangly teenager landed in the back of the dump trunk. After a brief fist pump, he folded his skinny arms and legs around his body and sank beneath the cushions.
With a soft crunch over branches on the back lawn the dump truck made its way to its next destination. To pick up the next runaway. It pulled onto the county road, just another working vehicle transporting its cargo to the space station down the road. There the contents would be sorted into trash to be burned and organic materials for biodiesel. The teenager's dream of space travel would be realized.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Silver linings
Last Wednesday was hands down one of the worst days of my life. Every phone call, text and email was bad news. The worst was the one informing me that my dad had to have a triple bypass and aortic valve replacement. The rest of it was noise thwarting my plans to enjoy life. I'm not proud of my scorched earth reaction to the other things. It was mostly a case of needing to remove any and all negativity from my mindset. I accidentally deleted three people from my contacts. My phone has rebelled every day, randomly calling some people and hanging up on others. It's all a bit juvenile and ridiculous.
I haven't had much time for writing. My brain processes via nigmares and odd dreams while I nap. Sleep has been impossible. I write regardless of mood, emotion or opportunity. I write as a way to process. I write to entertain, to teach and to learn. Its what I do, I write.
At the moment, I'm buried beneath words of all flavours, texture and colour. The image that returns time and again is that of a dark stormycloud hurling lightning, hail and booming sound waves of doom at my house. Through the flashes of light, I see streaks of silver. Dad is in the best hospital for this kind of surgery, I have friends who support me with midnight hospital runs, nutritious soup, yummy ginger snaps, the ability to tear down my garage. It will be sad to lose the garage but we did our best to save it. The city won't allow us to replace and no engineer will sign off on repair. The insurance cheque will give us a much needed cushion.
While the sleep is elusive, the nightmares I experienced before my dad's heart attack are gone. I've pulled a muscle lifting my mom as well as all the cleaning and organizing I've done. Odd thing, I heard and felt something crack in my hand when I was replacing the kitchen taps. My exercises are less painful now. Typing can't be far off.
Otis (70 year old black man in 25 year old white boy's body) took me out for hot chocolate the other day and reminded me that a strong connection does not always equate into romance, nor should it. He also reminded me the power of magic and love. Several of my friends are finding people who bring out the best in them. I don't begrudge a single one of them happiness. Realizing that has been a boon.
That one day of horrible news hasn't destroyed my core belief that if you look you will always find a silver lining. It's a bit Pollyanna of me but I'm more than fine with that.
I haven't had much time for writing. My brain processes via nigmares and odd dreams while I nap. Sleep has been impossible. I write regardless of mood, emotion or opportunity. I write as a way to process. I write to entertain, to teach and to learn. Its what I do, I write.
At the moment, I'm buried beneath words of all flavours, texture and colour. The image that returns time and again is that of a dark stormycloud hurling lightning, hail and booming sound waves of doom at my house. Through the flashes of light, I see streaks of silver. Dad is in the best hospital for this kind of surgery, I have friends who support me with midnight hospital runs, nutritious soup, yummy ginger snaps, the ability to tear down my garage. It will be sad to lose the garage but we did our best to save it. The city won't allow us to replace and no engineer will sign off on repair. The insurance cheque will give us a much needed cushion.
While the sleep is elusive, the nightmares I experienced before my dad's heart attack are gone. I've pulled a muscle lifting my mom as well as all the cleaning and organizing I've done. Odd thing, I heard and felt something crack in my hand when I was replacing the kitchen taps. My exercises are less painful now. Typing can't be far off.
Otis (70 year old black man in 25 year old white boy's body) took me out for hot chocolate the other day and reminded me that a strong connection does not always equate into romance, nor should it. He also reminded me the power of magic and love. Several of my friends are finding people who bring out the best in them. I don't begrudge a single one of them happiness. Realizing that has been a boon.
That one day of horrible news hasn't destroyed my core belief that if you look you will always find a silver lining. It's a bit Pollyanna of me but I'm more than fine with that.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Importance of stories
Since the beginning of humankind, we have gathered to share stories. It was a way to pass time by the fire, a way to teach each other the lessons of life, that fire burns, woolly mammoths are dangerous but provide food, shelter and clothing. Stories connect us, unite us with shared memories, in laughter, love and acceptance.
Sometimes stories scare us. They allow us to react in a controlled environment when the real monsters are too horrible to comprehend. We bleed off the fear and feel triumphant when we can defeat the monsters beneath the bed.
Stories inspire us with tales of love and devotion. They remind us there are good moments in the midst of bad. That love often shines a light in the darkness.
There are big stories that touch millions like the Parisian man reassuring his son that love and kindness are more important, even stronger, than the bad men. Tigers pouncing on pumpkins make us laugh and elephants painting landscapes with their trunks inspire us to fill the world with colour.
There are the smaller stories, the ones your don't share with anyone else. A gentle touch on the back of the hand, a first kiss perfect beyond expectation or description, a smile that fills your heart because you alone could tease it free. The quiet of the night broken by the sound of soft breathing. The sweet scent of a child's hair as they slumber in your arms. Those are stories of love, of trust, of possibility and all the more precious for being held close to our chests, shielded from the rest of the world.
We need those stories. In times of stress, whether global or personal, they distract us, comfort us, inspire us. Stories add colour, texture and depth to our lives in every way imaginable. We are richer both in the telling and the hearing.
Thank you for your stories.
Sometimes stories scare us. They allow us to react in a controlled environment when the real monsters are too horrible to comprehend. We bleed off the fear and feel triumphant when we can defeat the monsters beneath the bed.
Stories inspire us with tales of love and devotion. They remind us there are good moments in the midst of bad. That love often shines a light in the darkness.
There are big stories that touch millions like the Parisian man reassuring his son that love and kindness are more important, even stronger, than the bad men. Tigers pouncing on pumpkins make us laugh and elephants painting landscapes with their trunks inspire us to fill the world with colour.
There are the smaller stories, the ones your don't share with anyone else. A gentle touch on the back of the hand, a first kiss perfect beyond expectation or description, a smile that fills your heart because you alone could tease it free. The quiet of the night broken by the sound of soft breathing. The sweet scent of a child's hair as they slumber in your arms. Those are stories of love, of trust, of possibility and all the more precious for being held close to our chests, shielded from the rest of the world.
We need those stories. In times of stress, whether global or personal, they distract us, comfort us, inspire us. Stories add colour, texture and depth to our lives in every way imaginable. We are richer both in the telling and the hearing.
Thank you for your stories.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Writing is an exploration
It's been a roller coaster of a week. I'm house-sitting at one of my go-to writer retreats. This is the place I come to knock out five to seven thousand words over a couple of days. I'm starting a new story. I'm here for a week.
Writing is painful. Literally causes a great deal of pain in my hand. Physio this week was not only frustrating but discouraging. Restricted use of my right hand continues. I've tried wearing bracelets and rings to remind myself to type one-handed. Yes, the pain should be an obvious deterrent. When creativity flows, I ignore everything but getting the thoughts out. I pay for it later.
My editor came back with some BIG changes for the first book in the four-part trilogy. Science has minimized or even solved some of the global crises I used as the basis for the hero's Quest. Several emails were followed by an hour long discussion on how to attack the rewrite. I've had a few days to consider all the options and have found one that works for both of us. I'm anxious to fix it before I start the new book.
It is better to fix the mistakes of the past so that you can go forward with confidence.
Two books have helped me this week. A quick skim-through of An astronaut's guide to life to refresh my memory led to the new catchphrase, "What would Chris Hadfield do?" Dealing with life and death issues in space means he can't freak out and decide things are too hard. Sometimes things break. "Work the problem" is how NASA handles the unexpected. Considering how much they train for every conceivable thing that could go wrong, that there is an unexpected is amazing. But inconceivable happens.
The other book I'm reading is a YA about the need we have to label everyone. Openly Straight is fiction. A young gay man chooses to move across the country and not tell anyone he is gay because that was the only way anyone saw him back home. His English teacher assigns semester long personal essays that follow E.L. Doctorow's edict that "Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go."
Reading, thinking and the occasional jotting of notes will get me through this phase. Therapy will eventually strengthen my hand enough to get back to typing. In the meantime, I really need to mentally go through the manuscript and work out the best way to move forward with the original story and characters in a way that is less dated.
Sounds like a great way to work the problem.
Writing is painful. Literally causes a great deal of pain in my hand. Physio this week was not only frustrating but discouraging. Restricted use of my right hand continues. I've tried wearing bracelets and rings to remind myself to type one-handed. Yes, the pain should be an obvious deterrent. When creativity flows, I ignore everything but getting the thoughts out. I pay for it later.
My editor came back with some BIG changes for the first book in the four-part trilogy. Science has minimized or even solved some of the global crises I used as the basis for the hero's Quest. Several emails were followed by an hour long discussion on how to attack the rewrite. I've had a few days to consider all the options and have found one that works for both of us. I'm anxious to fix it before I start the new book.
It is better to fix the mistakes of the past so that you can go forward with confidence.
Two books have helped me this week. A quick skim-through of An astronaut's guide to life to refresh my memory led to the new catchphrase, "What would Chris Hadfield do?" Dealing with life and death issues in space means he can't freak out and decide things are too hard. Sometimes things break. "Work the problem" is how NASA handles the unexpected. Considering how much they train for every conceivable thing that could go wrong, that there is an unexpected is amazing. But inconceivable happens.
The other book I'm reading is a YA about the need we have to label everyone. Openly Straight is fiction. A young gay man chooses to move across the country and not tell anyone he is gay because that was the only way anyone saw him back home. His English teacher assigns semester long personal essays that follow E.L. Doctorow's edict that "Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go."
Reading, thinking and the occasional jotting of notes will get me through this phase. Therapy will eventually strengthen my hand enough to get back to typing. In the meantime, I really need to mentally go through the manuscript and work out the best way to move forward with the original story and characters in a way that is less dated.
Sounds like a great way to work the problem.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Quiet
Music notes lifted from the keys to swirl around the yard like dying leaves on the Autumn breeze.
Colours collided in vibrant hues of orange, purple and gold.
Splashes of rain bounced off the dead soil.
Her eyelids flickered as his distinct scent tickled her into awareness, teased her up out of the dream about him.
The crash of the kitchen door. A scream cut off abruptly. Coppery scent of fresh blood. Senses chasing her through her dreams turned nightmares. Demons and ghosts with talons made of bone and the cold stare of Death.
Images piling on top of her, suffocating her, drowning her. Pain, the scalding hot pain of realization, speared her chest, robbed her breath. Her body shuddered as her eyes opened wide. Terror shoved adrenaline through her veins while gaze sought out answers. A silent room. An empty room
She willed her limbs into quiet. Took a deep breath to restore vital oxygen to her panicked brain. Nightmares. Only nightmares. She turned her head towards his pillow, to the comfort of his scent, the reassurance that only he could provide.
Moonlight through the window exposed the sharp steel of the blade that lay upon the red stained pillow. The scream lodged in her throat as the gloved hand reached down to silence her forever.
Colours collided in vibrant hues of orange, purple and gold.
Splashes of rain bounced off the dead soil.
Her eyelids flickered as his distinct scent tickled her into awareness, teased her up out of the dream about him.
The crash of the kitchen door. A scream cut off abruptly. Coppery scent of fresh blood. Senses chasing her through her dreams turned nightmares. Demons and ghosts with talons made of bone and the cold stare of Death.
Images piling on top of her, suffocating her, drowning her. Pain, the scalding hot pain of realization, speared her chest, robbed her breath. Her body shuddered as her eyes opened wide. Terror shoved adrenaline through her veins while gaze sought out answers. A silent room. An empty room
She willed her limbs into quiet. Took a deep breath to restore vital oxygen to her panicked brain. Nightmares. Only nightmares. She turned her head towards his pillow, to the comfort of his scent, the reassurance that only he could provide.
Moonlight through the window exposed the sharp steel of the blade that lay upon the red stained pillow. The scream lodged in her throat as the gloved hand reached down to silence her forever.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Music
Did you ever hear a piece of music so perfect you wanted to climb inside the notes and be surrounded by the exquisite beauty? And no matter where you go in life or what happens after you carry that feeling inside you, being part of the music and it being part of you. You and the music make the world so much more through that exchange. Kisses are music.
Sing to me.
Thursday, November 05, 2015
Strange fascinations
I feel for my physiotherapist. I am incapable of silence when in the company of others. This is a bit of a surprise to me. Regardless, I ask him tons of questions about physiotherapy, ultrasound, treatments, changes in medicine over the last twenty years and how they affect his practice. I ask about patient patterns, industry growth and improved understanding of the human body when it comes to physiology, kinesiology and psychiatry.
I have always been curious about science and medicine. Both of my grandmothers were nurses, my brother and nephew were both born with a malabsorption issue and my family has had all sorts of life-altering diseases. The more I've understood the better equipped I've been to helping them out whenever possible.
Books have been the gateway to knowledge for as long as I can remember. Fairy tales and nursery rhymes hid life lessons from an earlier times. My dad encouraged me to understand the symbolism and parable in each.
The thing is that no matter how much I learn, it's the tip of the iceberg to what I can still learn. Books tell me so much but trained professionals and experts can teach me so much more. I ask a few questions then listen to the answers.
It's not just my physiotherapist I subject to my interrogations. Friends, family, strangers on the Internet are all fascinating subjects for me to interview. I explore the vastness of space and the microcosm of biology, the complexities of human behaviour and the simplicity of faith, the cruelty of fate and the kindness of whimsy.
I don't think fascination with life and all it holds is limited to me. I think it's a very strong foundation of most writer personalities. It gives depth and interest to our characters, our worlds and our stories.
What's your strange fascination?
I have always been curious about science and medicine. Both of my grandmothers were nurses, my brother and nephew were both born with a malabsorption issue and my family has had all sorts of life-altering diseases. The more I've understood the better equipped I've been to helping them out whenever possible.
Books have been the gateway to knowledge for as long as I can remember. Fairy tales and nursery rhymes hid life lessons from an earlier times. My dad encouraged me to understand the symbolism and parable in each.
The thing is that no matter how much I learn, it's the tip of the iceberg to what I can still learn. Books tell me so much but trained professionals and experts can teach me so much more. I ask a few questions then listen to the answers.
It's not just my physiotherapist I subject to my interrogations. Friends, family, strangers on the Internet are all fascinating subjects for me to interview. I explore the vastness of space and the microcosm of biology, the complexities of human behaviour and the simplicity of faith, the cruelty of fate and the kindness of whimsy.
I don't think fascination with life and all it holds is limited to me. I think it's a very strong foundation of most writer personalities. It gives depth and interest to our characters, our worlds and our stories.
What's your strange fascination?
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Ch-changes
I've been busy working on the business side of writing. That's not my skill set. I write. However, I've consulted with several people who are in total control of their writing careers, as well as people who excel in the various departments.
There are some changes coming to the blog. Some changes coming to my writing routine. Most importantly, there are some changes coming to the story-in-hand process. I am torn between terror and excitement. Fitting as I write both romance and horror.
As soon as the new stuff is up, I'll let you all know. Excuse me while I go freak out. Change is scary. But vital.
There are some changes coming to the blog. Some changes coming to my writing routine. Most importantly, there are some changes coming to the story-in-hand process. I am torn between terror and excitement. Fitting as I write both romance and horror.
As soon as the new stuff is up, I'll let you all know. Excuse me while I go freak out. Change is scary. But vital.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
#WhyIWrite
A friend recently asked why I write fiction - like it's a choice. There are stories in my head at all times. Like two people getting seats at a hockey game, each wearing jerseys from the opposing team. If they are teams that have been rivals since the beginning of the league even better. My brain automatically writes the rest of the story. Maybe there's a mutual attraction. Maybe they agree to let the children choose a team for themselves.
Or a wedding photographer meets a bridesmaid at several different weddings. To him it's just a lucrative job. He's divorced and determined to never risk his heart again. She's a hopeless romantic.
The stockboy has been stalking the cheerleader for weeks. One night he approaches her behind the store where they both work. She stabs him in the eye with her car key.
I could probably think of twenty more scenarios without even trying. Better on the page than rolling around inside my head.
Why do you read fiction?
Or a wedding photographer meets a bridesmaid at several different weddings. To him it's just a lucrative job. He's divorced and determined to never risk his heart again. She's a hopeless romantic.
The stockboy has been stalking the cheerleader for weeks. One night he approaches her behind the store where they both work. She stabs him in the eye with her car key.
I could probably think of twenty more scenarios without even trying. Better on the page than rolling around inside my head.
Why do you read fiction?
Sunday, October 04, 2015
Community
The good news is we're reasonably sure we know why I was dizzy all summer - migraine. Apparently there's a migraine who's only symptom is dizziness. Figures. I now have four types of migraine on any given day.
This is interfering with my writing - and may account for my fascination with horror.
I've been reading a lot of non-fiction as well as fiction these days. Losing myself in the worlds of others is a good way to actually find what's important to me, or answers to my own world. Dolphin research, missing indigenous women, depression lies and wonderful romances where the heroes rescue animals and the heroines catch the bad guys reaffirm how fortunate I am in the life I chose. When having a bad day, like putting the car in the wrong gear and moving the garage back two feet as a result, perspective is much appreciated. Things can always be worse. Sometimes, they can be a bit better but honestly, it's a good life.
That's been the primary takeaway from all that reading. No matter how horrible the tragedies most of those people have faced, they have this amazing spirit, a determination to make their lives better as well as the lives of those around them. Even the dolphins who seem to have wonderful lives swimming in the seven seas can teach us about community and supporting one another. They assist each other in times of crisis and of joy.
I have a strong community of friends both online and in my daily existence. Several suffer with migraines and have been helpful with tips for preventing them. Others live with depression and have given me a great deal of insight into what they experience so that I can support rather than judge their choices. My insurance adjuster is funny as hell so that's helped, as have all the people I've dealt with throughout the process.
My writing buddy insists all of the above is fodder for the mill and she's right. You just know I'm going to use some of it in a story somewhere.
This is interfering with my writing - and may account for my fascination with horror.
I've been reading a lot of non-fiction as well as fiction these days. Losing myself in the worlds of others is a good way to actually find what's important to me, or answers to my own world. Dolphin research, missing indigenous women, depression lies and wonderful romances where the heroes rescue animals and the heroines catch the bad guys reaffirm how fortunate I am in the life I chose. When having a bad day, like putting the car in the wrong gear and moving the garage back two feet as a result, perspective is much appreciated. Things can always be worse. Sometimes, they can be a bit better but honestly, it's a good life.
That's been the primary takeaway from all that reading. No matter how horrible the tragedies most of those people have faced, they have this amazing spirit, a determination to make their lives better as well as the lives of those around them. Even the dolphins who seem to have wonderful lives swimming in the seven seas can teach us about community and supporting one another. They assist each other in times of crisis and of joy.
I have a strong community of friends both online and in my daily existence. Several suffer with migraines and have been helpful with tips for preventing them. Others live with depression and have given me a great deal of insight into what they experience so that I can support rather than judge their choices. My insurance adjuster is funny as hell so that's helped, as have all the people I've dealt with throughout the process.
My writing buddy insists all of the above is fodder for the mill and she's right. You just know I'm going to use some of it in a story somewhere.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Light and shadow
My friend and I abandoned an awesome art show for a few hours on Sunday to go play at Edwards Gardens. It's not exactly Central Park but it is an oasis in the city. We were a tad disappointed that so many other people felt the same way. We had a creepy photo shoot in mind. Not exactly something you can do without an explanation - or a plethora of horrified looks.
Exhibit A
There's a nice little gazebo. Dark and spider filled, it suited our needs nicely. We took a couple shots but the headless one is my favourite. I think it was helped by the bulky white sweater I was wearing. It tricked the camera's aperature. Yay!
Exhibit B
I love shadows and all the wonderful things you can do with them. I particularly enjoyed the irony of using lush green grass as our back drop. I call it Norman Bates meets Whistler's Mother. The purse over my shoulder changed my shape so that I looked considerably older and wider than normal. Still, I like it.
Exhibit C
Hmmm, I don't seem to have any photos of the tree that fascinated me with the way the leaves and light played together. I do have one dark photo of me watching it all.I'm in shadow and holding my hair out of my eyes so I can see better. Check out the creepy shadow on my arm. The tree is eating me!
In the end I decided against the committment it would require to lie at the bottom of the broken stairs beneath the police tape. Besides, I prefer to throw the bodies down there, not be one myself.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Autumn
I had a good conversation on Twitter about writer's inspiration. I realized that I'm drawn towards horror stories in the Autumn. The obvious correlation to Halloween isn't the only reason. Most of it comes from the scent of decay in the air. Leaves turn to mould, apples rot on the ground, the by-product of wine grapes presses down on the air with its sour notes. Mildew permeates everything.
It's also the time of Fall fairs with their carnivals and clowns. "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." I always associated that quote with Road Dahl and Ray Bradbury because they had such wicked observations of the nature of man. I missed out on MacBeth by moving to another province midway through high school.
Yet, Autumn is my favourite season. The smell of wood smoke riding the cool breeze reminds me of Hansel and Gretel. Cotton candy and taffy apples or even apple cider to fill the blood with the sugar rush that makes me feel invincible, daring, confident I'll return unscathed from the dark basement.
It's the time of year when rats scurry from lodging to lodging for the perfect damp place to hide out the winter months. Squirrels throw the empty walnut shells from the tree. My yard is littered with the remnants of their gorging feasts. Claw marks decorate the outer blocks of our foundation.
Yet, I love it all. I love the smells, the colours of leaves as they age then float to the ground. I love the myriad textures of the ground as it cools and retains moisture. Holes appear where before there was solid ground. The rat-a-tat pop of shells hitting the deck and the angry chatter of squirrels squabbling over the late harvest. So many flavours dance upon my tongue; pumpkin, peach, wine, fresh corn, squash, rich dark concord grapes. Autumn is a feast for the senses.
Fear underscores it all. Fear that there won't be enough food. That we're aging faster than we like. That the ground will flood. That the crops won't return next spring. That there are things waiting in the dark more terrifying than we can imagine.
We like the fear because it shows we care. We are attached to the return of all we need. And we believe it all will. It always has.
There's no reason to think it won't again.
But we enjoy the thrill of fear, regardless.
It's also the time of Fall fairs with their carnivals and clowns. "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." I always associated that quote with Road Dahl and Ray Bradbury because they had such wicked observations of the nature of man. I missed out on MacBeth by moving to another province midway through high school.
Yet, Autumn is my favourite season. The smell of wood smoke riding the cool breeze reminds me of Hansel and Gretel. Cotton candy and taffy apples or even apple cider to fill the blood with the sugar rush that makes me feel invincible, daring, confident I'll return unscathed from the dark basement.
It's the time of year when rats scurry from lodging to lodging for the perfect damp place to hide out the winter months. Squirrels throw the empty walnut shells from the tree. My yard is littered with the remnants of their gorging feasts. Claw marks decorate the outer blocks of our foundation.
Yet, I love it all. I love the smells, the colours of leaves as they age then float to the ground. I love the myriad textures of the ground as it cools and retains moisture. Holes appear where before there was solid ground. The rat-a-tat pop of shells hitting the deck and the angry chatter of squirrels squabbling over the late harvest. So many flavours dance upon my tongue; pumpkin, peach, wine, fresh corn, squash, rich dark concord grapes. Autumn is a feast for the senses.
Fear underscores it all. Fear that there won't be enough food. That we're aging faster than we like. That the ground will flood. That the crops won't return next spring. That there are things waiting in the dark more terrifying than we can imagine.
We like the fear because it shows we care. We are attached to the return of all we need. And we believe it all will. It always has.
There's no reason to think it won't again.
But we enjoy the thrill of fear, regardless.
Tuesday, September 08, 2015
Safety platform
Last week, I went back to the literal train bridge. I took a break from writing, work, and other commitments. It was hard not to think of my last post. I educated my friend about those safety platforms and we decided they would be very useful to have in all aspects of our life.
I don't like to quit. Diets are the only thing I truly abandon and even those get revisited on occasion. I do often switch up one activity for another when I'm frustrated over the lack of progress. More often than not the progress is held up by my preconceived notions.
I'm about to start a fourth book in the previously mis-named trilogy. My heroine has amazing conflict and arc. The hero is pretty cool but his conflict and arc are so minor in comparison. I'm trying to decide if that can be twisted to maximum advantage (how can he possibly understand her if he can't relate?) or if I should gut him somehow.
I have retreated to the safety platform, in this case creating a wedding gift, while I ponder which train to follow. Outrunning them seems unnecessary when I can take my time and see where they're headed instead.
Which train would you follow?
PS - I feel a bit like Sheldon Cooper and his obsession with trains
I don't like to quit. Diets are the only thing I truly abandon and even those get revisited on occasion. I do often switch up one activity for another when I'm frustrated over the lack of progress. More often than not the progress is held up by my preconceived notions.
I'm about to start a fourth book in the previously mis-named trilogy. My heroine has amazing conflict and arc. The hero is pretty cool but his conflict and arc are so minor in comparison. I'm trying to decide if that can be twisted to maximum advantage (how can he possibly understand her if he can't relate?) or if I should gut him somehow.
I have retreated to the safety platform, in this case creating a wedding gift, while I ponder which train to follow. Outrunning them seems unnecessary when I can take my time and see where they're headed instead.
Which train would you follow?
PS - I feel a bit like Sheldon Cooper and his obsession with trains
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Train bridge aka Not my best title
Some friends were just talking about household repairs and the lengths some vendors will go to in order to move equipment. It made me think about all the times that we're so focused on one route that we cannot see the others. So I wrote "Sometimes it's better to get off the tracks rather than try to out-run the train".
That made me think about my writing. Over the years I've become more flexible about changing genders or characters to better suit the story. I've re-written plots because characters solved the entire issue on page three (sometimes they are much smarter than I am). I've changed titles repeatedly to get the exact sense in three words or less. As a writer I am considerably more flexible than I am as a person. Mind you, that took a lot of time. My critique partners will tell you I clung to my ideas even when the entire group thought I'd gone off in the wrong direction. My paths are rarely direct. In writing or life.
As a business person, I know nothing. My instinct tells me one thing but my experience is the opposite. I have enlisted the advice and guidance of business people from other fields. My former accountant thought writing was an absolute waste of my time from a financial point of view. That opinion has been repeated by everyone I've consulted. None of their opinion has anything to do with my writing quality but everything to do with the competition and business model for publishing. Indie or self-publishing has made the above both better and worse. There are a lot more options for the writer to take control of their career. No one I've talked to who is doing it is able to support themselves financially from writing alone.
I have a good job doing something I love. I also love writing. I jumped off the tracks for two years and didn't write much. I definitely didn't pursue it as a career. But the manuscripts have stacked up. Their stories want to be heard. So I'm running down the track again. The train behind me is gaining speed. Fortunately, there is a bump out alongside the track, a safe place to stand when the train barrels past.
I'm going to stand there and read up on more options. I'm sure another train will be along any minute if I want to run in front of it. Or I could wait until the track is quiet and sprint down the bridge then.
If you're not sure where I mean, look straight above the left swan's head and you'll see the little cut-out on the top of the train bridge.
That made me think about my writing. Over the years I've become more flexible about changing genders or characters to better suit the story. I've re-written plots because characters solved the entire issue on page three (sometimes they are much smarter than I am). I've changed titles repeatedly to get the exact sense in three words or less. As a writer I am considerably more flexible than I am as a person. Mind you, that took a lot of time. My critique partners will tell you I clung to my ideas even when the entire group thought I'd gone off in the wrong direction. My paths are rarely direct. In writing or life.
As a business person, I know nothing. My instinct tells me one thing but my experience is the opposite. I have enlisted the advice and guidance of business people from other fields. My former accountant thought writing was an absolute waste of my time from a financial point of view. That opinion has been repeated by everyone I've consulted. None of their opinion has anything to do with my writing quality but everything to do with the competition and business model for publishing. Indie or self-publishing has made the above both better and worse. There are a lot more options for the writer to take control of their career. No one I've talked to who is doing it is able to support themselves financially from writing alone.
I have a good job doing something I love. I also love writing. I jumped off the tracks for two years and didn't write much. I definitely didn't pursue it as a career. But the manuscripts have stacked up. Their stories want to be heard. So I'm running down the track again. The train behind me is gaining speed. Fortunately, there is a bump out alongside the track, a safe place to stand when the train barrels past.
I'm going to stand there and read up on more options. I'm sure another train will be along any minute if I want to run in front of it. Or I could wait until the track is quiet and sprint down the bridge then.
If you're not sure where I mean, look straight above the left swan's head and you'll see the little cut-out on the top of the train bridge.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
When is a kiss sexual assault?
I primarily write romance. It may have some paranormal elements to it but at the end of the day it is a romance that ends on a happy note.
When my characters meet they are invariably strangers. Their first kiss is monumental. It is part of both character and plot. It rarely follows the "Can I kiss you?" scenario. They read each other's signals.
Then I read this article about a reporter who was kissed on-air by a strange man. Full disclosure, the author of the article, Michael Hollett, is my cousin, not that our relationship has any bearing on the discussion. I am aware of the backlash he encountered because he posted about it on Facebook. Michael has always stood behind his beliefs, solidly and without wavering. I know that because we're family and it's been a part of his personality from before I was born.
All the family stuff aside, the article, and Michael's stance, made me think about how easy it is to justify assault through non-verbal cues. I read far more romance than I write. I interact with human beings every day at work and at home. I've been witness to, and experienced, sexual assault. In most of the cases I can personally attest to, both literary and actual, the aggressor "mis-read" the victim's body language. In a lot of cases, they didn't care.
Is the skin flushed from fear or arousal? Are the eyes dilated from apprehension or pleasure? Is the breathing ragged from panic or anticipation? Those are the cues we use to determine whether our physical attention is wanted. It is so easy to read those signals based on our own desires and expectations.
Honestly, I've never considered the first kiss scene where the hero, or heroine, suddenly presses their lips against the heroine's, or hero's, lips to be sexual assault. You know going into the story that these people are going to meet, fall in love, triumph over conflict and live happily ever after. In real life, that is most definitely not the case.
Are romance novels at fault for that mis-communication? Not any more than video games are responsible for the increase in gun crimes at movie theatres. There are correlations but most of us know the difference between reality and fiction.
Still, I've given the kiss as sexual assault a lot of thought. A lot of thought. Just because we never viewed something a specific way before doesn't mean we shouldn't start.
When my characters meet they are invariably strangers. Their first kiss is monumental. It is part of both character and plot. It rarely follows the "Can I kiss you?" scenario. They read each other's signals.
Then I read this article about a reporter who was kissed on-air by a strange man. Full disclosure, the author of the article, Michael Hollett, is my cousin, not that our relationship has any bearing on the discussion. I am aware of the backlash he encountered because he posted about it on Facebook. Michael has always stood behind his beliefs, solidly and without wavering. I know that because we're family and it's been a part of his personality from before I was born.
All the family stuff aside, the article, and Michael's stance, made me think about how easy it is to justify assault through non-verbal cues. I read far more romance than I write. I interact with human beings every day at work and at home. I've been witness to, and experienced, sexual assault. In most of the cases I can personally attest to, both literary and actual, the aggressor "mis-read" the victim's body language. In a lot of cases, they didn't care.
Is the skin flushed from fear or arousal? Are the eyes dilated from apprehension or pleasure? Is the breathing ragged from panic or anticipation? Those are the cues we use to determine whether our physical attention is wanted. It is so easy to read those signals based on our own desires and expectations.
Honestly, I've never considered the first kiss scene where the hero, or heroine, suddenly presses their lips against the heroine's, or hero's, lips to be sexual assault. You know going into the story that these people are going to meet, fall in love, triumph over conflict and live happily ever after. In real life, that is most definitely not the case.
Are romance novels at fault for that mis-communication? Not any more than video games are responsible for the increase in gun crimes at movie theatres. There are correlations but most of us know the difference between reality and fiction.
Still, I've given the kiss as sexual assault a lot of thought. A lot of thought. Just because we never viewed something a specific way before doesn't mean we shouldn't start.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Random thoughts because it's a Wednesday
I have a notebook full of story ideas and half scenes. Anything on television from news to game shows is fodder for story. I had a brilliant idea the other day based on a science show my nephew and I were watching. We discussed it briefly but I failed to write it down. I asked him about it yesterday. His response, "You said what if something like that was really true and the thing did another thing and that happened." Really? "Yes. It was a good idea." Except neither one of us remembers anything specific.
Notebooks. They can save you from hours of speculation that never leads anywhere.
Or maybe it was just the idea that people thought their house was haunted because things went missing or reappeared in the wrong places. Turns out it's just a cat. No real twist to anyone who has ever shared space with a cat. They're brutal for stealing items and hiding them. I lived with a crow who was tidier than a cat. Crows store all their treasure in their nest, not beneath the fridge or inside your shoe. And why on earth do they think a shoe is excellent cache for a mouse. We use those shoes every day.
My mind makes weird connections. I might just write a story that puts several of them together. But first the pseudonym. And remembering the idea where the news was true and the thing did another thing and that happened. Then the parrot laughed. Because he knows how foolish human brains can be.
Notebooks. They can save you from hours of speculation that never leads anywhere.
Or maybe it was just the idea that people thought their house was haunted because things went missing or reappeared in the wrong places. Turns out it's just a cat. No real twist to anyone who has ever shared space with a cat. They're brutal for stealing items and hiding them. I lived with a crow who was tidier than a cat. Crows store all their treasure in their nest, not beneath the fridge or inside your shoe. And why on earth do they think a shoe is excellent cache for a mouse. We use those shoes every day.
My mind makes weird connections. I might just write a story that puts several of them together. But first the pseudonym. And remembering the idea where the news was true and the thing did another thing and that happened. Then the parrot laughed. Because he knows how foolish human brains can be.
Friday, August 07, 2015
Names
Greetings, my friends. The trilogy has a name - The Tiger's Eye series. Yes, series. Because while brainstorming the three books I kept coming back to one character from the third in the trilogy that was never planned. The first was a standalone. Then a character caught my attention. Then another one. And now a fourth. She got short-thrift in the third book and the goddess noticed. So she issued a challenge that the shy character is going to have to steel her spine in order to meet.
I have to finish two origin stories first. One for a secret project (who knew I could keep a secret?) and one for the horror story. It's the epilogue that shows how the painting became so disturbing. Because the final scene was so horrific, I have to make the creation scene compelling but also equally intense. The research has been too much for me to stomach so my nephew approached a neighbour who is also a hunter. It's always good to have help.
I need a pseudonym for the horror story. It's not like anything else I write. I don't want to confuse readers who are used to the voice you read over here. DNe suggested I look at contemporaries of Edgar Allen Poe and see what tweaks my creative radar. Of course, I immediately thought of Raven. It's a good name. It's not creepy though the poem is suspenseful.
What really holds me back though is an excellent short story writer I follow on Twitter - Jesse Raven His writing style is so tight and suspenseful. I look forward to his upcoming compilation. Go check out his website. You'll see why I need a different name. Ravens may flock together but one usually stands out and Jesse is it.
So the search for pseudonym continues. I could possibly keep one half of Keziah Fenton. I'm not sure which half. It's a quest. I love those.
What says horror name to you? Remember, Stephen King is already taken.
I have to finish two origin stories first. One for a secret project (who knew I could keep a secret?) and one for the horror story. It's the epilogue that shows how the painting became so disturbing. Because the final scene was so horrific, I have to make the creation scene compelling but also equally intense. The research has been too much for me to stomach so my nephew approached a neighbour who is also a hunter. It's always good to have help.
I need a pseudonym for the horror story. It's not like anything else I write. I don't want to confuse readers who are used to the voice you read over here. DNe suggested I look at contemporaries of Edgar Allen Poe and see what tweaks my creative radar. Of course, I immediately thought of Raven. It's a good name. It's not creepy though the poem is suspenseful.
What really holds me back though is an excellent short story writer I follow on Twitter - Jesse Raven His writing style is so tight and suspenseful. I look forward to his upcoming compilation. Go check out his website. You'll see why I need a different name. Ravens may flock together but one usually stands out and Jesse is it.
So the search for pseudonym continues. I could possibly keep one half of Keziah Fenton. I'm not sure which half. It's a quest. I love those.
What says horror name to you? Remember, Stephen King is already taken.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Trilogy title
Woohoo! I just finished the revisions on the NC paranormal romance, Putting Down Roots. It now joins Heaven Coming Down and Hell to Pay in the complete trilogy.
It's exciting to finally be down a project that's taken ten years from the original sentence in the first book to the final sentence in the third. I had no idea I was starting a trilogy when the idea came to me. And all because a cocky man I knew at the time said that he could solve all of the world's problems if he had the same time and resources as God.
I need a name for the trilogy. The first is a quest to save the world, features gods and demons. The second is a challenge to save one man’s soul from the demon’s daughter and the third is about nymphs and humans curing cancer while falling in love. The central theme in all three books is man's interference with nature. All the characters from the first two appear in the final showdown with the evil nymph at the end of the third book.
Do you have any ideas on what I can call the trilogy?
PS - I am doubly proud of myself for finishing it while still suffering from vertigo. If something means enough to you, you will find a way
It's exciting to finally be down a project that's taken ten years from the original sentence in the first book to the final sentence in the third. I had no idea I was starting a trilogy when the idea came to me. And all because a cocky man I knew at the time said that he could solve all of the world's problems if he had the same time and resources as God.
I need a name for the trilogy. The first is a quest to save the world, features gods and demons. The second is a challenge to save one man’s soul from the demon’s daughter and the third is about nymphs and humans curing cancer while falling in love. The central theme in all three books is man's interference with nature. All the characters from the first two appear in the final showdown with the evil nymph at the end of the third book.
Do you have any ideas on what I can call the trilogy?
PS - I am doubly proud of myself for finishing it while still suffering from vertigo. If something means enough to you, you will find a way
Tuesday, July 07, 2015
Still spinning
Being dizzy 75% of the day makes one cranky. That's my experience, at least. I miss reading and writing. I've jotted things in my notebook when the world isn't going by quite so quickly but the days of spending hours at my desk seem but a distant memory. Steps are being taken to resolve this.
In the meantime, I've learned the following:
Sitting on the ground is a good position for not only weeding but throwing a ball. Be sure to sit on the grass so that when you fall over, it's a cushy landing.
The reason the wild petunia isn't doing so well is the neighbour's volunteer black walnut. If you lie on your back and stare up between the leaves, the sky looks like it's been serrated. Also, that tree grew very tall very fast.
Mulberries hold fast to the tree branches during a wind storm but leap from their stems if you're trying to pick them. Also, a robin can ride out the wind if the berries are plentiful.
Cats like to sleep in the window. They also like to chirp at the foraging squirrel. A closed window is best at these times.
Every manner of vegetation will grow in the cracks of the sidewalk.
If you lie on the floor, the birds will fly from their cage to walk all over you. The cat stands back as beaks are sharp. Also, freckles look a lot like seeds. Beaks are very sharp when the freckle holds fast to the skin. Beak wounds heal quickly with the aid of coconut oil.
Closing your eyes to slow the spinning of the earth occasionally results in naps.
Reading a printed page is much easier on the senses than a screen. No new book scent on the screen.
All of the above can be used as research in one capacity or another. It's all fodder. Fodder!
Stay balanced, my friends
In the meantime, I've learned the following:
Sitting on the ground is a good position for not only weeding but throwing a ball. Be sure to sit on the grass so that when you fall over, it's a cushy landing.
The reason the wild petunia isn't doing so well is the neighbour's volunteer black walnut. If you lie on your back and stare up between the leaves, the sky looks like it's been serrated. Also, that tree grew very tall very fast.
Mulberries hold fast to the tree branches during a wind storm but leap from their stems if you're trying to pick them. Also, a robin can ride out the wind if the berries are plentiful.
Cats like to sleep in the window. They also like to chirp at the foraging squirrel. A closed window is best at these times.
Every manner of vegetation will grow in the cracks of the sidewalk.
If you lie on the floor, the birds will fly from their cage to walk all over you. The cat stands back as beaks are sharp. Also, freckles look a lot like seeds. Beaks are very sharp when the freckle holds fast to the skin. Beak wounds heal quickly with the aid of coconut oil.
Closing your eyes to slow the spinning of the earth occasionally results in naps.
Reading a printed page is much easier on the senses than a screen. No new book scent on the screen.
All of the above can be used as research in one capacity or another. It's all fodder. Fodder!
Stay balanced, my friends
Friday, June 19, 2015
It's always something
Vertigo, my friends. It's my second go-around in as many months. I'm am tired of the world spinning past me. I've been moving my body to minimize the speed at which things fly past my fast when I am no longer in motion.
That is not conducive to writing. Or reading, for that matter. Hence, the complete and total lack of creativity. That made the writing retreat an odd experience. Fortunately, I am blessed and was able to have many conversations and brainstorming sessions. I have notes made in the moments when the spinning was less severe.
Do you suppose the fact that the new project is about spinning wool had any bearing on my inability to stand still? Spinning, spun, fell. At least, I have some great ideas. And sheep photos. We were staying in a town whose university mascot is a ram. Lots and lots of ram paraphanalia. So my mind was definitely on the new project.
What do you do when you are unable to work on a project?
That is not conducive to writing. Or reading, for that matter. Hence, the complete and total lack of creativity. That made the writing retreat an odd experience. Fortunately, I am blessed and was able to have many conversations and brainstorming sessions. I have notes made in the moments when the spinning was less severe.
Do you suppose the fact that the new project is about spinning wool had any bearing on my inability to stand still? Spinning, spun, fell. At least, I have some great ideas. And sheep photos. We were staying in a town whose university mascot is a ram. Lots and lots of ram paraphanalia. So my mind was definitely on the new project.
What do you do when you are unable to work on a project?
Thursday, May 28, 2015
May updates
Rootless Trees is done its first draft!! I've been sitting on it waiting for feedback from my critique partner. I really struggled with the last two scenes. There were a lot of loose ends to tidy. Even in sewing or knitting, I hate doing the loose ends. You have to take time to ensure they are woven in well enough that they don't unravel, nor are seen by the eye (untrained or expert).
I'm very pleased with the horror story. It needed about five sentences for revisions. Unfortunately, that leaves it at novella length. My plan for that manuscript needed another 20,000 words. That would destroy the rhythm of the story. More pondering.
So on to the Icelandic sweater story. I need a reason the two friends will fall out. It needs to be big enough and real enough to cause a rift that can only be mended by some serious growth on the part of the two heroines. No one dies. No one gets divorced. Those are my two rules. These women have been friends for over twenty years. They can say anything to each other. But one of them has to cross a line, no matter how unreasonable it is, for the other to fall out with her. I'm just not sure which line or which one crosses it. Other than that, I have an outline and am pleased.
At this point, I can write the opening as well as get to know the characters. I'm sure the break will reveal itself. In the meantime, the feedback for Rootless Trees was good so I can take it from there.
In other news, my beautiful mulberry tree has been cut back drastically. Two gutters and a house corner were pummeled by the two main branches that curved over the porch. I don't have pictures of the handsome man on my roof taking care to damage the tree as little as possible. He managed to save three main branches, enough for a couple of jars of mulberry jam. I'll spare you the photos. It hurts my heart to stand at my desk and look out the window. One thin branch continues to reach up towards my office and occasionally wave.
I'm very pleased with the horror story. It needed about five sentences for revisions. Unfortunately, that leaves it at novella length. My plan for that manuscript needed another 20,000 words. That would destroy the rhythm of the story. More pondering.
So on to the Icelandic sweater story. I need a reason the two friends will fall out. It needs to be big enough and real enough to cause a rift that can only be mended by some serious growth on the part of the two heroines. No one dies. No one gets divorced. Those are my two rules. These women have been friends for over twenty years. They can say anything to each other. But one of them has to cross a line, no matter how unreasonable it is, for the other to fall out with her. I'm just not sure which line or which one crosses it. Other than that, I have an outline and am pleased.
At this point, I can write the opening as well as get to know the characters. I'm sure the break will reveal itself. In the meantime, the feedback for Rootless Trees was good so I can take it from there.
In other news, my beautiful mulberry tree has been cut back drastically. Two gutters and a house corner were pummeled by the two main branches that curved over the porch. I don't have pictures of the handsome man on my roof taking care to damage the tree as little as possible. He managed to save three main branches, enough for a couple of jars of mulberry jam. I'll spare you the photos. It hurts my heart to stand at my desk and look out the window. One thin branch continues to reach up towards my office and occasionally wave.
Tuesday, May 05, 2015
Letting go
Just two scenes left to write. Two scenes. I know exactly what's going to happen. So why is it taking so long to actually write all the words that are needed?
One theory is that I don't want the book to end. It's the third in a trilogy and I really like these characters. They've all been with me in one form or another for seventeen years. The original idea came out of a conversation with a male friend who thought he knew everything. Once the characters showed themselves they became as real to me as any imaginary friends. They're independent of my will. I know that sounds a little bit nuts but other writers feel the same way about their characters.
Another theory as to my delay in finishing these two scenes is the need to send them off in a really big way. I keep trying to improve on the grandiosity of the final scene. That's in conflict with the tone of the story. Yes, there's magic. Yes, they're changing the world and curing cancer. But their personalities would dwell on the moment rather than the larger picture. They are intimate scenes about two characters and how their interaction affects each other. Saving the world is the by-product.
Do you ever hold off finishing a story (reading or writing) because you're not quite ready to let the characters go off into the world without you?
One theory is that I don't want the book to end. It's the third in a trilogy and I really like these characters. They've all been with me in one form or another for seventeen years. The original idea came out of a conversation with a male friend who thought he knew everything. Once the characters showed themselves they became as real to me as any imaginary friends. They're independent of my will. I know that sounds a little bit nuts but other writers feel the same way about their characters.
Another theory as to my delay in finishing these two scenes is the need to send them off in a really big way. I keep trying to improve on the grandiosity of the final scene. That's in conflict with the tone of the story. Yes, there's magic. Yes, they're changing the world and curing cancer. But their personalities would dwell on the moment rather than the larger picture. They are intimate scenes about two characters and how their interaction affects each other. Saving the world is the by-product.
Do you ever hold off finishing a story (reading or writing) because you're not quite ready to let the characters go off into the world without you?
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Musical inspiration
The current manuscript is tentatively Season of Renewal which doesn't have earth in it either. I originally called it Rootless Trees. I like that title as they both are floundering without connections other than the ones they make together in this new land. That is a very angry song by Damien Rice. It's come in handy a few times as I worked on various scenes.
There are multiple versions of this song. The most haunting is the one with Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan. I won't post a link as I cannot find the official version that used to be on Damien's website. The angry version is much faster and full of power. Google them on youtube.
What I like most about this song is the varied nuances in each and every rendition. And I use them all in the story. Because sometimes being a rootless tree can free you up to find your heart's true home.
Titles - not as easy as one would suppose.
There are multiple versions of this song. The most haunting is the one with Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan. I won't post a link as I cannot find the official version that used to be on Damien's website. The angry version is much faster and full of power. Google them on youtube.
What I like most about this song is the varied nuances in each and every rendition. And I use them all in the story. Because sometimes being a rootless tree can free you up to find your heart's true home.
Titles - not as easy as one would suppose.
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