Recently, I cyber-met a new writing acquaintance and I'm thrilled to report she's from Alaska. We've exchanged a few emails so far and she's free with sharing experiences with me about Alaska. Yay! She also pointed out to me that the residents make fun of actors and movies that poorly portray the state. Such as Steven Segal in a movie where he rode a snow mobile across the state (or from Canada to Alaska, something like that). Yikes, would my book be hated by Alaskans as well?
This is where research comes in, the topic we're all blogging about this week. If you do the work well the first time around you won't have readers who live in your setting ready to lynch you. I started to write and then as I got really into the world I was creating, I wanted to clarify details to make things pop and to maintain consistency throughout the story. If I waited til the end to do all the research I could miss small references throughout the piece or could have to re-write a scene because the plausibility went way down with incorrect information.
I started watching a super-cool cable show called Alaskan Territories. It taught me more about Haul Road and the Alaskan pipeline then I ever cared to know, but it was truly fascinating. Having this information made me switch the timeline in my story. The Inn couldn't have opened in 1970 like I had planned, but closer to 1990.
When I wrote to my Alaskan contact and told her about the underground tunnels on my resort and how they were built, the windmills I had planned, and the insulated greenhouse, I wasn't sure what her reaction would be. Turns out, she had lived in Barrow for a bit, where the town had underground tunnels for utilities and gave tours to the public because it was considered a building marvel. And she told me that the military up there has the best vegetables (possibly from a greenhouse) and the town shops at the dump for fresh veggies because the military has to throw them out by a certain date whether or not the food appears spoiled. My new contact even mentioned windmills had been tried because of the terrific resource of severe wind across the tundra, but they froze up. A problem I solve in my book through imagining heat coils within the windmills, powered by the windmill itself.
Learning about the unique state, through books and TV shows, really helped to pull me into the world I was dreaming about. Picking a spot for my made up town was exciting once the topography of the land came into play. The extreme weather and learning to survive in such harsh conditions has produced some extraordinary individuals.
If you're a history buff or have an interest in World War II, then I recommend you check out Castner's Cutthroats. An elite group of Army soldiers recruited from the local Alaskans when the Japanese started to land in the Aleutian Islands. These sixty brave, experienced men single-handedly saved the 2,000 troops our government deployed without the correct outerwear or equipment to survive the night, let only the "two to three days" they were expected to be there. Which by the way, turned into weeks. Scattering these sixty Alaskan men among the unprepared troops to teach them how to live off the land and stay alive was the smartest thing ever done during that whole skirmish.
Their skills proved invaluable not only for surviving but for eventually eradicating the Japanese from their foothold on the remote islands as well. I was so fascinated by this human aspect of the war that I gave one of my characters a father who was one of these brave men. A father who passed his skills on to his eager son.
Speaking to someone via email who currently lives in the remote state my book is set was great. She unknowingly validated parts of my work with her casual comments and sharing of experiences. It is my sincere hope that one day I'm lucky enough to go and visit this state extensively. Now, do I want my first trip to be in the winter above the Arctic circle, just like in the setting of my book? Well, maybe not my first trip! ;-)
Have any of you been to Alaska? I'd love to hear any stories you'd care to share!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Second Place Short Story Winner: The Return
This entry comes to us from Tom Hall, who placed second in our first short story contest. He writes about my favorite topic - vampires! He's crafted a nice piece here and has created a unique world. I hope he someday expands this into a larger work so I can see what happens next. Enjoy!
The Return
By Tom Hall
Joseph always loved this part of the work—running free through the forests of Northern Europe. Just to get out of those infernal catacombs they were forced to live in as part of the Masters’ guards was a blessing he seldom received. Or, in Joseph’s case, not a guard. He was one of their assassins. That part of the job he hated. He often wondered what gave the Masters the right to dispense their own brand of justice so indiscriminately. He wondered why none of the other vampire covens had the guts to unite and overthrow them. And he wondered, not for the first time, if he was the only one who felt this way.
Of course, he guarded these thoughts very carefully. There were some vampires who could read minds, and if the Masters ever learned that he had such thoughts…well, his life would be over in an instant.
Joseph and his fellow assassin, William, were on their way back to France after having disposed of a problem in eastern Poland. Joseph had been half tempted to see if he could slip away from William, and head west to the States. But then he thought better of it. William was an excellent tracker, very loyal to the Masters, and a much better fighter than Joseph himself. So he quickly buried the idea of freedom he was secretly nursing.
They had reached the outskirts of a quaint village in southern Switzerland and were preparing to hunt, when he saw the girl. Or woman--Joseph really couldn’t quite tell which. She was walking along a street towards them. The girl seemed to have a strange, almost ageless quality about her. She was about five foot five, thin but healthy. Her light reddish hair and dark green eyes practically shimmered through the late dusk. She moved with a certain ethereal grace, almost as though she were floating. A slight glow seemed to radiate from her, illuminating the ground at her feet. So how come everyone around them, along the busy street, seemed not to notice her? Even without the glow, she was the most beautiful creature Joseph had laid eyes on. More so by far than any vampire he knew.
The closer Joseph looked, the stranger the scene became. Not one of the people she passed seemed to take any notice of her. Most kept on with their tasks. A few would pause, look around them in a slightly confused manner as she passed, and then go right back to whatever it was they had been doing. For her part, the girl seemed blissfully unaware that anything was amiss, a slight smile of contentment on her face as she weaved in and out amongst the villagers. Joseph stealthily moved closer to the girl, who paused to look in the window of one of the street shops. They stood only a few yards apart.
All of a sudden, he was hit with the most delightful smell he’d ever encountered before. Indeed, if asked before that moment, he would have doubted that anything could have smelled as wonderfully intoxicating as the aroma which now assailed his senses. Vampire though he was, he actually felt light-headed from the heady fragrance! And somehow, he knew—he didn’t know how, but he just knew—this glorious scent was coming from the girl. He licked his lips as the aroma nearly made him drool just by being so near to it.
Then two things happened in rapid succession. The first was that the girl had moved away from him while he had been lost in her scent, and turned a corner down a dark street. The other was that William had joined him, and as the girl disappeared from sight, William looked back at him and smiled. “I saw her first, brother!” Before Joseph knew what had happened, he was flat on the ground while he saw a blur of William follow the girl.
Joseph sprang to his feet, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in rage. The girl was his! Her blood was his! How dare William try and take this girl away from him! And running that fast with humans so near was dangerous as well. Joseph ran as fast as he could at a normal human speed, afraid with each step that he would be too late. William was an efficient hunter, and a nasty, cruel, and vindictive person.
Sure enough, as he turned the corner, he saw the girl cowering in a corner by a collection of rusty garbage cans. Joseph could hear her poor heart beating rapidly as she gazed, terror stricken, at William, who stood over her, leering down at her face. Joseph cringed at the sight. The girl deserved better than to die in an alley, her beautiful body found drained and lifeless beside a pile of trash! But he couldn’t risk a fight with William, not here. There were too many potential witnesses. And he figured he’d probably lose anyway. Meanwhile, the smell of the girl’s blood grew stronger, as though seeping through her pores along with her fear.
A strange, inexplicable desire to protect this helpless girl flooded through Joseph. He had never felt the like of it before. She looked so fragile cowering there! And he realized for the first time in his long life that he didn’t care what would happen. He was going to stop William from killing her. If she was going to die, it would not be in a dingy alley. No, it would be in a nice place, a beautiful garden, full of flowers and flowing water. An image of a valley he had never seen came to his mind then…flowers, a bright blue sky, rolling green hills, waves crashing on the shore. The girl walked there, blissful, happy, serene. And at that moment, Joseph made a decision. He would find that place and take her back. He would resist the urge for her blood. If he could, if only he could. But first, he had to stop William.
Joseph crouched and prepared to spring at his once-ally. The girl had shut her eyes and turned her head away, as though resigned to what was about to happen. William lifted her wrist to his face. He closed his eyes and sniffed along her arm. Joseph started to spring at him…
… then abruptly, checked himself. For just as William bit down on her arm, the girl’s head spun around. Gone was the resigned look. Now the girl’s eyes glowed softly. Her mouth was twisted in a grin that made Joseph reel back, cringing in horror—it looked like she actually wanted William to bite her!
“Yes, my sweet,” she purred in the sweetest voice Joseph could recall hearing. “Drink deeply.” William’s eyes snapped open in surprise at her voice, as he continued drinking her blood. After a few gulps, William suddenly broke contact and fell over backward in an attempt to get away.
“What are you?” William shrieked, eyes wide with terror, his hands grabbing at his neck. The girl stood, grinning down at him. William started choking and gagging, his eyes bulging out of his face. The girl continued watching him and started to laugh.
“What am I?” She repeated softly. “Oh, vain, arrogant vampires! Did you really think that nature, the Universe, God would allow you to exist—immortal, strong, fast, cunning--and not also create a force to keep you in check? A more powerful force than even your kind?” She belted out a harsh laugh that reminded him of metal scraping against metal. ”You see where your ignorance has led you? To eternal death!”
As she spoke those words, William’s shrieking rose even higher, and he suddenly burst into flame. In moments, he was nothing but a pile of ash. The girl, or whatever it was, chuckled and kicked at the pile, scattering it to the wind.
She then turned and looked at Joseph. He gulped, terrified, and fell over backwards in his haste to get away from her. To think that just moments before, he had actually thought this girl needed him to protect and save her. She had called William arrogant, but Joseph now saw that he was, too. She glided over to him, and Joseph cringed away from her. She pursed her lips and slowly shook her head as she stared down at him.
“So—this is the vaunted and feared Royal Guard of the great Masters, is it?” He heard the contempt in her voice and wondered where it came from. Joseph noticed that her voice had a lilting tone to it, an accent Joseph knew he had heard before but couldn’t place at the moment. ”Well, tis indeed good for you that none of our French or Spanish friends have woken! You wouldn’t last a day!”
Though her words confused him, Joseph had to know what she was. But all he could do was repeat William’s last words and hope they wouldn’t be his own last words as well.
“Wh-what are you?”
She smiled slightly. “A…scout, I suppose ya could call me. Yes, as good a word as any, I suppose. Y’see, we’ve decided that we have too long been absent from the affairs of the world. The humans, it seems, have for the most part forgotten about us, and this both delights and annoys us. So, we’ve emerged from under our mountains to find the world very different than before. The long centuries have taken their toll. There are humans who remember us, but precious few indeed.
“Then we learned that vampires had multiplied drastically in our absence. We made contact with those among our children who had walked among the humans during the centuries in which we had dwelt upon the earth, and they confirmed this for us. Some of our children had been combating the evil ones of you. But we also heard from them that there are good vampires that exist in this world too.”
The girl paused. She looked up at the stars that now filled the sky. “So beautiful,” she murmured.
Joseph stared at her in awe. What kind of a woman was this who faced down an attack by a vampire, effortlessly killed it, and was now distracted by the night sky? He watched her. She was glowing brighter now than when he had first seen her on the street. Her scent still filled his head, driving nearly all rational thoughts from his mind. Joseph’s heart was lost, he knew it, though he didn’t know how it could have happened.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. She turned to look down at him again. “The most gorgeous woman I have ever seen in my entire existence.”
Her thin lips curved upward and the smile on her face broadened. “That little speech has saved yer life, lad,” she said. Then he finally recognized her accent.
“You’re from Ireland?” Joseph asked.
She looked back up at the sky, sighed, and nodded. “Certain sure,” she murmured. “Only we have reemerged. Our Norse brethren are stirring as well.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Ah, the air—tis so fresh! So much better than those dank caverns.” She turned back to Joseph again. “Ah, get up, lad—I’ll not hurt ye! I want you to go back and tell yer masters that they’d best watch their steps from now on. Tis all well and good for ye tae drink human blood, but some o’ the humans are under our protection. And if they are harmed…” She paused and her eyes blazed with fury. “Then God help ye! Our wrath is a terrible thing to behold!” She turned and began to glide away from him back down the street the way she’d come.
Joseph couldn’t bear it. “Wait!” he called, hurrying after her. She paused and turned back to him, waiting for him to catch up to her. He took her hand and got down on his knees. “Please! Don’t leave me! I don’t think I can live without you!” He felt like a complete fool. Until a few minutes ago, he had prided himself on being strong where females were concerned. But all that had gone in the instant since he’d seen her. “Please take me with you! I can’t stand this life! I have wanted to get away from the Masters for so long! Can’t I come with you?”
She gazed sadly at him, and put her hand on his cheek. “Our kind doesn’t mix,” she said. “You are vampire, I am not.”
“What are you then?” Joseph whispered.
The girl sighed again. “Other,” she replied. “Older, wiser, less compulsive. Our two kinds are repulsed by one another.”
“But you don’t repulse me,” he said softly. He looked into her eyes, and could tell in his heart that she wasn’t repulsed at all. Somehow, she knew what he was thinking. “You’re right,” she whispered. “But it still can’t be.” She turned again and continued walking. “Now go and tell your Masters all you have seen here, and that we have returned once again to the world. And tell them to tread lightly so as not to arouse our anger.”
Joseph ran after her again, and touched her on the shoulder. I am pathetic, he thought. She turned back with a sigh. “Wait, please! Who am I supposed to say has returned? I don’t know what to tell the Masters.”
She smiled a grim smile. “Trust me; they’ll know who we are.”
“Please, at least tell me your name,” he begged.
“Maureen,” she said, her smile turning bright. “What’s yours?”
“J-Joseph,” he stuttered, and her smile grew.
They stood in the dark street a moment, staring at each other. Then placing her hands on either side of his face, she pressed her lips to his gently. Time seemed to stop for Joseph, as he felt her love in that tiny demonstration. He had never believed in love at first sight, or the concept of soulmates. Not, at least, before that night.
She pulled away from him finally. Then, touching his face one last time, she whispered, “Don’t be afraid--I’ll see you again, Joseph.” And with that, she disappeared—she didn’t walk away, mind you, she was just not there anymore--the street was completely deserted, except for one sad, lonely vampire.
Joseph returned to Paris, afraid that he was also returning to his death. For the Masters would demand a full report and demand to see Joseph’s thoughts. And when they found that Joseph was in love with the enemy, well, that would be it for him. But Maureen had promised they would meet again, and that gave him the courage to return to his old life.
Only one of the Masters was enthroned in the audience chamber when Joseph arrived to make his report. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief before narrating everything that had happened. Well, perhaps not everything. He left out the whole part about being in love with her. No need to die tonight.
As Joseph spoke, he could see the Master’s face growing angrier by the second. And even, Joseph realized, a bit frightened. When he was at last dismissed, he hurried to his room. Sitting down on a chair, he put his head in his hands and tried to think about what had happened. But all he could remember was her face. And the only word he could think was her name. Maureen. Smiling to himself, he said it aloud, just to hear it, thinking about how it just rolled off his tongue.
The Master, meanwhile, had retired to his chamber. But his thoughts were much less pleasant than Joseph’s were. He paced for a long time, mulling it all over. He wished the other Masters would return in short order so they could discuss this unfortunate turn of events. If he had been human, he would have broken out in a cold sweat over the news Joseph had brought back.
He sat and stared into the distance, trying to formulate a plan. Any plan to stave off the sudden reappearance of this threat. How many humans were under their protection, he wondered. He shuddered over the warning that the girl had made, about their wrath descending on them. He had seen what their wrath could do! And the words that returned to his mind over and over that night were also very different that Joseph’s, making him shudder even as he said them.
“The Fey.” He muttered. “The Fey have returned!”
The Return
By Tom Hall
Joseph always loved this part of the work—running free through the forests of Northern Europe. Just to get out of those infernal catacombs they were forced to live in as part of the Masters’ guards was a blessing he seldom received. Or, in Joseph’s case, not a guard. He was one of their assassins. That part of the job he hated. He often wondered what gave the Masters the right to dispense their own brand of justice so indiscriminately. He wondered why none of the other vampire covens had the guts to unite and overthrow them. And he wondered, not for the first time, if he was the only one who felt this way.
Of course, he guarded these thoughts very carefully. There were some vampires who could read minds, and if the Masters ever learned that he had such thoughts…well, his life would be over in an instant.
Joseph and his fellow assassin, William, were on their way back to France after having disposed of a problem in eastern Poland. Joseph had been half tempted to see if he could slip away from William, and head west to the States. But then he thought better of it. William was an excellent tracker, very loyal to the Masters, and a much better fighter than Joseph himself. So he quickly buried the idea of freedom he was secretly nursing.
They had reached the outskirts of a quaint village in southern Switzerland and were preparing to hunt, when he saw the girl. Or woman--Joseph really couldn’t quite tell which. She was walking along a street towards them. The girl seemed to have a strange, almost ageless quality about her. She was about five foot five, thin but healthy. Her light reddish hair and dark green eyes practically shimmered through the late dusk. She moved with a certain ethereal grace, almost as though she were floating. A slight glow seemed to radiate from her, illuminating the ground at her feet. So how come everyone around them, along the busy street, seemed not to notice her? Even without the glow, she was the most beautiful creature Joseph had laid eyes on. More so by far than any vampire he knew.
The closer Joseph looked, the stranger the scene became. Not one of the people she passed seemed to take any notice of her. Most kept on with their tasks. A few would pause, look around them in a slightly confused manner as she passed, and then go right back to whatever it was they had been doing. For her part, the girl seemed blissfully unaware that anything was amiss, a slight smile of contentment on her face as she weaved in and out amongst the villagers. Joseph stealthily moved closer to the girl, who paused to look in the window of one of the street shops. They stood only a few yards apart.
All of a sudden, he was hit with the most delightful smell he’d ever encountered before. Indeed, if asked before that moment, he would have doubted that anything could have smelled as wonderfully intoxicating as the aroma which now assailed his senses. Vampire though he was, he actually felt light-headed from the heady fragrance! And somehow, he knew—he didn’t know how, but he just knew—this glorious scent was coming from the girl. He licked his lips as the aroma nearly made him drool just by being so near to it.
Then two things happened in rapid succession. The first was that the girl had moved away from him while he had been lost in her scent, and turned a corner down a dark street. The other was that William had joined him, and as the girl disappeared from sight, William looked back at him and smiled. “I saw her first, brother!” Before Joseph knew what had happened, he was flat on the ground while he saw a blur of William follow the girl.
Joseph sprang to his feet, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in rage. The girl was his! Her blood was his! How dare William try and take this girl away from him! And running that fast with humans so near was dangerous as well. Joseph ran as fast as he could at a normal human speed, afraid with each step that he would be too late. William was an efficient hunter, and a nasty, cruel, and vindictive person.
Sure enough, as he turned the corner, he saw the girl cowering in a corner by a collection of rusty garbage cans. Joseph could hear her poor heart beating rapidly as she gazed, terror stricken, at William, who stood over her, leering down at her face. Joseph cringed at the sight. The girl deserved better than to die in an alley, her beautiful body found drained and lifeless beside a pile of trash! But he couldn’t risk a fight with William, not here. There were too many potential witnesses. And he figured he’d probably lose anyway. Meanwhile, the smell of the girl’s blood grew stronger, as though seeping through her pores along with her fear.
A strange, inexplicable desire to protect this helpless girl flooded through Joseph. He had never felt the like of it before. She looked so fragile cowering there! And he realized for the first time in his long life that he didn’t care what would happen. He was going to stop William from killing her. If she was going to die, it would not be in a dingy alley. No, it would be in a nice place, a beautiful garden, full of flowers and flowing water. An image of a valley he had never seen came to his mind then…flowers, a bright blue sky, rolling green hills, waves crashing on the shore. The girl walked there, blissful, happy, serene. And at that moment, Joseph made a decision. He would find that place and take her back. He would resist the urge for her blood. If he could, if only he could. But first, he had to stop William.
Joseph crouched and prepared to spring at his once-ally. The girl had shut her eyes and turned her head away, as though resigned to what was about to happen. William lifted her wrist to his face. He closed his eyes and sniffed along her arm. Joseph started to spring at him…
… then abruptly, checked himself. For just as William bit down on her arm, the girl’s head spun around. Gone was the resigned look. Now the girl’s eyes glowed softly. Her mouth was twisted in a grin that made Joseph reel back, cringing in horror—it looked like she actually wanted William to bite her!
“Yes, my sweet,” she purred in the sweetest voice Joseph could recall hearing. “Drink deeply.” William’s eyes snapped open in surprise at her voice, as he continued drinking her blood. After a few gulps, William suddenly broke contact and fell over backward in an attempt to get away.
“What are you?” William shrieked, eyes wide with terror, his hands grabbing at his neck. The girl stood, grinning down at him. William started choking and gagging, his eyes bulging out of his face. The girl continued watching him and started to laugh.
“What am I?” She repeated softly. “Oh, vain, arrogant vampires! Did you really think that nature, the Universe, God would allow you to exist—immortal, strong, fast, cunning--and not also create a force to keep you in check? A more powerful force than even your kind?” She belted out a harsh laugh that reminded him of metal scraping against metal. ”You see where your ignorance has led you? To eternal death!”
As she spoke those words, William’s shrieking rose even higher, and he suddenly burst into flame. In moments, he was nothing but a pile of ash. The girl, or whatever it was, chuckled and kicked at the pile, scattering it to the wind.
She then turned and looked at Joseph. He gulped, terrified, and fell over backwards in his haste to get away from her. To think that just moments before, he had actually thought this girl needed him to protect and save her. She had called William arrogant, but Joseph now saw that he was, too. She glided over to him, and Joseph cringed away from her. She pursed her lips and slowly shook her head as she stared down at him.
“So—this is the vaunted and feared Royal Guard of the great Masters, is it?” He heard the contempt in her voice and wondered where it came from. Joseph noticed that her voice had a lilting tone to it, an accent Joseph knew he had heard before but couldn’t place at the moment. ”Well, tis indeed good for you that none of our French or Spanish friends have woken! You wouldn’t last a day!”
Though her words confused him, Joseph had to know what she was. But all he could do was repeat William’s last words and hope they wouldn’t be his own last words as well.
“Wh-what are you?”
She smiled slightly. “A…scout, I suppose ya could call me. Yes, as good a word as any, I suppose. Y’see, we’ve decided that we have too long been absent from the affairs of the world. The humans, it seems, have for the most part forgotten about us, and this both delights and annoys us. So, we’ve emerged from under our mountains to find the world very different than before. The long centuries have taken their toll. There are humans who remember us, but precious few indeed.
“Then we learned that vampires had multiplied drastically in our absence. We made contact with those among our children who had walked among the humans during the centuries in which we had dwelt upon the earth, and they confirmed this for us. Some of our children had been combating the evil ones of you. But we also heard from them that there are good vampires that exist in this world too.”
The girl paused. She looked up at the stars that now filled the sky. “So beautiful,” she murmured.
Joseph stared at her in awe. What kind of a woman was this who faced down an attack by a vampire, effortlessly killed it, and was now distracted by the night sky? He watched her. She was glowing brighter now than when he had first seen her on the street. Her scent still filled his head, driving nearly all rational thoughts from his mind. Joseph’s heart was lost, he knew it, though he didn’t know how it could have happened.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. She turned to look down at him again. “The most gorgeous woman I have ever seen in my entire existence.”
Her thin lips curved upward and the smile on her face broadened. “That little speech has saved yer life, lad,” she said. Then he finally recognized her accent.
“You’re from Ireland?” Joseph asked.
She looked back up at the sky, sighed, and nodded. “Certain sure,” she murmured. “Only we have reemerged. Our Norse brethren are stirring as well.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Ah, the air—tis so fresh! So much better than those dank caverns.” She turned back to Joseph again. “Ah, get up, lad—I’ll not hurt ye! I want you to go back and tell yer masters that they’d best watch their steps from now on. Tis all well and good for ye tae drink human blood, but some o’ the humans are under our protection. And if they are harmed…” She paused and her eyes blazed with fury. “Then God help ye! Our wrath is a terrible thing to behold!” She turned and began to glide away from him back down the street the way she’d come.
Joseph couldn’t bear it. “Wait!” he called, hurrying after her. She paused and turned back to him, waiting for him to catch up to her. He took her hand and got down on his knees. “Please! Don’t leave me! I don’t think I can live without you!” He felt like a complete fool. Until a few minutes ago, he had prided himself on being strong where females were concerned. But all that had gone in the instant since he’d seen her. “Please take me with you! I can’t stand this life! I have wanted to get away from the Masters for so long! Can’t I come with you?”
She gazed sadly at him, and put her hand on his cheek. “Our kind doesn’t mix,” she said. “You are vampire, I am not.”
“What are you then?” Joseph whispered.
The girl sighed again. “Other,” she replied. “Older, wiser, less compulsive. Our two kinds are repulsed by one another.”
“But you don’t repulse me,” he said softly. He looked into her eyes, and could tell in his heart that she wasn’t repulsed at all. Somehow, she knew what he was thinking. “You’re right,” she whispered. “But it still can’t be.” She turned again and continued walking. “Now go and tell your Masters all you have seen here, and that we have returned once again to the world. And tell them to tread lightly so as not to arouse our anger.”
Joseph ran after her again, and touched her on the shoulder. I am pathetic, he thought. She turned back with a sigh. “Wait, please! Who am I supposed to say has returned? I don’t know what to tell the Masters.”
She smiled a grim smile. “Trust me; they’ll know who we are.”
“Please, at least tell me your name,” he begged.
“Maureen,” she said, her smile turning bright. “What’s yours?”
“J-Joseph,” he stuttered, and her smile grew.
They stood in the dark street a moment, staring at each other. Then placing her hands on either side of his face, she pressed her lips to his gently. Time seemed to stop for Joseph, as he felt her love in that tiny demonstration. He had never believed in love at first sight, or the concept of soulmates. Not, at least, before that night.
She pulled away from him finally. Then, touching his face one last time, she whispered, “Don’t be afraid--I’ll see you again, Joseph.” And with that, she disappeared—she didn’t walk away, mind you, she was just not there anymore--the street was completely deserted, except for one sad, lonely vampire.
Joseph returned to Paris, afraid that he was also returning to his death. For the Masters would demand a full report and demand to see Joseph’s thoughts. And when they found that Joseph was in love with the enemy, well, that would be it for him. But Maureen had promised they would meet again, and that gave him the courage to return to his old life.
Only one of the Masters was enthroned in the audience chamber when Joseph arrived to make his report. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief before narrating everything that had happened. Well, perhaps not everything. He left out the whole part about being in love with her. No need to die tonight.
As Joseph spoke, he could see the Master’s face growing angrier by the second. And even, Joseph realized, a bit frightened. When he was at last dismissed, he hurried to his room. Sitting down on a chair, he put his head in his hands and tried to think about what had happened. But all he could remember was her face. And the only word he could think was her name. Maureen. Smiling to himself, he said it aloud, just to hear it, thinking about how it just rolled off his tongue.
The Master, meanwhile, had retired to his chamber. But his thoughts were much less pleasant than Joseph’s were. He paced for a long time, mulling it all over. He wished the other Masters would return in short order so they could discuss this unfortunate turn of events. If he had been human, he would have broken out in a cold sweat over the news Joseph had brought back.
He sat and stared into the distance, trying to formulate a plan. Any plan to stave off the sudden reappearance of this threat. How many humans were under their protection, he wondered. He shuddered over the warning that the girl had made, about their wrath descending on them. He had seen what their wrath could do! And the words that returned to his mind over and over that night were also very different that Joseph’s, making him shudder even as he said them.
“The Fey.” He muttered. “The Fey have returned!”
Friday, May 7, 2010
On Psychic Comforts
If you’ve been following the Wicked Writers this week, you know some of us have a lot of weighty issues on our minds. Loss and uncertainty can do that to you. And weariness. I've been struggling with my own lately. Too much to do, too many people to please, not enough time or stillness to stop and breathe. So today, here are few of the little things I’ve been making time to enjoy.
Herbs. I have a fabulous Persian recipe that, while rather involved, requires chopping heaps of fresh herbs—parsley, cilantro, spring onions, garlic chives, fenugreek—to create the best aromatherapy ever. The combination of these ingredients serves a dual purpose: After making all right in the world with its uplifting, refreshing scent, it goes into a stew that’s the ultimate comfort food. Mmmm.
Cartoons. I spend the day writing and editing, and occasionally, after the girls are back from school, we watch a cartoon together. My eight-year-old prefers Word Girl, in which a young girl, secretly a superhero, solves
crimes through her brilliant vocabulary, powering up with the expression “Word up!” My five-year-old prefers Martha Speaks, about a dog that eats alphabet soup, the letters of which go to her brain instead of her tummy. The result is a talking dog with, go figure, a strong vocabulary and the ability to solve crimes. Another result: my girls may breeze through those SATs in another decade and/or save the world from evil villains. And how cool is it that my kids love both mysteries and wordplay?
Kids. Me, walking in on the girls during what looks to be very serious play: “Whatcha doing?” Them
(in front of toy laptops with no batteries): “Looking ourselves up on the Internet to read about all the ways we make the world a better place.” Sigh.
Sweet discoveries. My first Louise Penny novel, Teavana’s Arcadian Apple Tea (“with a touch of ambrosial papaya”), unused gift cards for spa treatments.
Free time. I’m working on this one. Writers have to recharge and sometimes the best way is to not think about writing. Maybe tomorrow.
Herbs. I have a fabulous Persian recipe that, while rather involved, requires chopping heaps of fresh herbs—parsley, cilantro, spring onions, garlic chives, fenugreek—to create the best aromatherapy ever. The combination of these ingredients serves a dual purpose: After making all right in the world with its uplifting, refreshing scent, it goes into a stew that’s the ultimate comfort food. Mmmm.
Cartoons. I spend the day writing and editing, and occasionally, after the girls are back from school, we watch a cartoon together. My eight-year-old prefers Word Girl, in which a young girl, secretly a superhero, solves
crimes through her brilliant vocabulary, powering up with the expression “Word up!” My five-year-old prefers Martha Speaks, about a dog that eats alphabet soup, the letters of which go to her brain instead of her tummy. The result is a talking dog with, go figure, a strong vocabulary and the ability to solve crimes. Another result: my girls may breeze through those SATs in another decade and/or save the world from evil villains. And how cool is it that my kids love both mysteries and wordplay?Kids. Me, walking in on the girls during what looks to be very serious play: “Whatcha doing?” Them
(in front of toy laptops with no batteries): “Looking ourselves up on the Internet to read about all the ways we make the world a better place.” Sigh.Sweet discoveries. My first Louise Penny novel, Teavana’s Arcadian Apple Tea (“with a touch of ambrosial papaya”), unused gift cards for spa treatments.
Free time. I’m working on this one. Writers have to recharge and sometimes the best way is to not think about writing. Maybe tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Handy hint #1 – the lighter side of self-publishing or…
Self publishing 101: Economics
So, after refusing to accept rejection – or, rather, ‘…getting fed up of waiting for an agent to pick up my work with anything more than a resigned shrug and the comment “what’s this?” to his assistant, late on a Friday evening with a whole weekend of socialising ahead of him/her, and no real interest in reading yet another synopsis’, I ventured into the realm of self-publishing. After all, I was an entrepreneur, I knew about business and I knew what was meant by marketing, sales and, above all, about producing a quality product. How difficult could it be?
The simple idea to make money out of any product is to produce it at a price and quality which will allow you to compete in a market of similar products, either offering some measure of quality or price differential (or both) to make your product more attractive than the competition. This takes as a given that there is a market that desires such products.
[caption id="attachment_2412" align="alignleft" width="127" caption="Simples!"]
[/caption]
Well, we all like books. And despite the doom merchants and e-publishing disciples, books have a market. People buy them, and will continue to do so. You just have to pitch your book to them with a quality and at a price they are willing to pay. Simple.
OK. So we have a story, we have edited the hell out of it, designed a great cover, type set it so that it is an attractive interior. In fact, it looks just like a book should look. Well, we have hundreds of thousands of examples before us. If we hold our book up to them how does it compare? Does it blend in with the others, or does it stick out? If it sticks out, it sticks out for a reason – and that might not be a good one!
To my mind, people have expectations about what a novel looks like. (We are talking fiction here, not non-fiction.) The differences between one novel and another should be in the cover design, the title, and the blurb on the cover – in all other respects, the book should be identical in quality. The paper should not be lighter, or darker, or thinner; the dimensions should not be shorter, narrower, taller or wider – these are not valid product differentiators.
[caption id="attachment_2413" align="alignright" width="143" caption="I love a challenge!"]
[/caption]
Your challenge, as a self publishing author, is to produce a book of identical quality to your competition. Your problem is one of economics. Not of writing quality. I mean, have you seen some of the books that have been published by main stream publishers – shocking! (But that’s another topic for a blog post.)
Still, where was I? Ah, yes, the problem of economics. If you have got the quality right, then the only other issue is production cost. You cannot sell a book at a greater price than the competition. If the standard price of a paperback novel is x dollars, then you need to list yours at x dollars. If a book seller needs a discount of y% then you need to offer y%. This is where the true problem in self-publishing lies. Because of production scales, it is impossible to produce a book at as lower cost as the competition. And this is where self-publishers start to cut corners and try to get their books out.
In the UK, we can use publishing services like Lulu, Createspace, and Lightning Source – these all offer packaged print/publishing services that, through their own economies of scale and POD, offer the budding self-publisher an easy option. I looked into these services myself. But there are problems. To get the costs to a reasonable level for the self-publisher, the paper tends to be whiter than white, the covers tend to be softer than soft, and – hold your freshly printed book against any mainstream book – it is either taller or shorter or wider or narrower than a standard paperback book in the shop (at least here in the UK). What we have is a product that stands out as ‘not being quite right’, before we even start to look at its design and words. It just doesn’t quite look how we expect the book to look – does it?
But now, we have taken these comments on board, and we have sourced a printer who can actually print a quality book – one that can rank alongside the others we are competing against. And we have managed to negotiate a print prince per copy that at least provides us with scope to offer a book seller a decent margin, without having to order so many copies that we will be forced to give over the entire family den to book storage requirements. What now?
There is an interesting fact about postage. Here in the UK we have physical limits which apply to the thickness of a letter as opposed to the thickness of a package. When I put a copy of my book into the post, in response to a sale from my web site or from Amazon, I put it carefully into a padded envelope to ensure that it arrives at my happy purchaser’s mail box in good condition. My book is about 30 pages too big to be classed as a letter. It effectively doubles the postage rate and kills my profit margin!
[caption id="attachment_2414" align="alignleft" width="150" caption="A weighty tome"]
[/caption]
Is there a point to this lesson. Yes. If you are ever to consider self-publishing, consider it from an early stage in your book project. If you set out to write, and write a darn good yarn that stretches to a JK Rowling-size tome of many hundreds of pages – you will have a problem. The economics will just never add up to a business proposition. The print costs alone will make sure you cannot compete in the market place. And try posting a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – all 832 pages of it. Forget it.
My own book makes a profit when I sell it from my web site, from my Amazon market place account or if I offer independent book sellers the standard commercial discount. However, if I sell it through wholesale, or post it overseas, or if I wanted to consider Amazon fulfilment services, then I would pay for it to be sold. Because I cannot get the price lower; because I cannot post it for less; because there are 30 pages too many!
Would my readers really be bothered if there were 30 pages fewer in the book? I think not. If the quality of the story holds, if the quality of the product meets expectation, there will be a market for it. How many good novels are there out there, that are under 300 pages?
So, my handy hint #1? If you are considering self-publishing (certainly here in the UK) make sure you keep your page count down to no more than about 300! At least until you are famous.
Happy writing! :)
So, after refusing to accept rejection – or, rather, ‘…getting fed up of waiting for an agent to pick up my work with anything more than a resigned shrug and the comment “what’s this?” to his assistant, late on a Friday evening with a whole weekend of socialising ahead of him/her, and no real interest in reading yet another synopsis’, I ventured into the realm of self-publishing. After all, I was an entrepreneur, I knew about business and I knew what was meant by marketing, sales and, above all, about producing a quality product. How difficult could it be?
The simple idea to make money out of any product is to produce it at a price and quality which will allow you to compete in a market of similar products, either offering some measure of quality or price differential (or both) to make your product more attractive than the competition. This takes as a given that there is a market that desires such products.
[caption id="attachment_2412" align="alignleft" width="127" caption="Simples!"]
[/caption]Well, we all like books. And despite the doom merchants and e-publishing disciples, books have a market. People buy them, and will continue to do so. You just have to pitch your book to them with a quality and at a price they are willing to pay. Simple.
OK. So we have a story, we have edited the hell out of it, designed a great cover, type set it so that it is an attractive interior. In fact, it looks just like a book should look. Well, we have hundreds of thousands of examples before us. If we hold our book up to them how does it compare? Does it blend in with the others, or does it stick out? If it sticks out, it sticks out for a reason – and that might not be a good one!
To my mind, people have expectations about what a novel looks like. (We are talking fiction here, not non-fiction.) The differences between one novel and another should be in the cover design, the title, and the blurb on the cover – in all other respects, the book should be identical in quality. The paper should not be lighter, or darker, or thinner; the dimensions should not be shorter, narrower, taller or wider – these are not valid product differentiators.
[caption id="attachment_2413" align="alignright" width="143" caption="I love a challenge!"]
[/caption]Your challenge, as a self publishing author, is to produce a book of identical quality to your competition. Your problem is one of economics. Not of writing quality. I mean, have you seen some of the books that have been published by main stream publishers – shocking! (But that’s another topic for a blog post.)
Still, where was I? Ah, yes, the problem of economics. If you have got the quality right, then the only other issue is production cost. You cannot sell a book at a greater price than the competition. If the standard price of a paperback novel is x dollars, then you need to list yours at x dollars. If a book seller needs a discount of y% then you need to offer y%. This is where the true problem in self-publishing lies. Because of production scales, it is impossible to produce a book at as lower cost as the competition. And this is where self-publishers start to cut corners and try to get their books out.
In the UK, we can use publishing services like Lulu, Createspace, and Lightning Source – these all offer packaged print/publishing services that, through their own economies of scale and POD, offer the budding self-publisher an easy option. I looked into these services myself. But there are problems. To get the costs to a reasonable level for the self-publisher, the paper tends to be whiter than white, the covers tend to be softer than soft, and – hold your freshly printed book against any mainstream book – it is either taller or shorter or wider or narrower than a standard paperback book in the shop (at least here in the UK). What we have is a product that stands out as ‘not being quite right’, before we even start to look at its design and words. It just doesn’t quite look how we expect the book to look – does it?
But now, we have taken these comments on board, and we have sourced a printer who can actually print a quality book – one that can rank alongside the others we are competing against. And we have managed to negotiate a print prince per copy that at least provides us with scope to offer a book seller a decent margin, without having to order so many copies that we will be forced to give over the entire family den to book storage requirements. What now?
There is an interesting fact about postage. Here in the UK we have physical limits which apply to the thickness of a letter as opposed to the thickness of a package. When I put a copy of my book into the post, in response to a sale from my web site or from Amazon, I put it carefully into a padded envelope to ensure that it arrives at my happy purchaser’s mail box in good condition. My book is about 30 pages too big to be classed as a letter. It effectively doubles the postage rate and kills my profit margin!
[caption id="attachment_2414" align="alignleft" width="150" caption="A weighty tome"]
[/caption]Is there a point to this lesson. Yes. If you are ever to consider self-publishing, consider it from an early stage in your book project. If you set out to write, and write a darn good yarn that stretches to a JK Rowling-size tome of many hundreds of pages – you will have a problem. The economics will just never add up to a business proposition. The print costs alone will make sure you cannot compete in the market place. And try posting a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – all 832 pages of it. Forget it.
My own book makes a profit when I sell it from my web site, from my Amazon market place account or if I offer independent book sellers the standard commercial discount. However, if I sell it through wholesale, or post it overseas, or if I wanted to consider Amazon fulfilment services, then I would pay for it to be sold. Because I cannot get the price lower; because I cannot post it for less; because there are 30 pages too many!
Would my readers really be bothered if there were 30 pages fewer in the book? I think not. If the quality of the story holds, if the quality of the product meets expectation, there will be a market for it. How many good novels are there out there, that are under 300 pages?
So, my handy hint #1? If you are considering self-publishing (certainly here in the UK) make sure you keep your page count down to no more than about 300! At least until you are famous.
Happy writing! :)
Winner of First Wicked Short Story Contest!
Those of you who've been stopping by for a while may recognize the name of the writer on this one - Harley Palmer. She's been an active poster and contributor on the blog and I was thrilled to see her enter our humble contest. Greg and I both know Harley from her writings over at writing.com, and Greg has had the pleasure of working with her to help improve his own work in her popular writing academy as well.
The story is about 3,000 words long and without further ado, I'll leave you to enjoy it...
My Nightmare
By Harley Palmer
Time came crashing to a halt, and before I realized what was happening, my world went black.
When my eyes opened, I recognized the familiar sight. A dingy hotel room that smelled of stale cigarettes and booze. I focused on the only other person in the room – him.
I screamed and sat up. I wasn't in the hotel room. I was in my own bed, in my own apartment. It was a hellish nightmare I'd had every night for the past three years. I flopped back onto the pillows and took a few deep breaths.
The light colors helped me to relax a little from the nightmare. I carefully planned the setting when I got the place. My bedside lamp was always on to drive away the shadows. Happy colors, no darkness, and sparkling clean.
The shrill ringing of the phone made me jump.
"What?" I snapped into the phone.
"Is that the way to greet an old friend?"
I bolted up in the bed. It was him. The fear from my teenage years returned full force. I had thought that hell was over. I forced myself to suck in air, reminding myself to breathe.
"Sorry, David, I didn't know it was you. How are you doing?" I had to sound cheerful. I couldn’t let him know that I didn’t want to hear his voice, that he made my skin crawl. It would make everything worse if I did.
"I'm simply wonderful. How is my favorite girl?"
I rubbed my arm as I felt goose bumps rise on my skin "I'm wonderful too," I said. I stayed quiet after that for I didn't want to say anything to anger the man on the other end. That was the rule he'd made. Let him ask the questions and I'll give the answers.
"I need your special services this weekend."
I closed my eyes and hung my head. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. The nightmare had never ended like I hoped. It had only been on pause.
"David, I…"
"You're not trying to back out on our little deal, are you? I don't think you really want that to happen, do you?"
I sighed. "No, David. Where do I need to be?"
"Good girl. Be at the Ritz hotel at eight p.m. on Friday. Be prepared to not return home until Sunday night."
"Okay. Will there be others there or just you this time?" I asked, hoping for an answer.
The only reply was a 'click' as David hung up the phone.
I threw the phone across the room as if it burned me. A whimper escaped my throat as I wiped my sweaty palms on the sheets. A tear tried to fall from my eye but I wouldn’t let it. Refusing to show any emotion, even alone, I nearly sprinted to the shower. I scrubbed as hard as I could to remove the sickening feeling that seemed to ooze from my pores. It only helped a little.
Twenty minutes later, I hopped into my car and headed for D's Place. As usual for this time of day, my best friend Lilly sat at "our table." She was talking to the waiter as the wind blew his apron about his legs.
"Hey, Lilly," I said sitting down across from her.
"Dude, what's wrong with you? You look terrible."
"Thanks," I said sarcastically.
The waiter took my order, and then disappeared back inside. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, trying to calm my nerves. Lilly followed my actions and lit a cigarette after moving her thick black hair away from her face.
The small café was a popular spot with the teenagers. I wasn’t sure why I liked going there but I guess it was my attempt to live a normal life. Regular people socialized and left their houses. All I ever wanted to do was hide.
"He called again," I whispered as if someone nearby would know what I was talking about.
"Oh no! What are you going to do?"
"What he says. We made a deal.” I sighed.
"Look, you're my best friend. You can't keep doing this. You need to report him to the authorities," Lilly said with concern in her voice.
I sighed again and shook my head. My hair waved in front of my face and the feeling of having hair was something I still was getting used to. There was a time that I had no hair at all. It was not from cancer or some kind of illness – no. I was the girl who got kidnapped my sophomore year of high school – at least that's what the news reports had said.
I pinched the bridge of my nose to stop the memory from surfacing as the waiter sat my coffee in front of me. I mumbled a thanks and he moved on.
"How about if I call the cops and make an anonymous report?" Lilly suggested.
I smiled weakly but shook my head. "I appreciate the offer. But it won't do any good. He’s evaded the cops before."
Lilly chewed on her bottom lip, a sure sign she was deep in thought. It touched my heart that she cared so much about me. She had always been a good friend.
"Lilly, I don't want you do to anything. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you." I said placing my hand over hers.
"You're the one I’m worried about," she said with a small smile. “You can’t get into the witness protection program?”
“No. I tried. They won’t even arrest him much less have a trial. Anything I say doesn’t matter, so it doesn’t warrant putting me into the program. There is no physical proof.”
We changed the subject and went shopping the rest of the afternoon. I knew she was trying to keep my mind off of my current hell. It worked, until I was back at home that evening – alone in my apartment.
I made myself a TV dinner and settled on the couch to watch the evening news. I woke up a few hours later with the half eaten dinner in my lap and a static filled TV screen. Sighing, I switched off the tube and crawled into bed – but sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned all night.
At four a.m. I gave up and sat in front of my computer. I logged online to sign into my regular chat room, hoping to see 'Archangel.' He was there and I sighed in relief.
Archangel: What you doing up so late, love? Couldn’t sleep?
BlackSoul: Yes.
Archangel: I tell you what, I'm tired. I've been awake since 5 am yesterday morning. I want to take a vacation and come spend some time with you.
BlackSoul: That's sweet…
Archangel: Anything interesting going on there?
I didn't type anything at first. I couldn't. Although I had told him before about my past, I couldn't bring myself to tell him now. Even the anonymity of the computer gave me no comfort that night.
BlackSoul: Nothing interesting really. I had lunch with L today…well yesterday.
Archangel: How is she doing?
BlackSoul: She's fine…..
Archangel: Is something bothering you babe?
BlackSoul: No why?
Archangel: We've been chatting for a few years now. I know when something is bothering you.
BlackSoul: Really, I'm fine. Just tired. I think I might try to go back to sleep.
Archangel: Okay, if you're sure you're all right. Want me to call you tomorrow?
BlackSoul: No. I'm fine really.
We wrapped up the conversation with cheesy online "kisses" and I switched off the computer. However, I didn't go back to bed. Instead I paced in my room before trying to find something on the television to occupy my mind.
By ten a.m. I showered and left the house. I had no destination in mind; I just couldn't stand to be in my apartment anymore. As I drove downtown memories of my childhood surfaced. It was a nice safe town to raise children – at least for the other children. Not for me. This town was hell.
My drive led me to the retirement home where my mother lived. Sitting in the car, I stared up at the large, four story building. I could see my Mother's window and a tear escaped my eyes.
She was the other part of the deal. She dated him for a short time but it had become obvious that he was a horrible person. The first time she came home with bruises on her face, she told us she had an accident at work.
Things got worse, as they often do. She began staying out all night and crying at random points of the day. We feared she was going to fall asleep and not wake up from the amount of pills she was taking.
David took me right out of my bed. Mom was in a drugged sleep and couldn’t hear me call to her. I was missing for three weeks. That’s when I made the deal. To save her.
I never told her that I knew about David nor did I tell her how she was able to get out of her dealings with him. I assumed she counted her blessings and was living the rest of her days in peace. At least, that's what I hoped.
I dried my eyes and made my way up to her small apartment on the third floor. She gave me a squeeze when she opened the door. She hugged me tightly and led me to the couch. I tried to convince her that I was doing okay, but she saw through the lie.
"You're not thinking about Stacy are you?" she whispered with tears in her eyes.
"I do sometimes," I admitted with a sigh.
Stacy was my older sister and the stronger one of us three girls. My Mother would tell people the car accident that killed her was a tragic accident but I knew better. I knew the truth of what happened because I was there. I watched, helpless, as David threw my drugged, unconscious sister into the car, put the car in drive, and let gravity pull the car to the bottom of a lake. He told me if I defied his commands again or went to the cops, the deal was off and he was coming after my Mother and my other sister, Renee.
So I did whatever David asked me to do to save my family. Our Dad had died when I was six and there was only Mom to protect us. Fate it seemed had its own plans, for I ended up being the protector.
"She's in a better place now," my mother said with a sad smile.
If she only knew how right she was. I changed the subject and spent the rest of the afternoon there. The distraction helped and with the lack of sleep the night before, I was able to fall asleep quickly that night.
I awoke at six a.m. on Friday morning – which is very, very early for me. I stared at the ceiling in my room, willing it to be any day but Friday. As the clock neared seven, I dragged myself out of bed.
Thirteen hours was all I had left.
I wanted to cry but couldn't find the tears. I had worked so hard to put all those painful memories behind me, to put my life together and move on. I had actually started to live a little. Now the ghosts of my past were coming back to return me to hell.
As I had made myself do for years, I got ready for the day as if nothing else was going on. I packed a very small bag with the things I needed for the nightmarish weekend. I tried to imagine I was packing for an actual vacation. It helped a little – at least I was able to pack the bag at all.
Then I had nothing to do, but wait. Lilly was at work and Renee was still out of town. I thought to pay a visit to my Mom again but decided against it. It would only serve to make me feel worse.
My tension and nervousness grew as the clock ticked on slowly. I scrubbed every surface in my apartment, vacuumed twice, and reorganized the dresser and both closets. When it was finally seven p.m., I bolted from the house with an urgency to get the weekend behind me.
I arrived at the Ritz hotel at seven-forty-five. I was very timid walking into the all too familiar lobby. David sat on a bench, waiting for me. From years of experience, I masked my fear and tension with a smile. I shut down and I became someone else. Someone David made with his cruelty. Now my name was "Jade."
"Hello David." Jade smiled sweetly.
David slowly looked me up and down. He quirked his eyebrow. Jade immediately took off the coat to reveal the cut-off shorts and the practically transparent tank top. I wanted to scream, to stop her from doing this to us, but Jade was David’s pet. I could only watch.
"Jade. How wonderful to see you. Have a seat," he said, patting the cushioned bench.
Jade sat down without hesitation. I would have hesitated and said no, but Jade was in control now. Jade did whatever David told her too without question – and always with a smile.
David slipped a room key-card into her hand. Jade kissed him on the cheek as she was supposed to do, and strolled over to the elevators.
Once in the elevators, I tried to push my way through Jade's unemotional exterior. I couldn’t let this happen. Not again. Jade won the fight by the time we reached the penthouse level.
The elevator doors slid open and another door was revealed behind it. She slid the key-card into the slot on the door, and stepped into the penthouse.
We were alone but could hear laughter coming from the bedroom. Jade knew what to do and waited for someone to come get her. She stood to the left of the door leaning against the wall with her bag still in her hands.
A big man came from the bedroom five minutes later and looked us over. Any other time I might have thought this man was attractive. He had thick brown hair held back in a tail at the base of his neck. He stood well over six feet. Wearing only sweat pants, I could see his rippled muscles in his arms and torso.
"My name is Jade," the other-me said as seductively as she could. She twirled her hair around her finger and batted her eyelashes at the man.
"Wait there. Don't move," he said gruffly. He pulled a cell phone from his pant’s pocket and punched in a number. He had a slight southern twang when he spoke. It sounded so familiar but I couldn't place why. Oddly, it gave me a bit of comfort.
He moved into the bedroom but we could hear him yelling. He came back and told me to sit down on the couch. Jade obeyed. He sat down on the other end.
"Jade, I was just talking to David. He'll be here in a few minutes," he said gently.
I was terrified. The fear that I had done something to displease the man consumed me. Jade’s face didn’t show any emotion. She looked down at her lap while I worried with what we had done wrong.
"Look at me," he said. Jade locked eyes with him and didn't look away. "Have you ever met me before?" he asked.
"No. But your voice does sound familiar to me," I said. "I just don't know why."
"I only know you as BlackSoul. And you only know me as Archangel," he whispered with a smile.
I leaned back so far I should've flipped over the arm of the couch. I couldn't believe it. Jade disappeared and I started to tremble. I felt so betrayed. Archangel, the only man I thought I could trust had paid money to "have" me for the weekend. I wanted to die.
"Listen, Jade. We don't have much time. I'm an undercover cop. When David comes up here, I'm going to arrest him," he said.
"Excuse me?" I squeaked.
He reached into his pocket and handed me his badge. "I'm here to help you," he said softly.
I wanted to cry and laugh. I had the urge to run from the room but was frozen on the spot. Where was Jade when I actually needed and wanted her strength?
"I don't understand," I finally said.
"Jade, when you told me about what David had done and why you made the deal with him – it angered me. As a cop, I'm supposed to help people. I devoted my career to tracking this guy down. He's going to go to jail for a very long time for what he did to you and your family."
I couldn't believe my ears. I had to be dreaming. This sounded too good to be true. I simply stared at him in awe.
"It'll be over soon, I promise," he said.
The elevator dinged and David walked into the room a few seconds later.
"What did she do?" he demanded, glaring at me.
"It's not what she did, it's what you did," he said. The whistle Archangel made hurt my ears.
What happened next was a blur. Uniformed cops came running from the bedroom – I counted at least three. They tackled David and put him into handcuffs. He was shouting something but I couldn't hear what. They pulled him into the elevator and just like that, it was over. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to grasp what had just happened but my brain wouldn’t wrap around the idea. David was gone. Arrested.
Archangel came over to me.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
I nodded slowly but really wasn’t sure how I felt. Any moment I was going to wake up and find this a dream. I knew it. But it wasn’t a dream. Archangel really was standing in front of me and David really had been arrested. I focused on Archangel, trying to cement myself into reality.
"My name is Michael," he said, holding out his hand.
"Just like the angel," was the only response I could think of as I timidly shook his hand. "My name is Victoria."
"Pleasure to finally, officially meet you." He smiled warmly.
Michael had saved me from the fires of Hell. As I breathed in the night air, I felt more alive in that moment than in any other moment of my life.
I smiled at him with the first, but not last, real smile of my adult life. My Angel continues to make me smile to this day.
The story is about 3,000 words long and without further ado, I'll leave you to enjoy it...
My Nightmare
By Harley Palmer
Time came crashing to a halt, and before I realized what was happening, my world went black.
When my eyes opened, I recognized the familiar sight. A dingy hotel room that smelled of stale cigarettes and booze. I focused on the only other person in the room – him.
I screamed and sat up. I wasn't in the hotel room. I was in my own bed, in my own apartment. It was a hellish nightmare I'd had every night for the past three years. I flopped back onto the pillows and took a few deep breaths.
The light colors helped me to relax a little from the nightmare. I carefully planned the setting when I got the place. My bedside lamp was always on to drive away the shadows. Happy colors, no darkness, and sparkling clean.
The shrill ringing of the phone made me jump.
"What?" I snapped into the phone.
"Is that the way to greet an old friend?"
I bolted up in the bed. It was him. The fear from my teenage years returned full force. I had thought that hell was over. I forced myself to suck in air, reminding myself to breathe.
"Sorry, David, I didn't know it was you. How are you doing?" I had to sound cheerful. I couldn’t let him know that I didn’t want to hear his voice, that he made my skin crawl. It would make everything worse if I did.
"I'm simply wonderful. How is my favorite girl?"
I rubbed my arm as I felt goose bumps rise on my skin "I'm wonderful too," I said. I stayed quiet after that for I didn't want to say anything to anger the man on the other end. That was the rule he'd made. Let him ask the questions and I'll give the answers.
"I need your special services this weekend."
I closed my eyes and hung my head. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. The nightmare had never ended like I hoped. It had only been on pause.
"David, I…"
"You're not trying to back out on our little deal, are you? I don't think you really want that to happen, do you?"
I sighed. "No, David. Where do I need to be?"
"Good girl. Be at the Ritz hotel at eight p.m. on Friday. Be prepared to not return home until Sunday night."
"Okay. Will there be others there or just you this time?" I asked, hoping for an answer.
The only reply was a 'click' as David hung up the phone.
I threw the phone across the room as if it burned me. A whimper escaped my throat as I wiped my sweaty palms on the sheets. A tear tried to fall from my eye but I wouldn’t let it. Refusing to show any emotion, even alone, I nearly sprinted to the shower. I scrubbed as hard as I could to remove the sickening feeling that seemed to ooze from my pores. It only helped a little.
Twenty minutes later, I hopped into my car and headed for D's Place. As usual for this time of day, my best friend Lilly sat at "our table." She was talking to the waiter as the wind blew his apron about his legs.
"Hey, Lilly," I said sitting down across from her.
"Dude, what's wrong with you? You look terrible."
"Thanks," I said sarcastically.
The waiter took my order, and then disappeared back inside. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, trying to calm my nerves. Lilly followed my actions and lit a cigarette after moving her thick black hair away from her face.
The small café was a popular spot with the teenagers. I wasn’t sure why I liked going there but I guess it was my attempt to live a normal life. Regular people socialized and left their houses. All I ever wanted to do was hide.
"He called again," I whispered as if someone nearby would know what I was talking about.
"Oh no! What are you going to do?"
"What he says. We made a deal.” I sighed.
"Look, you're my best friend. You can't keep doing this. You need to report him to the authorities," Lilly said with concern in her voice.
I sighed again and shook my head. My hair waved in front of my face and the feeling of having hair was something I still was getting used to. There was a time that I had no hair at all. It was not from cancer or some kind of illness – no. I was the girl who got kidnapped my sophomore year of high school – at least that's what the news reports had said.
I pinched the bridge of my nose to stop the memory from surfacing as the waiter sat my coffee in front of me. I mumbled a thanks and he moved on.
"How about if I call the cops and make an anonymous report?" Lilly suggested.
I smiled weakly but shook my head. "I appreciate the offer. But it won't do any good. He’s evaded the cops before."
Lilly chewed on her bottom lip, a sure sign she was deep in thought. It touched my heart that she cared so much about me. She had always been a good friend.
"Lilly, I don't want you do to anything. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you." I said placing my hand over hers.
"You're the one I’m worried about," she said with a small smile. “You can’t get into the witness protection program?”
“No. I tried. They won’t even arrest him much less have a trial. Anything I say doesn’t matter, so it doesn’t warrant putting me into the program. There is no physical proof.”
We changed the subject and went shopping the rest of the afternoon. I knew she was trying to keep my mind off of my current hell. It worked, until I was back at home that evening – alone in my apartment.
I made myself a TV dinner and settled on the couch to watch the evening news. I woke up a few hours later with the half eaten dinner in my lap and a static filled TV screen. Sighing, I switched off the tube and crawled into bed – but sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned all night.
At four a.m. I gave up and sat in front of my computer. I logged online to sign into my regular chat room, hoping to see 'Archangel.' He was there and I sighed in relief.
Archangel: What you doing up so late, love? Couldn’t sleep?
BlackSoul: Yes.
Archangel: I tell you what, I'm tired. I've been awake since 5 am yesterday morning. I want to take a vacation and come spend some time with you.
BlackSoul: That's sweet…
Archangel: Anything interesting going on there?
I didn't type anything at first. I couldn't. Although I had told him before about my past, I couldn't bring myself to tell him now. Even the anonymity of the computer gave me no comfort that night.
BlackSoul: Nothing interesting really. I had lunch with L today…well yesterday.
Archangel: How is she doing?
BlackSoul: She's fine…..
Archangel: Is something bothering you babe?
BlackSoul: No why?
Archangel: We've been chatting for a few years now. I know when something is bothering you.
BlackSoul: Really, I'm fine. Just tired. I think I might try to go back to sleep.
Archangel: Okay, if you're sure you're all right. Want me to call you tomorrow?
BlackSoul: No. I'm fine really.
We wrapped up the conversation with cheesy online "kisses" and I switched off the computer. However, I didn't go back to bed. Instead I paced in my room before trying to find something on the television to occupy my mind.
By ten a.m. I showered and left the house. I had no destination in mind; I just couldn't stand to be in my apartment anymore. As I drove downtown memories of my childhood surfaced. It was a nice safe town to raise children – at least for the other children. Not for me. This town was hell.
My drive led me to the retirement home where my mother lived. Sitting in the car, I stared up at the large, four story building. I could see my Mother's window and a tear escaped my eyes.
She was the other part of the deal. She dated him for a short time but it had become obvious that he was a horrible person. The first time she came home with bruises on her face, she told us she had an accident at work.
Things got worse, as they often do. She began staying out all night and crying at random points of the day. We feared she was going to fall asleep and not wake up from the amount of pills she was taking.
David took me right out of my bed. Mom was in a drugged sleep and couldn’t hear me call to her. I was missing for three weeks. That’s when I made the deal. To save her.
I never told her that I knew about David nor did I tell her how she was able to get out of her dealings with him. I assumed she counted her blessings and was living the rest of her days in peace. At least, that's what I hoped.
I dried my eyes and made my way up to her small apartment on the third floor. She gave me a squeeze when she opened the door. She hugged me tightly and led me to the couch. I tried to convince her that I was doing okay, but she saw through the lie.
"You're not thinking about Stacy are you?" she whispered with tears in her eyes.
"I do sometimes," I admitted with a sigh.
Stacy was my older sister and the stronger one of us three girls. My Mother would tell people the car accident that killed her was a tragic accident but I knew better. I knew the truth of what happened because I was there. I watched, helpless, as David threw my drugged, unconscious sister into the car, put the car in drive, and let gravity pull the car to the bottom of a lake. He told me if I defied his commands again or went to the cops, the deal was off and he was coming after my Mother and my other sister, Renee.
So I did whatever David asked me to do to save my family. Our Dad had died when I was six and there was only Mom to protect us. Fate it seemed had its own plans, for I ended up being the protector.
"She's in a better place now," my mother said with a sad smile.
If she only knew how right she was. I changed the subject and spent the rest of the afternoon there. The distraction helped and with the lack of sleep the night before, I was able to fall asleep quickly that night.
I awoke at six a.m. on Friday morning – which is very, very early for me. I stared at the ceiling in my room, willing it to be any day but Friday. As the clock neared seven, I dragged myself out of bed.
Thirteen hours was all I had left.
I wanted to cry but couldn't find the tears. I had worked so hard to put all those painful memories behind me, to put my life together and move on. I had actually started to live a little. Now the ghosts of my past were coming back to return me to hell.
As I had made myself do for years, I got ready for the day as if nothing else was going on. I packed a very small bag with the things I needed for the nightmarish weekend. I tried to imagine I was packing for an actual vacation. It helped a little – at least I was able to pack the bag at all.
Then I had nothing to do, but wait. Lilly was at work and Renee was still out of town. I thought to pay a visit to my Mom again but decided against it. It would only serve to make me feel worse.
My tension and nervousness grew as the clock ticked on slowly. I scrubbed every surface in my apartment, vacuumed twice, and reorganized the dresser and both closets. When it was finally seven p.m., I bolted from the house with an urgency to get the weekend behind me.
I arrived at the Ritz hotel at seven-forty-five. I was very timid walking into the all too familiar lobby. David sat on a bench, waiting for me. From years of experience, I masked my fear and tension with a smile. I shut down and I became someone else. Someone David made with his cruelty. Now my name was "Jade."
"Hello David." Jade smiled sweetly.
David slowly looked me up and down. He quirked his eyebrow. Jade immediately took off the coat to reveal the cut-off shorts and the practically transparent tank top. I wanted to scream, to stop her from doing this to us, but Jade was David’s pet. I could only watch.
"Jade. How wonderful to see you. Have a seat," he said, patting the cushioned bench.
Jade sat down without hesitation. I would have hesitated and said no, but Jade was in control now. Jade did whatever David told her too without question – and always with a smile.
David slipped a room key-card into her hand. Jade kissed him on the cheek as she was supposed to do, and strolled over to the elevators.
Once in the elevators, I tried to push my way through Jade's unemotional exterior. I couldn’t let this happen. Not again. Jade won the fight by the time we reached the penthouse level.
The elevator doors slid open and another door was revealed behind it. She slid the key-card into the slot on the door, and stepped into the penthouse.
We were alone but could hear laughter coming from the bedroom. Jade knew what to do and waited for someone to come get her. She stood to the left of the door leaning against the wall with her bag still in her hands.
A big man came from the bedroom five minutes later and looked us over. Any other time I might have thought this man was attractive. He had thick brown hair held back in a tail at the base of his neck. He stood well over six feet. Wearing only sweat pants, I could see his rippled muscles in his arms and torso.
"My name is Jade," the other-me said as seductively as she could. She twirled her hair around her finger and batted her eyelashes at the man.
"Wait there. Don't move," he said gruffly. He pulled a cell phone from his pant’s pocket and punched in a number. He had a slight southern twang when he spoke. It sounded so familiar but I couldn't place why. Oddly, it gave me a bit of comfort.
He moved into the bedroom but we could hear him yelling. He came back and told me to sit down on the couch. Jade obeyed. He sat down on the other end.
"Jade, I was just talking to David. He'll be here in a few minutes," he said gently.
I was terrified. The fear that I had done something to displease the man consumed me. Jade’s face didn’t show any emotion. She looked down at her lap while I worried with what we had done wrong.
"Look at me," he said. Jade locked eyes with him and didn't look away. "Have you ever met me before?" he asked.
"No. But your voice does sound familiar to me," I said. "I just don't know why."
"I only know you as BlackSoul. And you only know me as Archangel," he whispered with a smile.
I leaned back so far I should've flipped over the arm of the couch. I couldn't believe it. Jade disappeared and I started to tremble. I felt so betrayed. Archangel, the only man I thought I could trust had paid money to "have" me for the weekend. I wanted to die.
"Listen, Jade. We don't have much time. I'm an undercover cop. When David comes up here, I'm going to arrest him," he said.
"Excuse me?" I squeaked.
He reached into his pocket and handed me his badge. "I'm here to help you," he said softly.
I wanted to cry and laugh. I had the urge to run from the room but was frozen on the spot. Where was Jade when I actually needed and wanted her strength?
"I don't understand," I finally said.
"Jade, when you told me about what David had done and why you made the deal with him – it angered me. As a cop, I'm supposed to help people. I devoted my career to tracking this guy down. He's going to go to jail for a very long time for what he did to you and your family."
I couldn't believe my ears. I had to be dreaming. This sounded too good to be true. I simply stared at him in awe.
"It'll be over soon, I promise," he said.
The elevator dinged and David walked into the room a few seconds later.
"What did she do?" he demanded, glaring at me.
"It's not what she did, it's what you did," he said. The whistle Archangel made hurt my ears.
What happened next was a blur. Uniformed cops came running from the bedroom – I counted at least three. They tackled David and put him into handcuffs. He was shouting something but I couldn't hear what. They pulled him into the elevator and just like that, it was over. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to grasp what had just happened but my brain wouldn’t wrap around the idea. David was gone. Arrested.
Archangel came over to me.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
I nodded slowly but really wasn’t sure how I felt. Any moment I was going to wake up and find this a dream. I knew it. But it wasn’t a dream. Archangel really was standing in front of me and David really had been arrested. I focused on Archangel, trying to cement myself into reality.
"My name is Michael," he said, holding out his hand.
"Just like the angel," was the only response I could think of as I timidly shook his hand. "My name is Victoria."
"Pleasure to finally, officially meet you." He smiled warmly.
Michael had saved me from the fires of Hell. As I breathed in the night air, I felt more alive in that moment than in any other moment of my life.
I smiled at him with the first, but not last, real smile of my adult life. My Angel continues to make me smile to this day.
Monday, May 3, 2010
We Could All Use A Good Laugh Right About Now
It was good to see President Obama trading laughs and jokes with both sides of the Congressional aisle, as well as the press at the annual White House Correspondents' dinner this past weekend. 
I like when guys with so much stress can actual poke fun at themselves and other people.
I could definitely use a laugh or two right about now.
And so could the entire world.
Normally, news about disastrous oil spills, civilly disruptive immigration laws and massive volcanic eruptions give me plenty of story ideas (hey, I'm a science fiction writer, okay?).
It's just that no one seems able to laugh. Millions of people, including thousands of griping American tourists, were stuck in Europe by a giant ash cloud (talk about an ash kicking). Of course, that wasn't nearly as bad as the black cloud hanging over Europe because Greece's finances are in arrears (I know the world needs laughter, but that's as close as I'll get with the "back door" jokes).
Even worse is the black "plague" of oil spreading out across the Gulf of Mexico. Livelihoods are about to go belly up, tourism is going to fade and five states are going to feel a huge pinch in revenue. On top of all this, gas prices are certain to go up, as will the price of a meal at the average seafood restaurant.
And what makes it all the more aggravating is that America is already doing itself in. Do we really need our allies -- "British" Petroleum and Toyota Japan -- helping us along to the grave?
The only "good" news is that we should finally stop hearing people talking about the benefits of off-shore drilling. Politics aside, that phrase had been done to death.
Anyway, all this makes me wonder when it's supposed to get better? Even Children of Men had a somewhat happy ending. Our little planet seems closer to 2012 only with much better acting and more believability.
When do we get to a Brave New World ?
I mean even this season's plot for 24 is rather nonplussed.
The rallies over the new Arizona immigration law are more exciting than Jack Bauer right now. Maybe immigration should have been the plotline. Think about it. Mexico warns it citizens to avoid Arizona (like they'll listen) for fear of being arrested. Obama and the U.S. warn Americans to avoid northern Mexico for fear of being shot by drug gangs (better to be killed at home by drug gangs). Arizona cops begin profiling (borrowing the NYPD's playbook from the 20th century). Tens of thousands of people protest, including a lot of illegals who probably should not be tempting cops right now.Tensions threaten to tear the U.S.-Mexico border apart and only Jack Bauer can stop them (with no help from Freddie Prinze Jr. because he'll spend most of his time trying to convince the cops that he is a citizen).
We need some laughs right now. Sometimes I just want to give the world the finger, but I can't because I've got a hole in it. Ingrown nail and enough...er, stuff to fill the cap of the hydrogen peroxide bottle. When I lanced it, I was laughing about as much as when I found out that Georgia has an ad valorem tax on the value of citizens' cars that gets added to registration fees (my bill was $206! -- in Texas, it was $68).
Please, give me some laughs. And not the late night white bread variety. Or the Comedy Central crap that most of us can't repeat in the office for fear of being sued for sexual or racial harassment. And none of the fake laughing I had to do during the 14-hour filming marathons for 187 Detroit with Mike Imperioli and James McDaniel, and Franklin & Bash with Mark Paul Gosselar and Malcolm McDowell. I think that was fatigue setting in when it was 30 degrees and dropping.
No, we need that self-deprecating humor that relieves tension and helps us laugh along with everyone else at the office, even the guys that drive us nuts.
We need to find the kind of levity we can all agree on. Like instead of making controversial immigration laws with 100 useful ideas and one really, really bad idea, we make one where kids pull their pants up. Or maybe we talk about ways of forcing Wal-Mart to bar women who think they have the bodies to wear tee shirts one size too small, making the rest of us have to look at their muffin tops.
Yeah, some really good, safe humor would work right about now.
Then, we can get on about our daily routines and maybe even get back to the writing we abandoned three weeks ago due to stress and seemingly endless distractions.
It's time for the "pun"-dits to speak.
And may they have better humor than me.
I like when guys with so much stress can actual poke fun at themselves and other people.
I could definitely use a laugh or two right about now.
And so could the entire world.
Normally, news about disastrous oil spills, civilly disruptive immigration laws and massive volcanic eruptions give me plenty of story ideas (hey, I'm a science fiction writer, okay?).
It's just that no one seems able to laugh. Millions of people, including thousands of griping American tourists, were stuck in Europe by a giant ash cloud (talk about an ash kicking). Of course, that wasn't nearly as bad as the black cloud hanging over Europe because Greece's finances are in arrears (I know the world needs laughter, but that's as close as I'll get with the "back door" jokes).
Even worse is the black "plague" of oil spreading out across the Gulf of Mexico. Livelihoods are about to go belly up, tourism is going to fade and five states are going to feel a huge pinch in revenue. On top of all this, gas prices are certain to go up, as will the price of a meal at the average seafood restaurant.
And what makes it all the more aggravating is that America is already doing itself in. Do we really need our allies -- "British" Petroleum and Toyota Japan -- helping us along to the grave?
The only "good" news is that we should finally stop hearing people talking about the benefits of off-shore drilling. Politics aside, that phrase had been done to death.
Anyway, all this makes me wonder when it's supposed to get better? Even Children of Men had a somewhat happy ending. Our little planet seems closer to 2012 only with much better acting and more believability.
When do we get to a Brave New World ?
I mean even this season's plot for 24 is rather nonplussed.
The rallies over the new Arizona immigration law are more exciting than Jack Bauer right now. Maybe immigration should have been the plotline. Think about it. Mexico warns it citizens to avoid Arizona (like they'll listen) for fear of being arrested. Obama and the U.S. warn Americans to avoid northern Mexico for fear of being shot by drug gangs (better to be killed at home by drug gangs). Arizona cops begin profiling (borrowing the NYPD's playbook from the 20th century). Tens of thousands of people protest, including a lot of illegals who probably should not be tempting cops right now.Tensions threaten to tear the U.S.-Mexico border apart and only Jack Bauer can stop them (with no help from Freddie Prinze Jr. because he'll spend most of his time trying to convince the cops that he is a citizen).
We need some laughs right now. Sometimes I just want to give the world the finger, but I can't because I've got a hole in it. Ingrown nail and enough...er, stuff to fill the cap of the hydrogen peroxide bottle. When I lanced it, I was laughing about as much as when I found out that Georgia has an ad valorem tax on the value of citizens' cars that gets added to registration fees (my bill was $206! -- in Texas, it was $68).
Please, give me some laughs. And not the late night white bread variety. Or the Comedy Central crap that most of us can't repeat in the office for fear of being sued for sexual or racial harassment. And none of the fake laughing I had to do during the 14-hour filming marathons for 187 Detroit with Mike Imperioli and James McDaniel, and Franklin & Bash with Mark Paul Gosselar and Malcolm McDowell. I think that was fatigue setting in when it was 30 degrees and dropping.
No, we need that self-deprecating humor that relieves tension and helps us laugh along with everyone else at the office, even the guys that drive us nuts.
We need to find the kind of levity we can all agree on. Like instead of making controversial immigration laws with 100 useful ideas and one really, really bad idea, we make one where kids pull their pants up. Or maybe we talk about ways of forcing Wal-Mart to bar women who think they have the bodies to wear tee shirts one size too small, making the rest of us have to look at their muffin tops.
Yeah, some really good, safe humor would work right about now.
Then, we can get on about our daily routines and maybe even get back to the writing we abandoned three weeks ago due to stress and seemingly endless distractions.
It's time for the "pun"-dits to speak.
And may they have better humor than me.
Celebrating Life and Saying Goodbye
This is a week filled with goodbyes and fresh beginnings. Last week, we said goodbye to fellow co-blogger, W.J. Howard, who has been a tremendous member of this team. She'll be sorely missed, and we hope to see her back often. We wish her the best with finishing The Courier and I, for one, am looking forward to reading it.
Next, we celebrate our short story contest winners - first place goes to Harley Palmer for her entry, My Nightmare, and our runner-up is Tom Hall with The Return. Honorable mention goes to Tracey James and her story My Five Angels. Thanks so much for entering, and we hope to see you all, and more, back for our short story challenge later this month. Harley's story will be posted on Wednesday, and Tom's will be posted this Sunday--please stop by and give them a read and comment to show your support!
Our topic this week is open, meaning we can blog about anything we wish. Normally, I would keep the following thoughts and emotions on my personal blog, but I don't have the mental fortitude yet to brush a recent tragedy behind and blog about writing.
As you read this, I'm attending a full-honors 21-gun military funeral in New Jersey for my nephew, Eric Monson. I debated internally for days about speaking at his services, and at one point my husband had even broached the topic because we had so much to share about Eric. I think my answer surprised him. Most times I don't mind attention, but when it is a day to honor the passing of someone I love, I would never want to switch the focus to have people trying to console me if I were to break down in tears at the podium.
Today is a day to celebrate Eric, say goodbye, and to remember him, which is what I intend to do here.
One of my earliest memories of Eric is when he's about six or seven. My husband Pete lived in a gorgeous, but run-down rental in Montville with three other guys. His sister and her family came by over the holidays for a gathering. Eric and his older brothers always did something the boys called "couch diving" when they arrived. They picked up all the couch cushions to look for coins and bills that may have slipped through. Laugh all you will, but four guys in their mid-twenties tend to pass out drunk on the couch fairly often, so their labors usually proved quite fruitful.
Another fun day was when Pete and I took Eric to the Liberty Science Center for his ninth or tenth birthday. We took him to breakfast first and it became apparent early on that Eric was uncomfortable with our undivided attention. I distinctly remember Eric asking, "why are you both looking at me?" Pete and I laughed about it later, but at the time Eric was pretty stubborn, "Quit staring at me!"
When we brought him to the gift shop later at the science center, we told him to pick whatever he wanted for his birthday gift. There was some pretty cool stuff in there and yet Eric still had a love of stuffed animals and chose a long-armed, velcro-handed monkey as his gift and hung it around his neck in a hug. I'll never forget how we kept trying to encourage him to get rockets or glow-in-the-dark planets or something... but he wanted that monkey.
Pete and I have always done extensive work on all the homes we owned. In the early years of our marriage, we flipped a home every two years or so. At our second house, we wanted to build some rock-retaining walls out back and hired all three nephews to pull rocks off the hill and weed. Justin complained but did it, albeit slowly. Asa worked his butt off, being the hardest worker of the three, and Eric was out there for maybe thirty minutes or so and came back in declaring, "I don't do manual labor."
Now, if you knew Eric in his later years, you'd know exactly how damn funny that is. He and Asa visited us quite a bit here in Virginia over the past six years. And true to form with all our other homes, we've worked a lot on this one. Eric and Asa helped to build the pergola over the hot tub, then stain the structure and a bunch of lattice that they hated doing at the time. They replaced boards in our deck and installed new railings as well.
Eric built a fire-pit table we still have and even accidently cut through our cable wire while digging in the backyard. Those boys were never scared of hard work when they came to see us in their later teen years, and our home is filled with memories of those visits.
How does one say goodbye to a person so young? Honestly, I'm not really sure. Everyone grieves differently, everyone handles death differently—it's a personal thing. Today, I will be joined by dozens, maybe hundreds, who struggle to say goodbye to Eric. None of us will be the same because of his passing.
He was a special young man, full of promise and full of life. He served our country in Iraq and was so well-loved, most of his platoon is making the trip from Texas to Jersey for the services. He struggled with his own personal demons in his teen years, and came out a better person for it. Eric had the creativity and intelligence to go far in life and a depth to his soul that was a beauty to behold.
I'll cherish every moment big and small, and I'm grateful to have had Eric in my life. Eric and I discussed his werewolf character and he sounded excited to see the story unfold. He was proud of his aunt and made me feel like writing a book truly was something special. Parts of him will live on in my series, and I hope you all will enjoy Eric and the adventures I plan for him. And I can guarantee his will be one character that never dies within the pages I write.
Next, we celebrate our short story contest winners - first place goes to Harley Palmer for her entry, My Nightmare, and our runner-up is Tom Hall with The Return. Honorable mention goes to Tracey James and her story My Five Angels. Thanks so much for entering, and we hope to see you all, and more, back for our short story challenge later this month. Harley's story will be posted on Wednesday, and Tom's will be posted this Sunday--please stop by and give them a read and comment to show your support!
Our topic this week is open, meaning we can blog about anything we wish. Normally, I would keep the following thoughts and emotions on my personal blog, but I don't have the mental fortitude yet to brush a recent tragedy behind and blog about writing.
As you read this, I'm attending a full-honors 21-gun military funeral in New Jersey for my nephew, Eric Monson. I debated internally for days about speaking at his services, and at one point my husband had even broached the topic because we had so much to share about Eric. I think my answer surprised him. Most times I don't mind attention, but when it is a day to honor the passing of someone I love, I would never want to switch the focus to have people trying to console me if I were to break down in tears at the podium.
Today is a day to celebrate Eric, say goodbye, and to remember him, which is what I intend to do here.
One of my earliest memories of Eric is when he's about six or seven. My husband Pete lived in a gorgeous, but run-down rental in Montville with three other guys. His sister and her family came by over the holidays for a gathering. Eric and his older brothers always did something the boys called "couch diving" when they arrived. They picked up all the couch cushions to look for coins and bills that may have slipped through. Laugh all you will, but four guys in their mid-twenties tend to pass out drunk on the couch fairly often, so their labors usually proved quite fruitful.
Another fun day was when Pete and I took Eric to the Liberty Science Center for his ninth or tenth birthday. We took him to breakfast first and it became apparent early on that Eric was uncomfortable with our undivided attention. I distinctly remember Eric asking, "why are you both looking at me?" Pete and I laughed about it later, but at the time Eric was pretty stubborn, "Quit staring at me!"
When we brought him to the gift shop later at the science center, we told him to pick whatever he wanted for his birthday gift. There was some pretty cool stuff in there and yet Eric still had a love of stuffed animals and chose a long-armed, velcro-handed monkey as his gift and hung it around his neck in a hug. I'll never forget how we kept trying to encourage him to get rockets or glow-in-the-dark planets or something... but he wanted that monkey.
Pete and I have always done extensive work on all the homes we owned. In the early years of our marriage, we flipped a home every two years or so. At our second house, we wanted to build some rock-retaining walls out back and hired all three nephews to pull rocks off the hill and weed. Justin complained but did it, albeit slowly. Asa worked his butt off, being the hardest worker of the three, and Eric was out there for maybe thirty minutes or so and came back in declaring, "I don't do manual labor."
Now, if you knew Eric in his later years, you'd know exactly how damn funny that is. He and Asa visited us quite a bit here in Virginia over the past six years. And true to form with all our other homes, we've worked a lot on this one. Eric and Asa helped to build the pergola over the hot tub, then stain the structure and a bunch of lattice that they hated doing at the time. They replaced boards in our deck and installed new railings as well.
Eric built a fire-pit table we still have and even accidently cut through our cable wire while digging in the backyard. Those boys were never scared of hard work when they came to see us in their later teen years, and our home is filled with memories of those visits.
How does one say goodbye to a person so young? Honestly, I'm not really sure. Everyone grieves differently, everyone handles death differently—it's a personal thing. Today, I will be joined by dozens, maybe hundreds, who struggle to say goodbye to Eric. None of us will be the same because of his passing.
He was a special young man, full of promise and full of life. He served our country in Iraq and was so well-loved, most of his platoon is making the trip from Texas to Jersey for the services. He struggled with his own personal demons in his teen years, and came out a better person for it. Eric had the creativity and intelligence to go far in life and a depth to his soul that was a beauty to behold.
I'll cherish every moment big and small, and I'm grateful to have had Eric in my life. Eric and I discussed his werewolf character and he sounded excited to see the story unfold. He was proud of his aunt and made me feel like writing a book truly was something special. Parts of him will live on in my series, and I hope you all will enjoy Eric and the adventures I plan for him. And I can guarantee his will be one character that never dies within the pages I write.
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