Unicorn

Let Them Eat Cake

2012-01-15T21:57:00.001-06:00

A rather sick story from 2004, published in Nocturnal Ooze Magazine (now defunct)

          It was October 30, our father’s birthday. Traditionally, all of us kids gathered at the family mansion to celebrate the day, birthday cake and all. It was something I had always dreaded, especially since Mother had passed on. Father had become even harder to deal with. But now, God rot him, he was dead as well, and today was the reading of the will.

Missy hadn’t wanted to read the will on that day, saying something about bad luck. She always was the nervous one. Not that he didn’t make me nervous. On the contrary, I think I walked around with a permanent hunch to my shoulders, anticipating a blow or sharp word.

Anyway, James and I managed to convince our sister that Father’s birthday was the logical choice, as it would be exactly a year since he departed and also, he’d set it up with his lawyer that way, so it didn’t really matter what any of us wanted.

I arrived last, as befitting my position as the youngest, parking my late model clunker next to the others in the driveway. Father had been firm in his belief that his children make it on their own with no help from him or his money. Selfish bastard.

Rain pelted the top of my head, plastering my hair to my skull. I couldn’t help glancing over at the family cemetery, my eyes drawn to the last stone on the end. Strange. The grave looked disturbed…I shook the thought right out of my head. That was such impossibility it did not even deserve attention. The rain was playing a trick, that was all.

Inside I handed my dripping coat to the butler whose name I could never remember, and walked down the hallway, my heels loud on the polished floor.

The library door opened beneath my hand, and the familiar smells of cigars and old leather filled my nostrils.

James and Missy were there, standing in opposite corners, unhappy looks on their round faces.

“What the hell took you so long?” James demanded, raking a hand through his thinning hair. He looked the business man in his three piece suit.

“I’m here now, so let’s get started,” I said, and took a seat. Missy gave me a horrified look.

“What are you doing? You can’t sit in that chair,” she hissed, eyes almost popping out of her head.

“Sure I can. Who’s going to stop me? Father doesn’t need it anymore.” I grinned, and my sister made a noise and covered her face.

“L…leave her alone,” James said, and I shrugged. I stroked the smooth leather of the armrest, thinking I might have to take it with me. I could use a chair like that in my office.

“Ahem.” Mr. Jennings cleared his throat. “If we could get started now?” Mr. Jennings had been my father’s lawyer for the last thirty years, and he was one cold S.O.B.

My sibling pulled out chairs as far away from me as possible, and Mr. Jennings stood by the fireplace and opened a folder.

“Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? You three are here because of your inheritance.”

“Of course we are,” James said, leaning forward. “So let’s get on with it.” He rested his palms on his thighs and waited.

“Very well,” Jennings said, placing a pair of reading glasses on his patrician nose.

“As you know, I’ve been your father’s legal advisor for a very long time. And, if I may take the liberty, I have also been his main confidant.” I rolled my eyes, trying to look bored. My shoulders were tight, though, because I knew my father wouldn’t pass up one last chance to screw us over.

“His last request to me was… how shall I put it?” Jennings paused and looked at each of us in turn. His eyes were so black the pupil wasn’t visible. Creepy.

“Come on, Jennings,” I interrupted, tired of the melodrama. “Out with it. What do we have to do to get our hands on the cash?”

Jennings wrinkled his nose at my crudeness. “Simply eat a birthday cake,” he said, and motioned behind him. The butler hurried in carrying a large silver tray. On the tray was a cake. A cake covered with blood-red frosting.

“Eat that cake? That’s it?” Missy sounded amazed, and relieved. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and actually smiled at me. I didn’t return it

“That’s it,” Jennings said, smiling unpleasantly. “Although there is one thing you should know about this particular cake.”

“What’s that?” James asked warily. He, too, suspected something. Our father was fond of practical jokes, the malicious kind that made people cry.

“Your father insisted on being a part of the cake, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Jennings laughed, and James grabbed his arm, wrinkling the elegant black suit.

“Quit playing games, old man, and tell us.” Jennings narrowed his eyes and yanked back his arm. James didn’t back down, though, and I felt a moment of admiration for my brother. There was a backbone in there somewhere after all.

“Very well. In order for the three of you to receive the money, you must consume the entire cake--every single crumb.”

“And if we don’t?” Missy asked, eyes darting nervously. She twisted a strand of her mousy brown hair around a finger, a childhood habit our father had tried in vain to break. One of the only times he’d ever failed.

“Then your share will be divided between the remaining siblings, provided they meet the terms.”

“So there’s a chance one of us could get all 50 million,” I said slowly, and Jennings nodded.

“Minus my fees, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, and there is just one more thing,” Jennings said, and he was really enjoying this. “As I said before, your father wanted to be a part of this, and he is. He’s at the center of the cake.”

“At the center….you don’t mean….” James stuttered, face white.

“Yes, I do mean. The cake was baked with your father’s head in the center.”

Missy screamed, fingers tangled in her hair. James’s mouth was an O of disgusted surprise. Me? It didn’t surprise me. Or at least not much. It was just the kind of nasty, tasteless joke my father had always enjoyed playing on his children.

Fascinated, I went closer, unable to take my eyes off of it. Even Missy crept closer, hand pressed to her mouth.

Across the top of the cake, piped in white frosting, was a message: Love, Daddy. I wondered who had actually dug up the grave and baked this nauseating dessert.

“He can’t do this, can he?” Missy pleaded, tugging on Jennings’ sleeve.

“Madam, he can do whatever the hell he wants.”

“I hope its chocolate,” I said, feeling a grin playing around my mouth.

“I can’t do this,” Missy whispered desperately, digging at her face with her lacquered fingernails.

I picked up the knife the butler had provided and brought it down right through the center of the cake. The blade made a loud clunk and Missy moaned and swayed.

James looked at me grimly. “Let’s get to it.”

“Righto, brother. One piece of birthday cake coming up.” I sliced him a thick piece and tossed it on one of my mother’s antique china plates. James picked up the plate and stared at it. Chocolate had never been his favorite.

“It’s your mother’s recipe,” Jennings commented, and Missy did faint then, falling to the carpet with a muffled thump. Neither of us looked around.

“I’m going to win,” James told me, eating his piece in two bites. I ate mine in one and dug into the cake with my hands, stuffing my mouth. The cake had a funny taste, but I’d eat anything for fifty million dollars. Hell, I’d lick the plate clean for that kind of money.

“You haven’t the balls,” I said, and he tore off half the cake, exposing part of the head. Rotted skin, now cooked through and through, clung in places to the forehead. The bone shone wetly in the dim light and I heard James swallow hard.

“What’s the matter? Gonna toss your cookies?”

“Bite me.” My brother grabbed another handful, and this time what was left of our father’s face stared out at us. Yellowing teeth grinned through bits of chocolate, and I laughed.

“Hey, look! Dad’s enjoying the cake, too!”

“You’re disgusting,” James said, nostrils flaring. He kept swallowing, choking down the vomit I knew rose in his throat every time he took a bite.

I have to give my brother credit, though. It wasn’t until a long, grey hair got caught in his teeth that he gave in and puked all over the priceless Persian rug. But I didn’t mind; you can buy a lot of rugs with fifty million dollars.

Now my father’s skull sits in the center of my desk in the library. It is very shiny and very smooth. And when I take it in my hands and lovingly run my tongue over the coolness, it tastes ever so slightly of chocolate.





          (c)2004 WS Ribelin

Feline Fatale

2012-01-13T15:27:00.004-06:00

Sunset.

I awake. Not gradually, but all at once. Climbing to my feet, I stretch mymuscles, warming them for the task ahead. Lightly, I jump out of the box andnudge open the closet door.

My pupils adjust to the brighter light painfully, although the room would seemdark to him. I cock my head, listening. Ah, he is in the kitchen, preparing mydinner, no doubt.

I pad down the hallway noiselessly, passing each familiar room. There are nopictures of me, and no mirrors hang in any room in this house. It was part ofour original arrangement, that.

Pausing in the doorway, I watch him cutting the meat at the counter. It isalways beef, freshly cut. I like it bloody. Saliva squirts in my mouth, and Iyowl, startling him.

“Alexis, you scared me.” He smiles and reaches down to touch me. I arch my backbeneath his strong hand, wind my body around his ankles.

“Are you hungry? Of course you are.” He sets the plate on the floor beside meand I can’t help it, I snatch the meat and begin to chew. He chuckles, but Idon’t mind.

We have been together a long time, he and I. He rescued me one rainy night soonafter I was transformed. He must have known what I was, for instead of offeringme milk, he soaked a rag in his own blood and gave it to me to suck.

Many years have passed since that night. His hair, once black as ebony,reflects the snow, and his strong shoulders are stooped now. Still, he isstrong, my human.

“My, what a hungry little lady,” he croons, going down on one knee beside me. Igrowl in warning, and he chuckles again.

“Not to worry, Alexis my love. I prefer my meat cooked.” I lick every last dropof blood from the plate and sit back on my haunches. Time for a bath.

“I’m getting old, Alexis,” he says, washing the plate in the sink. “Today Ivisited the doctor.” I turn one ear towards him while I finish my bath. “Itdoesn’t look good. It’s eating me alive.”

Disinterested, I sniff out the water bowl and lap it up. My human continues totalk, filling the air with a comfortable noise.

“And I’ve decided that I don’t want to sit around waiting to die.” Idly, Iwander around the kitchen, meowing. He’s starting to bore me a bit. Usually wego for a ride in his vehicle, or I sit on his lap while he watches the box.Tonight is different, though. My human seems restless.

Soon I must hunt. The bloody meat suffices, but I crave fresh, hot blood. Thechoosing of each victim was something else I enjoyed. Pretending to be amortal, I meowed and purred, allowing my potential victim to caress me. Thesehumans never seemed to suspect one so beautiful as I. I never killed, though.Just a deep bite, a few sucks, and I let go, partially satisfied. Then I soughtthe next giver of blood, and the next, until my belly fairly groaned. Only thendid I seek my box, my haven, my home.

“Alexis,” my human says, bringing me out of my reverie. “You have been the bestthing in my life.” We are in his bedroom, only a few feet from my box. He sitson his bed; I leap up next to him. He strokes me absently with one hand whilehe fiddles with an object in the other. I look closer; the object is one I haveseen only a few times. It is of black shiny metal, I do not know its name. Myhuman sighs deeply, and a murmur of disquiet rolls through my body. My whiskerstwitch; something is not right. I sense anxiety and fear, two emotions my humanrarely exudes.

“Good bye, Alexis,” he says, rubbing my head where I like it best. “I loveyou.”

BAM! Shrieking, I jump off the bed and zip out the window he leaves open forme. I run until my breath is ragged, that horrible noise still ringing in myears.

My human. What was the significance of the noise? I have to find out. I creepback stealthily, for flashing lights have surrounded my human’s abode.

I recognize none of these humans, and want to scratch them to death, sink myneedle sharp teeth into their soft flesh. Instead, I creep around to the windowand jump up on the sill.

My human lies on the floor, and the wondrous odor of fresh blood fills my nose.But something is wrong. The blood smell emanates from…my human. Several humansgather around him, yammering words I cannot understand. None notice me. Myheart beats fiercely with an unknown emotion, my eyes burn.

I stay there, watching, until my human is taken away and the night begins towane. Finally I leap to the floor, and circle the stain on the floor. I sniff,filling myself with the scent of the only thing I ever loved, the only thingthat ever loved me. I realize there is one way my human will always be with me.

Licking my whiskers clean, I climb into my box and close my eyes.

**author's note: This was one of my first stories from 2003.

End in sight

2011-11-26T15:49:00.001-06:00

NaNoWriMo novel stands at 46,764 words right now. I haven't gotten tired of it yet, like I did the one I did in '06. That one was pretty much crap. This one, Blood Moon (working title) isn't too bad. Of course it's going to need tweaking, but I noticed this year that I was more carefuly with word choice and all of that grammar stuff that the NaNo people tell you not to worry about. I worry about it. I think the difference may be a better storyline. I may post an excerpt here.

NaNoWriMo

2011-10-10T05:03:00.002-05:00

So I'm going to do the 30 day novel thing. I'm kinda excited, because while I've attempted a number of times, 2006 was my only official win. Hopefully that will change this year! In the meantime I'm working on character sketches and an outline of the whole thing, because it's always good to know how the thing will end.

wish me luck!!

I did it

2011-07-29T08:00:00.000-05:00

I sent a query letter to an agent about my YA novel. This is a big step for me, because I've been just taking the easy way--just drifting along, telling myself what I write isn't good enough.

Now I'm going to take another look at that Peter Pan story and see what I can do with it.

Go me!

Dell sucks

2011-07-26T06:53:00.000-05:00

Yes, you do, Dell company. Or maybe the salesperson who convinced us that we'd 'love' the Dell all-in-one computer sucks. That we'd like it better than the e-machine we were considering. We've had e-machines before, I'm actually typing on one right now, and they're ok. Fine. Affordable.

So now a call into Dell to speak to one of their technicians (in India) is on my IT guy's agenda. My IT guy who hates working on computers.

The thing is, this computer isn't even six months old yet, and it's been nothing but trouble. It hasn't worked right since we got it. This was the fourth time we've had to load Windows on it, and it's not loading. Piece. Of. Crap.

Of course that's where I do 'all' of my writing, thank God I saved on my flash drive. I'm a little afraid to bring the drive over here and use it because hey, this puter has a worm of some kind that's eating everything and what if it slides into my flash drive?

Fun times.

no country for old men

2011-07-19T21:56:00.000-05:00

Mixed in with my plethora of various fiction, I try to read 'classic' books as well. This time I chose 'No Country For Old Men', by Cormac McCarthy, mainly because I've seen the movie, which was quite good, if disturbing. While reading the book, I saw Josh Brolin as Moss, Tommy Lee Jones as Sheriff Bell, whose character in the book was more prominent, and Javier Bardem as Churagh, the baddest bad ass you've ever encountered. I think the only reason I made it through the book was because I'd seen the movie. I mean, the book was not that easy to read. The author is one of those types who disdains quotation marks, so you really have to pay attention to who's speaking. Many times I had to reread in order to keep the speaker straight. that being said, I did enjoy the book very much despite the differences from the movie. Lame, I know, because I'm one of those people who generally disdain the movie made from the book because the book is almost always better, but this one is an exception. I'd say that the book and movie are equal, and that's quite a feat in this era of movie making.

So, I sort of forgot about this thing

2011-07-18T20:07:00.000-05:00

Ah, the online writing journal. Two years later she thinks to unhide it on the Blogger dashboard and voila! Inspiration hits! Well, maybe. I do have some stuff I can put on here, you know, stuff from the neverending novel that's been going on like forever.

I started 'Dream On' again from Joel's point of view this time, and I've been writing it in vignettes, all with song titles that reflect the chapter's content. For some reason it's always been easier to write from his viewpoint rather than Cassidy's, who is a bit boring. I know I"m more than likely too hard on myself, but sometimes I go back and read the finished (oh yeah, I did finish it) version (first draft, kind of) and I think, 'Geeze. What crap. Who would want to read this?' Despite my two fellow writing group peeps who said otherwise. I dunno. Maybe I just want my own writing to knock me out with its awesomeness. It can happen, though, right?

Yeah, sure.

Wishing Well, Kiss and Tell

2009-03-01T15:44:00.002-06:00

I submitted this story to this years 'Big Write' at the library. Last year I gave a hard copy, but this year I subbed by email. I hope it got there. *crosses fingers* I actually forgot all about that until I was trying to find something to post here. Baby is sleeping right now, but I usually spend free moments washing dishes or messing around on the internet. Bad girl!

As she walks down the dirt road, she scuffs her bare feet, sending clouds of dirt into the air. Occasionally she steps on a pebble, which makes her curse, but doesn’t make her wish for shoes. Shoes are a luxury she doesn’t have, or want. She doesn’t have a lot of things that most people consider important. She has one dress—a blue cotton dress that’s been washed so many times it’s nearly white. There’s a hole along the hem that she intends to fix, when she gets around to it. The neckline is missing a button, so a triangle of porcelain skin is visible, unless she forgets and bends over, and then more than just a triangle shows.

She has one vanity: her long, buttery hair. It falls to her waist in a shiny wave, the cleanest part of her. Each morning she painstakingly washes it in the creek, no matter the weather. Most women have long hair, but keep theirs confined in a bun. Not her. It would be sacrilege to bind that hair. At least that’s what Frank told her once.She lives alone in a one-room shack, which is more than adequate for her means. There is a table with two rickety chairs, a sooty fireplace, and a goose down bed, legacy of her parents. For a moment her thoughts touch on them, but only for a moment. They are the past, and don’t matter anymore.

By the time she reaches town, her feet and ankles are filthy. But her hair, her gorgeous blonde hair blows around her face, drawing all eyes. She keeps her smile inside, where it is most satisfying.

The wooden boardwalk is smooth and cool under her feet, a nice change from the dirt road. She glances at the saloon, wondering if Frank is there, dealing the cards in his striped shirt and bushy mustache. What would he say if she went inside? Would he smile and kiss her, run his fingers through her hair like he does when he comes to her in the goose down bed? Or would his dark eyes pass over her, his lip curling in disgust like the townspeople?

Shrugging, she steps past a cowboy in dusty chaps, turning her head a bit so that her hair will shimmer in the noon time heat. A moment later she hears boots thump on the boardwalk behind her and hides a smile.

“Hey, uh, excuse me, Miss?”

He’s young, with big ears and a shy smile. His greasy hair is plastered to his head, his battered hat clutched in oversized hands.

“I was wondering…Can I buy you a sarsaparilla?”

She considers his offer, combing her hair with her fingers, noting the way his eyes follow every stroke. When she nods slowly, his sky blue eyes light up, transforming a homely face to one nearly handsome.

She likes blue eyes. Frank’s are brown as the dirt after rain.

The saloon is cool and dark, sawdust on the floor sticking to her feet. Pappy, the bartender, scowls at her while he wipes a dirty glass with a dirtier rag. Behind him bottles line splintered shelves on either side of the mirror.

“Two sarsaparillas, please,” the young cowboy says. Pappy’s eyebrows rise, two bushy caterpillars, but he reaches beneath the bar and sets two down two brown bottles.

“Let’s see your money, cowboy.” The bartender folds his arms across his stained apron, deliberately not looking at her. She doesn’t mind; she’s used to it. While her young admirer digs in his pockets, becoming increasingly frustrated, she leans against the bar and gazes around the saloon.

The afternoon sun slants in through the swinging doors, dust motes dancing on a sunbeam. She can hear the jingle of harnesses, the muted voices of passersby. And all the while she feels Frank’s eyes on her. His muddy brown eyes.

Fuzzy the piano player staggers up to the bar, a moth-eaten bowler crooked on his bald head.

“Hey, Pappy,” he says, spraying spittle. “I gets mighty thirsty in that corner. How about a beer for your favorite piana player?” He hiccups, notices her and smiles, displaying a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Why, hello there Lydia. You’re looking esp—espeshully lovely today.”

“Get back to the piano before I throw your skinny arse out,” Pappy says, shaking his fist not two inches from Fuzzy’s pimply nose.

“Here you go,” the cowboy says, inserting himself between the cursing piano player and Lydia. Relief makes his smile appealing. He hands her a brown bottle and raises his own to his lips. Watching his throat as he swallows, she wonders what it would be like to lie beneath him in the goose down bed.

“So your name is Lydia. I’m Jedediah,” he stammers, smooth cheeks turning red.

“Mmm—hmmm,” she says, running her fingers through her hair again. Frank is still watching, still frowning, still trying to deal the cards and not doing a very good job, judging by the grumbling going on at the table.

“Say, I hope I’m not being presumptuous, Miss Lydia, but I was wondering if you’d care to take a walk this evening?”

Slowly, she turns her head and looks directly into his face for the first time. “Why, Jedediah, I’d be right pleased.”

He flushes again, which she finds purely delightful. Even Josiah when he first met her hadn’t called her ‘Miss Lydia’, and he certainly hadn’t blushed like this big-eared boy.

Jedediah ducks his head, takes another drink. “I can meet you here, if you like.”

“Meet me at the wishing well out behind the old church. You know the place?”

He swallows. “Sure do, Miss Lydia.” He looks as if he wants to say more, but she sets her untouched sarsaparilla down on the bar and glides across the floor, flipping her shiny hair back over her shoulders.

Frank’s eyes burn a hole in her back.

*****

It is not quite twilight as she walks unhurriedly down the dusty trail, little puffs of dirt following her like puppies. In the pocket of her faded dress is a single coin for the wishing well.

Cicadas hum in the leaning oak trees, falling silent as she passes beneath. The long grass makes her legs itch and she pauses beside the church to scratch, her fingernails drawing lines through the dirt on her ankles.

The brick church is crumbling from the top down. The spire fell long ago, leaving a dark mouth with jagged teeth open to the sky. The sun continues to sink, casting the churchyard into shadows.

Lydia walks through the graveyard, touching headstones here and there. She can’t help stopping to read the inscription on one stone on the edge of the graveyard. She runs her fingers over the smooth coolness, traces the fading words carved there.

Daddy’s little angel
Rest in peace

A branch cracks somewhere behind her and she straightens quickly, swipes her hand across her stinging eyes. Probably just a rabbit but she hurries to the wishing well, bare feet squashing sticks and toadstools and black beetles that try to scurry out of her way.

It’s only a cistern surrounded by granite rocks, but to Lydia it has always seemed mysterious and magical and forbidden. The locals consider it cursed because the priest disappeared one dark night and his robes were later found lying beside the well, torn and bloody. Or so they say.

Her fingers find the coin in her pocket, close around it. She sits on the rocks sideways so that one long white leg dangles in to the deep black while the other rests in the tickly grass.

A dreamy smile appears on her face. It matches the dreamy thoughts drifting through her mind.

Jedediah crosses the graveyard and sees her sitting on the cistern. A huge smile spreads across his big-eared face. . He is carrying flowers in one hand, his hat in another, because he won’t wear his hat in the presence of a lady, it’s disrespectful. The sinking sun glints off his blue eyes, eyes dark as the sky. She rises to greet him, takes the flowers shyly offered. He stammers, blushes, tries to get words past his uncooperative tongue. Finally, taking pity on him, she raises her hand to his face, touches the smooth skin of his cheek.

“I love you, Miss Lydia,” he says, and then—

“What in the hell are you doing?”

The rough voice startles her, brings her out of the wishful dream. It’s Frank, of course, hands on his slim hips, moustache quivering. She rises, smoothing her dress.

She says nothing, holds out the coin. A sneer curls his lip and she slips the coin back into her pocket, saying nothing. When he grabs her arm, fingers pinching her skin, she doesn’t resist.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice harsh. “I thought you knew that.”

He says other things, but all she can think of are blue eyes and a sweet smile, the coin in her pocket, the wish that will go unsaid. Unfulfilled.

(c)2008 WS Ribelin

2009

2009-02-27T10:08:00.002-06:00

Thing are beginning to slow down a bit. I have a short story I am working on, not steadily, but it's constantly in my mind. Hopefully I will be able to work on it today. I know I have to make time to write, because if I wait for it to happen it never will.

Working title: "Dear Betsy"

or "Parasitic"

It's about conjoined/parasitic twins. I know they aren't the same thing, but I hope to put those two types together somehow and come out with something disturbing. Not necessarily horror, but disturbing. Yeah, disturbing would be good.

not much going on

2008-11-15T21:16:00.002-06:00

Well, with a new baby and puppies arriving in the next couple of weeks, it doesn't look like any writing will be getting done. I think my muse is fluttering around a bit, as I've been feeling the urge to write. I'm not sure just what, though. Whenever I look through my unfinished stuff, it just turns me right off. Ugh. Not a good sign. I'd like to get the writing group going again, but if I'm not writing, then what's the point? Aargh. I was looking at contests on WDC, hoping for some inspiration. I'll have to look again. Time is very limited for computer time.

From the Journal of Joel M. Wilder

2008-04-15T10:37:00.003-05:00

Nov. 15

Mr. Piper, my counselor, wants me to write in this journal whenever I feel out of control or lost or angry or anytime I can’t hold it in anymore. I don’t think there’s enough paper in this notebook. He says he won’t read it, but I don’t believe him. I don’t believe in anyone or anything. Not anymore.

Nov. 25

Happy Thanksgiving. The cooks went all out today. When I got my tray, I’m sure what the pale slab of whatever is supposed to be. Fake mashed potatoes I recognize, and a pile of canned peas that look more like rabbit shit than actual food, and a rock hard roll. Yum.

“Great, huh?” Mercer says, grinning. He scoops up some peas and stuff them in his huge mouth. I nearly puke.

I shrug, thinking about the turkey dinner I’m missing. Mom would have made pumpkin pie, like she always did, and probably pecan pie, too. Everyone would be sitting around the table, Andrea and Don and his family, the Nazi and Mom. Do they miss me? Or is it a relief I’m not there?

Nov. 27

Mom comes to see me today and brings some cookies and a slice of pecan pie from Thanksgiving dinner. She can’t stop crying, which really makes me feel like crap. She keeps saying she’s sorry. Sorry for what?

Dec. 12

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help thinking about Cass, about what it felt like to hold her, to kiss her. It hurts that I will never do that again. I’m not stupid. Even when I do get out of this hole, nothing will be the same. I know she must hate me, her and everyone else in that stupid little town. Derek was the Golden Boy, and me, I was nothing. Am nothing. Will be nothing. Forever and ever, amen.

Dec. 13

You know, this just sucks. The food sucks. The people here suck. I suck.

Is this what you wanted, Piper, you asshole? I know you’re going to read this. Read it and laugh at what a loser I am. There’s a big ‘L’ on my forehead now, or maybe it was always there and everyone saw it but me.

Dec. 15

Piper tries to get me to talk about the Nazi today. Wants to know why I call him that.

“That’s disrespectful,” he says, giving me one of those condescending looks. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps some of your conflict with your father stems from your lack of respect for him?”

I just glare because there’s nothing to say. Piper steeples his fingers and peers at me over the top. “And perhaps his lack of respect for you?” Guess he’s not as stupid as I thought.

Dec.19

Have a lovely visit from the parents. Mom is all touchy-feely, hugging me, touching me like she thinks I’m going to disappear or something. I wish. She brought me more cookies.

“You’re too thin, Joey. Don’t they feed you here?”

“Of course they feed him,” the Nazi says impatiently. As usual he doesn’t look directly at me, only somewhere off to the side. The only time he ever acknowledges my existence is when I’ve screwed up.

“You know what the lawyer said, Marcy. This is the best place for him.” He paces back and forth, from the window overlooking the yard and back to the cracked vinyl couch where me and Mom are sitting.

Mom doesn’t say anything, just keeps squeezing my hand.

“It could have been much worse, you know,” he goes on, staring out the grimy window. “He’s lucky the prosecution didn’t push for him to be tried as an adult.”

“Define ‘lucky’,” I mutter, and bingo! He sees me now. I thought his head was going to explode. Mom gets up and plays her usual role of peacemaker.

“Paul, don’t. He’s upset. Try to understand.”

“After destroying so many lives, this is much, much less than he deserves.” The Nazi snarls the words, throwing them in my face. His fists are clenched and I know he would have hit me if he thought he could get away with it.

Whatever. They leave not long after that. I guess the Nazi is right, I am lucky. If lucky is the right word.

Dec. 20

No matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about that night. Why did I take the keys? Just because Derek called me a chicken shit? I knew better. I should have blown him off instead of Cass. If I had, Derek would still be alive and I’d still have Cass. I’d still have a life. Now I have nothing. Nothing but grief and regret.

God, I want to die.

Dec. 24

I think I started hating Christmas right around the time my grandpa died. It happened a week before Christmas.

I was at my grandparents’ house helping them decorate the tree. It was something I did every year since Andrea decided she was too old for that and Don left for college. It was every cliché you could possibly imagine: Balsam wreath on the door, cookies baking in the oven, Christmas carols playing on the stereo. God, I loved it over there.

And then, right when Grandpa lifted me up so I could put the star on top of the tree, he sort of staggered and dropped me. I couldn’t believe it. I fell right into the tree with him on top of me.

I can still hear Grandma screaming his name. The branches scratched the heck out of my face and arms, but that wasn’t what hurt the most. After he died, I never went over to their house again.

I was only ten, and can you believe my folks never talked about it with me? Not even Mom. Guess they wanted to forget it ever happened. That’s pretty much the way they deal with unpleasant stuff, just pretend it never happened. Like when all that stuff went down with Carly. As soon as it was over, Mom and the Nazi never said another word about it. As far as they were concerned, nothing had changed. They were still the good parents who went to church and did the best they could with their rebellious, trouble-making son. Martyrs. And did those hypocrites ever suck it up. For a while, anyway. Until all the details came out and they asked the Nazi to step down and we left KC and came to this lousy excuse for a town. All my fault, of course. That we had to leave the church wasn’t one of those things they could pretend never happened. Kinda hard to when church work is what you do. Now the Nazi sells insurance and my mom works in a preschool.

And their rebellious, trouble-making son is in prison. Oh, excuse me. Youth facility.

(c)2008 W.S. Ribelin

so now

2008-04-15T07:15:00.002-05:00

So now I'm writing again. Working on the novel, sort of. It's actually a journal chronicling Joel's experiences after he is sentenced to a youth detention center after everything has happened. It seems to be going well, but what about the actual novel?

Well, whatever works, right?

Yeah, I thought so.

Consider the Audience

2008-04-10T15:31:00.002-05:00

So the reception was good. I was a little nervous about getting up in front and reading my story, but by the time it was my turn there weren't very many people still there. The listeners liked it, got several very nice compliments including one from a lady encouraging me to get it published. :-)

Then I was invited to read some of my work at a Teen Poetry Slam at the library a couple of days ago. Expecting a room full of teens, I decided to read some of my more 'adult' works--"Let Them Eat Cake", "Lazarus", "A Knight's Work". Should have just read "The Washwoman's Daughter" because there was barely anyone there. And then the second place winner in poetry read a cutesy story about Buzzy Bear, and that's when I knew I wasn't going to read. Also there was a grade schooler there as well.

Eh, no biggie. I ought to look around town for an open mike night, although I'd hate to go by myself!

I'm A Winner

2008-03-31T20:50:00.002-05:00

Ok, a second-place winner. My story, "The Washwoman's Daughter," won second place in The Big Read contest. yay! Sunday I will read my story at a reception and it will be published in the local newspaper.

This really comes at a good time, because I've been feeling rather discouraged about my writing. Not to mention I haven't even looked at the novel for well over a month.

Guess it's time to suck up the self-pity and get to writing.

IF NOT NOW, THEN WHEN?

Smile

2008-03-14T17:56:00.002-05:00

Today I thought of an idea for a story that made me smile. I'm sure it was an evil smile, because it's not a nice story. It's one I've been kicking around for at least a year, after seeing a documentary on parasitic twins. Yeah, I know. Gross. But so very wicked and full of potential!

So....I'm hoping to work on it tonight. I've been thinking about it a lot all day, which is usually a good sign. (i.e. finished story possibly)

Anyway---here's to writing again!

Soooo, How's That Goal Thing Going?

2007-12-10T20:01:00.000-06:00

Ugh.

I've been writing a lot every day, just not on the novel. It's like I wrote those big scenes and filled in a bit, and then I didn't know where to go from there. Probably just need to recharge and think about it. So I've been working on the vignette thingie I did for the LiveJam contest on writing.com. At least I'm writing.

I may post some of it here, just for laughs. Maybe.

Daily Goal

2007-12-03T14:50:00.000-06:00

I'm not so hot at keeping goals, but this is one I must. I need/want to write 1,000 words at the very minimum every day. Yesterday I wrote 1300 words (yay!) but today it will be a little more difficult. I've written a bit here and there, but since I just finished the big scene with Cassidy and her mother, and then with Cassidy and Joel (still needs some tweaking), I have to do some thinking. That's where the other stuff comes in handy, the Dream On bits and pieces that I probably won't ever finish but it gives me practice and gets me into Joel's head. That can be kind of a problem, though, me knowing him so very well that sometimes when I'm writing, I forget that the reader knows nothing about why Joel's family left KC, or how he feels about his brother and why it's hard for him to trust. He's an interesting character, but I wish Cassidy was half as interesting. The characters with all the problems seem to be the most interesting. Must be all the drama.

I Know How It's Going To End!

2007-11-27T20:08:00.000-06:00

Yay!! I received some extremely helpful feedback for my book today. I am excited about it today, plus I know how it will end.

Some things I need to change/work on/add:

1. the Talk between Cassidy and her mother
2. Cassidy needs to lighten up
3. Joel needs to talk more
4. Show more of Derek's problems
5. Physical description of Jenny and Allan
6. More setting and description (ugh)
7. Show Joel's feelings for Cass
8. Tentative renewal of friendship b/w Cass and Janie

So now I'm excited and I know for sure it isn't crap and that's a wonderful feeling! Still waiting for feedback from the rest of my writing group, so we will see.

I will finish this thing and see it in print!!

The Big O

2007-11-20T06:43:00.001-06:00

For so long the desire to write has been missing. Now, though, there's this urge, this urgent feeling inside of me that is only soothed by my fingers on the keyboard. And then the feeling changes to one of satisfaction, of knowing that this is what I'm supposed to be doing. My mind, no, my entire being fills with the knowledge that yes, I am writing again and it feels so right, so good, so wonderful. And I wonder how I could have gone for so long without the therapy words avail me, without the sheer joy I get when it all comes together into a cohesive and coherent story. I think it's the best thing in the world.The only thing better would be seeing my name on the dust jacket of a novel. Right now, I can see that happening. I read an interview where Richard Z. Kruspe compares creating music with orgasm and I'm going to have to agree that any sort of creative process gives that feeling.

Exercise 3---POV

2007-10-26T16:39:00.000-05:00

I have to preface this by saying that I do not think switching POVs in a scene without chapter breaks works, no matter what that 'expert' in Writer's Digest says. It smacks of amateur. It reeks. I just got done reading a middle grade novel with five characters and mutiple POVs. It was in third person, and it did work, but I didn't like it. It was very noticable. Maybe not as clunky as a lot of stories like that are, but it did clunk a bit. That is my biggest petpeeve when I review on Writing.com, and probably the main reason I don't review much. There's just too much crapola out there.

EXERCISE 3---POV

Five years. That’s how long it’s been. Five years during which I tried to get on with my life, tried to forget the past. I’ve decided that it’s impossible to forget, and nearly impossible to forgive. I like to think I’ve forgiven him, that I can at least offer him that, but I’m not sure. Ever since his mother told me his release date, I’ve been one big mass of confusion.
Now, though, now I’m going to see him. The thought makes my stomach clench, but whether in nervousness or excitement I’m not sure.
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” Mom said last night. “I just can’t understand it. Why? After what he did to our family, this should be the last thing you want to do.” She pressed her lips together. “I thought you’d forgotten about him.”
“I tried,” I said, but I don’t think she believed me. I did try, no matter what she thinks.
A blue sedan turns down the street, and I know it’s him. I have no idea what his reaction will be. I haven’t spoken to him since the day of the accident. The last time I saw him was at the sentencing, and that was such a horrible experience I’ve done my best to forget that whole day.
I wonder if he kept the letters I sent, letters full of words I can’t even remember now. He never answered, so eventually I stopped writing. I guess he forgot about me. Or wanted to.
Why am I here? Why am I waiting to see him when I should be home studying for my exam in the morning? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
The sedan pulls into the driveway, rocks crunching beneath the tires. I’m standing beneath the elm tree in the yard, frozen, paralyzed, nauseated. The leaves rustle above my head, normally a comforting sound, now only annoying and distracting. Marcy gives me a little wave through the window, her face tight and distressed. I know she doesn’t want me here.
The passenger door opens and my breath catches a little. I see his head first, that blonde hair so short now, and then all of him as he straightens and shuts the door.
He walks around the front of the car, and now he sees me, and he stops. I can’t move, unable to look away from those green eyes. I can’t breathe. All I can see is him.
“Joey,” Marcy says, shooting me an unfriendly glance. “Come on inside. I know you’re tired.”
Ignoring her, he shakes off her hand and walks toward me. The expression on his face—oh, God. I don’t think I can do this.
I turn away, pressing my forehead into the rough tree bark.

I can’t believe she’s here. I must be dreaming. I have to be dreaming. I stare at her auburn hair, shiny against the back of her green shirt. I want to touch it. I want to feel it slide through my fingers, want to—stop. Shut up. Just shut up. Shut up. It’s been five years. Five years since I spoke her name. Since I touched her. Since I killed her brother.
I have to swallow hard to keep from puking. There’s too many memories here. I clench my fists, forgetting the letters I’m holding. Her letters, the only things that kept me from going nuts in that hole. I’d read them over and over, until her words were etched into my mind.
My hand reaches out to brush the back of her arm. That’s it. That’s all I can do. The feel of her skin burns me with memories I’ve spent five years trying to bury.
She turns around slowly, so that bit by bit I see her face. Fear nearly chokes me. What if she hates me? I don’t think—oh, shit, she’s crying.
“I can’t do this. I can’t.” She doesn’t move, though, just scrubs a hand across her eyes as if angry. That’s ok. Anger I can do. Anger’s what I’m all about.
I need to say something, but I can’t. It’s like my jaw’s locked. So I hold out the letters, hoping that will speak for me. Her expression goes from puzzlement to understanding in an instant. More tears slide down her cheeks and she sniffs noisily.
“You…you saved them? I thought…” she trails off, biting her lip. I’m still holding out the letters like an idiot, and eventually she takes them, carefully not touching me.
I know what she thought. And I did try to forget her, I really did. But she’d crept beneath my skin. She’s still there, crawling to the surface.
“I know,” I say, feeling like a jerk. “I’m sorry, Cass.” God. Are there any other words as worthless as those? I am sorry. I’ve been sorry since I woke up in the hospital and Mom told me Derek was dead.
I wonder what she’s thinking, staring at the letters clutched in her hand.

If I keep my eyes on the letters, I won’t have to look at him. His feet move closer, swishing through the overgrown grass. My arm brushes against the tree, scratching my skin.
“I’m sorry, Cass,” he says, sending a shiver down my neck. Mom was right: I should never have come, should never have seen him. Because now that I have, all I want is to feel his arms around me again. I want—I want him again.
Finally I raise my head, trying to remember to breathe. I see the past in his green eyes, in the set of his shoulders. There’s a hard cast to his mouth now, and a jagged scar across his cheekbone. I want to kiss the hardness away until only the softness remains. I want to erase the hurt and the regret from his face and bring back the boy I used to love.
“I know you are,” I say softly, stretching out my hand to him. When he hesitates, I try to smile. “It’s okay, Joel. I…I forgive you.” Saying the words is easy—too easy. Can forgiveness really be so simple? I pray it is.
For a second he only stares at me, as if he can’t believe it. Our hands touch, fingers twining together, and then he pulls me into his arms.
“Cass, oh, God, Cass,” he mumbles into my hair, holding me tight against him.
I slide my hands around his waist, press my ear against his chest so that all I hear is the beating of his heart.

**I'm not sure about the last scene. Should keep it when i post this in HWG? Or just the first 2?
Plus, I'm worried that last part is too....melodramatic or something. oh well.

No NaNo For Me

2007-10-25T14:12:00.000-05:00

No NaNoWriMo for Wendopolis this year. Why? Because I've got to finish "Only You" and I am determined to do so. Taking 30 days off to whip out 50,000 words of shite wont' help me, it will only hinder.

That being said, must get butt in gear.

Why do I have to be professional when they're not?

2007-10-24T14:32:00.001-05:00

Here's the deal: I submitted a story to an online magazine, Aberrant Dreams, February 26 of this year. Their guidelines state the response time as being 1-5 months. Ok, I'm down with that. So why is it nearly eight months now and I've not heard a word? I've queried as to the status of my submission and gotten no response. Is that professional? I'm thinking not. So my options are to keep waiting or formally withdraw my story and subbing it elsewhere. Am I wrong to be annoyed by this? Yeah, yeah, they get lots of subs, etc, yadda yadda yadda. Fine. But why does that make it okay to jerk me and I'm sure others around? I keep checking ralan.com just in case there's anything about response times for the mag, but nada so far.

Grrrr.

Exercise 1 and 2

2007-10-24T14:26:00.000-05:00

Recently I've begun participating in a group workshop on writing.com. We've begun doing writing exercises, and they've been quite helpful. The first one I didn't do so hot, but the second I did much better:

Exercise 1: Sensory

A sweaty arm brushed against Melanie’s, slicking her skin with alien liquid. She jerked away, only to plunge face-first into a humid forest of chest hair.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, pushing hard with both hands. Curses clanged in her ears as she bounced off more bodies, finally coming to a rest against a wall in the corner. The familiar strains of one of her favorite songs filled the venue, sending shivers down on her. If only she could see!

Gathering her courage, she shoved bodies out of her way, getting punches and curses and once even a squeeze in return. It didn’t matter, though; she had to get closer, had to be in the front. Once he saw her, everything would just fall into place, as it was meant to be.

Stephan began singing, and her urgency increased. It had to be this song. If she didn’t make it up front where he could see her, then all would be lost. But an impenetrable wall of flesh blocked her every move. Tears pricked her eyes as she struggled to breathe in the hot, smoke-filled air.

Then she fell to the filthy floor and began crawling through legs, determined to achieve her goal. A boot crunched down on her hand, another jabbed her leg. Her knee came down in a cold puddle of something she didn’t want to think about, and still more legs, more bodies, more obstacles.

Crying, nose dripping, filthy from head to toe, one questing hand found the way clear as the music became almost unbearably loud. The stage! She’d made it. Now to get Stephan’s attention…

Hands gripped her arms and began dragging her backwards.

“Uh-uh, missy,” a rough voice growled in her ear. “You’re getting too close.”

“Stephan! Stephan! It’s me, Melanie!” She screamed and screamed, clawing at the hands, until the music faded away.

Exercise 2: Character

Melanie leaned against the grimy brick wall, cradling her hand against her chest. She could barely move her fingers, and they hurt like the devil. God, she was such a mess. Brown stains covered her black dress, and there was something that looked like puke ground into the laces of one boot.

But she didn’t care. She was going to see Stephan, talk to him, make him understand that they belonged together. If only she’d been able to reach the stage and get his attention, she sure as shit wouldn’t be standing in an alley behind the Bottleneck, waiting for the concert to end. Concert. What a joke. A stinky, smelly bar with room for only fifty people? That wasn’t a concert, it was a party. A party she’d been kicked out of.

Fuming, she paced back and forth, trying to ignore the way her boots rubbed against her heels. Hot Topic hadn’t carried her size, but she’d bought them anyway, who cared if they were half a size too small? They were kick ass boots that laced clear up to her knees.

The steel door clanged open, making her jump. If it was one of those sonofabitching body guards—

It was Stephan. For a second she couldn’t move, transfixed by the sight of him after so long. He twisted open a bottle of water and took a drink. His hair was black now, instead of the dirty blonde color it was last time. It suited him, she thought.

It was now or never.

“Stephan,” she said, stepping out of the shadows. He jerked, spilling the water on his shirt.

“What the hell?”

“It’s me. Melanie.” He just stared at her blankly. “The Granada? Two years ago?” It never entered her mind that he wouldn’t remember. “You invited me back to your room, remember? You said I was sweet and—” She stopped, feeling like a fool. “Never mind,” she said, turning away.

“Wait a minute. Did you have long brown hair?”

“Yes,” Melanie said slowly, a small spark of hope igniting.

“I remember you now. Yeah, the girl who jumped up on stage and sang ‘Unicorn’ with me, right?” He smiled

“That was me. I wanted to sing with you tonight, but it didn’t work out.” She glanced down at her ruined clothes and shrugged.

“You look different.” Stephan moved closer, making her heart thump. “Your hair’s so short now.” He touched her messy do. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you.”

“So what do you think? Do you like the way I look now?” Melanie held her breath while his eyes studied her from head to toe. He folded his arms, frowning a little.

“The boots are kick ass,” he said finally. “But really, Melanie, you look all the other groupies now, with the tight black dress, black eyeliner, piercings. The reason I liked you so much before was because you were different, with your jeans and long hair and cute top. You stood out from all the other girls.”

Melanie’s eyes stung. She’d done all this for him, thinking he’d like it. “I was so boring,” she said in a small voice. “Ordinary.”

“Sometimes ordinary’s a good thing,” Stephan said, offering her a small smile.

“I guess.” She bit her lip. “You look a lot different, too. The hair, mostly.”

He made a face. “Yeah, the hair, the hair, it’s always the hair.”

“You’ve lost weight, too,” she said, liking his new thinness, wondering what it would feel like to hug him. To kiss him again.

“Well, damn, was I that much of a porker before?” His dark brows came down over his eyes, a petulant cast to his mouth.

“Of course not,” she said quickly, putting her hand on his arm. “You looked great then, you look great now, Stephan. I—I wish…”

The door banged open, and a heavyset guy stuck his head out. Music blared, light spilled out, hurting her eyes.

“Stephan, whatchu doin, man? Everybody’s lookin for you.”

“I’ll be in soon, Dave,” Stephan said, waving him off. Dave glanced at Melanie and smirked before going back inside.

Stephan sighed. “One more concert tomorrow night, and that’s it for awhile. I am so tired.” He loosened his skull-printed tie, sighing again.

“It must get lonely on the road,” Melanie ventured, sliding her hand up his arm, liking the way his skin felt against hers. A shiver went down her spine as she remembered the night they’d spent together before.

“Sometimes,” he agreed, moving away. She dropped her hand, flushing. He didn’t want her. Well, she’d make him want her.

“I—I thought maybe we could get a drink after the show. Catch up a little, you know.” Melanie gave him what she hoped was a sultry smile.

Stephan smiled ruefully. “I can’t, Melanie,” he said, capping the bottle.

“Why not? Don’t you like me? You used to like me a lot.”

“I’m married.”

She stared at him. “What did you say?” she whispered.

“I got married about nine months ago.” He glanced at his watch. “I better get back inside. It was great seeing you again, Melanie.”

“Sure, Stephan,” she mumbled, turning away so she didn’t have to see him leave.
Married?

God, she was such a fool. Brushing a tear from her cheek, she stumbled down the alley to the sidewalk and started walking.

NaNoWriMo

2007-10-09T08:37:00.000-05:00

I guess I'm going to do it this year again. I'm not real sure what I'm going to write on, and that's not a good thing at all. I do have several ideas, though, but nothing firm as yet.

Idea #1: write a series of short stories using song titles as a springboard

Idea #2: blast out a very rough draft of the fantasy novel hubby and I've been talking about

Idea #3: write about Billy the Kid

Idea #4: expand 'Dragonfly'

so......of the four, #1 and #2 sound the most plausible. I like the idea of Billy the Kid, but that's probably more of a short story. #4 was my first idea a few months ago. I'm not liking it that much.

so we will see...

writing crap

2007-10-07T17:38:00.000-05:00

I looked over that novella I wrote last month, A Tangled Web, and omg it totally sucks. it is SOOO bad. but, hey, i was writing. That counts for a lot. I mean, if I waited and only wrote something good, geeze, I'd never write anything at all. I guess in order to create something good you have to give yourself permission to write crap.

I think I've had that permission for quite a while.

whoops!

2007-09-27T06:21:00.000-05:00

I almost forgot about this thing! Obviously, since it's been like 2 months. So, you ask, how's the writing been going?

Glad you asked! It's going pretty good. I wrote a complete (yay!) short story, The Demise of Peter Pan, and finished a novella. Now I am back to Only You, doing some editing and trying to figure out how to add more words. :-) Most people have a probem being verbose; I seem to have the opposite problem.

anyhoo, that's all for now.

Over 10,000 words

2007-07-07T20:41:00.001-05:00

Yes, that's right! I wrote over 10,000 words in June! Go, me!!!

This 500 words a day group is really helping me write regularly.

I've started working on 'Only You' again; it's going pretty well at the moment. Derek's problems are becoming apparent to Cassie, her dad has moved out of the house, her feelings for Joel are intensifying, and a renewed friendship with Janie is on the horizon. I just thought of that last point earlier today. I think Tommy Marco will dump Janie for whatever reason, and so will Imelda and that group. Janie will be on the outside, and at first Cassie is glad she's getting a taste of her own medicine, but Cassie's mean spiritedness won't last very long, and she'll extend an olive branch.

As for the Joel thing...it's getting there. I want to show his relationship with his parents, his intense anger, his feelings for her...plus, Rich and his friends are going to jump him one night as he walks home from Cassie's house. Audra causes more problems, and Cassie will realize that Audra is a person, not just someone to hate. I think I need to put Craig Hopper in a bit, probably at youth group.

It is SO nice to finally be over the bump.

been awhile

2007-06-28T21:53:00.001-05:00

It's been a month and a half since I updated this. In that time, I have:

1. deleted blog on Writing.com
2. created a journal, Harmonizer, on Writing.com
3. written 500 words nearly every day in my book, songs hidden in eggs, on Writing.com
4. started a story about two lovers caught in their own miseries
5. written 2 flash fiction pieces
6. whined about 'Only You' numerous times
7. listened to lots of music my husband thinks is weird (see video links on side)
8. traveled to Kansas and back (with Toto)

I guess that's it. Whee, so exciting!

Laaaazy!

2007-05-03T19:44:00.000-05:00

I have been so lazy this last week. Crit not finished. MUST do that! I guess I'm dragging my feet because it's hard work. And I'm lazy. :) It's not that I don't like the story, because I do. So, must get butt in gear.

Need to start flash for the seventeenth. "They were all sworn to secrecy" is the starting sentence.

Plus, haven't even worked on 'Only You' . AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!!!!!!!1

2 Goals Met

2007-04-30T12:47:00.000-05:00

--Tom Granger's Hand--(finished 4/30)

--Lip-Smacking Monkeys--(finished 4/25)

That still leaves the crit, which I hope to finish tonight. maybe.

The End Could Be in Sight

2007-04-18T09:12:00.000-05:00

Maybe. I've been working on the 2nd draft of 'Dream On', which takes place after Joel's return to whatever the name of the town is. Topeka, I guess. It appears to be gearing up for an emotional confrontation with his father, who is in the hospital after suffering a heart attack. It might be too quick, though, but the important thing is to get it down, and then I can go back and add all the rest of the stuff. Maybe even combine 'Only You' with it. Who knows? All I know is that I need to finish this story, because these characters won't leave me alone. I think about them all the time, imagining what they will do next, etc.

~need to finish 'Glory Hand' and think of a different name by the end of the month.
~need to print off GOR's story and start crit, to be done by end of month.
~must write 500 words every day
~must finish 'Lip-Smacking Monkeys' by next Thursday

ohmygosh My character has a theme song!

2007-04-14T12:04:00.000-05:00

i've been listening to this song by apoptygma berzerk, "unicorn" and today I looked up the lyrics.

"You hold the candle I once lit

You shine your light

When you forgive I cry

You run your fingers through my hair

And tell me it´s worthwhile,

it´s all worthwhile

Even when I hate myself

Even when I feel your pain

when you cry

Even when my heart is cold

You assure me it´s worthwhile,

it´s all worthwhile

You see what can´t be seen

You repair the damage done to me.."

And the tune....wow. The song is Joel, all his pain and angst and sorrow and hopelessness. Yet there's that little bit of hope, that tiny bit of light shining from her...which would be Cassie. This song is their relationship.

Now I Think I'll Try This!

2007-04-12T20:13:00.000-05:00

Geeze. Now I'm thinking of going back to my original version of 'Only You' because I like Joel so much better. And Cassie, too, I guess. So I will combine the 2 versions and keep what I like from both. Besides, the first version is 40,000 words! Gotta be some good stuff in there, dontcha think?

Today I printed off 'Waiting For August' from my port on Writing.com. Ugh. My gosh, and to think I once thought it was good. Or at least okay. I'm looking at it today, going 'Yech!' It does have potential, this is true, and it is only a first draft, so maybe I'm being unfair. After all, I wrote it three years ago. I know my writing's improved since then.

'Waiting For August' is the story of Mel, a teenage girl who has been told by her mother all her life that her twin brother died at birth. After being dumped on a grandmother whom she's never met for a week, she discovers a mysterious scrapbook in a closet. Inside are pictures of Mel as a baby--and the brother she was told died. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, Mel embarks on a journey for the truth--a truth she may not want to know.

See? Potential. There's a bit of romance and a subplot about mothers and daughters, too.

Not a bad little blurb there. I'm not sure I can compress 'Only You' into a paragraph, although I have been trying. I will have to work on it.

A Possible Solution

2007-04-11T20:38:00.000-05:00

I'm going to try starting 'Only You' right at the main action--the car accident in which a character dies due to the actions of another. I'm hoping this will work. Before I was starting totally from scratch with Cassie's developing relationship with Joel, but that was going so slowly. Now I can start with them already having discovered their feelings for each other. I'm still not sure if Joel will be newly to town or a childhood friend of Derek's. Both scenarios have potential subplots to move the plot along, but I think having Joel well known to both Cassie and her family will work best.

I will not be presenting 'Only You' to my writing group; I won't let the girls read it either. I need some privacy to make this work. I can't do the story justice if I have to worry about the language and/or actions of my characters. Yes, yes, I know, one shouldn't worry about such things as a writer, but I still do.

The main thing is to get the story down, start to finish, and then worry about making sense and having all ends tied up, etc. Gotta tie up that internal editor and throw him in the basement. That is difficult sometimes. I read once about an author who writes and rewrites the same 500-600 words until they are perfect before moving on. I dont' think that is something I could do. Okay, I do it a little bit, you know, go back and edit something, but I try not to. It's detrimental to getting the story down. That has to be my main focus, to get the bare bones down and into some sort of cohesive and comprehensible story.

A Snag

2007-04-10T21:53:00.000-05:00

Ugh. I should have known this would happen. It was going way too smoothly. 10k into 'Only You' (working title) and I can't get into Cassie's head. Argh. So I'm trying the multiple POV thing, but that's not that easy, either. Discouragement and frustration loom. Just once in my life I'd like to finish this damn story! There are so many different versions of this thing that I think I will go absolutely nutters if I can't develop it into a comprehensible story! I mean, CRAP!!!!!!!

But I can't give up. There's a story and there is a way to make it work. I will keep persevering, keep plugging away, keep writing crap until it happens. I just hope I won't be 96 before it does!

Birdsong

2007-04-07T21:48:00.000-05:00

I will find birdsong
I will find you
Beneath a tree
Beside the flowers

In the garden
So peaceful and light
I will find birdsong
I will find you

This definitely drives home the point that I am NOT a poet, although I kind of like it. 'Birdsong' speaks to me somehow, reminding me of one of my characters. It's a word rife with emotion.

Olde English Bulldogges

2007-02-26T15:11:00.000-06:00

We raise Olde English Bulldogges. No, not those wimpy English bulldogs that have so many health problems, but the ones that hearken back to the bulldogs of old. We plan to have our first breeding the next time one of our females goes into heat, probably this summer. We have two males, Hammer and Loki, and two females, Pandora and Halo. You can see pictures of them on our website, www.warhammerkennels.com.

OEBs are healthy, goodlooking, friendly, protective and strong-willed. It is imperative that there be an alpha, because after all, dogs aren't kids and if the human won't take the lead, they will, and that's not a good thing for either one. They are athletic and just really great dogs. But don't take my word for it. Do some research before deciding an OEB is the dog for you.

Bibliography

2007-02-22T16:43:00.000-06:00

Oh books
Lovely books!

1. Summer of My German Soldier--Bette Greene. Absorbing, tragic, heartbreaking, hopeful...

2. The Outsiders--S.E. Hinton. Ponyboy, Johnny, Dallas, Cherry Valance, Sodapop, Darry, Steve, Socs and Greasers...what a great book!

3. Dragondoom---Dennis McKiernan. Forbidden love, dragons, dwarves and humans. Great storytelling even though the author's other books suck.

4. The Wheel of Time--Robert Jordan. The most fantastic series of fantasy books ever. Unfortunately he is ill with a rare disease. Will he finish? Only God knows.

5. The Outsider--Penelope Williams. A tale of forbidden love between Amish widow Rachel and gunslinger Johnny Cain.

6. It--Stephen King. His scariest. Pennywise will change the way you look at clowns and storm drains.

7. Jacob Have I Loved--Katherine Paterson. Story of twins, one 'perfect' and the other left out.

8. Black Beauty--Anna Sewell. Sad, gripping story of Beauty and Ginger.

9. To Kill A Mockingbird--Harper Lee. If you only have one book in you, then write one like this.

10. The Witch of Blackbird Pond--____________. Story of intolerance and hope, with a bit of romance thrown in. Kat is a lively character.

Of course I have many, many favorite books,more than I can possibly list here.

A Writer's Soundtrack

2007-02-18T21:35:00.000-06:00

If your writing life were a soundtrack, what would it be? What songs or albums would be on the list, and why?

My list changes all the time. And now, in no particular order....

1. See You--Depeche Mode. Meaningful lyrics that inspired a short story and ultimately the characters of Cassie and Joel.

2. Long Gone Long--Rainmakers. Song about a small town and goings on therein. 'Older than I used to be/younger than I'm gonna be/fewer things puzzle me than when I was young'. Oh, yeah.

3. Adagio--Barber. Moving piece of music. Soundtrack to Platoon. Everytime I hear it I see Sgt. Elias running from the Viet Cong only to be shot.

4. Zauberschloss--In Strict Confidence. Song by a German band sung in German. Zauberschloss translates by google into 'charm closed' but actually means 'magic castle'. I like the beat and the way Dennis Ostermann growls the lyrics. That he's hot really has nothing to do with the fact that I like this band. Really.

5. Lithium--Evanescence. Love this gal's voice. It's so full of angst and emotion and it's beautiful.

6. Breathe--Erasure. Beautiful lyrics, and Andy Bell's voice is fantastic.

7. Once in a Lifetime--Wolfsheim. This song surprised me when I read the lyrics. It's a rant against God, apparently, in which the lyricist states: 'You took my wife, my unborn son/torn into the deep of the ocean' among other emotional statements. The song ends with : 'And I'm not scared of you.' Powerful stuff.

8. Cocaine Blues--Johnny Cash. I enjoy songs that tell a story, and this is a good one!

9. World in My Eyes--Depeche Mode. Sexy and full of innuendo. It just oozes sex.

10. Deeper Than the Usual Feeling--Beborn Beton. Another German band. This song laments the loss of a love who didn't share the deep feelings as the lyricist and I believe she kills herself.

This list is different than one I wrote a month ago. I think next I will write a bibliography.

Subject matter can be a problem

2007-02-15T22:30:00.000-06:00

Why? You'd think someone who claims to be a writer (and yes, I've been published) would just be overflowing with ideas. Not so. It seems to occur in spurts. My muse is a fickle bitch, and now she'll probably jet out of here again because I called her a name. That's okay, though. She'll be back. And I'll have an idea of what to write about again.