Hi, friends! Sigh…Well, so much for catching up. đŚ I mean, I’m glad I’ve got the extra teaching workto support my family, but still. It’d be nice to have a few free days to catch up with you on YOUR sites.
The manâs hands were curled as talons, saliva flying from his mouth when he screams for Chloeâs life.
Chloe thrusts her book bundle in front of her face just in time, blocking his first swipe as she staggers back, losing her shield, tripping on a small table in this room of eyes and crows, not knowing where to runâ
THWACK.
Thomas Watchman cut in front of his daughter, fist damp with the manâs spit. The manâs glasses flew across the room and nearly hit the floor, if not for Sal.
The man shook like a struck dog, wavering on all fours. The firelight couldnât reach the floor beyond the couch, robbing his shape of anything human. He panted, moaned, âAaaaangâ
âIâm here, Reg.â Angela ran past her husband, pulled away from his own clawed plea, âStay back, Ang, heâs dangerous,â and Chloeâs plea, âMom he tried to kill me!â
But Angela did not stay back. âNo, he didnât.â She ran her fingers through the crumpled manâs hair. âGet Reg some ice, Thomas.â
âLike hell.â
âThomas.â Angela undid her coat and folded it to lay upon the floor. âPlease.â She looked at him, at Chloe. âPlease,â she said again.
The crumpled Reg turned his face up to Angelaâs, his eyes darting, constantly darting. Chloe hugged the back of father tight to stay as hidden from those eyes as she could.
Sal gave a little cough near Thomasâ ear, and nodded towards the sliding doors out. Chloe didnât want her dad to back away, to leave space for that crazy Reg to grab her mom, but…but the guy was just crying on her coat-turned-pillow now, thumb near his mouth like some little kid. Angela kept right on stroking his hair, humming the same melody chimed by the grandfather clock back home.
Thomas reached around and felt Chloeâs body shake against him. âOkay.â Not that it was actually okay, not with that growl beneath it. âChloe and I will be right back.â
Sal walked with them to the sliding door and paused. âIâm so sorry youâre seeing Reg like this first.â He held the glasses in his palms like a child holds a butterfly. âHeâs usually the gentlest of us, setting spiders free outside and rescuing rabbits from Motherâs traps, that sort of thing.â
Chloe scoffed. âThat doesnât explain why he called me a fake, or why he tried to strangle me.â Damn, her books were scattered on the floor with her blanket from home, a real home with family photos, and laundry, and records not put away, and sketches of old machinesâ insides, and piles of history books all cracked open to different pages with notes stuck in every one of them.
Sal turned towards the fireplace, looking at a dark corner beyond it where a dented bucket sat, covered with old soot. âThis place…Mother. She liked to scare us, you see. Keep us here with stories of, of monsters out to eat us.â He laughed nervously and lay Regâs glasses to rest on a shelf next to the door. âThey could take any shape, the monsters, and…anyway, together we three could handle it all right, especially because of Angela. But when Motherâd catch us aloneâŚâ A beastly sound warbled in Salâs throat. âWell. You see what she did to Reg in just one hour.â
âOne hour?â Thomas asks. His growl was gone.
âYeah.â Even Sal sounded like he couldnât believe it, âDoctor says I arrived just an hour after Reg. One hour alone with that woman…â Sal shook his head, and wandered away from Thomas and Chloe to stand and stare at the fire, hands and thoughts to himself.
Word Count: 608Total Count: 5359
I wasn’t planning on going THIS slow here, but I do like how the next scene can focus on the “outsiders” Chloe and her father Thomas…plus maybe get Sumac and the mysterious doctor into the mix.
Pardon me, friends! I’m quickly uploading this while sitting in the teacher’s lounge for lunch. Most of the students are off to a soccer match today, so I’ve been given the fortunate job of watching the teenage stay-behinds. đ
So, where were we…ah. Chloe’s mother Angela is finally entering her childhood home, the Crow’s Nest.
Writing Music: Rob Simonsen, Foxcatcher (I really need to get a hold of this soundtrack)
Angela Perdido Watchman gave little attention to
the crow-filled room. âIâm better now, really,â she whispered to Thomas, but
Chloe knew her dad didnât believe her. He dropped one hand down only to keep
his other arm snug around his wifeâs shoulders.
But still, Angela was smiling–and to Chloeâs
relief, a real smile, at that. She even took off her mittens and tucked them
into her coat pocket. âHi, Sal.â
Sal blinked back a couple tears, making his
eyelashes sparkle like the snow. âHi, Ang.â
The two shared a nervous laugh. âYou got tall,â
said Angela, looking up into his face. If not for constantly bowing his head
down, Chloe was sure heâd be taller than her father Thomas.
Sal laughed a little more. âYou got a clone.â
And he nodded at Chloe.
For the first time since the phone call, Chloe
felt like her mom saw her instead of whatever was going on in her head.
All the black feathers and bones, all the fear around whomever called herself a
mother in a house like this, didnât have to matter, at least in this
moment. âHad a little help,â she said, and nodded to her husband.
This time, Chloeâs father didnât prove himself
with a strong grip. Handshakes are hard when oneâs being hugged by a lanky
scarecrow.
âUh, hi.â Thomas patted Sal awkwardly on the
back while mouthing What the? to Chloe. Angelaâs hand found Thomasâ on
Salâs back and threaded their fingers together to keep Sal close. He shuddered
in their hold
âThis place, Ang…â he said, and sobbed.
âI know.â Now Angela was starting up again.
Chloe bit her lip, looking around for something to stop the damn panic. Her
dad, too, was whispering lots of âcome on, nowâ and âitâs just one night, okay?
Weâre together, we can do this.â He even managed to nudge their huddle far
enough from the door for Chloe to close it.
Then Chloe remembered the man who practically
carried her in, the not-Sal. âWhat about Reg?â
That broke the huddle in a hurry, much to
Thomasâ relief. âReg!â Ang said. âHow is he?â
âReg is…Reg.â Sal bit his lip. âHe got here
first.â
âOh noâŚâ Angelaâs eyes searched the stairs, her
body began to shakeâ
âI think he went in there, Mom.â Chloe grabbed
the iron handle for the sliding door and tugged…and tuggedâŚshe even set
her bundle down to try with both hands. âI think he did.
Chloeâs dad joined her. âLetâs all look in here
first,â he said, and with Chloe tugging and Thomas pushing, they finally
managed to open the partition enough for a person to walk through properly.
Three of the old scrawls of crows crumpled and broke free of their pins to fly
a few inches before coming to a rest at Salâs feet.
âWe never did try pinning them to the floorâŚâ he
said absently.
Thomas stared at Sal until Chloe gave him a
little kick to stop. âAnd you donât have to now, either, because tomorrow weâre
all leaving. Right Ang?â
Angela walked by all of them without a word but
âReg?â They followed her into the living room, though Sal kept to the walls,
fingers tracing the tattered paper decorated with a strange stencil of a âYâ
with an extra line in the middle.
The room had to be as big as the Watchmanâs
apartment if all the rooms were stacked in a cube. The ceiling was just as high
as the foyer here, but thanks to the blazing fire in the large fireplace, Chloe
felt warm enough to unbutton her coat and set it on the dusty couch. âReg?â she
said, joining her mom and the others. He wasnât hiding behind the two easy
chairs, or under the desk Thomas tapped. Even the few bookcases gave no sign of
him…or books, for that matter. Instead, the shelves were pinned with more
pictures of crows, so many they were pinned in layers upon each other. She
lifted a few. Her mom must have made at least some of these. What a hell, to be
stuck drawing crows over and over and overâŚ
…and eyes?
Big, yellow eyes, squat liike eggs, with sharp
black circles for pupils. They stared at from the paper like the snowy owl atop
the truck, mindful, amused, curiousâ
Some distant door in the kitchen slammed.
âGetting more wood!â Sumac called, and slammed away again.
âWho is that?â Angela asked.
Sal made a face. âOh, you havenât even seen the
doctor yet. Iâm sure heâll be down shortly.â
Chloe backed away from the drawings and turned
towards the mirror windows. A form moved across them in the dark–that Sumac,
likely, for wood. Three worn, broken chairs surrounded a circular game table
covered by a lace tablecloth. When Chloe lifted it, the dust left a perfect
shadow pattern of the lace.
The grown man who carried Chloe in sat curled up underneath. Sweat beaded from his head down his glasses to drip on his knees. His forehead twitched as he spoke through gritted teeth. âYouâre not Angela, you, FAKE!â The table flew back as he leapt up, hands out for Chloeâs neck.
Word Count: 865 Total Count: 4751
Break time’s almost up! I’m rather hoping I don’t have to sub tomorrow so I can 1) grade for the university and 2) finally catch up with you folks!
Sorry, no time for introductions because I taught all day and my kids are driving me NUTSO right now. Just read the previous stuff, or read on, or just…oh, take some deep breaths and drink some cocoa like I clearly need to do.
Writing Music: Bruno Coulais (yes, again), Coraline
âMister, Iâm notââ Just getting those words out
was nigh impossible for Chloe. The man practically picked her up and ran into
the house, leaving Sumac and Chloeâs parents out in the snow.
âI told you sheâd come, Sal, see?â And just as
quickly as heâd grabbed her, the man released Chloe and left her spinning in
the foyer while he vanished into a neighboring room.
âHang on!â said an irritated voice behind a
closed door on Chloeâs right.
Chloe held her book bundle tight. A cold, lofty
spot, this foyer, with an old, hungry smell that pecked at Chloeâs nose. The
wooden staircase before her was losing its varnish, not to mention its red
carpet. It crooked to hug the fall wall halfway up before continuing to the
second level lit by a single lamp.
No need to go there yet.
Chloe took a few steps to the left, where
not-Sal had vanished. Sliding doors stood open enough for a fast body to slide
through; for now, out of them came more warmth, and the sounds of a crackling
fire. Pinned to the wooden doors were at least a dozen pictures of crows. The
paper looked faded, the lines and coloring like a childâs.
The pictures continued onto the wood-paneled
walls. The more Chloeâs eyes moved around the room, the more crows she saw:
carved into the bannister. Statues on a narrow table beneath the climbing
stairs. Feathers pinned behind glass with dates scrawled. Frames of wing bones
outspread as if they fly on in death. A lit curio full of stuffed crows stood
next to the closed door where the voice came from.
A toilet flushed, and the closed door opened to
a beanpole of a white man–no, white wasnât right. A speckled man, really, with
messy red hair to match. âSorry about the smell, Ang. You know how I am–â he
paused, staring hard at Chloe. âOh shit–I mean, crap–I mean, Iâm not talking
about the smell, in thereââ he waved at the toilet behind him. âI mean, the old
meat smell. Youâre not Angela.â He bowed his head, so flushed his freckles were
all but lost.
âSheâs my mom.â She held out her hand and kept
her chin up. âIâm Chloe.â
âSal.â He held out his hand–took it back,
glancing back at the toiletâ
Chloe took it anyway and shook it just as her
parents taught, quick and firm.
âThatâs it.â Sumac stomped his way in and set
the Watchman Familyâs luggage next to the curio. âIâm not waiting for them. We
may need a rescue operation for your mother, girl.â He hung his hat and coat
upon a coatrack with a nest on top. âIâll get the feed for the yard.â
Sal rolled his eyes. âYouâre going to attract
bears if you keep that up.â
âItâs your motherâs rule, not mine. Still…â
Sumac scratched the last of the snow out of his hair. âWouldnât mind some
bigger game than crows to wander our way.â With a wink to Chloe he vanished
intoâ
âThe kitchen.â Sal shuddered. âWouldnât make a
sandwich in there right now, if I were you.â
âMy stash of oatmeal pies might still be behind
the egg collection.â Chloeâs mom, finally in the doorway, the tips of her boots
just crossing the threshold. Chloeâs dad had his arm wrapped around her shoulders,
his hand on hers, his eyes on Sal and Chloe and crows and stairs and everything
all at once. Chloe watched him mouth Holy shit to himself while her
mother took one last clean breath of wintry air.
âThomas, this is the Crowâs Nest,â she said, and led him inside.â
Word Count: 616 Total Count: 3886
Here’s hoping I have a little more time to finish this family reunion tomorrow. x
Hello, friends! Let’s continue with Chloe in this first chapter and get her family to the Crow’s Nest. (There’s a two-part prologue in case you missed it.)
When the Nina Simone cassette began a fourth time,
Chloeâs father slapped the console to turn it off. A bead of sweat trickled
down the backside of his right ear and soaked into his coat collar. âIf I knew
weâd be in the woods this long, Iâd of filled up by that bastard out in Eagle
River,â he said. His eyes stayed fixed on the truck ahead of them, so he didnât
see Chloe glaring at him from the back seat. Thomas Watchman never swore, not
even when his tools sliced his skin open on a job. This was bad.
So Chloe put her other hand on her fatherâs
shoulder. âWeâre okay, Dad.â For as much good as those words could do in a car
low on gas in the middle of nowhere.
A large snowy owl comes to a sliding perch upon
the truckâs tailgate and looks into the Watchman station wagon with yellow
eyes.
Chloe risks a smile. âDidnât think owls liked
free rides.â For it clearly did, preening its feathers as the snow blew around
him and the truck bumped on beneath him.
âI know I wouldnât mind one in this snow,â
Thomas added with a relaxing glance Chloeâs way.
Trees stopped reaching for the car. The snow no
longer swirled in ribbons, but straight down, gently, like a snowglobe left to
play its song. The truck was turning away to park upon an open space; Thomas
pulled the station wagon up alongside him and shut off the engine. âFinally.
Tomorrow Iâll ride with the plowman to a station for more gas to get out
of here tomorrow.â
âNo!â Chloeâs mother nearly lunged out of her
seat, her fingernails digging into Thomasâ arm. âDonât leave me here alone with
her!â
âMom, Mom, Iâll be with you, itâll be okay, Iâm
here.â Chloe tried to hold her motherâs face like sheâd hold Chloeâs after a
bad dream. Her skin was so cold Chloe almost recoiled from the touch, but she
didnât. She had to be strong. If her momma could walk by protestors demanding
segregation of schools without wincing once, then Chloe could be strong with
this…this grandmother, whomever she was. Not a good mom, if her own
daughterâs too scared to be around her.
Chloeâs father finally released the steering
wheel. He slid a gloved thumb beneath her clawing fingernails, and gently pried
her off. âAll right. Iâll pay him to bring us gas. That better?â
Angela Perdido Watchman breathed his words in
deep, exhaled, breathed in a little easier exhaled a little easier. She closed
her eyes, nodded, and said, âDonât say anything about the owl.â
âWhy?â Chloe asked. She turned to look out the
passenger window–the owl was already gone. The plowman stood back there now,
rubbing down the tailgate with a cloth. He noticed Chloe watching, and tipped
his cowboy hat to her. âItâs already gone.â
âGood.â Angela took a few more breaths, then
eased back into her seat. âShe asked for one night, and thatâs all weâre
giving. The others agreed. We hear her out, and we leave in the morning.â
Thomas, too, watched the plowman wipe down the
truckbed. Two other snowy hulks became visible in its headlights. âThose cars?â
âSal and Reg must be here already.â Angela slid
her hands into chunky green mittens a student had made her for Christmas. She
was about to put on her hat when there was a knock knock on the
windshield: the plowman again.
âYouâre not going to sleep in there, are you?â
He had a nice grin, the plowman.
Word Count: 593 Total Count: 2,627
I like stopping mid-scene sometimes–it’s a lot easier to pick up the writing momentum. Blondie’s been back at her Alley Heroes story, too. Here’s hoping I can share some of it with you later this week!
Ah, ’tis that most wonderful time of the year…when Linus camps out in the pumpkin patch, when Bo shares classic monster movies with the kiddos, when I stroll with a cup of coffee, kicking up the fallen leaves as I go.
It’s that time when Blondie creates ghost stories for every old house we pass on the way home from school, when Bash draws a collection of Frankenstein monster pumpkins for the wall, and Biff curls up beneath his Star Trek comforter with books on all things weird but true.
Today I’d like to add to that list with a story fit for any Midnight Society’s campfire, one a parent can spookily read with his/her child…or perhaps a brave older kid would enjoy reading with a flashlight under the covers.
After suffering a tragic loss, eleven-year-old Ollie only finds solace in books. So when she happens upon a crazed woman at the river threatening to throw a book into the water, Ollie doesn’t think–she just acts, stealing the book and running away. As she begins to read the slender volume, Ollie discovers a chilling story about a girl named Beth, the two brothers who both loved her, and a peculiar deal made with “the smiling man,” a sinister specter who grants your most tightly held wish, but only for the ultimate price.
Ollie is captivated by the tale until her school trip the next day to Smoke Hollow, a local farm with a haunting history all its own. …On the way home, the school bus breaks down, sending their teacher back to the farm for help. But the strange bus driver has some advice for the kids left behind in his care: “Best get moving. At nightfall they’ll come for the rest of you.” … Ollie’s previously broken digital wristwatch, a keepsake reminder of better times, begins a startling countdown and delivers a terrifying message: RUN.
From Cover Blurb
I don’t want to give away the whole story (unlike the back cover, gah!). Rather, today I wanted to share a wee epiphany I had while reading this book.
Let’s start when Ollie’s class first arrives at the farm. It’s a large farm, and isolated–no town’s anywhere nearby. This already creates a sense of being cut off from all that’s familiar to Ollie and her classmates.
A group of three scarecrows stood on the edge of the parking lot, smiling stitched-on smiles. Their garden-rake hands were raised to wave. The tips of the rakes gleamed in the sun. Ollie kept turning. More scarecrows. Scarecrows everywhere. Someone had set up scarecrows between buildings, in the vegetable garden, on stakes in the cornfield. Their hands were trowels or garden rakes. Their smiles had been sewn or painted on.
Chapter 8
Readers feel Ollie tense up at the sight of all these scarecrows. Can we blame her? It’s one thing to have a few scarecrows up for decoration, but “scarecrows everywhere” is unsettling. Then you add the fact that none of them have proper hands, but rather trowels or rakes–no gloves, no straw just sticking out. Nope. Just sharp, pointed things.
The moment reminded me a lot of John Carpenter’s Halloween, actually. I know slashers aren’t for everyone, but I promise you this clip is blood-free. (My apologies for the opening 5 seconds of cussing Freddy Krueger. I just really wanted to use this clip!)
This scene is one of a few depicting Michael Meyers stalking Laurie. He does nothing but stand and stare at her for a few seconds before walking out of sight.
What is he doing out of sight?
We can’t answer that. Laurie can’t, either. You can see the concern and fear fill her face as her friend approaches the hedge. She knows something is off about this faceless Shape, but she can’t yet define it. She didn’t need to see any blood on the Shape of Michael, or a weapon in his hand. There’s no blood-curdling screams from the house, frantic gunshots, etc. The stillness of Michael’s Shape is enough to unsettle Laurie and put her on her guard.
The Unsettling Of The Protagonist during the first act of a story builds an incredible amount of tension. This tension grips the audience and holds them in place because they need to see what could possibly happen. Now comes the real trick for this treat: paying off that expectation.
Well we know Carpenter’s Halloween does this, or it wouldn’t be considered the masterpiece it is today. The stalking escalates to the murder of Laurie’s friends which then escalates to the cat-and-mouse fight for survival between Laurie and Michael in the third act. This escalation fits well with the genre and needs of the audience, to be sure. Sooooo how do we swing a similar escalation into payoff for kids?
Hide the horror’s action off-page.
As the blurb says, Ollie and two of her classmates run from the broken school bus into the dark forest. There they find
WE SEE YOU was written on a tree overhead in ragged, dripping white letters. Below them another scarecrow leaned against the tree. There was paint on his coveralls; he was grinning ear to ear. He had no hands at all, just two flopping paintbrushes where hands should be.
Chapter 13
Did Ollie and two of her classmates see the scarecrow paint the letters? No. Yet the evidence before them says that it did. Do they see their classmates on the bus? No. And yet:
A scream tore through the twilight. Then a whole chorus of screaming. … Ollie and Coco hurried up the sloping path. The first of the scarecrows stood right on the edge of the fenced-in dead garden, head a little flopped to one side. Brian was standing in front of it, his hand over his mouth. “What is it?” said Coco. “That scarecrow,” Ollie said, panting a little. “Is–does it look familiar?” “Yes,” Brian whispered. “Because it’s wearing Phil’s clothes. Because that’s Phil’s hat and Phil’s hair and kind of Phil’s face–if it were sewn on. That’s Phil.”
Chapter 13, 18
We do not see the school kids transformed into scarecrows. We only know the Before, and the After. It is up to the reader’s imagination to fill in the space between. And a reader’s imagination can be a very, very powerful thing.
When we describe precisely what happened, we, well, we limit the reader’s power. We define with clear guidelines just what took place and how. We walk readers around all the edges and features, showing off precisely what makes that Scary Something strong as well as weak. Of course, this method can be very useful–a reveal of method beneath the madness, if you will.
But we don’t always need to tell readers how the Scary Something works. If we do, we risk severing the Scary from the Something.
The very reason readers come to stories like this in the first place.
Do you have any favorite ghost stories to share? Let me know in the comments below. In the meantime, I’m going to wait for my copy of Dead Voices, the sequel to Small Spaces. Isn’t that cover creepily gorgeous?It’ll be perfect for a Novembery read, when Wisconsin’s lost in the transition from autumn to winter.
~STAY TUNED NEXT WEEK!~
I’m excited to share all sorts of creative goings-on with Biff, Bash, and Blondie! I’m hoping to talk a bit about NaNoWriMo, too. Plus there’s a peculiar bit of Wisconsin many presume to be haunted, buuuuut we shall see.
We keep in time with it as we dance to life’s obligations. We drum our fingers to it when all else slows to drudge, we unleash our feet to it when all else is quickens to thrill.
Writing, too, has its rhythms. They can be the water flowing through a setting, the heartbeats of two characters meeting, the dialogue where all that is important is left unsaid.
The narrative rhythm quickens and slows with every story, every writer.
And sometimes there is that rare, beautiful moment where the rhythm of one story inspires another.
While both the original 1970s Italian film and 2018 film take place in a dance studio, that is about all they have in common. (If interested, click on for Red Letter Media’s thorough dissection of both the originaland the remake.) As I am going to speak of the 2018 film’s soundtrack, let’s focus on the latter, where a young Mennonite American woman feels she must, she must, join a West German dance troupe that is secretly run by a coven of witches. As she grows more entwined with the magic of the school, the psychotherapist of a dancer missing from that same troupe investigates what he believes to be supernatural goings-on behind the studio’s doors.
(Oh, and that elderly psychotherapist gentleman is played by Tilda Swinton, who is also playing one of the teacher-witches. This was actually a controversial point in the press, as she didn’t admit to playing this role until after the film premiered. Just watch this little snippet of the character moving, and you just feel the age of him, the weight of this mystery upon him. Bloody amazing, that Swinton.)
And there is indeed magical goings-on behind the studio doors. The witches need to prepare a vessel for one who claims to be of the Three Mothers whom the coven worships. How do the witches prepare such a vessel? With dance.
All their magic is empowered by dance. Every choreographed movement of the female body, especially a group of female bodies, helps build their power to control, summon, bespell.
So what better way to bespell the audience than with a magical score? Thom Yorke of Radiohead weaves synth, piano, and dancing rhythms through much of the score. Sometimes we are given only sound, such as in“A Storm That Took Everything.”Like a storm outside, the world is noise, dissonant, clashing, overwhelming. (I wish I had more than an Amazon sample to give you, but Yorke limited which tracks could be on YouTube, dammit.)
Sometimes the dancing rhythm takes center stage even when characters are not dancing. “Belongings Thrown in a River” is an excellent example of this. You can just feel the 3/4 time, always used for waltzes, pull you into a hypnotic 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. Even when no witches can be seen, even outside and away from the studio, there is a power reaching out to our characters from afar.
A longer sample I can share of magical rhythms comes in “Volk,” the song played when the dancers perform what they think is a recital while the teacher-witches prepare Mother Suspiriorum’s entry into their chosen vessel, the Mennonite Susie.
The tinkling high synth that sinks down takes us, the listeners, down to the rhythm. Feel the 5/4 time, otherwise known as quintuple meter. It’s unnatural, this rhythm. It’s not one to be walked to, to run to. It is its own…until just after two minutes, and then the rhythm changes. Constantly halted, that synth, pausing you, pulling you, pushing you, a jerking dramatic control so like a puppeteer with his marionettes.
So like these dancers and their bewitching teachers.
But no song bewitched me like Yorke’s own “Suspirium.”
Again, the 3/4 time, but here with piano, a distant organ, later a flute. The rhythm is the melody is the rhythm. One feels prone to dance a walk in silence as the lyrics invoke a haunted hope of an impossible waiting, just ahead.
This is a waltz thinking about our bodies What they mean for our salvation With only the clothes that we stand up in Just the ground on which we stand Is the darkness ours to take? Bathed in lightness, bathed in heat
All is well, as long as we keep spinning Here and now, dancing behind a wall When the old songs and laughter we do Are forgiven always and never been true
When I arrive, will you come and find me? Or in a crowd, be one of them? Wore the wrong sign back beside her Know tomorrow’s at peace
Songwriters: Thomas Edward YorkeŠ Warner Chappell Music, Inc. For non-commercial use only. Data from: LyricFind
It is through this song I found the rhythm of a story to another girl, one also drawn to a place she cannot yet understand, where her fate is entangled with past bloodied and forgotten in the snow.
It was 8:30 at night, and Grandmother still wasnât dead.
Chloe tapped her box of Winston cigarettes against her nyloned knees, cold and impatient. Sitting at the top of the stairs hurt made her ass hurt, but the stairs started near Grandmotherâs room, where Mom sat with the others. Chloe did not want to be too far from Mom, not when she sat so still and quiet in a room where Death was due to arrive at any time.
Chloe redid her headband to keep her black hair out of her eyes, and then leaned backwards to peer through the doorway again.
Nothing had changed. A heavy, ornate lamp sat on the bedside table with a thin orange shroud draped over its shade to dim the light. The bed stood high with wooden globes for feet, globes carved into precarious connections along the frame and headboard. The blankets on the bed looked like cast-off ball gowns, all bright colors in expensive fabric stitched with gold. Gold was everywhere in that room. No shroud could hinder the light from finding the gilded edges of crucifixes, mirrors, chairs, fireplace. Old family portraits of white people sitting stiffly cover walls papered in some sort of leafy green paper. The paper is cracked and peeling in places, just like Grandmother.
A portrait taken of this generation would be very, very different.
I’m still working out some of the history and time-frame for this story so that, God-willing, come November I can launch myself into Thirty Days and Nights of Literary Abandon.
I should also warn you all I may very well drag you into the forest around the Crow’s Nest during my month-long stay in this story-world. Stay tuned to upcoming posts about that. đ
Speaking of writing endeavors, Super-Proud Mom Me is getting out of the chair so Blondie can tell you all about her current writing project. Take it away, Blondie!
Thanks, Mom! I’ll take it from here. Hello, everyone! I’m Blondie, if you don’t know already. Now, my story is called Alley Heroes. A wolf named Thor needs to defeat the evil Loki. Where is it? Oh, it takes place in Milwaukee, and the magical land of Valhalla.
Methinks my daughter has been influenced somewhat by her Basher Mythology book. đ Here’s her introduction. Love this girl! xxxxx
INTRODUCTION
It was a typical day in Milwaukee, or what you call typical. Under a pretty rosebush, Thor was born. What?! No, No, not the Norse god Thor! Well, maybe, but any who, letâs continue, shall we? SO, then, Thorâs parents left him behind when humans came. Thor grew up in the city alleys where it was perfect camouflage. Then it happened. What?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, âSO, WHAT HAPPENED?â WELL, TURN THE PAGE!
Speaking of books, indie author and reviewer Colin Garrow was kind enough to review my novella Night’s Tooth. I’m so honored!
A mix of classic western and fantasy, Jean Leeâs novella is set on the edges of her Princeborn universe (see Fallen Princeborn: Stolen). Her use of language is delightful, with an unusual writing style thatâs as clever as it is original. The characters are an interesting lot, too, (like the Sherriff with the squirrel-tails moustache). Drop them all into an atmospheric Clint Eastwood-type setting, and thereâs plenty of action to keep the reader guessing whatâs coming next.
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I hope you’ll check out his site…and, well, my books, too. Night’s Toothis only 99 cents, after all!
~STAY TUNED NEXT WEEK!~
We’ve just enough time before All Hallow’s Eve to explore spaces lost and forgotten, frightening and small. I’ll share a peculiar corner of Wisconsin before we run for the small spaces, where we must hope the smiling man of the mist will not find us….
Sure, there’s some sweet Christmas music in there (Yay, more Alan Silvestri!) but also plenty of fantasy and adventure, too. It’s the sort of gathering that makes me eager to hide from my kids for a few minutes with headphones, a chance to close my eyes and explore the possibilities…
…but which way do I go?
It’s a crossroads moment, to be sure. Maybe I need to be like Anastasia, and wait for a sign, like a magically house-trained dog covered in Don Bluth cuteness.
Whenever I feel tired of writing, this song makes me excited to get back into it again. There’s adventure in the mind, hidden deep in trees born of words and dreams. One just needs to take that first step in to see.
Perhaps that first step transports you into the night. Something stalks you in the dark…or perhaps you are the stalker, hunting the threat before It escapes among the Innocents.
Rain begins to fall, and you fall into line, the world unsuspecting of the mystery that runs amok in night’s grit and fervor.
Or…
Perhaps that first step transports you to impossible heights. Clouds kiss your feet.
Your comrades call to you, waiting for you to join them in the descent down, down to where adventure rides sunbeams and waterfalls, tunnels through ancient tombs of fallen kings.
Or…
Perhaps that first step transports you into the heart of The Storm. Lightning flashes, and you see the grey, grassy field you’re in goes on, and on, and on in all directions but one.
Lightning flashes, and you see you are not alone.
Lightning flashes, and you see nothing.
You hear a breathing not your own.
Lightning flashes, and–
Who knows?
So many stories, so little time!
But I’ll make the time. I have to, since now I’m creating new fiction to be shared with newsletter subscribers. You can see the hub for it on the home page of my website now: “Free Exclusive Fiction from the Wilds.” When you click there, you’ll see whatever the new fiction is for the month: a Fallen Princeborn story, maybe, or something for my Shield Maidens of Idana. A character dialogue, perhaps, or maybe just a standalone story I felt like writing. Every month will bring something awesome, so awesome it’s gotta be locked up with passwords, mwa ha ha ha! The newsletter will have the password to unlock the fiction.
(And now I suddenly feel like I’m in a Zeldagame, going to such’n’such place for the yadda yadda key to unlock the neato treasure. Ah well, you get me.)
In the meantime, I’m still working on the novels for my Fallen Princeborn Omnibus. Still teaching and family-ing. But Bo’s got me mixed up in a challenge that, by default, I’m going to inflict on you.
In the briefest of terms, Whole30 says eat meat and produce, nothing else: no dairy, no grains. Coffee and tea are okay so long as you’re not adding stuff to them. You do this for 30 days to “reset your gut,” as it were, training it to burn fat instead of sugar for energy.
This means I’m going to try blogging for 30 days straight.
Not, you know, extensive pontificating for 30 days. Just honest reflection on how it’s going. Maybe something cool I’ve read, or some awesome quotes to get you thinking as you write or read. Some interviews of amazing Indie writers, some more music to inspire, and hopefully a “lessons learned” post about series writing that touches on a legit gripe many readers have about storytelling today.
And since I’m try to trim m’self down with Bo, then let’s just top this off with a sale on my novel, Fallen Princeborn: Stolen.For the entire month of February, Stolen will be 99 cents.
So, bring on the February! Bring on the cold, the coffee, and the dreams of stories not yet finished, not yet begun!
Something tells me it’s going to be a crazy-beautiful adventure. đ
The kind that makes you go, “NOOOOOOOOOO!” because a beloved and/or cool character is about to die.
Every time. Seriously, every time I see Predator, I say, “Nooo, Billy!” at the screen. As a member of the audience, I’m invested in seeing the characters’ survival against the Predator. I want to see the characters’ skill sets aid them in overcoming the conflicts and obstacles that await them before the journey’s end.
This can be said as a reader of any high-stakes story, really. Look at a few big SFF series for examples. We want Captain Kirk and his crew to survive. We want Harry Potter and all his friends to survive. We want the Fellowship of the Ring to survive. We want Katniss Everdeen and her loved ones to survive. We want Luke Skywalker and his friends to survive.
We know these people are fictional, but there are facets of these characters that connect within us. This makes us care about them, so of course we go “NOOOOO!” when Dumbledore is struck down by Snape, when Prim and dozens of others are bombed by a device made by the Katniss’ oldest friend, Gabe.
And then…
…and then there are the deaths that just don’t feel necessary.
Now I just want to pause here that I’m talking about this as both a reader and a writer. I get that pain and consequence have to occur in a high-stakes story. You can’t threaten death without delivering at least a little bit of death or you risk hollowing out the stakes.
What bothers me as a reader and worries me as a writer are those unnecessary character deaths. You know you’ve encountered stories with this problem. That’s why I showed the aforementioned Predator clip of Billy. Billy, the biggest and buffest bad-ass of Dutch’s team, stops on the tree-bridge to face the Predator. Why?
On screen, we’re not given a reason apart from MANLINESS. Just look at him, stripping down and cutting his own chest. It’s the ultimate bad-ass standoff!
Only in the story, it’s not the ultimate bad-ass standoff. That’s for Dutch (also stripped down) and the Predator.
So why did Billy have to die?
As a “reader,” I could shrug to “noble sacrifice,” except no other death has bought the survivors time or advantage. Billy would know that. I could also shrug to “acceptance,” since earlier in the film Billy says, “We’re all going to die.”
But as a writer, I think I really know why.
It’s because you can’t have an ultimate bad-ass standoff between TWO good guys and a bad guy. Plus, in terms of physique, Billy and Dutch are an equal match. Heck, I think Billy could have beaten Dutch in arm wrestling.
So Billy had to die.
It feels like when there has to be a bit of death in the story, writers sometimes choose the character most similar to the protagonist. Take Finnick Odair from the Hunger Games trilogy: he’s strong, knowledgeable, another survivor of the Hunger Games (also: pretty). We meet him in Catching Fire, grow connected to his personality and backstory, root for him when he gets married….aaaaand watch him die on the assault on the Capital. Now it can be argued his arc’s complete, so the audience knows who he is. SOMEone’s got to die in a war; his death will have the strongest emotional impact while primary heroine Katniss can continue on.
Fine. Fair enough. At least Finnick got to die on page/screen, UNLIKE BILLY.
Notice how after all his bad-ass preparation, we never get to see Billy fight the Predator. We just hear his anguished scream, and know he’s dead. Such off-screen deaths drive me nuts. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is guilty of this, too, both in book and on film, when it comes to characters like Professor Lupin and the Auror Tonks. They die during the battle at Hogwarts while Harry’s elsewhere, so we never see their final moments. They’re just dead.
Wow, I went off longer on this than planned. Dammit, Billy, you got me all wound up!
I get that I have to accept beloved characters dying. I just want those deaths to MATTER. You bet your ass I cry when Beth dies in Little Women. I bawl when Clint Eastwood’s character Walt is shot in Gran Torino. I refused to believe Hercule Poirot was really dead in Curtain until I went online for evidence to prove otherwise…and couldn’t find it. Even Dobby, that goofy little house-elf Dobby, had me sobbing both while reading and watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I hated that these characters had to die.
But their deaths help spur the protagonists–and the narrative–forward. Without their deaths, there is less at stake; therefore, there is less concern for the characters.
Now I have waaaaaay more to say about character death, but Bo’s up and given me the giggles by saying, “Billy will always be in the chopper of your heart.” Yes, yes he will!
So let’s pause to talk. Is there a story with a character death that really frustrates you? Should I kill more characters in my own books?
Lastly, be sure to stay tuned to my monthly newsletter. Big changes are coming, and I don’t want you to miss out!
Jason Voorhees first took up residence a few months after my daughter was born. Most think Voorhees = hockey mask and machete. Well, our relationship didnât start that way. He came as he did in Friday the 13th Part 2, an ogre of a being with a bag over his head, one cut hole for a yellow eye to peer through. He came in, sat on our couch, and stayed there. No machete, just a second bag and some twine. He sat quietly as my daughter and I played, fed, or worked. If I turned to him, heâd hold out that second bag.
One evening, my husband arrived from work to see our daughter in her bouncy seat, bored, and me sitting next to Jason Voorhees with a bag over my head.
âWhatâs wrong?â
I tried to open my mouth, but the burlap felt coarse and painful against my lips. So I said nothing, sitting there with one eye on my daughter to make sure she was safe, and the other eye lost to woven doubt and self-loathing. My husband undid the knot, took the bag off my head, and handed it to Jason. Jason shifted himself down to make room. My husband held my hand and slowly worked me off the couch back to our family.
This routine continued on for a few months. All three of us grew tired of Jason, sitting on the couch, filling the hallway, losing the books and movies that we enjoyed for a little escape, hiding our daughterâs favorite snugglers so we couldnât get her to sleep.
Iâd show him the door. Heâd hand out the bag. Iâd take the bag.
In a rare outing where I actually sat somewhere with no baby (but with Jason), a friend revealed her latest endeavor in the classroom: NaNoWriMo.
âNano-what?â
âNaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. Itâs a challenge to write a 50,000 word story in thirty days. My kids are pretty excited.â
Something shifted in me. It had been years since graduate school, where I struggled to write proper literary stuff. If I could write what I really wanted and do my online job and raise an infant…
Jasonâs single eye darted between us quizzically, coffee spilling onto his overalls.
I ignored him. âWhenâs it start?â
At 10:30 on the night of November 30th, I reached the 50,000 word mark. The door to our apartment clicked shut. I found a bag outside my workroom with a small length of twine.
Two years later, I gave birth to twin boys. Within the first month, in the midst of mud and lightning, Jason Voorhees resurrected, and this time, he came with a machete.
How do I describe what itâs like to fantasize killing my own children?
Jason said nothing, but that machete glistened in the softness of the boysâ nightlight. It sparkled like a magical wand. It promised peace with a mere knick knack, paddy-whack. I had to pass Jason nearly every hour of the night to feed one boy, then the other, oh of course one woke up, damn he shat everywhere, which one is this again?
Sometimes Jason held out an oven mitt above a boyâs face. Sometimes his machete pointed towards the stairs. Sometimes I heard a whisper, which could not have been me yet Jason never speaks soâŚIf he wants to scream, give him a reason. Those fingers are so small, no oneâll notice if oneâs broken. Drop the little fucker. These could not be my thoughts. But I knew they were me, they sounded like me when Iâm thinking about what shirt to wear or what to make for my daughterâs lunch. And with every thought comes a lurch inside, an Honest-to-God turning of the stomach that made me want to take that machete and cut myself open to find whatever was whispering these things so it couldnât hurt my sons, who in only one month of life had already shown such mischievous spirits.
Then came the colic. Jason Goes to Hell comes to mind.
The lowest moment: driving my younger son to the emergency room. A Wisconsin winter night, bitterly freezing, the road coated with black ice, and my son wonât stop screaming. We called yet again trying to understand why one boyâs colic subsided while the otherâs grew worse, and finally a nurse said with a yawn that it could be acid reflux. Of course, thereâs no good way to fight acid reflux with infants. You have to wait it out. Fuck you. Weâre not waiting it out anymore. Give me meds to shut this kid up orâŚorâŚ
Jason rode shotgun.
Dump him. Dump him and go home. Heâll freeze fast. Heâs baptized. Heâll be happy in Heaven, away from you. You never wanted twins. You donât want this one. Heâll always be like this. Stop there and dump him.
Silence.
I stopped the car.
My son, asleep. His torso shook up and down to the jerky rhythm of his exhausted breathing. It was, by my meager standards, a miracle.
A few days later, another miracle: all three of my kids napping at the same time.
I opened my novel, the NaNoWriMo project from my daughterâs infancy, and started to read. And revised. Revised some more as I nursed my sons. Wrote notes while I played with them, brainstormed ideas with them aloud. Continued the story in whatever free minutes I could find.
There stood Jason, his macheteâs sparkle gone. I came forward with dragons, trolls, shapeshifters, and goblins at the edge of darkness, where my worlds began. I held out my hand, and let the bag and twine fall to the ground at his feet.
My twins are two now, and adorably terrible to everyone, especially their big sister. Jasonâs still out there, hacking at the darkness, bursts of spark-light about his face, a fragment of nightmare that will never vanish completely.
The boys climb up my legs while my daughter wraps her arms around my neck. I am bombarded with giggles and toddler tickles. I am armored with a love that no blade can nick.
I am also trapped in the chair.
My daughter bonks me with a hard cover. âLetâs read a story!â