Hello, everyone! Thanks for sharing your wishes and prayers–yesterday was a rough one, but today can and will be better.It’s been wonderful to write a little every day, so much so that I am going to let myself take it a liiiiiittle bit easier this week, as my university students are starting to submit finals and I know I’m subbing for at least two full days in other schools. So, be on the look out for an indie author interview as well as some guest writing from my awesomely sweet daughter Blondie.
Now, where were we–ah, the mysterious doctor is stirring something while sitting next to a butchered rabbit.
Sumac pulled a long, dirty knife out of the kitchen sink and stabbed what remained of the rabbit’s abdomen. “Hungry?”
“You have got to be kidding me.” Chloe said, one foot already sliding back to the kitchen’s door. She stumbled back, and back, and lunged for the bare bathroom before the heaving started. At least the toilet wasn’t covered in animal blood, oh jeez I cannot STAND IT.
The doctor listened to Chloe puke, then said, “I may have something to help with that.”
“How—” Thomas’ hand swept from the shaven Santa Claus to the carcass and back. “How is this remotely sanitary?”
The doctor furrowed his brow and held up the spoon for inspection while the sounds of Chloe’s wretching lessened. “The dishes have been washed, if that’s your concern.”
“You have medicine next to a dead animal in the goddamn kitchen!”
“And where else is one expected to prepare food and drink?” The doctor’s belly shook as he laughed. “All will be well, Sir, if you calm yourself.”
When Chloe returned to the kitchen, the doctor was politely patting her father’ limp arm. Thomas was standing, but not with the straight back he always kept when a white man talked to him. “Yeah…” The word dropped from his lips, vague and distant.
“Oh, I admit, this place is terribly morbid.” The doctor went to grab the teacup, sniffing it with disdain. “But it won’t do a dying old woman any good to raucous over stuffed birds and dirty stoves. What matters now is giving her a bit of comfort–like a pain reliever in her tea–and a bit of company.” He was only as tall as Chloe, so it was her he looked to with a smile. The scar running along one side of his shaved face almost connected the smile to his eyes–almost, but not quite. “Would you mind attending her with me? Just for a few moments while this brogue tidies up.” The doctor added a rebuking look at Sumac for good measure.
Not that Sumac seemed to care. “Look, the lady wants to keep the crows coming, and they won’t come if there’s no food.” With four slick moves, the rabbits limbs were severed. “There’s proper human vittles in the fridge anyway. Unless you put something off-limits in there.” And this plowman Sumac gave the doctor a snotty stare.
Weren’t doctors supposed to be respected?
Chloe tugged her father’s arm. “C’mon, Dad, let’s—”
“Not your father.” The doctor raised a hand to stop them. He had a pretty fancy ring on, much like the professors who taught at Angela’s college. It reflected the light in their faces as the doctor continued. “Your father can find you something more appropriate to eat. I know I wouldn’t trust that butcher to boil an egg.”
A low rumble: Thomas’ stomach, then Chloe’s. She could picture a full plate of chips, grapes, pb and j, cookies, milk…she must not have emptied her stomach, but her whole body of fuel, and she so needed fuel. Her legs felt like they could buckle right now, and the rabbit didn’t look gross so much as dinner-not-ready-yet…“Nothing with, you know, its teeth still in.”
Thomas smirked, and gave his daughter a wink. “No kidding. Look, I owe your mom some ice, anyway. Five minutes, I’ll be up to get you.”
Thomas held up five fingers. Chloe clapped her hand against his, and said, “Okay.”
Word Count: 553 Total Count: 7434
I was going to go a bit longer, but the boys are demanding basement time, and those groceries ain’t gonna buy themselves. Guess we’ll all have to meet the infamous grandmother tomorrow. 🙂
Hi, friends! Sigh…Well, so much for catching up. 😦 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 man’s hands were curled as talons, saliva flying from his mouth when he screams for Chloe’s 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 run—
Thomas Watchman cut in front of his daughter, fist damp with the man’s spit. The man’s 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 couldn’t reach the floor beyond the couch, robbing his shape of anything human. He panted, moaned, “Aaaaang”
“I’m here, Reg.” Angela ran past her husband, pulled away from his own clawed plea, “Stay back, Ang, he’s dangerous,” and Chloe’s plea, “Mom he tried to kill me!”
But Angela did not stay back. “No, he didn’t.” She ran her fingers through the crumpled man’s hair. “Get Reg some ice, Thomas.”
“Thomas.” Angela undid her coat and folded it to lay upon the floor. “Please.” She looked at him, at Chloe. “Please,” she said again.
The crumpled Reg turned his face up to Angela’s, 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 Thomas’ ear, and nodded towards the sliding doors out. Chloe didn’t 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 Chloe’s body shake against him. “Okay.” Not that it was actually okay, not with that growl beneath it. “Chloe and I will be right back.”
Sal walked with them to the sliding door and paused. “I’m so sorry you’re seeing Reg like this first.” He held the glasses in his palms like a child holds a butterfly. “He’s usually the gentlest of us, setting spiders free outside and rescuing rabbits from Mother’s traps, that sort of thing.”
Chloe scoffed. “That doesn’t explain why he called me a fake, or why he tried to strangle me.” 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 machines’ 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. “This place…Mother. She liked to scare us, you see. Keep us here with stories of, of monsters out to eat us.” He laughed nervously and lay Reg’s glasses to rest on a shelf next to the door. “They could take any shape, the monsters, and…anyway, together we three could handle it all right, especially because of Angela. But when Mother’d catch us alone…” A beastly sound warbled in Sal’s throat. “Well. You see what she did to Reg in just one hour.”
“One hour?” Thomas asks. His growl was gone.
“Yeah.” Even Sal sounded like he couldn’t believe it, “Doctor says I arrived just an hour after Reg. One hour alone with that woman…” 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. 🙂
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. “I’m better now, really,” she whispered to Thomas, but
Chloe knew her dad didn’t believe her. He dropped one hand down only to keep
his other arm snug around his wife’s shoulders.
But still, Angela was smiling–and to Chloe’s
relief, a real smile, at that. She even took off her mittens and tucked them
into her coat pocket. “Hi, Sal.”
Sal blinked back a couple tears, making his
eyelashes sparkle like the snow. “Hi, Ang.”
The two shared a nervous laugh. “You got tall,”
said Angela, looking up into his face. If not for constantly bowing his head
down, Chloe was sure he’d be taller than her father Thomas.
Sal laughed a little more. “You got a clone.”
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, didn’t have to matter, at least in this
moment. “Had a little help,” she said, and nodded to her husband.
This time, Chloe’s father didn’t prove himself
with a strong grip. Handshakes are hard when one’s being hugged by a lanky
“Uh, hi.” Thomas patted Sal awkwardly on the
back while mouthing What the? to Chloe. Angela’s hand found Thomas’ on
Sal’s back and threaded their fingers together to keep Sal close. He shuddered
in their hold
“This place, Ang…” he said, and sobbed.
“I know.” 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 “come on, now” and “it’s just one night, okay?
We’re together, we can do this.” 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. “What about Reg?”
That broke the huddle in a hurry, much to
Thomas’ relief. “Reg!” Ang said. “How is he?”
“Reg is…Reg.” Sal bit his lip. “He got here
“Oh no…” Angela’s eyes searched the stairs, her
body began to shake—
“I think he went in there, Mom.” Chloe grabbed
the iron handle for the sliding door and tugged…and tugged…she even set
her bundle down to try with both hands. ”I think he did.
Chloe’s dad joined her. “Let’s all look in here
first,” 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 Sal’s feet.
“We never did try pinning them to the floor…” he
Thomas stared at Sal until Chloe gave him a
little kick to stop. “And you don’t have to now, either, because tomorrow we’re
all leaving. Right Ang?”
Angela walked by all of them without a word but
“Reg?” 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 “Y”
with an extra line in the middle.
The room had to be as big as the Watchman’s
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. “Reg?” she
said, joining her mom and the others. He wasn’t 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 over…
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, curious—
Some distant door in the kitchen slammed.
“Getting more wood!” Sumac called, and slammed away again.
“Who is that?” Angela asked.
Sal made a face. “Oh, you haven’t even seen the
doctor yet. I’m sure he’ll be down shortly.”
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. “You’re not Angela, you, FAKE!” The table flew back as he leapt up, hands out for Chloe’s 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
“Mister, I’m not—” Just getting those words out
was nigh impossible for Chloe. The man practically picked her up and ran into
the house, leaving Sumac and Chloe’s parents out in the snow.
“I told you she’d come, Sal, see?” And just as
quickly as he’d grabbed her, the man released Chloe and left her spinning in
the foyer while he vanished into a neighboring room.
“Hang on!” said an irritated voice behind a
closed door on Chloe’s right.
Chloe held her book bundle tight. A cold, lofty
spot, this foyer, with an old, hungry smell that pecked at Chloe’s 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 child’s.
The pictures continued onto the wood-paneled
walls. The more Chloe’s 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 wasn’t right. A speckled man, really, with
messy red hair to match. “Sorry about the smell, Ang. You know how I am–” he
paused, staring hard at Chloe. “Oh shit–I mean, crap–I mean, I’m not talking
about the smell, in there—” he waved at the toilet behind him. “I mean, the old
meat smell. You’re not Angela.” He bowed his head, so flushed his freckles were
all but lost.
“She’s my mom.” She held out her hand and kept
her chin up. “I’m Chloe.”
“Sal.” He held out his hand–took it back,
glancing back at the toilet—
Chloe took it anyway and shook it just as her
parents taught, quick and firm.
“That’s it.” Sumac stomped his way in and set
the Watchman Family’s luggage next to the curio. “I’m not waiting for them. We
may need a rescue operation for your mother, girl.” He hung his hat and coat
upon a coatrack with a nest on top. “I’ll get the feed for the yard.”
Sal rolled his eyes. “You’re going to attract
bears if you keep that up.”
“It’s your mother’s rule, not mine. Still…”
Sumac scratched the last of the snow out of his hair. “Wouldn’t mind some
bigger game than crows to wander our way.” With a wink to Chloe he vanished
“The kitchen.” Sal shuddered. “Wouldn’t make a
sandwich in there right now, if I were you.”
“My stash of oatmeal pies might still be behind
the egg collection.” Chloe’s mom, finally in the doorway, the tips of her boots
just crossing the threshold. Chloe’s 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.
“Thomas, this is the Crow’s Nest,” she said, and led him inside.”
Word Count: 616 Total Count: 3886
Here’s hoping I have a little more time to finish this family reunion tomorrow. x
From White Witches to innocent-looking aunties, you’ll find a wealth of discussion on villains in books, graphic novels, and more. I was honored to contribute this year with an analysis of Black Maria. Do check out the series–every article’s a feast for the mind and imagination!
Now, back to that first chapter. The plowman’s ushering Chloe Watchman and her family out of their car and into the Crow’s Nest. We’ve some other family to look out for besides this frightening “mother” figure: two brothers, Sal and Reg. Let’s see if we meet them today.
Writing Music: Philip Glass, Notes on a Scandal
Harsh white light from somewhere overhead switched on, turning the plowman’s skin the color of bone. “I’ll help you unload, get us all in faster….unless you’d rather stay here.”
Chloe’s mother exhaled an icy breath onto her window, erasing the outside–and the plowman– from her sight. “I’d prefer it,” she said flatly.
“Ang.” Chloe’s father shook his head as he stepped out of the car. He held a hand out to the plowman over the windshield. “Sorry, it’s been a long road. Thomas Watchman, Angela’s husband.”
The plowman removed his cowboy hat and held it to his chest. “Sumac, Sir, at your service,” he said with a little bow and a strong handshake. Very strong. Her father had the biggest hands Chloe ever knew, but this plowman’s were just as big, with hairy blonde knuckles that practicallyl turned his hands into paws. No wonder he had no gloves on.
Chloe slid out of the backseat into the snow, quietly watching as the two men gripped hands over the station wagon, smiling fine while also tugging like they wanted to pull the other over the car. Snow was spilling over the tops of her boots and melting down to her heels. Her black pantyhose should have been wool and denim jeans, but she just had to look professional like her momma by wearing a skirt. Not that her momma was any sort of professional right now, her dad acting like he’s got to prove himself to some white man again…
“Help would be great.” Chloe wraps up her books in the blanket and presses the bundle close to her chest. “Thanks.” She turns around.
And finds another Chloe staring right back at her: a black girl tall enough to make small white boys nervous. Hair speckled white with snow like her Aunt Tic’s. Headband’s askew. Hat made in home ec. Navy wool coat rescued from a Sear’s discard bin by her father, carefully repaired by her mother. Her classmates didn’t act like they knew, but Chloe could feel her mother’s stitches itch on her skin, scraping her up, marking her as cheap, unworthy
Get outta our school
You don’t belong here
Nothing but a low-life n—
“Still can’t get over these windows.” Sumac towered over Chloe, the frozen locks of his hair brushing snow off his own shoulders and onto hers. He had their only two suitcases–Chloe’s dad must be working on getting her mom out of the car. “Every time I drive here, I think another car’s playing chicken with me.”
“Are all the windows like this?” Chloe took a step back to take in the Crow’s Nest.
Two bright lamps stood upon either side of a massive door etched with…something. The snow stuck to much of it, but Chloe could see curves and grooves in the way the snow was shaded by the lamps. No light could be seen in any of the dozen windows staring down at her: not on the first floor, second floor, or attic. Only the flickering reflections of the door’s lamps and snow, like muted static on a television.
The roof itself was steep and lined with little spears–all but the center, where a circular shape remained blurred and secret in the night snow. The house itself was all large red bricks and cement, complete with cement scrolling rails up the wide, icy stairs to the front door.
The opening front door.
Even from the bottom of the stairs, Chloe could feel a wave of warmth spilling down the stairs. There was light, normal light inside, and what looked like carpets, and a staircase, and then a man’s shape. A man with combed black hair, narrow eyes, glasses, sweater. He staggered onto the front step, gaping at Chloe. “Angela?” With a jump he was off the stairs and in the snow, arms so tight around Chloe she lost her breath.
Word Count: 643 Total Count: 3270
Hmmm. I’m feeling like Chloe’s a bit too passive for own good these past few scenes, but then again, the current circumstances are out of her control. I’ll try to make her more active in the scenes ahead.
Like what you see so far? I’ve got books to share with you, too! Click here to learn more about my YA Fantasy novel, my serial fantasy on Channillo, and my fantasy western novella.
When the Nina Simone cassette began a fourth time,
Chloe’s 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. “If I knew
we’d be in the woods this long, I’d of filled up by that bastard out in Eagle
River,” he said. His eyes stayed fixed on the truck ahead of them, so he didn’t
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 father’s
shoulder. “We’re okay, Dad.” 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 truck’s tailgate and looks into the Watchman station wagon with yellow
Chloe risks a smile. “Didn’t think owls liked
free rides.” For it clearly did, preening its feathers as the snow blew around
him and the truck bumped on beneath him.
“I know I wouldn’t mind one in this snow,”
Thomas added with a relaxing glance Chloe’s 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. “Finally.
Tomorrow I’ll ride with the plowman to a station for more gas to get out
of here tomorrow.”
“No!” Chloe’s mother nearly lunged out of her
seat, her fingernails digging into Thomas’ arm. “Don’t leave me here alone with
“Mom, Mom, I’ll be with you, it’ll be okay, I’m
here.” Chloe tried to hold her mother’s face like she’d hold Chloe’s after a
bad dream. Her skin was so cold Chloe almost recoiled from the touch, but she
didn’t. 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
daughter’s too scared to be around her.
Chloe’s father finally released the steering
wheel. He slid a gloved thumb beneath her clawing fingernails, and gently pried
her off. “All right. I’ll pay him to bring us gas. That better?”
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, “Don’t say anything about the owl.”
“Why?” 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. “It’s already gone.”
“Good.” Angela took a few more breaths, then
eased back into her seat. “She asked for one night, and that’s all we’re
giving. The others agreed. We hear her out, and we leave in the morning.”
Thomas, too, watched the plowman wipe down the
truckbed. Two other snowy hulks became visible in its headlights. “Those cars?”
“Sal and Reg must be here already.” 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.
“You’re not going to sleep in there, are you?”
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!
Hello, friends! Yes, I’m leaving you hanging on that prologue. An idea struck me during a rather dull sermon today to leave that moment in time hanging for a spell, and perhaps return to it after we’ve been with our main characters inside the Crow’s Nest.
Writing Music: Nina Simone
Chloe slapped the lock pin down on her passenger door. The cassette of Nina Simone’s hits started its third loop, not that anyone noticed. They were too focused on the curtain of snow, and the man floating in it.
“Your mother say anything about this?” Chloe’s dad asked without looking at her.
Chloe’s mom shook her head. She’d hardly said a word since the phone call that had torn them out of Milwaukee and sent them up…wherever here was.
The man shifted, then fell a few feet to the ground before their headlights. His mouth moved, and it sounded like he was talking, but it was impossible to make it out above the engine and heater of their station-wagon.
Chloe squinted from her mess of blankets and books in the backseat. A truck’s flatbed–that is how the man had been floating. He kicked up snow as he walked to the driver-side window with long, sweeping strides. A man that big, Chloe realized he could kick a mean dent in their car door if he liked. But he only bent forward as if to keep his body away from the door on purpose. “I’m from the Crow’s Nest!” he shouted. “The old lady sent me to keep the road cleared for everyone. You another Perdido?”
“Yeah,” her dad said, keeping the window closed. He wasn’t stupid.
“Thank the Maker!” The man tipped his head back to laugh, revealing a small icicle clinging to the bottom of his close-cut beard. He wiped his nose with big leather gloves and pointed at his truck. “Follow me!” Chloe’s dad nodded, and the man returned to his truck. The snow was so high his trench coat dragged upon it like bridal train.
“Thoughtful of her,” he said to Chloe’s mom.
“Thoughtful?” Chloe’s mom pulled back, disgust all over her face. She leaned against the door, fingers on the handle like she wanted to get out.
Chloe leaned forward and grabbed her mom’s hand for the first time since the phone call. “Mom?”
She blinked, eyes darting as if to rewind the word in her head. Finally, her hand squeezed back, and she sighed. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m just…I thought I’d never come back here.”
Chloe crooked her head to look outside, hand still tight on her mom’s. Wherever “here” was, Chloe couldn’t tell. The station-wagon followed the truck so closely its brake lights were all they could see—not that the snow helped. It spun in wide ribbons down from the tree branches onto the cars. And the trees, packed so damn tightly together it was impossible to see how this was a road at all.
If Chloe had grown up in a place like this, she wouldn’t be eager to come back, either.
Her father noticed, too. “This is paved, isn’t it, or gravel? Feels like we’re hitting rocks and brush under the snow.”
“Probably are.” Chloe’s mom stared ahead again, her fingernails tapping the door’s armrest with the same steady tick tock of the grandfather clock Chloe’s father had surprised his wife with for her birthday. Three months went into that clock, Chloe distracting her mother with extra trips to the library and college fairs while her father scrounged for parts at clock shops and donation centers. She was so happy when her blindfold came off, always amazed by little pieces of the past Chloe’s dad could bring back to life.
But now, Angela Perdido Watchman’s cheeks were drawn in like she was chewing them from the inside out. Her lips had chapped so that when she pressed them together it looked to Chloe like someone had sewn her mother’s mouth shut. She was always so powerful to Chloe whenever she visited her mom at her campus, addressing white professors as her equal, demanding respect from all her students, not just the colored ones. No one could crack her.
Word Count: 638 Total Count: 2034
We’re getting there! At least, I was until the boys demanded to go outside in the frigid cold to play. Away we go!
Hi, friends! I’m continuing the fairytale backstory today. Of course I realized there was something I wanted to include in yesterday’s submission, soooo I’ll just manage it into this one. That’s the way of NaNoWriMo: always write moving forward. xxxxx
“Good morning,” said the Silver Man with a tip of his tall hat.
Such a strange creature! This man was not like Papa at all. His skin was darker, his voice smooth and fearless. He wore no wool sweater or flannel shirts as they, but a suit much like the fancy men in story books, right down to the shiny shoes. Beneath his long silvery coat was a lining that looked like white fur, but the hair was too long to be fur.
The girl and her brothers clasped hands. The little brother shivered. A crow called from atop the roof of their home, but the children didn’t answer him, either.
The Silver Man tucked his hands into his pockets and took another step away from the forest and closer to their front stoop. “I do hope I have the honor of addressing the children of Master Perdido.”
Black wings flew out of the forest–more crows for the roof just above the children’s heads. When the girl watched them perch, they seemed more like holes in the sky than birds.
It is just Mama and Papa and us, the older brother said, very loud and sure as he gripped his sister’s hand. Are you from beyond the forest?
“Indeed I am.” The Silver Man removed a small bottle from his coat pocket and took a drink. “I come from a land without snow such as this.” He picks up a handful, and tosses it in the air between him and the children.
The snow does not fall. Each flake remains clear and still and perfect before the children’s eyes, blinding them to the Silver Man and the forest behind him. Not even the crow swooping over the their heads as it circles the house can take their eyes away.
The Silver Man begins to speak.
“From beyond the forests and oceans and mountains…” A dot of still snow melts, revealing the Silver Man’s finger. The finger melts snow as it draws little lines, little circles, little arms and legs–
–three. Three little children.
“…I have crossed the world on magical waters to find you.”
A flurry of scratches in the snow surround the drawn children–the eternal forest that, to the girl’s amazement, is not eternal, for the Silver Man’s scratches end—the forest, it must end, too! He sketches lines for rivers, and, and squares for buildings, squashy circles for lakes and bumps for mountains. Snow melts into the ocean and there’s more, there is more to the world, such a world! The girl leans away from her brothers to see the Silver Man draw some buildings and trees, and…another line, circle, arms and legs. Himself, surely.
The world, it had never felt so near…and so achingly far away.
A dark shape melted into the snow map: The Silver Man waved his top hat through the snow, and the snow fell to the ground as normal, boring snow does. He brushed the last flakes from his hat, and replaced it upon his head. “My farm is kissed by the son every day, its air filled with the scents of sweet fruit and flowers. You can run free to play with other children all day, and the fairies will tuck you in to bed at night. That is,” his legs bent and suddenly he was eye to eye with them, “if you wish to go.”
The scent of oranges drifted from his shoulders. The children swooned, their imaginations filled with grass and no trees, with treats and no wool sweaters, with other children waving to them, calling their names, wanting them, them, to come and play–
–until a crow swooped again, knocking his hat off his head. There had to be a dozen crows now, circling the house and cawing, cawing, the noise too loud for dreams and maps and–
“Children!” Their mama stood in the open door, wild-eyed and shaking. “Inside!”
The children ran beneath Mam’s arms, the girl almost caught in the door as Mama swung it shut and brought down the beam to lock it in place. The children clung to the stairwell’s bannister, waiting.
The Silver Man approached the door.
Mama’s chest moved up, down, up down, fast like the bellows when she stokes the kitchen fire. “You can’t have them!” She yelled at the door. “I don’t know where it is! You can find your own demon seed!”
Black shapes whipped by the windows surrounding the door: crows, flying.
The Silver Man left the door.
Crows cried from the rooftop.
Mama’s breath kept heaving hard, so hard, harder than her children. Her skin shone with sweat, her dress sleeves sliced and bloody.
Who is he, Mama? asked the little brother.
All crowing stops.
A cold wind tumbles down the stairs and over the children’s backs. The girl watches a snowflake land upon her older brother’s cheek…followed by a white feather.
The top stair creaks.
Only the girl dares peak over her shoulder to see the Silver Man standing there above them all, brushing snow off his top hat.
“You know I can’t.”
Word Count: 857. Total so far: 1420. Yay!
While I know 50k won’t happen, my goal is to write 500+ words every day through the month of November–enough to have a solid start on my next novella. So, I’ll see you tomorrow! xxxxx
Hi, friends! I wanted to give myself a little warm-up to the main story with a moment in the story’s history. Considering my recent enjoyment of Labyrinth of the Faun, I wanted to take an impromptu stab at the fairy tale structure. Enjoy!
Once upon a time, there was a girl who had two brothers: one elder, and one younger. They lived with their parents in a forest filled with wild things in a vast house built of secrets and fear. No window allowed a view into the house from the outside. The brick walls were so unpleasant no vine wanted to climb them. The house, named Crow’s Nest for reasons which will later be revealed to you, looked out upon the forest with its mirrors eyes as if it loathed its own surroundings, but had nowhere else to go.
It was the perfect place for to live if you were
an explorer, which is just what the girl and her brothers deemed themselves to
Not that they could all explore at once. Being
that rarest of sorts known as sensible children, they knew it best to take
turns with each dangerous task involved with an explore. One was required to
distract the parents, be it helping poorly with chores, hiding the day’s cooking
rations, or—the riskiest option—asking incessant questions about the world beyond
Only the girl dared do this. Why must my hair be black? What are those
things that fly above us without flapping? Angel talks too much, can we eat
him? I want go riding into the forest like Papa does. What are those loud
noises outside the trees? Where does Papa go when he rides on Sean? When can I
read the big papers Papa brings home with the food?
Often the questions would drive the mother to tears in a hand towel, to screams with a spoon, or to both. The girl learned to run and hide in the Crow’s Nest, very well, and very fast.
After the Distractor came the Watcher. This
child must study the witchy trees and starved fingers for any signs of the
Devil’s eyes, for to be caught by the Devil’s servants is certain death. They
do not appear often in the day, but the children have seen them from their
bedroom window when the sun has not yet woken, and the world is violet and
sparkling with frost: small and yellow as the marbles they kept in their
playroom. But those eyes never turned away. Those eyes stared upon their house.
Those eyes stalked the innocent, flying down to strike any helpless rabbit or
mouse foolish enough to cross the bare yard. The children’s book called them “owls,”
but to their parents, they were nothing but servants to the worst Evil.
And no child wanted to be caught by the worst
So the third wore a dark green blanket they
fashioned into a cloak and carried a knife. This was the Insider, crawling
among the trees to carve little arrows near the grass line. Every found hoof
print of Sean’s marked another clue to the living labyrinth around them, another
tree marked to help them uncover the mysteries of distant rumbles and
high-flying creatures, of where food came from, and clothes, and books, and maybe,
just maybe, other children.
Oh, to see other children! The girl and her
brothers often talked late into the night of their dreams of new friends, what
they might look like and the games they could play.
So when the Silver Man emerged from the forest one wintry morning, the children were very curious, indeed.
Word Count: 563. Woohoo!
While I know 50k won’t happen, my goal is to write 500+ words every day through the month of November–enough to have a solid start on my next novella. So, I’ll see you tomorrow! xxxxx
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
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 wasn’t 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 Grandmother’s 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 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. 🙂
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. 🙂 Here’s her introduction. Love this girl! xxxxx
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, let’s continue, shall we? SO, then, Thor’s 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, “SO, WHAT HAPPENED?” 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 Lee’s 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 that’s 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 there’s plenty of action to keep the reader guessing what’s coming next.
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….