Peep Show

Here is the next "peep show" at my novel. I'm getting ready to link up with Write on Edge and their Red Writing Hood prompt tomorrow:

Dante, via Write on Edge

Kate was wary of a couple of the dancers. She was wary of Brandy. She was nice to her because she gave her crystal here and there. Kate and Marisa preferred coke but would take crystal when coke wasn’t around. Brandy was intense. She was young and cute, but there was an edge to her, like she was moments away from snapping. She was hyper. She was sweaty. If she would take another shower, reapply her make-up, and calm down a little, she’d be a whole hell of a lot sexier, Kate would think. Brandy did well with tips because she was athletic and could do all kinds of tricks and spins with the pole.

The look in Brandy’s eyes scared Kate. Empty and desperate. Brandy would openly stare at other dancers, the Amazons. You could just tell that she was jealous. Or something. It made Kate wonder what was going through Brandy’s head.

Kate was adamant that she not become like Brandy. Kate knew that she was no saint. She took any drug that came her way, but she still felt like she had things in control. She felt like she didn’t look like she did any drug that came her way. But, Brandy made Kate wonder. What kind of line was there to be crossed? How many more drugs before I look like her? How many more months in this place? Then Kate would reassure herself. I do not look like Brandy. I will not look like Brandy. Everything is fine.

Marisa liked to tell herself the same thing.

Marisa, who could not be found sometimes, and then would show up. I’m fine! I’m fucking fine. Let’s do this.

Marisa would saunter off in heels that looked as if the point could cut glass, and she would kill it. She would get on stage and move like the world was in her hands. Like she could squeeze the money from any sucker off the street. Then, darkly, through her hair, she would look around a room full of desire and need, and all she could see was darkness.

................

If you'd like to read more on Kate and Marisa:

Who Do You Think You Are?

What if God was One of Us?

A Night With No Limits

Who Do You Think You Are?

I am linking up with Write on Edge for the Red Writing Hood prompt this week. The focus is on conflict, inspired by this quote:

"It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence."
Mahatma Gandhi (1869 – 1948)

I am bravely sharing an excerpt from my novel. You can read more about Kate and Marisa here, here, and here.

......................

Kate locked eyes with one of the men on the couch. Sure enough, he motioned for her to come over. Coke was lined up on the table. She kneeled at the coffee table, took a straw, and snorted a line. She sat back to drink, to wash the drug down her throat. She lit a cigarette because it was a drug’s best companion. Now she just wanted to get the hell out of there.

She did not know these men. She did not need to know these men. She hated them. They were friends of her boss. Her boss, who was in the other room with Marisa. Her boss was a disgusting man. He was short and fat with thinning dark hair. He was mean. The only time she ever heard him was when he was yelling at the girls. “Get on the floor, you lazy bitches! Let’s go!” Otherwise, he stood in the corners and watched. Sometimes he spoke with other men.

Kate and Marisa did their motherfucking jobs and hoped to have no interaction with the man.

Which was why Kate could not understand, even through the haze of her thoughts, why Marisa went to a bedroom with him. Probably, fear took Marisa to the bedroom with him, and fear kept Kate right where she was.

She dared not ask any questions and instead watched the smoke swirl through the fluorescent lights of the kitchen. The music was loud, drowning out the conversation of the men around her. She never seemed privy to the conversation of men around her.

Kate started to hear sounds coming from the hallway. Her body instantly perked up, on alert.

“Get the fuck out of here! You fucking slut!”

Kate licked her finger, reached over and dipped into the coke on the table, sucked it off and rubbed her gums in a split second. She jumped up, ready to go. Before she could see anything, she heard scuffling in the hallway, then a thud. Kate rushed over and saw Marisa face down on the carpet, but she was quickly getting herself up.

Without saying a word, Marisa looked up at Kate with a face that said, Let’s get the fuck out of here. Her lip was bleeding.

Down the hall, Kate could only see the shadow of him. “You’re fucking fired! I never want to see your skinny ass again!”

Without ever saying a word, they both walked out of the house. On their way through the kitchen, Marisa grabbed the half empty bottle of whiskey.

Kate never asked what happened in that bedroom. From the look on Marisa’s face, the topic was off-limits. She only drove them away as swiftly as she could, away from a situation that could have been a whole hell of a lot worse.

(I deeply apologize for going over the word limit for the prompt this week.)

Who Do You Love, Baby?

This week's Write on Edge Red Writing Hood prompt is to tell a story with this picture as a prompt:



I am revisiting my fictional character, Kate and Marisa. You can read more about them here and here.

...............

“Yes, I absolutely want real mayonnaise. It wouldn’t be a BLT without it,” Kate said.

“Just checking,” the waitress said, giving a smile and collecting the menus off the table.

“Mayonnaise is gross,” said Marisa, giving Kate a face.

“I was waiting for you to say that,” Kate said. “The fact you don’t eat mayonnaise or bacon is downright prissy and stuck-up.”

“No, it’s healthy. And you’re a bitch.”

“Smoke much?” Kate asked Marisa.

“Bitch,” answered Marisa.

“Well, maybe I’ll feel a little better once I hear from fuck face.”

“I always know you’re really into someone when you use terms of endearments like ‘fuck face,’” Marisa said. “Is he the reason we’re here anyway, stuffing ourselves with fried food and Long Island Ice Teas?”

“You can thank him later,” Kate said.

“I thought so.” Marisa looked at her friend for a moment, considering how to choose her words. “Kate, when are you going to figure out that this guy really is a…fuck face and move on? I want Kate back! You know, the free spirited girl who doesn’t care what anybody thinks of her, much less a total idiot who can’t see the fucking hot, amazing woman in front of him.”

Kate only stared blankly back at Marisa.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. Right now, I only love mayonnaise. And bacon,” Kate said.

Marisa sighed. “I’m gonna go smoke a cigarette.”

Kate took the opportunity to text Fuck Face.

Hey, Marisa’s talking bad about you. Like you always say she does. I think I agree with her. Fuck off.

The waitress approached the table. “Your food is almost ready. Do you need anything while you wait?”

“Yes, we’ll take another round, thanks.”

Kate went outside to share the cigarette with Marisa.

What if God was one of us?

“You still seem so…numb.”

“Well, maybe it’s the medication, doc. I don’t really understand how I’m supposed to ‘fix’ my head when I’m taking all the shit you give out here.”

“Excellent, a little hostility. Perhaps we’re starting to feel something?”

“Isn’t it a little unproductive to use sarcasm with your patient, doctor?”

They sat there looking at each other with polite smiles.

“Listen, Kate. I’m not trying to bullshit you. I’m just saying that you’re here for a reason. Let’s not waste our time.”

“Fine, then. I’ll try to be a little more exciting. For the sake of progress.”

The doctor only gestured. Begin, her hand invited.

Kate sighed. “Well, if you can't tell, I’m a little angry. I don’t see the point in anything. I fucking trust no one, and when I’m really at my worst? I think, I should be dead, and Marisa should be here. As if it couldn’t get any worse, I remember, why would I want Marisa to suffer through any more shit? Maybe I should just join her.”

The doctor held Kate’s eyes for a moment. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve gone through. I simply want you to have hope that hope exists. I don’t expect you to have that right now. I expect you to believe that others have that hope for you. That is all. And I hope it is enough.”

Kate had been ready to retort, to build one more layer of brick through the wall of anger she had created, but something about the words the doctor had chosen caused her to pause.

What was it that Marisa had always said? We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. Kate thought of that then.

The doctor smiled, seeing the shift on Kate’s face. “I think I’d like you to think about that for today.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kate.”

“See ya, doc.”

Kate walked out into the hall toward the common area, unsure of what she wanted to do, unsure of what she felt. Then a soft melody coming from the TV pierced straight through her and unleashed a torrent of memories.

A female singer was plainly singing to the screen, soulful and pure. What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger all of us trying to make our way home.

Kate walked quickly to her room, shut the door and stood on the other side. The sobs came fast and hard. The bricks fell fast and hard. The wall she so carefully kept was crumbling all around her as she slid to the floor and gave in to the grief.

.....................................

The Red Writing Hood prompt at Write on Edge this week was to write a story in which your character is inspired by music.

I have chosen to write a new scene for my book and share it here. I have written of Kate and Marisa previously here.

Fires for Dummies

I'm linking up with Write on Edge for their Red Writing Hood prompt this week:

Write a piece of fiction around the holiday season that begins with "The doorbell rang" and ends with "snow began to fall." Stick to 300 words.




The doorbell rang, but I was already at the door. I had heard him pull up in the rumble of his truck. I had taken another quick look in the bathroom mirror and sprinted to the door, then cursed myself for being apparently out of breath.

Deep breaths, I thought, slowly blowing the air out my lips.

When the bell rang, it was like a gunshot to my heart from anticipation.

I opened the door with a practiced smile. Standing there, with a box and clipboard, was the UPS man.

“Evening, ma’am,” he said, thrusting the clipboard toward me, “Sign this.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” I said. I looked past him at the street and there was the big brown van, rumbling in the street.

I gave his clipboard back and took the box. My eyes searched down the street for another truck. Seeing nothing, I shut the door.

I opened the box with kitchen shears. A white sweater, matching scarf, and a card was inside. I quickly ripped the envelope open, and from the card, a piece of paper fell.

It was a printout of an Internet page: “How to Build a Fire for Dummies.”

The day before, we exchanged texts, excited about being together again. I had texted, Too cold here. Can’t build a fire without you hunny. Don’t no how. Need my man. I had meant to be clever, to give him a double meaning.

I read the note inside the card.

I have to stay another day. I’m so sorry. Keep warm and I’ll see you soon! XOXO

I put it all in the box. I put the box in the fireplace and lit a match. Outside, snow began to fall.

A Night with No Limits

This week Write on Edge challenges us to write a short non-fiction or fiction piece about a road trip or a journey.

Mine is fiction and may or may not be from a book I'm writing. I'm shy about that. I just chose a quick snippet of it. It's the first snippet that's ever been shared at all here.

...............

The first stop could not be too far. The celebrating had to begin. An event that would cut the line between Before and After. Right off Interstate 17, traveling the lonely high desert of Arizona, there was one place that begged for a visit. What the universe knows, but people only wonder about, is that every single driver who has passed by the Rock Springs Café (with a sign boasting World’s Best Pies!) has wondered what it would be like to actually stop and take it in.

Moonlight competed with the flickering neon, a perfect combination on a night that had no limits. They were still buzzing with drug, ready for more drink. Kate pulled in to the gravel parking lot and felt the slowness of the car approaching the old building. Oh my god, they’re going to think we’re weird, Kate thought as she looked in the window where people sat at stools like they had sat there forever.

“This is going to be fun,” Marisa said, giving Kate a wink.

“Let’s do it!” Kate said, shutting off the car, feeling better already in the influence of Marisa’s confidence.

...............

Ok, I'm stopping there. I feel shy, like I said. Let me know what you think!

The Cost of Expensive Taste

I'm participating with Write on Edge for their Red Writing Hood prompt this week. It is a picture prompt:

I decided to have a little fun.


The Cost of Expensive Taste

“Do you think there’s too much beige?” she asked, cocking her head and staring at the newly hung paintings in her front room.

“Oh god no, darling, it’s chic. It’s very chic. Besides, we offset it with the muted claret. It’s all the rage, you’ll see, but don’t get me wrong, you are unique. No one has a home like you, I promise you that,” the designer trailed off, chuckling nervously.

“And, is that wrought iron?”

“Well,” he guffawed, “with Brazilian Rosewood accent!” He whispered conspiratorially and leaned in. “You can’t even get that legally anymore,” then looked in her eyes with a knowing look.

She slit her eyes and stared back at him in silence, appraising what he had just said.

“Hm,” she said.

They both turned and looked again at the room.

“You know, it’s important to me to be…understated,” she started.

“Yes, absolutely.”

“The rosewood accent. I like that. I was afraid it was all a little…overdone.”

He held his chin, intent on her words. He looked down, shook his head, “No, no. It’s not overdone. I know you have superior taste. I have been sure to –“

“That’s enough. Send me the bill and I’ll have Jaques take care of it.” She turned on her heel and left the room.

The assistant approached the designer.

“Brazilian Rosewood?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t believe you. How do you think of this stuff?”

“Come on, let’s go celebrate and have dinner at Terzo Piano. I hear they are showcasing some new beige art!”

They walked out and just laughed.

Ruthless

Red Writing Hood is now Write on Edge.



The prompt is to write a story the length of a tweet - 140 characters. Mine is 128 characters without spaces and 157 with spaces, so I figure that's the right compromise.

I chose to think of a character - someone ruthless (way more ruthless than me), someone fun, someone who makes mistakes and bad choices, and we all love her anyway.

Here it is:

“No love for the haters, motha fuckas!” she screamed out the metro bus window. She sat back in her seat, smiling at the look of shock on her co-workers faces.

A Favorite

I am grateful to The Red Dress Club this week for providing me the opportunity to link up one of my favorite Red Writing Hood posts. I have started back to work, so a little rewind action is appreciated!

Enjoy one of my favorite fictional pieces I have written for Red Writing Hood.

The Christmas Party

I sat in my usual hiding spot at the top of the stairs, peeking down at the scene below. My father, my embarrassment of a father, was in the middle of one of his favorite jokes. It was like driving by a car accident. You don’t want to look, but you have to.

“So then the guy told the doctor, I don't smoke cigars anymore, but now I can't go to sleep at night unless I have a cigar shoved up my ASS!!" my father finished with an almost manic shout.

I shut my eyes and cringed.

Why do they all think that is so funny? It’s disgusting! HE’S disgusting! I thought.

The drunk idiots were all crammed into our living room on a snowy December evening. My parents’ Christmas party was a popular annual event. Not that my father ever needed an excuse to drink. The Christmas party just meant he could do it with an audience besides his own family.

They must all tolerate him. They must laugh at his jokes to not be rude. Surely, they must hate him just as much as his own daughter does? I wondered.

In spite of my own disgust, my father always seemed to be the life of the party. There was no way I could respect this scene if my father was the person all these assholes adored. Without having had a drink myself, all I could see was a sloppy, old loudmouth – way past his prime.

I had lost respect for him long ago. It had all become too much. Too much drinking, too much yelling, too many secrets, too many excuses, too many broken promises.

Personality does not make up for a complete lack of basic human decency. Why doesn’t anyone else see that?

I turned my attention to the blond woman that had been laughing a little louder than the rest at my father’s jokes. She moved closer to where my father was standing and stumbled a little on the way there. My father reached out to steady her arm, causing her drink to spill over onto the carpet. They leaned into each other, giggling like school kids.

My eyes narrowed, focusing in for even a hint of familiarity. I didn’t have to look very hard though. My father’s hand moved down to the woman’s butt, squeezed it, and stayed there.

The woman acted like nothing was happening. She only continued to give my father smiles here and there.

My eyes frantically scanned the room, the faces, for my mom.

There sat my mom on the couch next to no one. She was as still as a statue. Awkward in a room full of easy movement and blurred edges. Her gaze was trained on my father and the blond. Her expression was defeated. Hopeless. Empty.

Tears stung my eyes as I longed to comfort my mom. How much would she have to go through because of him? How much was enough? What the hell would it take for her to DO something about all this?

Pity turned to anger growing in my belly. He may be my father, but I am NOT like HIM. I will NEVER be like him. He is a disgusting mother fucker. Somehow, I will make him hurt.

The resentment sat with me like an old friend. Eventually, I grew tired keeping watch. I slipped quietly back to my bedroom, which felt a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house.



Here was the prompt:
Is there someone who drives you crazy? Someone who really gets under your skin.

It doesn't have to be someone you know (although it certainly can be). It could be someone famous. Or even a character in a book.

Now, write a first-person piece - as if YOU are this individual. Write from his or her perspective and include the things that really bother you. For instance, maybe there's a good reason why they eat with their mouths open, or why they use sarcasm as a weapon.

Her Own Dreams

She had the place to herself. No TV, no sports announcer shouting at her, no boyfriend filling the space beyond capacity.

He thought she had a photography appointment while he was out. As if she needed something productive to be done if he wasn't around.

All she needed was the silence and the absence of him.

Soon, she would pour another glass of wine. Maybe she would grab a cigarette from her secret stash.

She heard the clicks getting faster, and her heart rate sped up for a moment. Then, the final Snap!

She got up to check the self portrait. Satisfied, she printed the image, happy with her idea to capture the moment. She grabbed a metal thumbtack, pressed it into the top of the picture into the wall above her bed. Lest she forget how good she felt at that moment. Grabbing a black Sharpie, she penned a title at the bottom of the picture:

Starting NOW.

Walking to the front door, she checked the locks again and picked up her phone from the side table. A text was all he deserved.

"I'm done. We're done. You cannot change my mind."

She turned her phone off, poured that glass of wine, and turned on the radio. Dancing, for the first time, without fear of pleasing anyone but herself.


This was a picture prompt for Red Writing Hood at The Red Dress Club, inspired by the image above.

Imitation of Life

The sound of brush on canvas was all she desired to hear. The tension of the day almost released through the quick movement of her hands. Her subject this time was the massive, breathtaking landscape of The Grand Canyon, but if you looked closely, the detail given to a pack mule was beyond intricate. She had spent countless hours perfecting this part of her current piece without quite understanding what drew her to it. As she banged the brush on the side of the easel, shaking off water, her husband walked in and stood behind her.

She could hear him breathing behind her, and then a low burp that he tried to mask by slowing blowing it out.

"What is that? Are you in here drawing a jackass?" he asked.

She said nothing and only waited for him to leave.

He chuckled. "A freaking donkey," he said, shaking his head and walking away.

We all carry our loads, she thought.



This was a piece for Red Writing Hood. Write a flash fiction of 300 words or less with the following inspiration: LIFE.

The Christmas Party

I was very intrigued by The Red Writing Hood prompt for the week:

Is there someone who drives you crazy? Someone who really gets under your skin.

It doesn't have to be someone you know (although it certainly can be). It could be someone famous. Or even a character in a book.

Now, write a first-person piece - as if YOU are this individual. Write from his or her perspective and include the things that really bother you. For instance, maybe there's a good reason why they eat with their mouths open, or why they use sarcasm as a weapon.

This can be completely fictional or you can base it on a real-life person.



This is a piece of fiction (although I started with a real-life person in mind)...I chose someone who gets under my skin really bad because she is so cold and judgmental. Uptight. When I thought of a scene to explain reasons why she could be this way, it turned into a sympathetic piece.

The Christmas Party

I sat in my usual hiding spot at the top of the stairs, peeking down at the scene below. My father, my embarrassment of a father, was in the middle of one of his favorite jokes. It was like driving by a car accident. You don’t want to look, but you have to.

“So then the guy told the doctor, I don't smoke cigars anymore, but now I can't go to sleep at night unless I have a cigar shoved up my ASS!!" my father finished with an almost manic shout.

I shut my eyes and cringed.

Why do they all think that is so funny? It’s disgusting! HE’S disgusting! I thought.

The drunk idiots were all crammed into our living room on a snowy December evening. My parents’ Christmas party was a popular annual event. Not that my father ever needed an excuse to drink. The Christmas party just meant he could do it with an audience besides his own family.

They must all tolerate him. They must laugh at his jokes to not be rude. Surely, they must hate him just as much as his own daughter does? I wondered.

In spite of my own disgust, my father always seemed to be the life of the party. There was no way I could respect this scene if my father was the person all these assholes adored. Without having had a drink myself, all I could see was a sloppy, old loudmouth – way past his prime.

I had lost respect for him long ago. It had all become too much. Too much drinking, too much yelling, too many secrets, too many excuses, too many broken promises.

Personality does not make up for a complete lack of basic human decency. Why doesn’t anyone else see that?

I turned my attention to the blond woman that had been laughing a little louder than the rest at my father’s jokes. She moved closer to where my father was standing and stumbled a little on the way there. My father reached out to steady her arm, causing her drink to spill over onto the carpet. They leaned into each other, giggling like school kids.

My eyes narrowed, focusing in for even a hint of familiarity. I didn’t have to look very hard though. My father’s hand moved down to the woman’s butt, squeezed it, and stayed there.

The woman acted like nothing was happening. She only continued to give my father smiles here and there.

My eyes frantically scanned the room, the faces, for my mom.

There sat my mom on the couch next to no one. She was as still as a statue. Awkward in a room full of easy movement and blurred edges. Her gaze was trained on my father and the blond. Her expression was defeated. Hopeless. Empty.

Tears stung my eyes as I longed to comfort my mom. How much would she have to go through because of him? How much was enough? What the hell would it take for her to DO something about all this?

Pity turned to anger growing in my belly. He may be my father, but I am NOT like HIM. I will NEVER be like him. He is a disgusting mother fucker. Somehow, I will make him hurt.

The resentment sat with me like an old friend. Eventually, I grew tired keeping watch. I slipped quietly back to my bedroom, which felt a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

That's Nice

The prompt for this week at The Red Dress Club is to write a piece of flash fiction (no more than 600 words) in which one character cries and one character (could be the same character) tells a joke. I loved this. Right up my alley. Enjoy!

That's Nice

The three friends sat and listened to Carol cry, yet again, about her inattentive boyfriend. The drama and tears were welcome distraction for the doldrums of their everyday lives.

“And he never even came home until four this morning! What was he doing all that time?” Carol managed to say through her tears.

The friends looked around at each other, not knowing how to console Carol. Everyone knew that if your boyfriend is out until four a.m., he can’t be up to any good.

Kathy decided to try and say something, anything, encouraging. “Oh, honey, why don’t you -"

“He doesn’t even CARE about how I feel!” Carol shrieked, obviously not interested in what anyone else had to say.

Between sniffles and wiping of her eyes, Carol emotionally continued, “This morning, when I tried to ask him where he was, he wasn’t even listening! He wouldn’t even LOOK at me. He just said, ‘That’s nice.’ Can you believe it?!”

“Oh, no,” Kathy said, while the others still just sat with pained expressions on their faces.

Carol’s voice turned sarcastic. “So I said, ‘You obviously don’t care and won’t listen so I’m leaving now. I’m going to lunch with my friends.’ And you know what he said?! ‘THAT’S NICE.’” Carol crumpled into her napkin again and sobbed.

One friend stroked Carol’s back. They sat in a moment of silence.

Just then, their other friend, Carly, arrived. The friends shared a bit of a collective sigh of relief. Carly would, hopefully, be a good distraction to the awkward moment. Carly usually knew how to lighten things up.

Sure enough, Carly looked around and exclaimed, “Why the sad faces? I know what! You MUST hear this joke that Rob JUST told me. It is so great! I have to tell it before I forget it. You’ll love it. It’ll cheer us all up!” Carly gushed excitedly in her usual fashion.

Without waiting for approval, Carly cleared her throat and began the joke with an exaggerated southern drawl.

“Three Southern Belles were out to lunch. The first Southern Belle said, ‘My husband! My husband is the best husband in the whole world! He bought me a three-carat dia-mond ring!’

And the third Southern Belle said, ‘That’s niiiiice.’” Carly drawled dramatically.

“The second Southern Belle said, ‘Well, MY husband is the best husband in the whole world! He took me on a cruise around the world!’

The third Southern Belle just said, ‘That’s niiiice,’ in a sickly sweet way…

…THEN, the first Southern Belle looked at the third Southern Belle and said, ‘Pray tell, what has YOUR husband done for you lately?’” Here, Carly paused for dramatic effect.

“The third Southern Belle demurely said, ‘Well, my husband sent me to charm school.’

‘And, pray tell, what did you learn in charm school?’” asked the first Southern Belle.

At this, Carly looked at everyone with a small smile. In her exaggerated Southern drawl, she finished the joke, “I learned how to say things like, ‘THAT’S NICE, instead of FUCK YOU.”

And, with that, Carol burst into tears again.

I Am Featured Today at The Red Dress Club!

The Red Dress Club is made of a supportive group of writers. Every week, you can link-up to share your creation (fiction or non-fiction) based on the prompt provided by these lovely ladies:

http://www.mommypants.com

http://inthesesmallmoments.com

We call this Red Writing Hood.

Today, The Red Dress Club is featuring my Family Secrets piece. This was the first piece I wrote for Red Writing Hood and is one of my favorites! I had fun creating awkward family moments, interesting and surly characters, plot twists, and witty dialogue (if I do say so myself).

Feel free to check it out again by clicking here!

Promises

This piece is inspired by The Red Dress Club to write about this picture from Easy Street Prompts:


The two friends, Josie and Sarah, walked into the bar, feeling comfort in its darkness. It was a familiar place to the girls – a favorite haunt. The music from the jukebox was mixed with edgy, alternative rock and classic rock. Sometimes a band played, but not that night. The ceiling was low and there were many little rooms and spaces – corners to hide in if that’s what you wanted. Before heading to their favorite room, the pool table room, where most of the guys were, they approached the bar for their first shot and a drink. Getting to a certain level of non-feeling was first on the list.

As soon as the edges were dulled just a little bit, they walked into the pool room, looking for friends, looking for attention, looking for some fun. They saw some people they knew, joined their group, and began talking and laughing, intentionally acting in a way to liven up the party.

Josie scanned the room, always looking and waiting for the next thing, when her eyes came upon an old woman she had seen before.

“That old woman looks like she’s been ridden hard and put away wet a few too many times!” the guy next to Josie shouted in her ear.

Josie smiled, giving the guy approval, but inside she thought, What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you idiot?

The old woman sat away from the crowd at a table by herself. Her long gray hair lay across her back in thick strings. She was overweight and a bit…dirty…weathered…it was hard to tell but easy to assume she hadn’t seen a shower in a while.

Every time Josie saw the old woman, always in different bars in the little town, she had a deck of tarot cards with her. She gave readings to people for tips, Josie assumed, but she hardly ever saw anyone sitting with her. The old woman usually sat alone, feeling her cards, turning them over, looking at them.

“What’r’ye gon’ do, go get a reading?!” another guy asked Josie, close enough to give Josie a whiff of his breath.

Josie didn’t say a word and just started walking over to the old woman. She had always been intrigued about psychic readings, surely not every self-proclaimed psychic was a kook? She was a little scared by the information she could be given – would she have a fatal illness, would she always be lonely, would she never make anything of herself at all? And the worst fear - would all her dark secrets be exposed? Would she stand before the supposedly all-knowing person hot with shame and be judged for the sins of her past?

Well, this night, she had had enough to drink to not care. She felt no fear. She wanted to test this old woman out. Find out about her future. What dreams could be attained? What promises could be made?

“She’s going to tell you that you’ll DIE TONIGHT in a horrible car wreck,” screamed one of the guys behind Josie. “Don’t do it, Josie, you don’t want to hear THE TRUTH! Bwa, HA, HA, HA, HA!!” The idiot continued.

Josie approached the table and sat down. The old woman looked up at her and smiled.

"Write Like No One is Looking Over Your Shoulder"

My greatest strength is my greatest weakness. I think too much.

I have been sparked with excitement about NaNoWriMo (National November Writing Month); however, it really stresses me out as well. I had never heard of this event until just a couple of weeks ago.

Originally, I was planning on really starting to work on a fiction novel and polish my blog material into a “mom memoir.” My plan was to have exactly one and a half of these things done by the end of next year.

Then I hear about NaNoWriMo, and my heart is all a-flutter. I think, “I must do it!” Then, I think, “I cannot.” (One thing is for sure, I will now always remember that November is one of the months with only 30 days.)

Here is what I’ve decided. I want to begin that novel now. I want it to be fiction. I will not be able to write the required 1,700+ words per day, but I will block out time for writing toward my novel starting now. Two days ago I wrote 1,500 words! This is great, this is wonderful, I am fulfilling my life’s purpose.

However, I am having a hard time nailing down my character, getting to know this person, and make her live and breathe. This is probably due to the fact that I cannot stop writing from my own experiences. I certainly want to draw from my own experiences, but I did not originally intend to write ONLY from my own experiences.

It seems that in trying to “get to know” my character, I am still only trying to get to know myself.

And my mind? It won’t stop. I am constantly thinking and pondering and wondering about this character.

What does she look like?

How is she different from me?

What does she learn?

What problems does she face?

I would also prefer to have a “premise” figured out. What do I want my readers to feel? What do I want my readers to learn?

I am so indecisive about it all, and it swirls around my head like a million question marks. I am fretting.

This is not the purpose of NaNoWriMo, in which you must not edit and only write like mad for 30 days. I am also haunted by a quote from Writing Down the Bones, “Write like no one is looking over your shoulder.”

All that spews forth is….me, and not a fiction character. Do I go with it? Do I force a fiction piece?

I know. I hear you out there. Just write.

(So…Any ideas or answers for me?)

The Creation of a Brat

This post is inspired by the Red Dress Club prompt to describe a villain. I chose to revisit an earlier character that I created named Samantha Celeste. She first entered this world in my post Shock Value, as a surprising, shocking, spoiled, and assuming young artist.

Samantha Celeste scowled at her au pair.

The au pair began, “Sam, you -"

“Samantha,” Samantha clarified sternly.

The au pair sucked in a breath. “Samantha. You really must get your literature work finished. You still aren’t done with your final painting, and I know your mother will be -"

“If YOU would leave me alone, I could get something done. The MOST important thing here is my art, but how am I to focus on anything when I have a nanny hissing in my ear?”

The au pair stood rigidly, exerting all of her self control.

“I will leave you to it then,” she said and walked out, careful to demonstrate restraint and shut the door quietly.

Spoiled, rotten, evil brat, the au pair thought. No one will love her. Ha! She is ugly and nasty and will die alone. Someday, I WILL LEAVE her and this place, and I won’t be the first to leave her sorry ass…

Back inside the room, Samantha took a cleansing breath, shut her eyes, and meditated for a moment to calm her anger, always the anger, so she could begin to put color to the canvas.

People could never understand me, she thought. The pressure, the talent within – I am unlike no other. Someday, someday, everyone will see what is truly inside me.

From a distance, Samantha could hear the distinct clicks of heels approaching. The familiar dread crept in, and she looked around the room, assessing her surroundings.

The door opened so quickly it banged against the wall behind it. Samantha’s mother stood unsteady in the doorway. The cocktail glass, a familiar prop, was half gone in her mother’s hand. She scanned the room before noticing Samantha.

“Where is the painting?” her mother said, already starting to slur a bit between words.

Samantha looked her mother coldly in the eyes. “I’m not done, Mother.”

“Don’t talk to me like that – you think you are something special?! You. You are NOT something special. You are lucky to have even had the last showing. I have made it happen for you. All of this – everything you have – you ungrateful…” she paused as her body swayed from the energy of her yelling.

Her mother stumbled. Her expression changed. She looked confused. She turned swiftly to walk out of the room and slammed the door.

Samantha’s anger swelled inside her. It spread out to all of her limbs in a flash. The anger, always the anger, uncontrollable and just below the surface started to race forward. Samantha was electric with rage as she grabbed the can of paint at her feet and hurled it at the canvas.

Shock Value

Red Writing Hood prompt of the week:

An art opening at a lavish downtown gallery. A car crashes through the plate glass window. The driver's door opens, and an eight-year-old girl steps out.

I stare, stunned, as each piece of glass crashes to the floor. It is deafening.

There is a moment, almost a breath, between complete silence and my gasp of surprise and fear. The world slows down, my body slows down, and I observe.

Two women start to rush in concern at the little girl, but they stop as the lights go off, and the gallery is masked in darkness.

A shrill scream cuts through the air. I feel a tension in the crowd that is bound to release imminent chaos.

A spotlight suddenly appears! It is shining right on the little girl, highlighting her dark appearance. I am struggling to understand the scene before me.

My fear begins to shift toward confusion. I look around. The art patrons are doing the same. Then, we all stare at the captivating figure of the girl before us.

A small smile starts to play at her lips, like she just can’t resist it. She is wearing a black tunic, black leggings, black ballet flats, and a smart little black beret sits atop her head.

An unseen announcer cuts through the air, “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! I present you the guest you have all been waiting for! The star of our evening! The genius behind our art show tonight, Provocation! She is an artist and a creator, and she will change the way we view art FOREVER! I give you SAMANTHA CELESTE!”

Before anyone can think of whether they should applaud, a waiter appears in the spotlight. Each movement is graceful. Each movement is carefully orchestrated and heavy with purpose. He keeps one hand behind his back and holds a tray out to the girl. Without even looking at him, Samantha lifts the glass of sparkling cider, takes a sip, and then throws the glass down. On the floor, glass shatters against glass.

There seems to be a thousand separate and distinct reactions in the crowd. Some gasp. Some nervously laugh. Whispers are in the air. Some simply stare. Surely, I think, some try to hold back tears, not even understanding why they may cry.

Every event of the evening has been an assault on my own senses. I notice my first cohesive thought since the window crashed around us, “What grand behavior at such a young age.”

This is when the applause begins. And gets louder. And more confident. People begin shouting.

“Bravo!”

“Brilliant! LIVE ART!”

“Genius!”

Lights slowly fade on, jazzy music begins again, waiters circulate.

I grab two glasses of champagne off the nearest tray, chug them down, and head for the exit.

Samantha Celeste walks among her admirers, soaking in every compliment, expecting every single one.

Family Secrets

This meme is brought to you by The Red Dress Club.

Writing prompt: Randomly choose four numbers between 1 and 10. Use the corresponding story elements to write a story.

My numbers and corresponding story elements:
3 – Recent high school graduate
4 – Restaurant
7 – Middle of summer
2 – A secret needs to be told

Here is my first attempt at fiction writing for YEARS – probably since about the mid-90’s during undergrad. Here goes!


Family Secrets

Jackson sat down with his family and best friend at his favorite restaurant, The Chophouse, to celebrate his high school graduation. His hands were trembling ever so slightly and sweat was beginning to form on his upper lip as he prepared himself to reveal a secret he had been keeping from his parents. With graduation under his belt, there was no time to waste. He had to tell the truth of what he’d been planning his entire senior year and steel himself for the cursing and damage that could come. He felt he could handle general cursing and damage, but he dreaded more the inevitable disappointment from his father and the drunken silence of his mother.

Having his best friend, Colin, by his side was at least a witness in his favor in case things got really ugly. Jackson was relieved to have him there.

What should have been a celebratory, light hearted dinner was shadowed by a feeling of impending doom. Jackson was so sick with worry that he didn’t even notice that others at the table were not exactly cheerful. Jackson noticed that his sister, Carolyn, still had not arrived. She was late, as usual. He didn’t want to have to wait for her. Besides, Jackson thought, the news may go over better without his obnoxious, holier-than-thou drama queen sister around.

The waiter arrived. “What would everyone care to drink?”

Jackson’s father, Roy, started to speak but was quickly interrupted by Jackson’s mother, Patricia.

“I’ll have a glass of your house red, I don’t care what kind – Cabernet, Merlot, whatever,” Patricia said as she continued to look down at the menu and nervously fidget with the necklace around her neck.

The waiter looked pained. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. We do not have a house wine. There is a wine list…”

“Just whatever is your cheapest glass of red,” Patricia grumbled, adding, “for Christ’s sake.”

The whole table had fixed stares on Patricia as she continued to peruse the dinner menu, seemingly unaware of the tension she had caused.

The waiter turned to Roy. “Sir?”

Roy slowly turned toward the waiter and said, “Um, yes, a scotch and soda. Whatever kind of scotch. Whatever.”

Jackson looked at the waiter for his turn, and his voice broke slightly as he spoke, “Just water is fine for me, thanks.”

Colin followed suit. “Water. Thank you.”

“Well! Am I glad high school is done, and I made it through! I’m a graduate!” Jackson exclaimed, seizing his moment with a little too much bravado.

The rest of the table stared at him.

Jackson continued on, unable to stop himself, only selfishly caring about the relief that would hopefully come once he had his secret out in the open. Once this secret was released, he could get on with getting as far away as possible from his crazy family.

The words continued to gush out of his mouth, “Mom. Dad. I have some exciting news for you! You will be so proud that I have learned so much over the years. I have been able to independently plan for what could only be described as a once-in-a-lifetime GROWTH OPPORTUNITY! I have adventures ahead that could shape me as a person, expose me to the culture of the world, and open doors that I never even knew existed! I have been saving my money! For years! I have been saving my money, and I…”

Here, Jackson paused. The waiter brought the drinks and set them down in an uncomfortable silence. Patricia and Roy immediately began drinking.

Jackson smiled and looked around at the table, trying to sell his idea as irresistibly genius.

“I get to travel Europe for a year!” He rushed on with hardly a beat between breaths, “Don’t you worry about anything! I have it all planned out. I have paid for my flight, and I’ll be staying in hostels – now I know that sounds bad – but I Google’d it all! Hostels really are safe and the most affordable way for me to get the most of the entire experience. Heck, maybe I could even find a job and stay on longer than a year. I can’t even imagine what kind of opportunities could come up! Imagine, your son, the WORLD TRAVELER!”

Patricia softly said, “What about Stanford? Your father’s alma mater?”

Jackson nodded his head in a serious fashion. “Yes, yes. Stanford. I won’t be going to Stanford. Yet....But, Mom! Dad! Stanford will be there when I get back, I can ask for acceptance to any college any old time!”

Roy sputtered out some of his scotch and soda. “Are you actually not even accepted into Stanford?”

Jackson darkly realized that this was it. The moment of truth. He had to deal with the anger and disappointment and anything else that came of it.

“No. I have not been accepted into Stanford. I’m sorry. I lied.” Jackson said.

He braced himself for what was to come next. Jackson’s friend, Colin, just sat, watching the scene with a mixture of horror and excitement on his face.

Patricia looked at Roy then looked back at Jackson.

“That…is…the…most…FLIPPING FANTASTIC NEWS!” Patricia shouted with a big smile on her face. “Oh MY GOD!” She shrieked. She jumped up, bumping against the table, so she could give her son a hug.

Jackson was shocked. Speechless. He stood limply while his mother awkwardly hugged him. He looked at his father.

His father looked…relieved? His father was smiling, swirling his drink around. Then Roy called over the waiter.

“Sir! Did I mention that we are CELEBRATING?! Please, bring out some champagne!” Roy exclaimed.

Patricia noisily sat down laughing and guffawing. “Roy! Did you hear that?! Our boy isn’t going to Stanford after all!”

Jackson looked at his friend, Colin, as the waiter brought the champagne to the table. Colin looked at him and gave him a puzzled expression. Jackson had never experienced so much dissonance in his life. He should have felt elated, relieved! His parents were happy with his smart and independent planning. They actually “got” his speech! Instead of joy, Jackson felt, well…disappointed. Did his parents not care about his future?? Did his parents WANT him to tramp around in seedy, cheap hostels, where he could quite possibly become the main character in a real-life horror film or some other ungodly tragedy? What the hell was going on here?

Roy could only reach across the table and smack his boy on the shoulder. “That’s great, Jackson. I’m proud of you. Go out there and get ‘em! See the world! Ha!”

Jackson looked to his mother. Patricia began rambling on, “Oh, Jackson, we’ve been so scared to tell you what’s been going on! What a relief! Your father was fired from his job! Yeah, yeah, can you BELIEVE IT?! Fuckers! Anyway! There was just NO WAY we were going to be able to pay for Stanford. No way. We didn’t know how we were going to break it to you. In fact, we don’t even know if we’ll get to keep the house! Ha! But, now! Now that you are going to EUROPE, and you are staying in hostels? Oh, this is just fabulous! We don’t have to worry so much! Maybe we’ll get to even keep our house!” With that, Patricia downed her first glass of champagne and started to pour another.

Roy said, “You’ve saved up enough, son?”

Jackson stopped staring at his almost crazed, half-drunk mother, and looked at his father, “Yes, Dad. I have it all taken care of. Like I said.”

Roy smiled.

“Yippee!” Patricia exclaimed. She lifted her glass and motioned for everyone to do the same. “To Europe!” They all clinked glasses.

At that moment, Jackson’s sister, Carolyn came rushing to the table.

“I’m so sorry I’m late! Argh, I’m always late, I know, I know, the traffic, and the…” Carolyn stopped and looked at the table. She saw the shocked, confused expression on Jackson’s face. She saw the sheepish, holding-back-a-smile look on Colin’s face. She saw the snockered expressions on her parents’ faces.

Patricia shouted, “Honey! Sit down! Your brother just shared some VERY EXCITING NEWS!”

“Ahhh,” Carolyn said nodding her head knowingly. “He finally told you he was gay and escaping to Europe with Colin, his lover, all these years?”

Silence.

Jackson shifted in his seat nervously and cleared his throat. “Um, yeah, about that…”

THE END