Christmas Rendezvous

This present to my faithful readers was inspired by a writing prompt from my friend Sheila. I hope you enjoy it and remember to make your holiday and every day special.

The darkened house flooded with light, one room at a time. Tessa stepped from room to room, turning on lights and inspecting every possible hiding place. She looked behind curtains, under tables, in closets, and even checked behind the couch. When her eyes revealed nothing, she turned to her other senses.

Closing her eyes, she tilted her head to the side. The soft sound of her own breathing entered her ears first. The sound of her fingers drumming on the bare mantle followed. She stopped self-consciously, closing her eyes and listening more intently for sounds outside herself.  Only the soft plop of a leaky faucet a few doors down broke the near silence.

She let out the air trapped in her lungs with a heavy sigh and opened her eyes. Looking around the room once more, she tiptoed back to the open door. She surveyed the empty hallway one more time before tiptoeing from room to room one more time. Her shoulders slumped as she resigned herself to the fact that her boyfriend hadn’t made time for their rendezvous.

Faltering steps carried her down the stairs. The click of her heels echoed across the foyer. She paused for a last glance around the rooms visible from this vantage point.

“I can’t believe he isn’t here.” Her soft voice echoed through the spacious room.

She placed one hand on the doorknob, pulling her coat closer around her with the other. As the door opened, snowflakes swirled in to meet her. And then she saw the ukuleles. Without thinking, she closed the door, shutting out the cold. In three quick steps, she stood before three gleaming ukuleles. Lifting one crafted from dark wood, she strummed the strings gently.

“You called?” John stepped from behind one of the floor length red, velvet curtains that hung on either side of the door.

“Why were you hiding from me?” Setting the ukulele down to cross her arms, Tessa put on her fiercest look.

“I wasn’t hiding. This was.” His grin softened her, but the box resting on his outstretched hand melted her completely.

Before she could speak, he was on one knee before her. “Will you share this Christmas and all of those to come with me… As my wife?”

She paused, wanting to refuse him because he had worried her so, but one word escaped her lips in a raspy whisper.

“Yes.”

“What was that?” He half rose, tilting his head a little.

She leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Yes.”

He smiled and slipped the ring onto her finger before pulling her into his arms. When he finally let her go, he picked up the ukulele. As his fingers strummed the strings, John began to sing. Tessa added her soft harmonies to his, filling the foyer with the echoing refrain of “Silent Night.”

The Power of Fish

I expanded the topic that I was given for this piece. What do you think?

A tall slender girl, barely distinguishable from a hundred other girls in long, blue robes and a mortarboard with a golden tassel dangling from its left side begins to speak. “The simplest things can make the greatest difference in your life…”

As a hush falls over the assemblage around me, the whole auditorium fades away and time moves backward.

Younger eyes carefully scrutinize the little girl across from me. Dark hair hangs in knotted clumps about her face. As her attempts to hide behind it fail, she leans over until her nose rests inches above the battered metal table. I clear my throat and sit down across from her with exaggerated slowness.

“My name is Larry. What’s yours?” I introduce myself in the softest tones my deep voice can produce.

The little girl flinches slightly, wrapping her hands around her shoulders protectively. A soft hum emanates from her throat as she rocks gently back and forth. Eventually, she soothes herself enough to drop her arms to her sides. Her hands slide under her thighs as her eyes continue to focus on the table that separates us.

I lean back in my chair, looking down at my elbows as I cross my arms across my chest. Silence stretches out before us. I determine to wait her out. She’ll talk to me eventually. Her determination proves stronger than mine. As my patience wanes, an idea strikes me.

I reach into my pocket, feeling around until a soft noise reassures me that I have found what I am looking for. The soft crinkle of plastic finally lures her eyes upward. They stop on the sliver of yellow poking out of my immense hand. One eyebrow lifts slightly as her lips twitch curiously.

I smile and pour a couple of small red shapes into my other hand. I place one on a napkin in front of her. The other, I raise to my own mouth. Her eyes follow this movement. As I suck gently on the gummy red candy, her eyes move from my lips to the napkin. After a moment, she flashes me a tentative smile. One hand slowly comes up over the table to pick up the tiny gummy fish. She draws it closer to her face, inspecting the grooves on its body for a second.

Her tongue pokes tentatively from her mouth as she moves the candy closer to her mouth. “Medicine?”

Startled, my question takes a moment to form though it is only one word. “What?”

“Tastes like cough syrup. Cherry cough syrup.” Crying has roughened her voice.

“It’s not medicine.” I set the bag down on the table and push it toward her.

She still hasn’t looked at my face, but her eyes scan the words on the package avidly. “Swedish fish?”

She looks up at my face now with dark eyes full of curiosity as I open my mouth to speak. “It’s candy. I promise. May I have another one?”

“Uh-huh.” She pulls one out and hands it to me before turning her attention back to the package in her hand.

As the fish disappear, she opens up to me. I get to know that her mother named her Maura before passing away. She has every right to be afraid of me with how she has been treated. Life has been unkind to her, and I feel I can change that.

Applause awakens me from my memory. I stand to join the applause. Graduates, their family, and their friends rise to mingle and rejoice. I seek out Maura, finding her waiting for me outside the double doors. She holds her cap in her hands nervously, smiling up at me as I approach.

“Hello, daddy.” She embraces me.

“I’m proud of you.” As she releases me, I hand her a small wrapped package.

She smiles up at me as her deft fingers pull the paper away. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Another small thing.” I smile as plastic crinkles.

She rips open the package and hands me a small gummy fish. I smile as my teeth sink into the sticky substance and a burst of cherry flavoring covers my tongue.

Bring Me to Life

Aside from being a rocking song by Evanescence (insert shameless advertising here), this seems to be what my characters scream at me the longer I work on my nanowrimo. Of course, once I begin doing so, I realize I need to review my previous work to make sure it all meshes. Clearly, I will never reach the finish line like this. This requires some drastic action on my part. I must remind myself again and again that...

...I will have a whole year to fix it if I break it because I don't remember every detail.
...I will be much more charming to live with if I meet my goal of 50,000 words though I linger under 25,000 and the month is already halfway over.
...my characters will have a more enriched life when my brain reveals exactly where they are going and why. I know I am not alone in realizing halfway through the second half of the story (3/4 of the way through) that those two characters, whom I thought were going to have a happily ever after, were never meant to be together in the first place.
...sometimes my characters have to speak for themselves. I need to stop trying to tell the readers, only me at this point, exactly how they are thinking or what they are about to do.
...someone out there really wants to see the finished product because they have faith it will be awesome.

Keep writing with me, reading with me, and most of all commiserating with me as I go searching for words in the mess of my mind.

Bake Your Muse a Doughtnut

Those who wish to create with paper, paint, words, stone, or any other art medium know musings about the muse. Today my musings distract me from the ever important task of typing more meaningful words. How have I coped?

1. I watched some television.
2. I chastised myself for not writing.
3. I forced out a hundred words.
4. I played in the leaves.
5. That led to playing with the compost.
6. I cleaned off leaf parts and dirt.
7. I baked doughnuts.
8. I am not hiding from the doughnuts.
9. I will type more words today.

Stay positive other journeyers on the path of nanowrimo.

A Little Inspiration

As I fight my way through word after word of this years nanowrimo challenge, I find myself searching for that spark that causes those words to flow. Most often, I realize that the problem is trying to force the words. We have all done it from time to time if we have an interest in writing. Sadly, the words aren't always there when we want them. I admit that sometimes it is a struggle to move the story forward, but I sometimes question the reasons why we write.

I believe that we should write because we love it. We should write because we have a story to tell. We should write to inspire others. We should write to inspire ourselves. We should even write because someone asks I to. Sharing is important when we write. After all, we should hide neither our light nor what we write under a bushel.

I have met many people who write for the wrong reasons. Sometimes I am one of them. Some of us seek fame. Some of us seek fortune. I've met those who write only what needs written to fit the pattern of what they like to read. I have met people who appear to write with the express purpose of using the same word over and over again. Sometimes reading the ramblings of people who don't write completely for the love of it is painful, so show a little love when you write.

Now why did I ramble about this today? I have been cranking out words for my nanowrimo. My sense of integrity tells me I can only count the words in the novel of the moment. Maybe next week I will share a snippet of that work with you. In the meantime, keep writing, keep reading, and keep enjoying the world around you.

Happy Halloween!?!?!?

Would I be a true ghoul if I neglected my loyal fans on this day of stories, legends, and tall tales? I don't believe I would. Enjoy!

Decorated with the expected array of fake spider webs and rubber bats, one porch loomed big in the minds of every child living on Prospect Street. We devoted as much time and thought to visiting old man Mueller’s porch on Halloween as we did to making sure Santa brought us the gifts we most desired, a few months later. Old man Mueller prided himself on showmanship. Decorations slowly accumulated, day by day, until the terrifying panorama completely unfolded on Halloween night. In other words, the whole month of October revolved around sneaking down the street to peek over the railing at the latest horror to spring from grave or coffin. Of course, our parents forbade us to bother old man Mueller until Halloween, so we could only get glances as we sped by in cars, unless we wanted to risk being stuck at home while everyone else was trick or treating.

My last year of life was no different. The day before Halloween, my friend Maggy and I stood outside my house as darkness fell. We took turns surreptitiously peeking at the living room windows of my ranch style house. When the curtain finally fell back against the window, we knew my mother had stopped watching us and adventure could begin.

“Did you get the flashlight?” Maggy peered over her shoulder at the living room window.

“Yes, but we won’t need it. His street is lit as well as ours.” I gestured at streetlights that cast glowing pools of on both sides of the street.

“You never know.” Maggy linked her arm in mine.

As our footsteps echoed through the empty street, I glanced over my shoulder one last time. The curtain didn’t stir. The door didn’t open. We were going to get away with it. As long as we hurried, we’d have plenty of time for a sneak peek at this year’s decorations without our parents knowing. The closer we got to our destination, the slower our footsteps became. Without conscious thought, we matched step after slow step with each other, almost as if the air on this street had turned to warm taffy.

“We’re almost there.” Maggy patted my hand reassuringly but her voice quivered.

“Yes, yes, we are.” My own voice vibrated.

“Some people say he isn’t really decorating for Halloween…” Maggy pauses to take in a gulp of air. 

“He’s just airing out his house to prepare for other ghouls to visit him.”

If the midsummer sun shone down on us, I would have laughed. In the dusky gloom of late October, however, a shiver rolled up and down my spine. Maggy giggled nervously, pressing closer to me.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” False bravado steeled my voice, but she knew the answer I wanted.

“Of course.” She wouldn’t admit to fear either.

We took a few more tentative steps toward old man Mueller’s house. We paused to peer at the dark windows. A rusty, red Ford truck sat alone in the driveway. I pointed to the empty spot where a newer but no less rusty truck normally sat.

“He isn’t here.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Maggy grabbed my hand dragging more toward the stairs.

Even as I followed in her wake, caution prompted me to glance at the other houses on the street. Warm light glowed within many of the windows, but no curious eyes peered out into the darkness. Essentially alone, Maggy and I paused to peer at the tableau spread out before us.

Cobwebs hung from rusty nails that had pulled loose from the siding and any other protrusion large enough to support them. Realistic spiders that ranged from black widows to hairy wolf spiders nestled in the tangles of cotton with cold, glittering eyes. A coffin stood ajar next to the door with a green phosphorous glow portending the horror within. Styrofoam bones and latex limbs spattered in blood leaned against the lattice panels that wrapped around the porch. A long table rested against dirt-streaked windows. Amidst test tubes, cauldrons, and bottles and vials of organs, a mockery of the infant form looked up at me with cold, lifeless eyes. Reflected light from the street gleamed in those glass eyes swirled with crimson, giving them a demonic aspect that sent more shivers through me.

“That’s absolutely grotesque.” My breath barely accompanied the words that hissed between my lips.

“Touch it.” Maggy’s whisper tickled my ear.

I shook my head. She nudged me, pushing me closer to the table. I looked at her, sighing as she nodded her head at the doll. Tentatively, I reached out with my right hand. I extended my index finger to point at the doll’s head. My arm moved slower and slower the closer it got to the inanimate form. My finger hovered two inches from the ragged cloth wrapped around the baby’s abdomen unable to move forward any further.

The doll met me halfway. To my surprise and horror, its plastic arms slowly rotated. Tiny fingers molded to encircle my finger. The plastic felt like flesh, warm, supple flesh. Blood rushed to my ears. Maggy said something, but I couldn’t hear it. I turned to look at her. She was already disappearing down the steps.

The soft flesh of the baby’s hand turned to rough sandpaper. The muscles underneath rippled as its grip tightened, not just on my finger but my entire hand. The round childish cheeks began to melt away leaving a hardened angular face unveiled. The entire creature began to morph, growing older before my eyes. As it grew, it became even more grotesque. Its features twisted and wrinkled into the visage of my demise.

“You’re mine, child.”

The words were carried on fetid breath. It said something more, but I was already swooning. I would never know what it said. I would never wake again.

More On Critiques

I have been so busy painting and sewing that I have not made the time to write lately. Soon the renovations will be over, but the holiday season will have me submerged before I can revel in that. I shall try to complete my most recent story suggestion by the end of the month. I say month not week because I shall be devoting the rest of the week to offering my input on other people's artistry. Yesterday morning, I printed out the aforementioned writings and made some observations about following the guidelines offered by whoever is running/ mediating/ hosting the group.

Usually, someone who takes on such an onerous task has some experience with these types of meetings. Anyone who decides to participate should respect this person enough to take their advice. As I grumbled at printed pages yesterday morning, I was reminded how important it is to follow the guidelines for font, header formatting, and line spacing. Why?

1. Having the same font, spacing, and and formatting assures that everyone submits approximately the same amount of material. If you don't have the time to read fifteen extra pages from one submitter, they probably don't have time to read an extra fifteen pages of your creative efforts, regardless of how good they are.

2. Page numbers help keep the pages in order. As I printed out multiple submissions with no page numbers, I found that I needed to make sure they remained in order since I like to print on both sides of a sheet of paper. Keep in mind that sometimes accidents happen, such as piles of paper falling on the floor.  A lack of page numbers wastes a lot of time in this instance.

3. Please include your name on the actual submission. When people prepare to critique Lewis Carroll's submission, they may not know it is Alice in Wonderland if you didn't include your name on the piece. This becomes more critical when you submit more than one short piece and another participant does the same.

4. Under no circumstances should you use fancy formatting. I actually printed that one out as it was to show the person how ridiculous it looked. Even if you are both using the same text editor, it doesn't always come across the way you intended.

In the high-tech age in which we live, every writer should be aware that they have to play by the rules of potential publishers. Shouldn't we practice following directions whenever we can?