Mea culpa. My bad. I couldn't decide last night what to post today, and so I ended up not scheduling anything. So today I decided that since I haven't posted anything snippety lately, that I would put up a snippet of something old that may become something new. Here it is.
“Story.”
My lips curve and the smile is only a little sad with memory as she climbs into my lap, sharp elbows and knees as she maneuvers her way to comfort.
I smooth an unruly spill of dark chocolate curls beneath my chin as I rest my cheek on the top of her head and slide my spine more comfortably against the cool wall.
Arms and legs and boneless bodies pillow and cocoon and I remember chocolate as I bring my knees up to cradle my daughter as the others press close, claiming their spots.
I know this is how it goes, how it has always gone. Frightened children find each other’s warmth as they banish demons and monsters with stories shared in the dark.
Large, liquid eyes glow in the semi-light of the small fire in this cavern that has become this site of ritual, this place of sharing.
Cycles ago, I stopped wondering how this came to be.
“What do you want to hear?”
I never thought I had much imagination and while it took me a long, long time, I understand now that children grow into their stories. I think maybe I grew out of mine.
Or maybe I never had them, but I’d read them on Earth.
I can’t quite remember.
But long ago someone had shared them with me, fairy tales and myths, pointing to pictures and teaching me words, sharing simple, fundamental ones I could learn.
I’d never known whether it was because she knew I was pregnant or because she was just being kind.
“Tell us how we came to be.”
I’ve never had her way with words and I still wonder how this has fallen to me. I am not a story teller and I’ve never thought I was very good.
I don’t believe in monsters or bears or witches or children in forests or any of the other things I’d read about the last time I’d been on Earth.
“Once upon a time…”
“Why do stories always start that way?”
“Because that’s the proper way for a story to begin.”
Someone had explained that to me another lifetime ago. I’ve never had any reason to disagree.
“A long time ago, a very brave but very frightened…”
“How can someone be brave but frightened?”
I can create my own story now, my own fairy tale, even if it isn’t pretty or well done; even if I can’t tell how it will end.
Because I know now that even the end is never really the end.
“Courage isn’t the lack of fear. It’s how you handle the fear that makes you brave.”
I’ve always seen the end. It’s always terrified me.
“I’m not afraid.”
But I’ve long since decided that I’ll write my own ending.
I lift my eyes, watch wisps of smoke from the small fire in the center of the chamber curl up the chimney, seeking the freedom of the night sky, the pinprick of stars that have always seemed just out of reach.
I know it’s nothing more than the cave breathing, the movement into and out of this chamber due to changes in atmospheric pressure or temperature on the surface.
These are things I understand.
If I close my eyes though, it could be the soft sound of night cycle on board Kai; the gentle thrum of the great ship’s life around me, the re-circulating air that was the sound of soft breathing.
The flickering shadows could be the gold of her warm, welcoming walls.
I’d taken them for granted.
My chest is tight as I wrap my arms around my daughter and push quiet words that have risen from the ashes into the stillness.
“That’s because there’s nothing to fear here.”
Showing posts with label snippet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label snippet. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
TGIF!
Don't forget my contest ends tonight at 6:00 EST. So if you've been procrastinating, you're running out of time to get your entries in. I'll be announcing the winner tomorrow. And since we're here at the end of another week, I'm leaving you with a snippet that just kinda makes me feel good. Enjoy and have a good weekend.
Reeds sway, silent sentinels chasing shadows. A night heron crows as it takes flight. The call of a willet pierces the early morning stillness, and he catches the black and white pattern of a flashing wing as it comes in for a landing.
His hand finds hers. Long, cool fingers wrap his as she leans in, strong and solid beside him, fused shoulder to hip.
The whisper of bare feet is lost here to the sounds of the shore; the soft rustle of grass, the screams of gulls swooping low, the gentle slap of waves coming home.
Sand is implacable here. It blows and shifts, changing boundaries and erasing everything.
He can almost forget there’s a world up the bluff on the other side of the highway.
They crest the dune together, in lockstep, the way they do everything, and stop and stare.
Shards of brilliant gold explode on the horizon; the first orange-red brush strokes of a rising sun painting a lightening blue-black sky.
The breeze shifts; picks up; sea and salt and sun; time and tide. It’s all right here, right now as the world transitions into life and light.
He slips in behind her; slides his arms around her, pulls her back tight against him, hands gentle as they glide along the curve of her belly.
A small shiver runs through her and into him as she leans back, quiet and still in his arms, hands covering his.
He buries his face in her hair; breathes her in deep, feels the band around his chest loosen as he exhales softly in her ear. “High tide.”
She hums in response, stretches out an elegant arm; pulls his focus out as she points down the beach. It’s colder here now; his arms wrap her tighter and he rests his cheek on her hair as clear, hollow eyes track his sisters across the sand, onto the pier.
All his senses push; salt air and sea breeze and the sun climbing high on the horizon converge and he blinks hard against the sudden sting in his eyes.
Through crystal tears he sees they’ve reached the end of their journey; stand suspended statue-still between sea and sky and sand; the illusion of solid ground.
He wonders if they’re crying as their arms stretch out in unison over crystal-clear blue water.
Her voice is soft and low as she shifts against him. “Your mother, too?”
“Dad kept her ashes.” Possessive hands roam over her belly; his eyes drift shut as he feels his child kick. “He wanted this.”
He wants to move, can almost feel himself step; feels sick as he wonders what it would be like to be standing there next to them.
She shifts again, and cool, satin fingers wrap his hands; still them.
He anchors himself against her and rocks them as he steps outside himself and stares; counting up the years in one last invocation to who he used to be.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but the sun’s climbing higher on the purple-pink horizon, burning off the haze, and she’s in his arms as he watches his sisters disappear across the sand.
She shifts and steps, slides her hand into his and leads him down the dune.
The scent of sea and salt carries on the breeze and he’s going to walk on the beach with her.
Reeds sway, silent sentinels chasing shadows. A night heron crows as it takes flight. The call of a willet pierces the early morning stillness, and he catches the black and white pattern of a flashing wing as it comes in for a landing.
His hand finds hers. Long, cool fingers wrap his as she leans in, strong and solid beside him, fused shoulder to hip.
The whisper of bare feet is lost here to the sounds of the shore; the soft rustle of grass, the screams of gulls swooping low, the gentle slap of waves coming home.
Sand is implacable here. It blows and shifts, changing boundaries and erasing everything.
He can almost forget there’s a world up the bluff on the other side of the highway.
They crest the dune together, in lockstep, the way they do everything, and stop and stare.
Shards of brilliant gold explode on the horizon; the first orange-red brush strokes of a rising sun painting a lightening blue-black sky.
The breeze shifts; picks up; sea and salt and sun; time and tide. It’s all right here, right now as the world transitions into life and light.
He slips in behind her; slides his arms around her, pulls her back tight against him, hands gentle as they glide along the curve of her belly.
A small shiver runs through her and into him as she leans back, quiet and still in his arms, hands covering his.
He buries his face in her hair; breathes her in deep, feels the band around his chest loosen as he exhales softly in her ear. “High tide.”
She hums in response, stretches out an elegant arm; pulls his focus out as she points down the beach. It’s colder here now; his arms wrap her tighter and he rests his cheek on her hair as clear, hollow eyes track his sisters across the sand, onto the pier.
All his senses push; salt air and sea breeze and the sun climbing high on the horizon converge and he blinks hard against the sudden sting in his eyes.
Through crystal tears he sees they’ve reached the end of their journey; stand suspended statue-still between sea and sky and sand; the illusion of solid ground.
He wonders if they’re crying as their arms stretch out in unison over crystal-clear blue water.
Her voice is soft and low as she shifts against him. “Your mother, too?”
“Dad kept her ashes.” Possessive hands roam over her belly; his eyes drift shut as he feels his child kick. “He wanted this.”
He wants to move, can almost feel himself step; feels sick as he wonders what it would be like to be standing there next to them.
She shifts again, and cool, satin fingers wrap his hands; still them.
He anchors himself against her and rocks them as he steps outside himself and stares; counting up the years in one last invocation to who he used to be.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but the sun’s climbing higher on the purple-pink horizon, burning off the haze, and she’s in his arms as he watches his sisters disappear across the sand.
She shifts and steps, slides her hand into his and leads him down the dune.
The scent of sea and salt carries on the breeze and he’s going to walk on the beach with her.
Friday, February 5, 2010
TGIF
It’s Friday of another long, brutal week. And once again my brain is fried. But I’ve been thinking about voice and POV, and so I leave you with 915 words of an experiment in second person.
------------------------------
You know it’s your fault. You know it when you look at her. When you watch her, knowing that she doesn’t know you’re there.
You remember kissing her, promising her things that you couldn’t possibly ever give her.
Life. Love. Hope. Happiness.
A promise that everything would be all right.
You lied.
You remember kissing her, the familiar tingle of electricity shooting from the tips of your hair straight down your spine to curl your toes.
Almost.
You remember holding her on your lap, pressed tightly to you, arms and legs and lips tangled. Feeling her under your hand as her body collapsed against yours.
It’s been five years.
Life goes on.
You remember promising her love, kissing her with all the passion, hope, truth you still had left to offer her to seal your covenant, putting your mother’s ring on her finger.
Love endured.
She is yours and you are hers. Finally. Always. It’s as simple and as honest as that. You’ll follow her anywhere, beside her all the way. You won’t be left behind.
But there are ghosts here. Her. You. Your unborn child who lingers in the walls, whispers in the silence and the shadows, echoes in your heartbeat.
You step into your room. Not quietly like you used to, when she used to hear you. You don’t have to be quiet anymore.
She doesn’t hear you.
You wonder what she thinks. What she sees when she searches that blank void with dead eyes.
Can she see him? There in the cobweb of memory? Your eyes, her hair, your wits, her skills?
Everything that isn’t. Wasn’t. Wouldn’t ever be.
You see untold stories, a fairy tale with a happily ever after, untossed balls, and laughter. You remember laughter. With her.
You don’t think she does.
You come to stand behind her, rest your hands on her shoulders and she shifts away, tries to hide something.
You know what it is. A possibility. Taken a life time ago. The image black and white and grainy. A small thing, really. No bigger than your thumbprint.
Something beautiful you both still remember.
It was more.
You take the picture from her gently; lay it reverently on the table next to her brush. You turn her in your arms, skim your fingertips lightly down her arms, and entwine your hands.
She’d loved you, given you your future, and a happiness you’d only dreamed of.
You let your fingers move to circle her waist, brushing lightly against satin skin as you lift the hem of her shirt. She puts her arms up obediently and you slide it off, toss it into the corner.
You’ll get it tomorrow.
You broke her. You’d tried to fix her, but she was never the same. She’s your dead girl walking.
But you’d grinned your half-assed grin at her, pressed your lips to her scars, and watched her paint on her porcelain smile, shroud her bruised eyes.
And then you broke her some more.
It’s what you did.
What you couldn’t fix, you broke. And every day with you, you watched her die a little more, killing yourself.
Tears like rain, flowing like wine, like the sky bleeding.
Your fingertips slide down the silky trail of her spine, under the waistband of her pants and around. You undo the fastener and zipper as you gently kiss her mouth, rest your forehead against hers, and breathe the same air.
You slide the leathers over her hips to pool on the floor at her feet.
You take her hands again and she steps out of them. Long, pale legs and still graceful, she stands before you. You still think she is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
The more you wanted to fix her, the more you broke her.
It’s what you were good at.
She’s the only thing you’ve ever been afraid of losing. You’re here. She’s here. You won’t waste another second of time apart from her.
You’ll go down with your ship.
You sit her down in the chair and begin your nightly ritual.
You breathe deep as you run the brush through the waterfall of ebony that cascades down her back. You’ve always loved running your fingers through that river of silk, the scent and feel of it.
She hasn’t brushed her own hair in five years.
It’s all kinds of wrong, on all kinds of levels. Different shades of grey.
But it’s everything you always wanted. Everything you’d ever dreamed.
Your perfect circle.
You want to live with her. Want to give her what she needs. You want her to know that.
Touch. Warmth. Strength. Connection.
You’ll never let anything ever come between you again.
You put the brush down, pull her up close and wrap her in your arms. She nuzzles at your chest. It’s almost like she’s searching for your heart, where it should be but isn’t.
She’d taken it the first time you’d laid eyes on her.
Beautiful. It’s what she is. What she’s always been. What she always will be to you.
You lead her to bed, lay yourself down beside her. She nestles in your arms, scoots herself back. You spoon yourself around her, hand tangled in her hair, her back to your chest, your legs tangled in hers.
“We’re gonna be okay.”
Hope.
It’s not a lie, just a necessary untruth. She believes it because she trusts you fully.
Happiness.
You whisper a kiss into her hair and close your eyes.
------------------------------
You know it’s your fault. You know it when you look at her. When you watch her, knowing that she doesn’t know you’re there.
You remember kissing her, promising her things that you couldn’t possibly ever give her.
Life. Love. Hope. Happiness.
A promise that everything would be all right.
You lied.
You remember kissing her, the familiar tingle of electricity shooting from the tips of your hair straight down your spine to curl your toes.
Almost.
You remember holding her on your lap, pressed tightly to you, arms and legs and lips tangled. Feeling her under your hand as her body collapsed against yours.
It’s been five years.
Life goes on.
You remember promising her love, kissing her with all the passion, hope, truth you still had left to offer her to seal your covenant, putting your mother’s ring on her finger.
Love endured.
She is yours and you are hers. Finally. Always. It’s as simple and as honest as that. You’ll follow her anywhere, beside her all the way. You won’t be left behind.
But there are ghosts here. Her. You. Your unborn child who lingers in the walls, whispers in the silence and the shadows, echoes in your heartbeat.
You step into your room. Not quietly like you used to, when she used to hear you. You don’t have to be quiet anymore.
She doesn’t hear you.
You wonder what she thinks. What she sees when she searches that blank void with dead eyes.
Can she see him? There in the cobweb of memory? Your eyes, her hair, your wits, her skills?
Everything that isn’t. Wasn’t. Wouldn’t ever be.
You see untold stories, a fairy tale with a happily ever after, untossed balls, and laughter. You remember laughter. With her.
You don’t think she does.
You come to stand behind her, rest your hands on her shoulders and she shifts away, tries to hide something.
You know what it is. A possibility. Taken a life time ago. The image black and white and grainy. A small thing, really. No bigger than your thumbprint.
Something beautiful you both still remember.
It was more.
You take the picture from her gently; lay it reverently on the table next to her brush. You turn her in your arms, skim your fingertips lightly down her arms, and entwine your hands.
She’d loved you, given you your future, and a happiness you’d only dreamed of.
You let your fingers move to circle her waist, brushing lightly against satin skin as you lift the hem of her shirt. She puts her arms up obediently and you slide it off, toss it into the corner.
You’ll get it tomorrow.
You broke her. You’d tried to fix her, but she was never the same. She’s your dead girl walking.
But you’d grinned your half-assed grin at her, pressed your lips to her scars, and watched her paint on her porcelain smile, shroud her bruised eyes.
And then you broke her some more.
It’s what you did.
What you couldn’t fix, you broke. And every day with you, you watched her die a little more, killing yourself.
Tears like rain, flowing like wine, like the sky bleeding.
Your fingertips slide down the silky trail of her spine, under the waistband of her pants and around. You undo the fastener and zipper as you gently kiss her mouth, rest your forehead against hers, and breathe the same air.
You slide the leathers over her hips to pool on the floor at her feet.
You take her hands again and she steps out of them. Long, pale legs and still graceful, she stands before you. You still think she is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
The more you wanted to fix her, the more you broke her.
It’s what you were good at.
She’s the only thing you’ve ever been afraid of losing. You’re here. She’s here. You won’t waste another second of time apart from her.
You’ll go down with your ship.
You sit her down in the chair and begin your nightly ritual.
You breathe deep as you run the brush through the waterfall of ebony that cascades down her back. You’ve always loved running your fingers through that river of silk, the scent and feel of it.
She hasn’t brushed her own hair in five years.
It’s all kinds of wrong, on all kinds of levels. Different shades of grey.
But it’s everything you always wanted. Everything you’d ever dreamed.
Your perfect circle.
You want to live with her. Want to give her what she needs. You want her to know that.
Touch. Warmth. Strength. Connection.
You’ll never let anything ever come between you again.
You put the brush down, pull her up close and wrap her in your arms. She nuzzles at your chest. It’s almost like she’s searching for your heart, where it should be but isn’t.
She’d taken it the first time you’d laid eyes on her.
Beautiful. It’s what she is. What she’s always been. What she always will be to you.
You lead her to bed, lay yourself down beside her. She nestles in your arms, scoots herself back. You spoon yourself around her, hand tangled in her hair, her back to your chest, your legs tangled in hers.
“We’re gonna be okay.”
Hope.
It’s not a lie, just a necessary untruth. She believes it because she trusts you fully.
Happiness.
You whisper a kiss into her hair and close your eyes.
Monday, February 1, 2010
On the naming of names
I hate naming things. Kids, characters, anything.
I drove people, mostly my husband, nuts when I had to come up with names for our four kids. They had to be a certain number of syllables, had to be from certain groups of names I had already chosen, had to flow with the sound of our last name, blah, blah, blah.
I'm happy with how it all turned out, but I find that my hate on of naming continues. I hate to name characters and love the use of pronouns.
He/She works for me. I've been told it can get hella confusing for readers though. So I'll ask you. How do you come up with names for your characters? Or titles for that matter? Cuz I suck at titles.
And having thusly ranted and left you questions to consider, I'll leave you with a small snippet of something.
***************************
She’s been here a solar week, stalking her prey, before she finally decides on the killing ground. She knows the when, the how, and now the where.
She also knows the why; she just doesn’t care.
Objective.
She’s trailed him four times now, marked his route. He’s always in early and out late; straight shot, no stops. And he always uses the level risers to enter and exit the skyway that connects the spaceport with the high-rise tower that houses his small, low-level government minister’s office.
Mission.
At this point of convergence in time and space, she times it perfectly.
She knows the lower levels are empty, and smiles up at the wizened little man hurrying down as she climbs.
The landing is narrow where they meet, and she nods as he angles slightly to give her room enough to pass. She steps and pivots as her right hand pulls up her pistol and fires into the back of the little man’s head.
The suppressor is more than worth its cost. There isn’t a sound except the snick of the trigger as the man’s thin hair puffs out in a splash of pale pink and crimson.
She fires a second shot as the body begins to fall and follows it down; fires three more times into the head as legs and arms splay on the ground.
Execution.
Stepping over and away from the body, she heads back down the level risers and out into the quiet of a dark, empty street.
In less than an hour the planet’s twin suns will rise and she will be gone.
I drove people, mostly my husband, nuts when I had to come up with names for our four kids. They had to be a certain number of syllables, had to be from certain groups of names I had already chosen, had to flow with the sound of our last name, blah, blah, blah.
I'm happy with how it all turned out, but I find that my hate on of naming continues. I hate to name characters and love the use of pronouns.
He/She works for me. I've been told it can get hella confusing for readers though. So I'll ask you. How do you come up with names for your characters? Or titles for that matter? Cuz I suck at titles.
And having thusly ranted and left you questions to consider, I'll leave you with a small snippet of something.
***************************
She’s been here a solar week, stalking her prey, before she finally decides on the killing ground. She knows the when, the how, and now the where.
She also knows the why; she just doesn’t care.
Objective.
She’s trailed him four times now, marked his route. He’s always in early and out late; straight shot, no stops. And he always uses the level risers to enter and exit the skyway that connects the spaceport with the high-rise tower that houses his small, low-level government minister’s office.
Mission.
At this point of convergence in time and space, she times it perfectly.
She knows the lower levels are empty, and smiles up at the wizened little man hurrying down as she climbs.
The landing is narrow where they meet, and she nods as he angles slightly to give her room enough to pass. She steps and pivots as her right hand pulls up her pistol and fires into the back of the little man’s head.
The suppressor is more than worth its cost. There isn’t a sound except the snick of the trigger as the man’s thin hair puffs out in a splash of pale pink and crimson.
She fires a second shot as the body begins to fall and follows it down; fires three more times into the head as legs and arms splay on the ground.
Execution.
Stepping over and away from the body, she heads back down the level risers and out into the quiet of a dark, empty street.
In less than an hour the planet’s twin suns will rise and she will be gone.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Are we there, yet?
I have to admit that I am beyond ready for this month to be over. January is cold and dark and dismal and it seems like I never see the sun.
It doesn't help that I am sick and cranky, and that I have far too much to do with far too little time to do it. Now I realize that's not unique to me, but I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself.
Anyway, now that I've bored you with that, I thought the least I could do is share a snippet of something that's part of one of the two novels I'm currently flitting between.
------------------------------
Behind him, out over the ocean, clouds massed and rolled in a purple-pink sky; carried the promise of a late afternoon storm.
The Mustang glided along a slow winding curve, slid to a stop.
Air thick and heavy with humidity pressed close as he leveraged himself out of the car, felt the heat rising from the thin ribbon of concrete curling through the lush green landscape.
He cracked his back, rolled his shoulders. His eyes drifted over long, neat rows of stone standing silent under a burning sky; watched the sun reflect off the mirror-flat surface of the pond as it arced across the horizon.
He leaned in, reached over, snagged the flowers sitting on the passenger’s seat. The careful, almost silent snick of the door closing didn’t disturb the silence.
Slow, quiet footsteps sank into the soft ground as he moved down two rows and over one, into the shade of the Eastern Cottonwood’s canopy.
“Hey, mom.” He dropped into a crouch; pushed his words, soft and low, through a dry, tight throat. “It’s been a while. Too long.”
He slipped to his knees, felt the earth warm and solid beneath him; hallowed ground.
“I’m sorry about that. I tried to get here earlier…the last time I was here.” A small, soft smile bled across his lips. “It didn’t work out so well.”
He didn’t want to think about that now, that last trip home; burying him, burying her under the bone crushing weight of one disappointment after another.
“I had somebody I wanted you to meet. Her name’s Aeryn." He breathed deep, blinked hard against sudden moisture in his eyes. “You’d like her mom. She’s the one.”
He ran a gentle hand along the smooth stone. “You almost met her once. I wish that had happened." The smile slipped. “There was so much I didn’t get to do last time I was here, when I had the chance.”
He tilted his head, catches movement out of the corner of his eye; Canada geese gliding along the calm, smooth surface of the pond.
Clear-blue eyes the color of the Florida sky tracked the baby as it tipped its body, dipped its head under the water.
One of the adults ran along the surface, gained lift for takeoff. Slow, deep wingbeats carried it aloft as the rest of the family took flight.
He shifted slightly; lifted his chin, watched their graceful arc over the trees through the tops of his eyes.
He slid his gaze back to the headstone. “Everything’s a mess.”
Reverent fingers traced the carved letters of his mother’s name. “There’s somebody else I really wanted you to meet, too. Aeryn and I…we have a son.” His voice went low and deep. “God, Mom, he’s beautiful. Takes my breath away. Kinda like his mom.”
His eyes drifted closed. “That’s what I want, Mom. What you and Dad had.”
He swallowed hard against the thickness in his throat. “I didn’t understand that for a long time, but now I want that, Mom." His voice went low and rough. “Want it with Aeryn and Ryne.”
He pulled back and stared. "Was this what it was like for you? Waiting for Dad to come back? To come home?" He dragged a jagged breath deep into a tight chest. “Did you wonder about him never coming back?”
It doesn't help that I am sick and cranky, and that I have far too much to do with far too little time to do it. Now I realize that's not unique to me, but I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself.
Anyway, now that I've bored you with that, I thought the least I could do is share a snippet of something that's part of one of the two novels I'm currently flitting between.
------------------------------
Behind him, out over the ocean, clouds massed and rolled in a purple-pink sky; carried the promise of a late afternoon storm.
The Mustang glided along a slow winding curve, slid to a stop.
Air thick and heavy with humidity pressed close as he leveraged himself out of the car, felt the heat rising from the thin ribbon of concrete curling through the lush green landscape.
He cracked his back, rolled his shoulders. His eyes drifted over long, neat rows of stone standing silent under a burning sky; watched the sun reflect off the mirror-flat surface of the pond as it arced across the horizon.
He leaned in, reached over, snagged the flowers sitting on the passenger’s seat. The careful, almost silent snick of the door closing didn’t disturb the silence.
Slow, quiet footsteps sank into the soft ground as he moved down two rows and over one, into the shade of the Eastern Cottonwood’s canopy.
“Hey, mom.” He dropped into a crouch; pushed his words, soft and low, through a dry, tight throat. “It’s been a while. Too long.”
He slipped to his knees, felt the earth warm and solid beneath him; hallowed ground.
“I’m sorry about that. I tried to get here earlier…the last time I was here.” A small, soft smile bled across his lips. “It didn’t work out so well.”
He didn’t want to think about that now, that last trip home; burying him, burying her under the bone crushing weight of one disappointment after another.
“I had somebody I wanted you to meet. Her name’s Aeryn." He breathed deep, blinked hard against sudden moisture in his eyes. “You’d like her mom. She’s the one.”
He ran a gentle hand along the smooth stone. “You almost met her once. I wish that had happened." The smile slipped. “There was so much I didn’t get to do last time I was here, when I had the chance.”
He tilted his head, catches movement out of the corner of his eye; Canada geese gliding along the calm, smooth surface of the pond.
Clear-blue eyes the color of the Florida sky tracked the baby as it tipped its body, dipped its head under the water.
One of the adults ran along the surface, gained lift for takeoff. Slow, deep wingbeats carried it aloft as the rest of the family took flight.
He shifted slightly; lifted his chin, watched their graceful arc over the trees through the tops of his eyes.
He slid his gaze back to the headstone. “Everything’s a mess.”
Reverent fingers traced the carved letters of his mother’s name. “There’s somebody else I really wanted you to meet, too. Aeryn and I…we have a son.” His voice went low and deep. “God, Mom, he’s beautiful. Takes my breath away. Kinda like his mom.”
His eyes drifted closed. “That’s what I want, Mom. What you and Dad had.”
He swallowed hard against the thickness in his throat. “I didn’t understand that for a long time, but now I want that, Mom." His voice went low and rough. “Want it with Aeryn and Ryne.”
He pulled back and stared. "Was this what it was like for you? Waiting for Dad to come back? To come home?" He dragged a jagged breath deep into a tight chest. “Did you wonder about him never coming back?”
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Would you read this?
Discussions around the blogosphere that have really heated up have been about the whole plotting v. pantsing debate, and the whole divide over self-publishing. And I think that begs a question that I have been thinking about for a very long time.
Do you write for yourself or for publication? Is it one and the same to you? I think I write thngs that are difficult to categorize, that deal with a lot of overlap in terms of genre. And I remember a quote that goes something along the lines of write first for yourself, then for a small, select group of your friends; and if you are any good, write for money.
Now I've butchered that quote terribly, but you get the drift. Do you agree? Because no matter what publishing models look like in the future, the market will eventually decide what it will read.
Following that train of thought, here is a snippet of prologue that I wrote a very long time ago that I've recently resurrected. There's about another 200 or so pages following this in the novel, and I'm trying to decide what to do with it.
Would you read this? Would it make you want to read more?
-------------------------
OK. This is weird. Really, really strange. I’m actually having difficulty forming consecutive, coherent thoughts. Forget about getting them expressed. Odd, that, since it’s what I do for a living. Form consecutive, coherent thoughts and express them. I mean, aren’t I supposed to be profound and witty here in my observations?
Not to disappoint or anything, but I’m sitting here staring at a blank screen feeling neither. Kinda like staring a blank piece of paper and feeling writer’s block. But that’s another story. Maybe next time.
Bleary eyed I stared at the monitor. I had been on-line for a couple of hours now, cleaning out inboxes, visiting websites, doing the IM thing for a while, and glaring at the almost empty screen demanding words from me.
The house was dark and quiet, my favorite time of the day. It let me be alone with my thoughts. Scattershot for sure, most had fled long ago, presumably in search of nicer digs. The sad ones that had stayed now centered on settling into the everyday flow of the no longer new school year.
The signs were there and they were crystal. We were coming to the end of the honeymoon. The kids had settled into their classes and their schedules, and were more than comfortable enough with their teachers to start giving attitude.
Headed into the longest stretch of the year, we wouldn’t see a day off until Thanksgiving, which seemed a lifetime away. Wrecked as I’d been at the end of last year, I had been tied up in knots all summer dreading the start of this year.
Burned out, vacation had done nothing to help me. There was no gas in the tank; I wasn’t even running on fumes. And as bad as last year had been, I felt more unable to deal with my new students or anything else this early in the year than I had ever felt at any time in my professional career.
I had nothing to base that assessment on other than gut feeling. That didn’t make me feel any better.
But after all these years, one thing I knew for certain was that I could walk into any first grade classroom and tell you for sure who would not be making it through school successfully. The last time we got a chance to hook these kids into investing in school as an option for success was ninth grade. After that, if we didn’t get them, they were gone.
Dropped out, drugged up, pregnant, in jail, or dead.
And I got them in ninth grade.
God, I was tired. It was time to go to bed. I had to get up in three and a half hours. Giving it up, I hit delete and started to shut down.
Do you write for yourself or for publication? Is it one and the same to you? I think I write thngs that are difficult to categorize, that deal with a lot of overlap in terms of genre. And I remember a quote that goes something along the lines of write first for yourself, then for a small, select group of your friends; and if you are any good, write for money.
Now I've butchered that quote terribly, but you get the drift. Do you agree? Because no matter what publishing models look like in the future, the market will eventually decide what it will read.
Following that train of thought, here is a snippet of prologue that I wrote a very long time ago that I've recently resurrected. There's about another 200 or so pages following this in the novel, and I'm trying to decide what to do with it.
Would you read this? Would it make you want to read more?
-------------------------
OK. This is weird. Really, really strange. I’m actually having difficulty forming consecutive, coherent thoughts. Forget about getting them expressed. Odd, that, since it’s what I do for a living. Form consecutive, coherent thoughts and express them. I mean, aren’t I supposed to be profound and witty here in my observations?
Not to disappoint or anything, but I’m sitting here staring at a blank screen feeling neither. Kinda like staring a blank piece of paper and feeling writer’s block. But that’s another story. Maybe next time.
Bleary eyed I stared at the monitor. I had been on-line for a couple of hours now, cleaning out inboxes, visiting websites, doing the IM thing for a while, and glaring at the almost empty screen demanding words from me.
The house was dark and quiet, my favorite time of the day. It let me be alone with my thoughts. Scattershot for sure, most had fled long ago, presumably in search of nicer digs. The sad ones that had stayed now centered on settling into the everyday flow of the no longer new school year.
The signs were there and they were crystal. We were coming to the end of the honeymoon. The kids had settled into their classes and their schedules, and were more than comfortable enough with their teachers to start giving attitude.
Headed into the longest stretch of the year, we wouldn’t see a day off until Thanksgiving, which seemed a lifetime away. Wrecked as I’d been at the end of last year, I had been tied up in knots all summer dreading the start of this year.
Burned out, vacation had done nothing to help me. There was no gas in the tank; I wasn’t even running on fumes. And as bad as last year had been, I felt more unable to deal with my new students or anything else this early in the year than I had ever felt at any time in my professional career.
I had nothing to base that assessment on other than gut feeling. That didn’t make me feel any better.
But after all these years, one thing I knew for certain was that I could walk into any first grade classroom and tell you for sure who would not be making it through school successfully. The last time we got a chance to hook these kids into investing in school as an option for success was ninth grade. After that, if we didn’t get them, they were gone.
Dropped out, drugged up, pregnant, in jail, or dead.
And I got them in ninth grade.
God, I was tired. It was time to go to bed. I had to get up in three and a half hours. Giving it up, I hit delete and started to shut down.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Almost Friday
It's been a long, ugly week, and my brain is dead. I thought about trying to put together something that would be pity and profound, but failed spectacularly.
So I'll leave you with this snippet instead.
*************************
Sunshine streaming through the window coverings and the clock on the bedside table told her that it was mid morning. She was standing in the bedroom, pale and ill, arms wrapped tightly around her midsection and rocking.
Her head hurt from falling in the shower earlier that morning. Or maybe it was from something else; lack of food, lack of sleep, lack of sanity. She wasn’t quite sure and couldn’t quite remember. Suddenly she felt lost, threatened, vulnerable and powerless.
Her ears hurt from all the words. Words that people thought she didn’t take seriously. Words that they thought she didn’t understand.
Words that John didn’t speak.
She was aware of it all. So very helplessly aware of the fact that she couldn’t do or say anything to fix anything. She hated that feeling. That knowledge.
So she stayed silent.
Her mouth hurt from speaking. From trying to explain to people. To John. Her mouth hurt from trying to talk because she knew they wouldn’t listen.
Yet when they asked, she spoke. John didn’t ask anymore.
Her legs hurt from running. Running away from her life. Running away from everyone. And then from trying to run back. She’d run from questions, skirted issues, and shut everyone off. And then she tried to run toward something.
But her legs had grown tired and she seemed to keep running into dizzy oblivion.
Her body hurt from the truth, the truth that this place was not for her. That she had done nothing but make more mistakes, and that she had tried everything she could think of.
And that all of this was nothing.
That was the only truth she knew anymore. That this had been her apology and that it had been an apology unheard.
She realized suddenly that she was shaking, and rubbed her hands up and down her arms briskly. They were leaving today, she comforted herself.
She was going home.
So I'll leave you with this snippet instead.
*************************
Sunshine streaming through the window coverings and the clock on the bedside table told her that it was mid morning. She was standing in the bedroom, pale and ill, arms wrapped tightly around her midsection and rocking.
Her head hurt from falling in the shower earlier that morning. Or maybe it was from something else; lack of food, lack of sleep, lack of sanity. She wasn’t quite sure and couldn’t quite remember. Suddenly she felt lost, threatened, vulnerable and powerless.
Her ears hurt from all the words. Words that people thought she didn’t take seriously. Words that they thought she didn’t understand.
Words that John didn’t speak.
She was aware of it all. So very helplessly aware of the fact that she couldn’t do or say anything to fix anything. She hated that feeling. That knowledge.
So she stayed silent.
Her mouth hurt from speaking. From trying to explain to people. To John. Her mouth hurt from trying to talk because she knew they wouldn’t listen.
Yet when they asked, she spoke. John didn’t ask anymore.
Her legs hurt from running. Running away from her life. Running away from everyone. And then from trying to run back. She’d run from questions, skirted issues, and shut everyone off. And then she tried to run toward something.
But her legs had grown tired and she seemed to keep running into dizzy oblivion.
Her body hurt from the truth, the truth that this place was not for her. That she had done nothing but make more mistakes, and that she had tried everything she could think of.
And that all of this was nothing.
That was the only truth she knew anymore. That this had been her apology and that it had been an apology unheard.
She realized suddenly that she was shaking, and rubbed her hands up and down her arms briskly. They were leaving today, she comforted herself.
She was going home.
Friday, January 15, 2010
TGIF
The conversation about story and storytelling continues unabated over at the Literary Lab and an incredible converation it is. Go on over and check it out.
For me, I keep coming back to honesty and respect in my storytelling. When all is said and done, when I've pared down my words, when I've found my theme, when the dialogue and action are sharp and clean, in the end is it honest? Not happy, but true to the story and the characters?
Because there is nothing worse for writer or reader to invest heavily and in the end to feel cheated.
Anyway, when all is said and done, right now I'm ready for the weekend. So I'll leave with a snippet of something else.
But before I get to that, Sara is having a contest for reaching one hundred followers. Go check that out.
----------------------
The working girls are working. Sharp eyes and bodies in colorful dresses cut low and tight cruise the crowd.
Garish faces plastic and painted with gilt-edged smiles whisper words promising pleasures carnal and venal to keep the fear and the cold and the lonely away.
She smells the desperation on them; knows the tricks of the trade. It’s just like old times, watching this dance.
She leans forward, arms crossed and resting on the table, runs her eyes around the room as the barmaid buzzes the table dropping off drinks.
She thinks they might have been pretty once, back in their other lives.
She settles back in her seat, knocks back another swallow.
She doesn’t remember when she started to feel so old, so empty and hollow, but she remembers pretty.
She misses it.
A young-old girl with fire-red hair piled high on her head slides into the dealer’s lap, fuck-me-red lips whispering in his ear.
She leans back, tilts her head, watching him through her lashes; sees hard, hungry eyes, a mean mouth; cheap clothes.
All this time and she still finds it hard to believe that someone with that much money in that many hidden places still has such a taste for the gutter.
She thinks this time she’s got a better hand.
For me, I keep coming back to honesty and respect in my storytelling. When all is said and done, when I've pared down my words, when I've found my theme, when the dialogue and action are sharp and clean, in the end is it honest? Not happy, but true to the story and the characters?
Because there is nothing worse for writer or reader to invest heavily and in the end to feel cheated.
Anyway, when all is said and done, right now I'm ready for the weekend. So I'll leave with a snippet of something else.
But before I get to that, Sara is having a contest for reaching one hundred followers. Go check that out.
----------------------
The working girls are working. Sharp eyes and bodies in colorful dresses cut low and tight cruise the crowd.
Garish faces plastic and painted with gilt-edged smiles whisper words promising pleasures carnal and venal to keep the fear and the cold and the lonely away.
She smells the desperation on them; knows the tricks of the trade. It’s just like old times, watching this dance.
She leans forward, arms crossed and resting on the table, runs her eyes around the room as the barmaid buzzes the table dropping off drinks.
She thinks they might have been pretty once, back in their other lives.
She settles back in her seat, knocks back another swallow.
She doesn’t remember when she started to feel so old, so empty and hollow, but she remembers pretty.
She misses it.
A young-old girl with fire-red hair piled high on her head slides into the dealer’s lap, fuck-me-red lips whispering in his ear.
She leans back, tilts her head, watching him through her lashes; sees hard, hungry eyes, a mean mouth; cheap clothes.
All this time and she still finds it hard to believe that someone with that much money in that many hidden places still has such a taste for the gutter.
She thinks this time she’s got a better hand.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Tipping point
I’ve always been fascinated by how people write. Whether they consider character or plot first, whether they see or hear a scene before they can write it.
I’ve always ‘heard’ a scene first. I need to hear the dialogue, hear it clearly before I can begin to visualize the rest of it. So I always start with dialogue. And write the scene using that only.
Sometimes pages and pages of just dialogue without tags or descriptors of any kind.
Starting a piece, I need to get that nailed down before I can ignore my inner editor and move on.
Then I go back and choreograph the scene. That’s my tipping point. It sets the tone of the piece. After that, I can even write scenes out of sequence. No problem.
Unless there is no dialogue anywhere in what I’m writing. Which is why this piece, and others like it that I’ve written, give me such trouble. It’s contrary to my nature as a writer.
What’s your writerly nature? Do you have a tipping point?
Anyway here it is; the next couple of hundred word snippet.
-------------------
He staggers out of the barracks into the first cold, grey light of dawn, bumping off bodies skeletal and empty-eyed stumbling into strained lines in the center of the yard.
Eyes tearing with cold lock forward. Face still, he stands and stares, watches a dull sun arc along a thin, tight horizon.
Nothing moves across the raw, barren, black terrain beyond the watchtowers; scorched earth, all that’s left of a long ago burn.
Down the line, somewhere to his right, someone’s hacking up the latest plague. Spine straight, head unbowed, his fingers curl into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
The wind shifts; carries the smell of burning from the remains of a wild fire dancing along the serrated slopes just past the dead fields.
The sound of the shot explodes in his head. All-too-familiar rage and fear and shame churn in his gut; tighten his chest.
Wet, grey flakes of snow and ash fall through the raw, cold daylight; filter through the dead trees, the charred, lifeless trunks still standing sightless watch on the other side of the fence line.
Ash and ice, cold and wind stretch and move across the waste like a living thing, breathe harsh and jagged along the grey, serpentine river that snakes past the camp, cleaving the cauterized landscape.
He doesn’t think he’ll survive another winter.
The jolt from his collar slides down his spine; buckles his knees. Hard hands shove; send him staggering across the yard.
He doesn’t look at the body on his way to the pit.
I’ve always ‘heard’ a scene first. I need to hear the dialogue, hear it clearly before I can begin to visualize the rest of it. So I always start with dialogue. And write the scene using that only.
Sometimes pages and pages of just dialogue without tags or descriptors of any kind.
Starting a piece, I need to get that nailed down before I can ignore my inner editor and move on.
Then I go back and choreograph the scene. That’s my tipping point. It sets the tone of the piece. After that, I can even write scenes out of sequence. No problem.
Unless there is no dialogue anywhere in what I’m writing. Which is why this piece, and others like it that I’ve written, give me such trouble. It’s contrary to my nature as a writer.
What’s your writerly nature? Do you have a tipping point?
Anyway here it is; the next couple of hundred word snippet.
-------------------
He staggers out of the barracks into the first cold, grey light of dawn, bumping off bodies skeletal and empty-eyed stumbling into strained lines in the center of the yard.
Eyes tearing with cold lock forward. Face still, he stands and stares, watches a dull sun arc along a thin, tight horizon.
Nothing moves across the raw, barren, black terrain beyond the watchtowers; scorched earth, all that’s left of a long ago burn.
Down the line, somewhere to his right, someone’s hacking up the latest plague. Spine straight, head unbowed, his fingers curl into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
The wind shifts; carries the smell of burning from the remains of a wild fire dancing along the serrated slopes just past the dead fields.
The sound of the shot explodes in his head. All-too-familiar rage and fear and shame churn in his gut; tighten his chest.
Wet, grey flakes of snow and ash fall through the raw, cold daylight; filter through the dead trees, the charred, lifeless trunks still standing sightless watch on the other side of the fence line.
Ash and ice, cold and wind stretch and move across the waste like a living thing, breathe harsh and jagged along the grey, serpentine river that snakes past the camp, cleaving the cauterized landscape.
He doesn’t think he’ll survive another winter.
The jolt from his collar slides down his spine; buckles his knees. Hard hands shove; send him staggering across the yard.
He doesn’t look at the body on his way to the pit.
Friday, January 8, 2010
TGIF
It's the end of a long, brutal week, and while I have not been as productive as I would have hoped, I have managed to cobble together 327 words hopefully crafted into complete sentences. Here they are. What do you think?
---------------
When he wakes, he opens his eyes to nothing. It’s cold and dark, the pitch black giving way to a dull, gun-metal grey at the edges of his peripheral vision.
He curls in tighter to himself; pulls the filthy, threadbare blanket closer and listens to the harsh exhale of his breath. There’s a weight against his back, heavy, pressing close.
Brain still slow with sleep, scrambled from the remains of the dream, he throws back an elbow, rolls, and shoves hard against the stiff, formless shape. His hand falls, palm down, onto a sharp-boned, unmoving chest.
He rolls out of the blanket, rolls to his knees. Bright, dead eyes lock him in their line of sight.
He quits breathing; listens hard in the silence and the dark. There’s nothing beyond the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Fingers thick with cold and clumsy in the dark search blindly for a sign of heartbeat or breath.
There’s nothing. The body is cold and hard and silent.
He shifts on his knees, grabs the bottom of the thin, torn shirt, wrestles it up and off its unresisting owner and over his head.
Ignoring the stench that makes his stomach roll, he drives his arms quickly through the sleeves, pulls it down.
He slides down the body, yanks off worn boots; shoves bare feet into the rotting leather and freezes.
Still as stone, he flicks his eyes around the dark.
It’s quiet.
He moves again; pulls rancid pants two sizes too big off the corpse, rolls them up in the blanket.
He buries the rank bundle in the bag that’s filled with everything else in his life; crawls into the corner.
He huddles there, wrapped in his blanket, listening for the sound of boot steps. As the stillness and dark congeal over him, he slips into faded memory from a long ago sometime that floats like ash on a cold wind.
He dreams in grey.
When he was small and hurt she would hold him. Soft, cool hands, satin-smooth and small, would cradle and caress him, and she would sing to him.
His eyes snap open, his head snaps up.
He can remember everything about her; the feel of her hands, the scent of her hair, the sound of her voice. Everything except her face.
Shrouded in the blanket and the rags he still feels the cold coming up off the stone, sees two burning eyes staring at him in the dark. A leaden cold that has nothing to do with hunger claws at the hollow in his gut.
It’s been a long time she’s come to him.
He can’t remember how long.
He’d thought he’d stopped dreaming.
He should remember.
He pulls his bag and the blanket closer, his knees up to his chest, wonders if he’ll see her again.
He tries to pull breath deep into his lungs; hasn’t any to spare.
The corpse watches him from the shadows. Once he took pity on the dead; now he wishes they would take pity on him.
He wraps his arms around his knees and waits.
---------------
When he wakes, he opens his eyes to nothing. It’s cold and dark, the pitch black giving way to a dull, gun-metal grey at the edges of his peripheral vision.
He curls in tighter to himself; pulls the filthy, threadbare blanket closer and listens to the harsh exhale of his breath. There’s a weight against his back, heavy, pressing close.
Brain still slow with sleep, scrambled from the remains of the dream, he throws back an elbow, rolls, and shoves hard against the stiff, formless shape. His hand falls, palm down, onto a sharp-boned, unmoving chest.
He rolls out of the blanket, rolls to his knees. Bright, dead eyes lock him in their line of sight.
He quits breathing; listens hard in the silence and the dark. There’s nothing beyond the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Fingers thick with cold and clumsy in the dark search blindly for a sign of heartbeat or breath.
There’s nothing. The body is cold and hard and silent.
He shifts on his knees, grabs the bottom of the thin, torn shirt, wrestles it up and off its unresisting owner and over his head.
Ignoring the stench that makes his stomach roll, he drives his arms quickly through the sleeves, pulls it down.
He slides down the body, yanks off worn boots; shoves bare feet into the rotting leather and freezes.
Still as stone, he flicks his eyes around the dark.
It’s quiet.
He moves again; pulls rancid pants two sizes too big off the corpse, rolls them up in the blanket.
He buries the rank bundle in the bag that’s filled with everything else in his life; crawls into the corner.
He huddles there, wrapped in his blanket, listening for the sound of boot steps. As the stillness and dark congeal over him, he slips into faded memory from a long ago sometime that floats like ash on a cold wind.
He dreams in grey.
When he was small and hurt she would hold him. Soft, cool hands, satin-smooth and small, would cradle and caress him, and she would sing to him.
His eyes snap open, his head snaps up.
He can remember everything about her; the feel of her hands, the scent of her hair, the sound of her voice. Everything except her face.
Shrouded in the blanket and the rags he still feels the cold coming up off the stone, sees two burning eyes staring at him in the dark. A leaden cold that has nothing to do with hunger claws at the hollow in his gut.
It’s been a long time she’s come to him.
He can’t remember how long.
He’d thought he’d stopped dreaming.
He should remember.
He pulls his bag and the blanket closer, his knees up to his chest, wonders if he’ll see her again.
He tries to pull breath deep into his lungs; hasn’t any to spare.
The corpse watches him from the shadows. Once he took pity on the dead; now he wishes they would take pity on him.
He wraps his arms around his knees and waits.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Finish the row
I got to hear one of my favorite all time lines again today. You put your hand to the plow and finish the row. It’s from HBO’s Iron Jawed Angels which I’m showing my students right now, and it has always spoken volumes to me from the first time I heard it.
Writing is hard. It’s work. Sometimes it’s not even fun. But it’s worthwhile.
It’s worth something.
And even as I sit here still wrestling with the whole getting started on the novel I haven’t touched in years thing, trying to find the will and the motivation and the reason to get over my exhaustion, filing and sorting and reading and wonder why I’m doing this, I look at the that line and it speaks to me.
So once again, as I’m mired in the seemingly endless minutiae of starting, I’ll offer up another little snippet of mine.
It was interesting for me to notice that these last two snippets have been devoid of dialogue. I like writing dialogue. It’s how I write. And I’ve been told that I do it well. That it’s a strength not a weakness in my writing.
But for whatever reason, there’s none to be found here.
Maybe next time.
-----------------------
Arms crossed tight against her chest, she rolls tight shoulders and cracks her neck, leans forward to rest her forehead against the cool, clear glass.
Her head aches; a low, dull throbbing behind her eyes that’s a bassline for the quiet hum of monitors in the almost silence of the room.
She doesn’t like it. It’s not the silence of her lab, not comfortable or comforting, doesn’t wrap her safely in her own little world.
She shifts slightly on her feet. Her eyelids drift open as she lifts her forehead from the glass, and drags a long, slow breath down deep into a tight chest.
The first muted red-orange streaks of sunrise brush the purple-pink sky on the horizon; reflect in the dark, placid surface of the pond spreading in a slow, gentle curve within the spill of green between building and service drive.
She stands and stares, shoulders curling forward as she wraps herself more tightly and tries not to think.
Doesn’t think about the cold, sick fear hollowing out her gut as she dragged him to the car, shoved him into the passenger’s seat, and drove, white-knuckled, as if his life depended on it through cross-town traffic, scrambled for the surgeon, heard the results from the lab and knew what they meant.
She shoves the heels of her hands hard against her eyes, brushes angrily at the tears that threaten.
This isn’t right. It’s not fair. She doesn’t understand and he’s not here to make it better.
The first spikes of yellow climb over the thin horizon and she lifts her chin, catches movement out of the corner of her eyes.
She catalogs without thinking; black face, white chinstrap, elegant black neck; goslings with fine yellow-brown feathers gliding along the calm, dark surface.
Canada geese. Mother and father, a mated pair for life.
She tilts her head; clear-blue eyes tracking the baby as it tips its body, dips its head under water.
One of the adults runs along the surface of the water, gains lift for takeoff. Slow, deep wingbeats carry it aloft as the rest of the family takes flight. She shifts slightly and lifts her chin, watches their graceful arc over the trees through the tops of her eyes.
The soft hiss of the monitor pulls her focus back. She turns and stops; stares at the unmoving body sleeping on the bed. It’s suddenly colder in the room and a small shiver works its way though her.
She forces the first small step, listens to the click of her heels as she crosses the room. A small, steady hand reaches out, settles on his chest, and she feels his heartbeat through her palm. Her breathing slowly synchs with his as delicate fingers trace his brow, trail down along the line of his jaw.
She folds herself into the bedside chair, slides her hand over his, fingers curling loosely around it as she watches him breathe.
Writing is hard. It’s work. Sometimes it’s not even fun. But it’s worthwhile.
It’s worth something.
And even as I sit here still wrestling with the whole getting started on the novel I haven’t touched in years thing, trying to find the will and the motivation and the reason to get over my exhaustion, filing and sorting and reading and wonder why I’m doing this, I look at the that line and it speaks to me.
So once again, as I’m mired in the seemingly endless minutiae of starting, I’ll offer up another little snippet of mine.
It was interesting for me to notice that these last two snippets have been devoid of dialogue. I like writing dialogue. It’s how I write. And I’ve been told that I do it well. That it’s a strength not a weakness in my writing.
But for whatever reason, there’s none to be found here.
Maybe next time.
-----------------------
Arms crossed tight against her chest, she rolls tight shoulders and cracks her neck, leans forward to rest her forehead against the cool, clear glass.
Her head aches; a low, dull throbbing behind her eyes that’s a bassline for the quiet hum of monitors in the almost silence of the room.
She doesn’t like it. It’s not the silence of her lab, not comfortable or comforting, doesn’t wrap her safely in her own little world.
She shifts slightly on her feet. Her eyelids drift open as she lifts her forehead from the glass, and drags a long, slow breath down deep into a tight chest.
The first muted red-orange streaks of sunrise brush the purple-pink sky on the horizon; reflect in the dark, placid surface of the pond spreading in a slow, gentle curve within the spill of green between building and service drive.
She stands and stares, shoulders curling forward as she wraps herself more tightly and tries not to think.
Doesn’t think about the cold, sick fear hollowing out her gut as she dragged him to the car, shoved him into the passenger’s seat, and drove, white-knuckled, as if his life depended on it through cross-town traffic, scrambled for the surgeon, heard the results from the lab and knew what they meant.
She shoves the heels of her hands hard against her eyes, brushes angrily at the tears that threaten.
This isn’t right. It’s not fair. She doesn’t understand and he’s not here to make it better.
The first spikes of yellow climb over the thin horizon and she lifts her chin, catches movement out of the corner of her eyes.
She catalogs without thinking; black face, white chinstrap, elegant black neck; goslings with fine yellow-brown feathers gliding along the calm, dark surface.
Canada geese. Mother and father, a mated pair for life.
She tilts her head; clear-blue eyes tracking the baby as it tips its body, dips its head under water.
One of the adults runs along the surface of the water, gains lift for takeoff. Slow, deep wingbeats carry it aloft as the rest of the family takes flight. She shifts slightly and lifts her chin, watches their graceful arc over the trees through the tops of her eyes.
The soft hiss of the monitor pulls her focus back. She turns and stops; stares at the unmoving body sleeping on the bed. It’s suddenly colder in the room and a small shiver works its way though her.
She forces the first small step, listens to the click of her heels as she crosses the room. A small, steady hand reaches out, settles on his chest, and she feels his heartbeat through her palm. Her breathing slowly synchs with his as delicate fingers trace his brow, trail down along the line of his jaw.
She folds herself into the bedside chair, slides her hand over his, fingers curling loosely around it as she watches him breathe.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Monday, Monday
Well, it was back to school before dawn this morning in the cold and dark for a day that was less than fabulous. And now here I sit trying to make sense of files and notes for things I wrote a very long time ago.
How do you go back and pick up a novel? Pick up the vibe, the ebb and flow, the character voices, the tone when you've had other voices and thoughts in your head?
So as I sit here contemplating, I'll just go with the flow of others who have been putting up snippets of work for others to puruse. And with that in mind, as I continue to bang my head against my desk, here is my snippet of story.
-----------------------------------
Reeds sway, silent sentinels chasing shadows. A night heron crows as it takes flight. The call of a willet pierces the early morning stillness, and he catches the black and white pattern of a flashing wing as it comes in for a landing.
His hand finds hers. Long, cool fingers wrap his as she leans in, strong and solid beside him, fused shoulder to hip.
The whisper of bare feet is lost here to the sounds of the shore; the soft rustle of grass, the screams of gulls swooping low, the gentle slap of waves coming home.
Sand is implacable here. It blows and shifts, changing boundaries and erasing everything.
He can almost forget there’s a world up the bluff on the other side of the highway.
They crest the dune together, in lockstep, the way they do everything, and stop and stare.
Shards of brilliant gold explode on the horizon; the first orange-red brush strokes of a rising sun painting a lightening blue-black sky.
The breeze shifts; picks up; sea and salt and sun; time and tide. It’s all right here, right now as the world transitions into life and light.
He slips in behind her; slides his arms around her, pulls her back tight against him, hands gentle as they glide along the curve of her belly.
A small shiver runs through her and into him as she leans back, quiet and still in his arms, hands covering his.
He buries his face in her hair; breathes her in deep, feels the band around his chest loosen as he exhales softly in her ear. “High tide.”
She hums in response, stretches out an elegant arm; pulls his focus out as she points down the beach. His arms wrap her tighter and he rests his cheek on her hair as clear, hollow eyes track his sisters across the sand, onto the pier.
All his senses push; salt air and sea breeze and the sun climbing high on the horizon converge and he blinks hard against the sudden sting in his eyes.
Through crystal tears he sees they’ve reached the end of their journey; stand suspended statue-still between sea and sky and sand; the illusion of solid ground.
He wonders if they’re crying as their arms stretch out in unison over crystal-clear blue water.
Her voice is soft and low as she shifts against him. “Your mother, too?”
“Dad kept her ashes.” Possessive hands roam over her belly; his eyes drift shut as he feels a strong kick. “He wanted this.”
He wants to move; can almost feel himself step, feels sick as he wonders what it would be like to be standing there next to them.
She shifts again, and cool, satin fingers wrap his hands; stilling them.
He anchors himself against her; doesn’t know how long they stand there. But the sun’s climbing higher on the purple-pink horizon, burning off the haze, and she’s in his arms as he watches his sisters disappear across the sand.
She shifts and steps, slides her hand into his and leads him down the dune.
The scent of sea and salt carries on the breeze, and he’s going to walk on the beach with her.
How do you go back and pick up a novel? Pick up the vibe, the ebb and flow, the character voices, the tone when you've had other voices and thoughts in your head?
So as I sit here contemplating, I'll just go with the flow of others who have been putting up snippets of work for others to puruse. And with that in mind, as I continue to bang my head against my desk, here is my snippet of story.
-----------------------------------
Reeds sway, silent sentinels chasing shadows. A night heron crows as it takes flight. The call of a willet pierces the early morning stillness, and he catches the black and white pattern of a flashing wing as it comes in for a landing.
His hand finds hers. Long, cool fingers wrap his as she leans in, strong and solid beside him, fused shoulder to hip.
The whisper of bare feet is lost here to the sounds of the shore; the soft rustle of grass, the screams of gulls swooping low, the gentle slap of waves coming home.
Sand is implacable here. It blows and shifts, changing boundaries and erasing everything.
He can almost forget there’s a world up the bluff on the other side of the highway.
They crest the dune together, in lockstep, the way they do everything, and stop and stare.
Shards of brilliant gold explode on the horizon; the first orange-red brush strokes of a rising sun painting a lightening blue-black sky.
The breeze shifts; picks up; sea and salt and sun; time and tide. It’s all right here, right now as the world transitions into life and light.
He slips in behind her; slides his arms around her, pulls her back tight against him, hands gentle as they glide along the curve of her belly.
A small shiver runs through her and into him as she leans back, quiet and still in his arms, hands covering his.
He buries his face in her hair; breathes her in deep, feels the band around his chest loosen as he exhales softly in her ear. “High tide.”
She hums in response, stretches out an elegant arm; pulls his focus out as she points down the beach. His arms wrap her tighter and he rests his cheek on her hair as clear, hollow eyes track his sisters across the sand, onto the pier.
All his senses push; salt air and sea breeze and the sun climbing high on the horizon converge and he blinks hard against the sudden sting in his eyes.
Through crystal tears he sees they’ve reached the end of their journey; stand suspended statue-still between sea and sky and sand; the illusion of solid ground.
He wonders if they’re crying as their arms stretch out in unison over crystal-clear blue water.
Her voice is soft and low as she shifts against him. “Your mother, too?”
“Dad kept her ashes.” Possessive hands roam over her belly; his eyes drift shut as he feels a strong kick. “He wanted this.”
He wants to move; can almost feel himself step, feels sick as he wonders what it would be like to be standing there next to them.
She shifts again, and cool, satin fingers wrap his hands; stilling them.
He anchors himself against her; doesn’t know how long they stand there. But the sun’s climbing higher on the purple-pink horizon, burning off the haze, and she’s in his arms as he watches his sisters disappear across the sand.
She shifts and steps, slides her hand into his and leads him down the dune.
The scent of sea and salt carries on the breeze, and he’s going to walk on the beach with her.
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