But there’s more, there’s more…

18. Witnesses

My mother found Stilin’s manuscript. I don’t know how much she read, but she was unbelievably angry.

“… and Stilin of all people!” she shouted, waving her glasses at me, always a very bad sign; “You would ask Stilin? I don’t know how you could bear to be in the same room with him. Like some horrid corpse; like being in the catacombs with dead people. He makes my flesh creep. Lucia, I know I kept things from you, but would you rather trust Stilin? Are you mad?”

“How dare you?” I shouted back, “Do I read your letters? Do I search through your things? Well, do I?”

“I’m your mother,” she said, “Lucia, I’m worried about you. Don’t you understand?”

The truth is, in the tiny flat we now inhabited, nothing could possibly be kept private. I went out and sat on a wall overlooking a vast, oily puddle between three of the blocks. When I was calm again, I could see that there was a grain of sense in what she said. I knew Stilin was a liar; by his own account he had lied all his life. I could not rely on his version. There must be other people I could talk to.

For some reason the person who came to mind was the person I must now think of as my half-sister, Felicia Pertari. She was a little older than me, she had always known where she stood in relation to my father – our father. Perhaps she would have a better perspective. The idea of meeting her was fascinating and frightening at the same time. I resented the position she seemed to hold as my father’s favourite, and yet at the same time I could not help nurturing a small hope that she would be my ally, that if I explained to her what was going on she would somehow make everything go right again. But how could I contact her? I spent hours wondering whether I could somehow get access to my father’s address book or whether I could pluck up enough courage to ask him – or even my mother. Then I found that she was listed in the phone book.

Dialling the number was terrifying, but luckily she answered at once, and when I told her who I was, she knew about me. She knew who I was, she wasn’t all that surprised to get a call from me; my father – our father – had often talked about me, she said. I had half-expected to astonish her, but she did not seem in the least surprised..

“Sweetie!” she said, “You want to come and see me? Of course, I’d love to meet you. Tomorrow afternoon? Come round to my place – do you know where it is?”

I did know: it was in one of the new luxury blocks down by the river. I can’t say it is a beautiful building – somehow we seem to have lost the art of making buildings that look good, instead of simply robust – but inside it was spacious, with high ceilings, and carpet everywhere as though it were an hotel. I took the lift to the top floor, stepped out into a little ante-room (not a corridor; there were other doors, but no other apartments), and there was Felicia’s apartment: number one. At that point I think I would have lost my nerve and gone away again, but she opened it herself without my knocking.

Meeting her was the strangest thing that had ever happened to me. Her face had something familiar about it – it wasn’t exactly that she looked like my father, or like me, though I suppose she did, apart from the pointy little nose which must have been her mother’s, and the blonde hair which had nothing to do with heredity. It was more that when I looked at her I could see that she looked somehow like a member of my family, like someone I vaguely knew already but had forgotten about. She looked no older than me, an impression reinforced by the gum she was chewing. I had somehow expected her to look slightly vulgar, but she wore a well-cut blouse and skirt; simple clothes but expensive quality and showing off a good taste I rather resented. I couldn’t afford such good taste. We hugged enthusiastically. To my surprise she was a couple of inches shorter than me.

Inside, in a huge room with a magnificent view of the meandering Indumina I was taken aback to find a small boy, about four years old, and a uniformed nanny – a stocky, square-shouldered figure.

“Say hello, Grigori,” said Felicia to the boy, “This is your Aunty Lucia.”

“Hello,” he muttered, twisting a small toy in his hands – I think it was a vehicle of some kind, “Look, it doesn’t work.”

“Nanny Van Velzen, will you take him for his walk now?” asked Felicia firmly, ignoring Grigori’s toy problem. The business of putting on coats and preparing for the walk took some time, but eventually Felicia and I were left alone with a cup of tea. She placed her chewing gum in a saucer of its own.

“Is tea alright?” she said, solicitously, “Or would you like something stronger?”

“Tea is fine.” I said, “Look – Felicia – I came to see you because, well, several reasons, but… You know, until, well, quite recently – it’s embarrassing, but I didn’t even know my, our father… I didn’t know he had more than one family… You see I went to see Lucas Stilin…”

“Stilin?” she exclaimed, “You went to see him? That was brave. I shouldn’t like to be alone with Stilin. Such a horrible man. What was it Daddy said? ‘Really, you know, Felicia, working with that man all the time, I should ask for some kind of bonus, don’t you think? He’s like Goebbels without the gemütlichkeit.’”

It was so strange and disturbing to hear her reporting my father’s words, and in a passable imitation of his voice.

“Stilin told me some dreadful things,” I said, annoyed by how childish I suddenly sounded. Then, worse still, I began to cry.

She sat down beside me and put her arm around me.

“Bastards!” she said, with sincerity.

Who knows what she meant: people like Stilin, people like our father, men in general; it didn’t really matter. In cold fact we were the bastards; but just then it seemed the most perfect expression of sympathy.

I told her all the dreadful sex things Stilin had related to me. She listened calmly, attentively; but somehow under her gaze the terrible stories began to seem ridiculous. She began smiling cautiously; she chuckled at the joke about Jakoubian’s mother that I had found so horrifying.

“Really that is most absurd,” she said when I had finished, but not unkindly.

“So you don’t think it’s true?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that!”

She took out a new piece of gum as though to assist her thought processes. “I don’t think it can all be true though, do you? I must say I don’t think Daddy would have accepted Mrs Faratrin in exchange for Georgia. It’s not much of a deal. Do you know Mrs Faratrin? She has big, sticking-out rabbit’s teeth.”

She chewed for a moment or two.

“Then again, so has Georgia,” she conceded. “But all the same – absurd! I can quite well believe, though, that Mrs Faratrin might have had a go at Daddy and then made up some fantastic excuse.”

“Had a go at him? Really?”

“Yes, of course. You see, sweetie, you have to make some allowance for Daddy being our Alpha Male, you know? Famous, rich, powerful, and still quite handsome – yes I know he could afford to lose a bit of weight, I always tell him, but still. All the other men admire him, they’re afraid of him. That’s attractive, don’t you think? He’s the Top Man. Most of the women of Mrs Faratrin’s age in this town would drop their knickers like a shot if they thought there was any chance. The other thing honestly is, poor Daddy, I mean he had my mother, and your mother, and Esmeralda to keep happy – how many women can the poor man deal with?”

“He, he told me he hadn’t slept with Esmeralda for years.”

“Well that’s a fib,” said Felicia decidedly, “He has to perform his duties once a month, on the last Friday. Check with the diary secretary if you don’t believe me.”

She saw my face and giggled.

“No, of course he hasn’t got ‘Service Esmeralda’ in his diary, I mean the secretary can tell you that he is always busy on the last Friday evening of the month and cannot be out of Sescastri at any cost. It’s true. Everyone knows about it. Poor Daddy. He told me it was like when I was young and had to brush my hair – you know, one hundred strokes before you can go to sleep?” She laughed delightedly, and I smiled politely, although the idea of my father sharing jokes about his sex life with her was not very pleasant to me, and the clear evidence that he had lied to at least one of us was not welcome, either.

“But all the other… mistresses? The junior Minister of Trade…?”

She shook her head dismissively.

“Those were all just little flings, not ongoing, you know? You have to remember how generous Daddy is. Some secretary sleeps with him at a conference, and she’s set up for life, even if they never get together again. No: Esmeralda, my mother, your mother: those are the only serious ones. Don’t worry about the rest.”

I told her about the other things Stilin had told me, about our father’s terrible treachery and lack of principle, but her interest receded immediately.

“Oh, politics,” she said, “Uh, yeah.”

She listened courteously as I explained it all, but offered no comment.

“I wouldn’t know about all that,” she said, without concealing a small yawn, “Look the thing is, Lucia, with Daddy being what he is all sorts of dreadful things are said about him. I’m sure you’ll hear many more. You must just ask yourself: is this really what Daddy would have done? We know he may be a little naughty in small ways, but he’s a good man. He’s done so much for our country, and he had so many enemies, you know, horrible people. He wouldn’t do anything really nasty. Just remember that when you hear terrible things. Don’t listen. Come and tell me about it if you’re upset, I’m always here, you can always come to me, really.”

“Felicia,” I said, “Please promise me you won’t repeat any of this. I don’t want anyone to get in trouble, not even Stilin.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said frankly, “All that political stuff – I’ve forgotten it already. I might have a little joke with Daddy about Jakoubian’s mother if that’s alright? No? Don’t worry, sweetie, I wouldn’t really. You can trust me. I’m your sister, after all.”

She reached out and stroked my cheek.

“Gosh, you’re so cute!” she said in English, and then, lapsing into Dubitanian, “I always wanted a little sister. I’m so glad.”

On the way out, I saw she had a framed copy of the famous poster: my father at the May Day parade. Only his head and shoulders are visible; he is laughing jovially and is just a little dishevelled. Felicia was right, he was handsome; square-shouldered, masculine, his eyes deep and thoughtful. On his shoulders, the delighted little girl has her fist raised triumphantly in the air. Behind them in huge letters are the words “Seize the Future!”

It was her. The little girl was her. I had always thought it was me that rode on his shoulders at the May Day parade, but there was no doubt; now I had met Felicia I could even recognise her features in the poster. It was a shock for me; it hit me in the stomach as hard as any of the other, far more serious revelations I had suffered recently. I tried not to show it; I hope I didn’t seem subdued as we kissed and parted on the doorstep.

It was obvious that talking to Felicia about my father’s alleged treachery would get me nowhere; even if I could get her to pay proper attention, she wouldn’t know any more about it than I did. I now resolved, therefore, to speak to one of the survivors of the Twenty. I did not expect them to be as open as Felicia, but surely their responses would tell me something, if I asked the right questions.

Unfortunately, there were not that many to choose from any more: a lot of them died in the war or soon afterwards, and many more had gone since then. Of those that I knew were still alive, Hofstadt lived in Livorin and never came to Sescastri; Tabula had returned to Aldershot and Ventarin to New York. My best hope seemed to be D’Issigny, the former anarchist, recently retired from his Ministerial career but still living in Sescastri. He was not listed in the phone book, but as it happened I thought I knew where he lived. A few years ago my father had given me a lift down into the centre of town, and D’Issigny was with him: we had dropped him off, I recalled, at a block only a few streets away. I took a chance and got the bus back to our old neighbourhood; once there I could walk to D’Issigny’s block, if he still lived in the same place.

Inside, the concierge looked at me suspiciously.

“I have come to see Comrade D’Issigny.” I said, trying to sound authoritative. Reluctantly the concierge picked up the phone; it seemed that I was at least in the right place and that D’Issigny was at home.

“He says he’s not expecting anyone,” said the concierge, holding his hand over the phone, “Who are you and what do you want?”

“I’m Lucia Fabrin,” I said, and added, with a strong sense of being back in the playground, “I’m the daughter of Comrade Larvartin.”

The concierge paused for a full five seconds over this, and then spoke on the phone again.

“He says to go straight up. Floor ten, flat 7.” He pointed to the lifts.

D’Issigny’s flat was built to exactly the same plan as the one my mother and I had previously lived in , which was oddly disorientating; far less luxurious than Felicia’s place, and simply furnished, but an enviable dwelling none the less. D’Issigny was a small thin man with pure white hair and a fastidiously trimmed beard and moustache; he bowed and kissed my hand ceremoniously.

He took me into a small study and sat behind a polished wooden desk – clearly an antique; French, I thought. No refreshments were offered.

“Now then,” he said briskly, “What can I do for the daughter of our beloved Leader?”

“Comrade D’Issigny,” I said, “I have been working on a little memoir of my father’s life. Nothing scholarly, you understand, just a little personal thing. I’ve spoken to a number of people and I thought you might be able to help correct some of the facts that have been passed on to me.”

“What facts?”

“Well… For example, I have heard that my father actually visited Dacsvillin only briefly during the siege.”

“False,” said D’Issigny, “First there, last to leave. He actually drafted the Hoffmann Declaration, long before the rest of us arrived. It was your father’s energy and foresight throughout the siege that led to his being recognised as the real leader of the Left in this country.”

“But wasn’t the Hoffmann Declaration written in German?”

D’Issigny flapped his right hand disdainfully.

“Don’t know – I didn’t arrive until later. I imagine it was translated. The point is, your father was the hero of that episode. The supplies he brought in with him were crucial; we should have had to give in without them.”

I noted silently that my father must have been foresighted indeed if he had brought in supplies before the Hoffmann Declaration was drafted, long before anyone realised that there would be a siege.

“Look,” said D’Issigny, “I can give you a bit of help here. I have an account of your father’s career which covers all this ground… Let me see…”

He rummaged in one of the desk drawers and took out a book which he handed to me.

“It’s all in there,” he said, “You’re welcome to keep it if it will help at all.”

It was, of course, ‘Marki Larvartin: Father of his Country!’ by V.I.Mischkoff.

I feigned pleasure and gratitude as best I could and D’Issigny seemed to relax a little.

“One other thing I’d like to check,” I said, cunningly, “I’ve been told that my father sometimes lacked resolution.”

“Nonsense. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well,” I said nervously, and decided to gamble “One person told me that when the Russians caught Obertin, my father lost his nerve and asked them not to execute him.”

“Who told you that?”

“I haven’t got my notes here… I think it might have been Controller Ursin. He said my father agreed to the execution but lacked the resolution to see it through.”

“Hah. Well, that’s utter nonsense. False.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is. I don’t know what Ursin thinks he knows about it, anyway: he wasn’t even there.”

There was a short, pregnant silence.

“Your father had a stronger stomach than any of us,” said D’Issigny, admiringly. “Some of the Russians wanted to keep Obertin alive. Your father said that after the revolution decadents like him could be reformed, but in wartime they had to take the shortest way. It wasn’t a pretty sight, what a machine gun at close range does to a human body, but your father never flinched. Never. I can assure you of that.”

I tried to look calm, happy.

“That boy who tried to assassinate my father, was he really Obertin’s son…?”

“No, no, that’s garbled, don’t you see? There was a group of Royalist terrorists for a while who called themselves the Sons of Obertin. Didn’t last long.” D’Issigny grinned for the first time, “Obviously not his real sons.”

“Weren’t they?”

“Well hardly. Obertin was as queer as a three-bit note. That was the point. That was why he got the machine gun. The old Archbishop, you know, Forobdin, he used to say, what was it, Julio, he used to say, I understand that this homosexuality is in your nature, but do you have to express it quite so strenuously?”

He paused again and I could see he was suddenly regretting everything he had just said.

“I think it would be better if you didn’t quote any of that, though,” he said, “In time of war, you know… these things don’t always get taken in their right context… and now I’m afraid I must end the conversation. I have to go to a meeting. Miss Fabrin, excuse me, I hope the book is useful… stick to what it says, it’s all there. I endorse it unreservedly.”

I found myself on the street outside again in no time. I was a little worried that D’Issigny would ring my father and tell him about the conversation, but I thought that fear of revealing his own indiscretion about Obertin would probably stop him from doing that.

What a horrid revelation, and what a vile man! Lucas Stilin didn’t seem so bad to me now; he was honest with me, at least. I was convinced now that everything he had told me was the truth. When I got home I took out the memoir again.

49,538 – and the weekend ahead of me! It’s in the bag. Unfortunately the story isn’t finished.

9. The Freeing of Twentyland

Now at last Twentyland seemed to stand on the shores of a sea of freedom and happiness, but instead a grey era began. Elections were held, but on the Soviet model: although there were in theory three parties – the Communist Party, the Peasants’ Party, and the Dubitanian Social Democrats – there was only one list of candidates. My father found himself prevented from standing or campaigning in his own interest. Tretchin the puppet was instead made Prime Minster, under the close supervision of the Russians. My father was offered a largely honorary post as the President of the Council of Twenty, the largely decorative body which in principle advised on matters of constitutional or national import – it consisted of survivors of the original Twenty with some new nominees to make up the score. He bore this for a while with good patience, and then one day he called all the leading officials and party members together and had a quiet conversation.

After that, the Russians found that they were being politely ignored. Everyone listened to them with great, perhaps even exaggerated respect, but took no notice at all of anything they said. There was no defiance, and no outward rebellion; but everything the Russians initiated or sponsored seemed to run into difficulty and delay. This might have been the result of chaotic incompetence and mismanagement – there was plenty of that – but at the same time a number of policies the Russians actively opposed seemed to be in the process of effective implementation. There was a de facto deregulation of trade in food: the introduction of Russian into the school curriculum stalled and went into reverse After a while, Colonel Ostrovsky raised the matter with my father.

“You know,” said my father, “These matters are really outside my remit, Comrade: I have no executive powers. It seems to me you are concerned with the implementation of policy here, not a matter of national ideology. You should address your concerns to Comrade Tretchin – I should not like him to get the impression I was going behind his back.”

“Of course, of course,” said Ostrovsky, “But you see, Comrade Larvartin, I feel that this is not simply a matter of implementation: on the contrary, it seems as if a different set of policies is in effect being promulgated. Don’t you feel that there is a gap between the line we discussed in the Council of Twenty and what is actually happening in Twentyland? Do you feel that the country is actually responding to the advice it is being given?”

“I should be very sorry if you felt in any way that your advice was not valued, Comrade Ostrovsky,” he said, smiling, “But you must appreciate that the citizens and administrators of Twentyland have to take account of local conditions in a way which our valiant allies may not always understand.”

Ostrovsky pursed his lips for a moment.

“Let me be clear about this, comrade,” he said, “I am being advised that there is an orchestrated policy at work here, a policy, not of non-co-operation, not of national deviation exactly, I cannot say that, but let us say of incomplete realisation of the practical consequences of our joint commitment to the international brotherhood of socialist states. I don’t say that is in fact the case, but it’s suggested by the advice I am receiving. Now you must remember that your country was greatly helped to establish itself in freedom and democracy by the friendly support which Comrade Stalin gave to the heroes of Twentyland. If it should appear that certain elements – perhaps even certain high-ranking elements – did not altogether reciprocate that friendly support, well, then it might become necessary for us to consider whether the Twentyland regime would benefit from certain changes. You know, comrade, that certain countries, when liberated from Nazi tyranny, proved to need more direct help than others. If it were thought that Twentyland needed it, there can be no doubt that my superiors would be ready to provide very direct help. Very direct indeed, let there be no doubt of that., It can scarcely be thought that we should allow ourselves to be held back by lack of support from any group or individual, however popular.”

“You seem so tense, Ostrovsky,” my father replied, “I think you need a break. You should spend some time with your family. At home.”

Under my father’s guidance the Council of Twenty remained loyal supporters of Soviet foreign policy, of Cominform and the other institutions, and generally did nothing that the Russians could take real exception to. But Twentyland continued to steer its own course which quietly diverged in small ways from the prescribed model. Red Army soldiers began to receive small gifts from Twentylanders, always accompanied by a card which thanked them for their fraternal assistance, and wished them well on their return to their homeland.

My mother, in relating her stories, always represented my father’s handling of these matters as uniquely skilful, but for once I don’t agree. I hardly think his policy could have succeeded if Twentyland had been of strategic importance, or otherwise of special value to the Soviet authorities. Our armed forces were still far too weak to offer the slightest deterrent to the Russians had direct intervention been undertaken. I’m afraid the plain truth is that we simply weren’t important enough for the Russians to bother too much about us. My father, if my mother is to be believed, also played an extremely dangerous game of counter-espionage, trying to arouse Stalin’s suspicions of the leading Russian officers. I could never get any details of this, but it seems to me an uncharacteristically devious strategy; one which could very easily have backfired, or perhaps on the other hand have caused the disgrace or death of essentially blameless men like Ostrovsky, who were basically well-disposed towards my father and went along with him to some degree.

It goes without saying that in Mischkoff’s account there was never the slightest divergence of view between my father and the Russian authorities; indeed, in his biography my father appears almost servile in his closeness to Comrade Stalin. Mischkoff relates an entirely fictitious episode in which my father is supposed to have reminded Tretchin of the fine example of resolution shown by the Russian leader and thereby persuaded him to continue with a programme of agricultural reform and collectivisation.

It is true, however, that before too long Stalin withdrew his troops from Twentyland. It seems that Ostrovsky complained of my father’s uncooperative behaviour: Stalin, however, remembered my father as a hero of patriotic resistance during the war, and reacted badly. He suspected that my father was, as he felt himself to be, surrounded by potential traitors: instead of supplying the additional authority Ostrovsky was seeking, he summarily ordered him to withdraw. When Stalin died and Khrushchev took power, Twentylanders feared for a while that the Russians might return, but they never did, and if anything Khrushchev seemed even more well-disposed towards my father than Stalin had been . At last, at last, we were masters of our own destiny.

26,273 words.

(An U Boat story – Image source: http://military.discovery.com)

I spent almost 1 month to draft out my NaNoWriMo 2008’s entry titled “The Malayan U Boat” and spent probably another 1 week to clean up and polish the story.

For those who are interested to read, I have uploaded the pdf version of the story in Google Docs.

Please be free to download it and give me comments on the story and how it can be improved further.

Thanks

Some days, it seems like reading is a lost art. Sure, we read text messages and Tweets and even Japanese cell phone novels; we read on the iPhone and the Kindle and maybe even the headlines at NYTimes.com, but when was the last time you sat down with a serious work of literary fiction or long-form journalism and actually finished it? Whose was the last biography you read? The last book of essays? The last contender for Great American Novel?

The sad fact is, in the first quarter of 2009, one out of every seven books sold in the United States was by Stephanie Meyer, of Twilight fame.  The very existence of Dan Brown in the cannon should be enough to make writers, would be writers, and lit nerds alike throw down their swords and give up the fight. I’m not against popular literature–far from it–but wasn’t there a time in the not so distant past where we made a distinction between pop and pulp, where writers like Mark Twain,  Judy Blume and Kurt Vonnegut wrote blockbuster bestsellers that didn’t suck (and that’s just the Americans). Sure, good writers are still out there ( and G-d willing, always will be) but their market is ever-shrinking. The reason? Readers have forgotten how to read.

Sure, the internet has a hand in it, but so does the proliferation of the automobile, the explosion of television, the sub-/exurb and the increasing demands of modern life. Now that you’re un- (or under) employed (or, conversely, now that you’re maximally stressed trying to scrimp around the edges and make ends meet in a fantastically bad economy), here’s 7 tips to help you relearn reading.

1) Break it up: The number one reason non-readers don’t read is that reading is boring. Yes, I admit it, even I get bored with books. That’s why I read across platforms (to borrow terminology). A typical month includes daily internet news, two weekly magazines, one or two novels, a collection of short stories or essays and a biography or non-fiction book. That’s a lot, but even beginners can mix and match to match their ability, taste and appetite. For more clues on how to do it, keep reading…

2) Read in a theme: It might seem counter-intuitive (especially given step 1) but one of the best ways to get back into the habit of reading is to read in a theme. Some folks like to read through a single author, but that’s not the only trick in the bag. Ready-made themes range from geography and language (Russian) to time period (Victorian) to subject (Barack Obama).

The key is to start thinking of your reading lists as playlists. For example, in reading the Vietnam War, you might pick up The Things They Carried, The Killing Fields, and a biography of Henry Kissinger. The more you already understand about a subject, the more you can get out of the literature itself; hence, reading Hunter S. Thompson could include a detour into the All the President’s Men and the wonderful illustrations of Ralph Steadman.

I recently picked out a reading list around Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, one of my favorite Russian novels. Offerings include the mediocre Whatever Happend to Anna K. and the significantly better Happy Families by venerable Mexican author Carlos Fuentes.

3) Re-learn your Library: You may have noticed, most of my links are to the library. That’s because the library is one of the best places for new and returning readers to start. Books are the original free content.  It’s hard to spend $14.99 on something you’re not even guaranteed to enjoy, but the libary’s cache is constantly changing and constantly free.

P.S. If your most vivid library memories are of hushing and bookmobiles, it’s time you gave the public institution a second look. With looser card-issuing restrictions at some of the nicest (San Francisco and Santa Monica, to start), key-ring library cards, automated check-out, online inventory and a huge selection of New Releases (as well as cookbooks, travel guides, DVDs, wireless access, the list goes on), you’re definitely missing out if you’re not at one. The best part? You can take virtually as many or as few as you want, exchanging them almost as often as you like. Which brings us to our next tip…

4) Pick your Pace: With reading, tortises and hares are all rewarded equally. You don’t have to be a particularly fast reader to read a lot, but no matter how fast or slow your eyes race across the page, pacing your read is key.   Some people like long chapters; others like bite-size chunks. Similarly, some readers like to curl up with a good book for a whole afternoon, while others prefer a quick read between tasks or while commuting. Whether you get down with hard or soft cover, big or small font, tall or short pages, all of it affects how you read. Older books often come in several editions, so its easy to pick the size/font/hand-feel that fits you. Different authors breakt their books in different ways, but short story collections are snack-packed by definition. Try some on, just don’t forget to keep notes on what you like

5) Life is Better withPost-its: Your 10th grade teacher might have said it’s impossible to really read a book without marring it with your scrawl and dog-earing all the pages, but that’s a lie. Anyone who truly loves books will tell you, the authors words deserve to be left as they were type-set, even if the author is a tool and the writing is unbearable. However, Post-itting your favorite passages can help you recap the book in a hurry, increase your bandwith for quotable passages and leave you with a more meaningful experience of reading. It also makes you look smart, especially when it comes time to…

6) Share and Share Alike: We all know sharing is the most important social skill, but did you know it’s also a fantastic for readers? Sharing your favorite books not only gives you an excuse to talk about them, it can also make you seem exceptionally thoughtful. The right book at the right time can feel  transendental, and make the original recommender seem like a mind-reading genius. Ever wonder why Oprah’s Book Club got so hot? Sure, everything Oprah touches turns to gold, but unlike her Favorite Things, the big O’s book-club picks spoke to the particular moment in which they were read. The first time a book you like goes viral with your friends can feel like the internet gone analog.

A couple of my great shares include Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential (not as special now that Bourdain’s super famous and sort of a tool), and Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City (which I shared across several continets almost 5 years before it was optioned for a film by Danny Boyle). Plus, authors are like your own personal rockstars.  Unlike movies or even music, books (especially the best books) are made by lonely people toiling away in obscurity who will actually talk to you if you call them or drop by for a drink. A good book is like a good friend…someone you wish all of your friends could meet…

7) Building a Home Library (Media Mail is your Friend):

…which is precisely what makes building a home library so special. First, it gives new visitors to your home something to look at/talk about while you try to rescue dinner. Second, it leaves you ever-ready to forge a new connection by suggesting and/or loaning out a certain special book.  When you build your home life around books, you’re not just making a statement about your aesthetic/ideoglogical preferences, you’re saving money. Books, even books you buy (new or used) are cheaper-by-the-minute than DVDs, iTunes downloads or cable.  They’re also mobile: they don’t require any technology to read, and although they are heavy, books and periodicals are about the cheapest thing in the world to ship. I posted 50 lbs of books, notebooks, cards and magazines from New York to California for less than $30.

The take-away here is that the more you read, the better reader you are, and the more meaningful each book, magazine and journal becomes. There is something infinitely special about sharing a book with someone, knowing they will read it in an entirely different way than you have. It’s more than “sharing” an article on Facebook or Twitter, hoping that you’re “friends” and “followers” will share in a descrete tidbit of knowldege–building a library and sharing has the potential to expand your consciousness. FOR FREE.

In reading Christina Katz’s second great writing resource, Get Known Before the Book Deal, I learned that writers should toot their own horn when they achieve little successes. How else would our readers/followers know what we’re up to?

So, taking Ms. Katz’s advice, I’d like to “toot” about my recent successes in publication and contest entries!

Underwired, a KY based women’s print magazine, just accepted my essay “Cravings” for publication in their upcoming June ‘09 issue.  I wrote “Cravings” last September, with a different market in mind. I wrote the essay from my perspective on motherhood and our needs to give in to guilty little pleasures. I wrote, rewrote, sent to my writing buddies for critiques, rewrote again and finally submitted to skirt! magazine, who politely and promptly rejected my essay due to “no space.”

Of course it was a minor blow, equivalent to a small crescent shaped shiner under my right eye, but I went down my list of markets and sent the essay out again, this time to Imperfect Parent.  My essay seemed to fit their tongue-in-cheek humor and bold observations on being a parent without losing your identity. Weeks, then months went by with no reply and an updated message on their website stated they were “backlogged” and no longer accepting submissions.  So, I emailed the editor, again, and professionally stated I’d be pulling my essay from their consideration if I hadn’t heard back by a specific date. No reply and off to the market guidelines I returned.

So, you can imagine my elation when the editor of Underwired replied via email with a “Congratulations! We’ll see you in print…” Not to mention the attached contract that spelled out payment and rights for my publication of “Cravings.”

The lesson in this? Keep moving forward. Don’t lose momentum, don’t lose your faith or your focus. Your essay may be personal to you, but editors have a job to do and though they may appreciate your wit or tone, it may not fit for their publication.

My second “toot” is about another exciting email I received a few days ago, in regards to my fiction entry for the 100 Words or Fewer Writing Contest.  This email said I was at the top of the mountain where the air was thin. My entry “In Father Brannigan’s Room” had made it past two levels of judging and is now in the running for 1st, 2nd or 3rd place! 100 little words, crafted so carefully, rewritten about 20 times, paragraphs cut and pasted in different order to achieve the maximum effect of “wow” in such a small space.  And I deliriously wait,  with little oxygen.

Who thought after writing for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) where every word counts and even contractions are banished to maximize  number of words, I’d be able to cut out prepositions, articles and adverbs to ruthlessly minimize word count and tell a full story with less than 100 words. An achievement in itself. I’m proud to have even accepted the challenge.

And when the winners are announced in mid-June, I’ll be back to “toot” some more (hopefully!)

Keep writing and submitting my friends! And please share your successes here and EVERYWHERE!

Chapter 14
Tom

I borrowed in the sheets, warm slippery, and felt her touch. She traced her finger from my ear to my lips and placed a kiss there. She must think I’m still asleep.
“I know you’re almost awake,” she said. “I can feel it.”
I took a deep breath and smelled her; clean, fresh, like she just came from the shower. There was a something in the background, though, like someone else was there.
“You’re not listening. You have to wake up,” she whispered.
What did she mean? I am awake. Wait, what was that? I ignored the sound that tickled my awareness and focused on her smell, her voice. I cracked my eyes open and there she was, enclosed in light. No, not light, a glare. The sun shone in the window behind her and surrounded her face like a halo, making it hard to make out her features.
“Beth…” I said and reached to pull her back to me, to the warm sheets.
“Wake up, Danny. Let go.”
And then she was gone. I felt for her, but the sheets were cold.

“Wake up! Let’s go!” Jack shouted over the fire alarm.
Tom flew out of bed shaking off the remnants of his last dream with difficulty. At first he wasn’t sure where he was, but the moment it came back to him he was running to pole right behind Jack to get their turnout gear. The chief was shouting orders and men were scrambling.
A few minutes later they were on a call to a burning barn outside of town near the interstate, just a few miles from the truck stop. It was an old building, no livestock, no people, no electricity, no gas; just a lot of old straw and wood. By the time they got there the damage was done so they secured the area and put out what was left of the barn.
The day was getting warm and all the snow had melted overnight so the ground was soggy. Their boots left deep impressions in the mud and grass.
“Old barns go up like this and they’re gone in minutes. Like matchsticks,” Jack was saying. As they walked around watching the last of the smoke rise from the rubble. “It doesn’t take much.”
Tom just nodded. He knew too well how old buildings went up in flames and the shadows of last night’s dreams, nightmares rather, kept him from commenting. The chief was talking to the Deputy Smithson and pointing toward the roadway then back to his clipboard, and the deputy was nodding and writing his own report.
“… no accelerants,” they heard him say, “but this fire was started intentionally and the culprit’s tracks lead to the roadway over there.”
Tom and Jack headed in the direction Chief Crider pointed.
“Hey, boys!” the chief yelled, “Don’t contaminate those footprints.”
Jack waved that he heard him and they kept walking.
“Hey, I wanted to get you away from the other guys to ask you something.” Jack said.
“Ask away,” Tom replied.
“Are you… alright?” Jack asked haltingly.
Warily, Tom said, ” What do you mean?” Does crazy show that easily?
Jack leaned closer and said “You talk in your sleep, dude.”
Tom nodded and sighed, “Yeah, I know.” He had been dreaming of Beth and Kat a lot lately, sometimes one, sometimes both. Sometimes he relived the details of Beth’s death. “How much do you hear?”
“Just mumblings, mostly, but sometimes it gets a little… scary. A lot of thrashing. Who is Beth?”
Tom didn’t want to talk about Beth again, explain everything all over again. It was painful enough to dream about it, but forcing himself to relive it while conscious was a dangerous thing. He had to answer the questions so many times after it happened to the police, to the doctors, the shrinks, his parents, her parents. When he started talking about it the guilt showed through. He didn’t want the people in his new life to see that. He decided to keep it simple.
“She was my wife. She died a few years ago.”
Jack chewed on that for a minute before he asked the inevitable question, “How?”
Tom was prepared with simple answers.
“House fire.”
Jack blew out a low whistle.
“It was quick. She broke her neck; didn’t feel anything.”
Not for long anyway. Nobody knows what anyone feels in that split second when the initial snap happens, before oblivion, but she never felt the burns. He didn’t go into the details of the con man that got away; the gas leak, the arguments about inspections, first with her and later with his own father.
They had an old gas stove and when Beth had said she smelled gas he thought it was from the burner she was about to light. He was standing in the open front door, just getting home. The next thing he knew he was on the front walk and his jacket was on fire. It didn’t register, though. All he could see was the house in flames, the open doorway laughing at him, smoke spewing out in mockery.
He heard the sirens down the street. Why weren’t they in there? How long was he out? What was taking so long? He sat up to go in the house himself and was held down by something. It was on fire, too, heavy. The door? Using all his strength he flung it off himself and literally peeled his melting jacket off his skin. The smell made him want to gag, the pain was blinding, but he took three deep breaths to push down the gorge and surged to the house.
“Beth!” he shouted.
The heat coming up from the floor was blistering. He looked toward where the stove used to be, but she wasn’t there, either. The roof was caved in and everything was on fire. He stumbled toward the living room, the opposite direction of where she was. If the blast blew him out the door maybe she was thrown clear, too. The smoke was choking him, his throat dry and scratchy, and he thought back to grade school. Stop, drop, and roll. Crawl below the smoke.
He dropped to his knees, was breath rasping.
“Beth!” he choked.
Feeling with his hands he found something soft and warm and tried to roll it over or lift it, but it wasn’t her. He was losing his vision, his eyes far too dry to tear up, the inferno was hot, taking him. His back, arm and shoulder felt oddly cool where he peeled off his jacket.
He kept creeping along the floor and he finally found her. He could hear shouting outside, far away. He rolled over her body, black with smoke, her eyes were wide open, face charred. His heart broke.
“No, Beth,” he whispered, and felt at her throat for a pulse, listened for a breath, but the roar of the inferno drowned out everything. He wanted to get her out of there, but he was afraid of hurting her, afraid to touch her burns again. He lied down next to her and tried to yell for help but the air just rasped in and out of his throat, unable to make a sound.
“Is anyone here?” the voices said. He turned toward the sound but the fire was blinding.
He tried to answer but just choked. At least choking was a sound, he thought and choked again. He raised his arms tried to get someone’s attention.
“Is anyone in here?” the voice shouted again.
He was choking, rasping, trying to make sounds. He was falling, floating, slowly spinning.
He didn’t know how long he lay there holding her arm. They weren’t going to find them. He thought he should close his eyes and just let sleep take him, but his eyes were already closed.
He thought he felt something squeeze his chest and he groaned.
“I’ve got a live one!”
No, you don’t. We’re dead.
He later woke up in the hospital, a tube down his throat, bandages covering his right arm, shoulder, and part of his neck. His mother was there holding his hand, making soothing sounds and pushing back his hair. It was brief, but he registered that Beth wasn’t there and gladly gave himself over to unconsciousness again, praying for death.
The next time he woke there was no tube, but the bandages were still there, an IV coming out of his left hand dripped clear fluids. The lights were low, and his mother was asleep in the arm chair converted to a bed. He didn’t want to wake her so he just lay there, trying to remember exactly what happened. Was Beth dead? He knew she was or she’d be here with. Unless she was too injured to come, she would be there. He knew she was dead. He will never forget the perpetual look of horror on her face, the eyes permanently open and the skin charred around them, the frozen, unnatural grimace of her lips.
“Hey, man. Where’d you go?”
Tom shook off the memory, “No where.”
“You spaced out there for a second.”
Tom nodded and said, “Yeah, well, it was a few years ago and I got a fresh start and some therapy. I’m fine. I just have dreams sometimes. Not much I can do about that.”
“Is that how you got that scar? The one on your neck?”
“Yeah, my jacket caught on fire and when I went to take it off it had melted to my skin. No other burns though. It was a gas explosion in the kitchen. We had just bought this old house to flip and had it inspected and everything. I was standing in the front doorway with it still open when it happened so I was thrown from the worst of it. Unfortunately, my wife was the one who was lighting the stove.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. I found out later that the entire house should have never passed inspection. We got conned by a phony inspector, but he was long gone before it happened so nobody ever found him. In fact, we never even found out his real name.” Tom decided not to go into the details that followed. His father blamed him because he hadn’t taken his advice on which inspector to use. Tom went with the cheaper one he heard about from the realtor; a new one in town trying to get more business. He needed a clean slate here, no animosity, no blame.
“Damn,” Jack said again. “So now you’re here playing hero? Is that why you went into the fire business?”
Tom chuckled. “Something like that, yeah. A constructive obsession, I guess.”
“Or unhealthy, depending on which way you look at it. You’re not going to do anything stupid are you?” Jack asked.
He had heard that question before. “No. Like I said, it was a couple of years ago and I got therapy. I’m fine.”
They kept walking toward the area the chief pointed near the road. sure enough there was a set of footprints. They looked like they were made from a men’s set of snow boots. They led to a spot in the gravel at the side of the road and where fresh tire tracks marred the smooth gravel.
“Can I ask you another question?”
“What’s that?”
“Who’s Danny?”

I participated in a scriptwriting event last month known as Script Frenzy where the participants are required to write a script of 100 pages in one month time. I’ve been meaning to… err… boast about my achievement, cuz participating in Script Frenzy is not the same like NaNoWriMo for me. Script writing is not really my strong point. It’s simply a pain in the butt, literally.

I spent more time moping in front of the PC thinking on how I should write or if a certain slugline is proper than writing the script itself. But by the end of the month, I managed to come out with a script set with 500 pages in it. Now that’s a huge personal record for me, though the script was actually an adaptation from my ongoing novel with the working title Masquerade.

It is hard to explain to those who did not participate in the event of the satisfaction gained after completing the challenge. But I have to express to all of you who stumbled upon this article that healthy amount of stress could motivate you to achieve many things, and could be greatly missed after it’s over.

This post is just to reward myself and remind myself to remain dedicated and discipline all the time, and not just during NaNoWriMo or Script Frenzy event. This is what I get for completing the challenge.

A congratulatory message from the organizer

A winner’s badge…

A certificate for it

And because I am also a part of Script Frenzy Young Writer program, I get another set of badge

And also another piece of certificate as a bonus

Cleffairy: Writing is a never ending adventure. So, people… no matter what form or writing you’re in, be it blogging, novel writing, journal writing and whatnot, never ever stop it cuz you may gain more than not from it.

Cleff is going nuts again. This time she’s going into a crazy frenzy! Script Frenzy, that is! You guys must be wondering what in the name of hell I’m talking about. Well…for those who have known me for quite some time would probably know that I’m a woman of passion. There’s fiery fire in my vein and I constantly thirst for adventure and challenges. I also probably have mush for brain and a hopeless romantic at heart despite of my awkward and unladylike writings.

I’m also woman with passion for writing, and I would never say no to a challenge related to writing. And so, it would only be appropriate if I take on the Script Frenzy Challenge 2009.

Some of you here might not be familiar with Script Frenzy. Well, allow me to introduce it to you, ladies and gentlemen.

Script Frenzy is an international writing event in which participants take on the challenge of writing 100 pages of scripted material in the month of April. As part of a donation-funded nonprofit, Script Frenzy charges no fee to participate; there are also no valuable prizes awarded or “best” scripts singled out. Every writer who completes the goal of 100 pages is victorious and awe-inspiring and will receive a handsome Script Frenzy Winner’s Certificate and web icon proclaiming this fact.

Even those who fall short of the word goal will be applauded for making a heroic attempt. Really, you have nothing to lose—except that nagging feeling that there’s a script inside you that may never get out. So…guys, who are going frenzy with me this year? Aww, come on, join me!

Here’s the infos:

Who: You and everyone you know. No experience required.

What: 100 pages of original scripted material in 30 days. (Screenplays, stage plays, TV shows, short films, and graphic novels are all welcome.)

When: April 1 – 30. Every year. Mark your calendars.

Where: Online and in person (if you want!). Hang out in the forums, join your fellow participants at write-ins, and make friends by adding writing buddies online.

Why: Because you have a story to tell. Because you want a creative challenge. Because you’ll be disappointed if you missed out on the adventure. Because you need to make time for you.

How: Sign up. Tell everyone that you are in the Frenzy. Clear your calendar. Start some wrist exercises. Have fun!

The rules mumbo jumbo:

1) To be crowned an official Script Frenzy winner, you must write a script (or multiple scripts) of at least 100 total pages and verify this tally on ScriptFrenzy.org.

2) You may write individually or with a partner. Writing teams will have a 100-page total goal for their co-written script or scripts.

3) Script writing may begin no earlier than 12:00:01 AM on April 1 and must cease no later than 11:59:59 PM on April 30, local time.

4) You may write screenplays, stage plays, TV shows, short films, comic book and graphic novel scripts, adaptations of novels, or any other type of script your heart desires.

5) You must, at some point, have ridiculous amounts of fun.

Still unclear? Check their our Frequently Asked Questions. No idea on how to write a script? There’s full guideline on how to write a script on http://www.scriptfrenzy.org.

For those who are in need of writing software formatter for scipt or screenplays, I personally would recommend Final Draft. It’s easy to use, just like other word processors like Open Office as well as MsWords. I bought Final Draft a couple of years ago, and I find it very convenient where script formatting is concern. However, Final Draft is not a free open source software. If you’re looking for something free and easy to use, you can try Cinergy. It’s great for beginner, and it’s completely free. Cinergy was my very first script writing software. I used it when i first started script writing back in 2006, and I’d say, it’s as up to par as Final Draft. You guys can give it a shot if you want.

I have no idea how I can accomplish writing a 100 pages script by the end of April this year as I’m all caked with my work bullshit. But then again, I’ve accomplished the impossible last November by singlehandedly writing a novel with at least 50,000 words in a month for the NaNoWriMo challenge. *grinz* Wish me luck in the frenzy, guys. Feel feel to go frenzy too.

Cleffairy: I must have been born a natural masochist! Who’s in for the challenge, by the way? Join me in Script Frenzy. Your script might end up a blockbuster for all you know! *grinz*

It appears that Amazon have fixed the downloading problem and now anyone outside the USA can grab a copy of the first 15 pages of the book.

So download away and be sure to leave a short review on the site – every little helps!

Well, I won in 2008 and am looking forward to 2009!

Three figures of ambiguous sexuality are astride, the camera moving backwards. As the camera pans to the left, one realizes they are not astride, but in actuality are situated in lateral distances through a trick of camera,

the very animated TOMORROW (dapper in a long coattail tuxedo and pencil thin mustache, like a maitre’d, eyes twinkling always with excitement of novelty juxtaposed with the upper lip trembling fearfully at the unknown, but wearing a smile that is joyously illuminating the prospect of something happening, oh, isn’t it happening!) leads the stride,

TODAY (well tuxedoed and plump, well fed, with red cheeks and the expectant gait of someone on the verge of dreaming and remembering) takes up the middle,

and YESTERDAY (an ambivalent mix of resentment and contentment scarring his youthful appearance with the tributaries of old age which seem to interchange in random intervals, the youthful face suddenly fissuring into bitter age then flashing into bright acceptance of Time passed) dawdles at the back of the pack as if on tottering legs of creaking bone.

TOMORROW: (walking white gloved hand on brow, camera right close-up) O!
YESTERDAY: (receding camera left): So it begins… the gradual distancing.
TODAY: (running a hand through hair, still walking) Eye on the horizon, I tread towards Tomorrow.
YESTERDAY: (shrinking, bitter voice tinny and echoey) Good-by, good-by!
TODAY: (performing a jig) The rosy, cosy future, blushing sweet petal smells falling onto my passage.
TOMORROW: (extending a hand) Time’s a strange thing.
YESTERDAY: No! (He reaches across the gulf, which we find is longer than it seemed, and grasps the coat tails of TODAY)

TODAY and TOMORROW engage in a tango, whirl and twirl in a backdrop of galaxies that reel with violent light revealing themselves to be blistering holes on overheated celluloid. YESTERDAY, stretched about, is flung about, still gripping at TODAY, like an arm of a galaxy.

TOMORROW: Orange blooms and foul droppings. One man’s trash is another man’s wealth.
TODAY: It’s always the same.
TOMORROW: It’s always—
TODAY: Time to tango!

Mournfully, filled with muffled lament, steadily growing louder, the patter of feet on the quickly burning cosmos. Roses are falling from no sky in particular, their red petals unfolding from in hot galactic centers to burst apart, dusting in the cold cold void: it doesn’t stop; is a petal as any other petal?

YESTERDAY: No, please stop. Stop, please.
TODAY: What was that? Did you hear something?

Stars burn their gases and there is life and death. Stories galore.

TOMORROW: Yoicks! Never mind that. What excitement!
YESTERDAY: Hey, it’s me…
TODAY: Whoo!
YESTERDAY: I’m here. Hmph. The very thought.
TOMORROW: Round and round we go in a merry go round of you and me!
YESTERDAY: (feebly) And me? (angrily) Mark my words. The past always catches up with you!

So they spin forever and ever, the Matter of matters always caught in the vortex of their dance, always trying to come to grips with the state of things.

Glaciers of dust covered the yellowed document. It was bound with loops of age dulled stainless steel.

“It’s a script.” Seamus turned a page, his mouth moving, silently at first, but slowly diecibeling into an awed whisper. “…they stand in the ancient chamber, looking…”
“Look! Our names are in it.”
“We’re a story. The threads that bind.”
“Let’s read from it.”

The party is startled by the old man’s cackle. Chester is startled.
SEAMUS: The party is startled by the old man’s cackle. Chester is startl-
CHESTER: (nervously) Who’s that?

The party search the shadows.

UNCLE: (cackling still, mirthlessly) The monster’s afraid! Ha-ha! Which came first, the chicken or egg, Chester?
SEAMUS: Who are you?
VOGINA: Such a dreadful voice!
OLD MAN: It’s played out, the drama. I’m oh so tired.
CHESTER: How do you know my name?
OLD MAN: It’s written in the book.

OLD MAN walks up to the manuscript and lets his finger linger along its length, looking intently at SEAMUS who fidgets uncomfortably.

OLD MAN: A lifetime like no other. A wealth of experience. A Tome of Time. My bones are weary, my hands palsied.

OLD MAN spreads his hands which tremble violently.

SEAMUS: You look very familiar, (looking at the script) Old Man.

UNCLE emerges from the shadows. A soft shard of music, the scrabble of little rat feet, the hiss of unaccustomed breezes through cobwebs. He flanks OLD MAN, who laughs excitedly. VOGINA’S eyes widen with shock.

CHESTER: You! (dead hand flashing with green grace towards the revolver at hip)

OLD MAN steps in front of UNCLE and intercepts the deadly trajectory. A small red rose smelt of iron blooms from his heart.

OLD UNCLE: (blood flecked lips moving like a young butterfly’s tentative flutterings) My part ends at last, and I bow out, if not very gracefully. Good-by! Good-by!

CHESTER: (tears gel at his eyes and slime down his cheeks like deranged slugs) Jesus! I’m sorry!
UNCLE: It’s all right. It’s in the book, isn’t it, my friend?

CHESTER sobs, the workings of his phlegmatic lungs visible through a hole in his chest. UNCLE smiles down at OLD MAN and gingerly places his body onto the cold floor. OLD MAN is wearing a peaceful smile.

CHESTER: I don’t know what came over me! I-I just saw something… I thought I had forgotten.
UNCLE: My dear Vogina. It’s your cue.
VOGINA: W-what?
UNCLE: Ahh, wonderful. Right on script. You’ve got excellent theatrical timing. Please do continue.

VOGINA peruses the book, blanches as she reads her previous lines and searches for something to say. Once she gets started, her eyes abandons the script, knowing it’s all in there, all that’s to be said. CHESTER is wandering aimlessly, torn inside at his display of senseless violence.

VOGINA: Why are we here? (Accusingly, narrowing her eyes)You aren’t really a PR agent, aren’t you?

SEAMUS: What? You know her?

UNCLE AKA FLASHBULB B. GETTER sniggers. With a flair, he bows gracefully.

FLASHBULB: Yes, and no. Vogina, m’dear, I am your PR agent, amongst other things.

FLASHBULB steps astride SEAMUS to whisper into his ear. VOGINA haarumphs and crosses her arms, jiggling disconsolately.

FLASHBULB: (breath hot on SEAMUS’ ear) I hired you for the botch.
SEAMUS: (whispering) Jesus!
FLASHBULB: Otherwise she wouldn’t have had the mettle to do this. Now, quick! Don’t let her read the book. She mustn’t suspect.

VOGINA is eyeing the book, having just figured out a way to overhear the conversation, but SEAMUS intercepts the book before she can do anything about it. She haarumphs some more and stares at CHESTER, who is still shuffling in no particular direction.

FLASHBULB: (mocking ceremonial voice) You must go into the hinterlands. I tis written.
VOGINA: Fuck you! I’m done with you telling me what to do!

FLASHBULB snickers. His eyes holds wisdom, and his smile reveals it came with heavy cost.

FLASHBULB: My dear… (he spreads his hands) It matters not what you do. It’s impossible to deviate from the script.

FLASHBULB laughs again.

FLASHBULB: I’ve got something for you, Chester.

FLASHBULB raises a large satchel, opens it up to pull out a large zip-loc bag filled with a greyish almost liquid.

FLASHBULB: Brains! If you’re careful, this can last you weeks.
CHESTER: Where did you get them?
FLASHBULB: (spreading his hands wide, snickering) This here, my friend, is evidence that hardened criminals are really, in fact, softies deep down inside. The cream inside the hard filling, heh heh.

And they begin to close the book—

CHESTER: Close the book, already. It’s written.
SEAMUS: It just says that we begin to close the book.
CHESTER: As it should, expecting that you are going to close the book.

As Chester and Seamus argue about the closing of the book, Vogina growls and stalks to the book, grabbing it with angry grubby fingers—

SEAMUS: I was reading that!
VOGINA: Come off it already.
CHESTER: Yeah, Seamus.

Seamus closes—

They streamed from the mist.

One of them, a cowboy with a large gun holstered turned to Seamus and said, “My name is Kim and I like to push my pants down in a dry leafy rustle and rub Vaseline on my asshole.” Seamus, astonished, stood opening and closing his mouth like a marooned fish.

“Say, Carsons. You’re looking for the dead roads?” Chester said with his hands on hips, affecting a cowboy swagger. He flung out gun fingers: “Pa-pow!” The apparition flinched, his gun and stance on the ready. “What do you know?” demanded Kim. Chester grinned his bony grin and pointed vaguely to the west. Raising his hat in thanks, Kim disappeared in the mist.

Seamus stood there, still working his jaw. “You know, I’m not going to say anything,” he said, stalking away. “You’re just not well read,” Chester retorted.

The ghostly procession never stopped during their time in the marsh. A bluish man stumbled about chasing a woman crooked in two places on her body, as if run over by rails, crying, “Anna. Anna, where are you? Anna?” A child hobbled through the sticky grounds, once in a while dislodging his badly made crutches from the mud, murmuring, “God bless you, even you.” He turned to smoke, and his crutches sank into the stinking waters with a slow, oily splash.

“My, what a queer little man,” said Vogina. Her heavy arm lifted in the gloom, pointed. He had a strange gait, a distinctive toothbrush mustache, and clothes that were too small. He stalked the grounds with a kind of impoverished dignity, an eminent tramp in his element, swinging his bamboo cane here and there.

A bowler hat hung crooked on his skull. Laughing with delight, Chester rushed his bony legs through the thick soil and capered around the little man, plucking at his hat, his cane. Perturbed at the distraction, the tramp chased Chester around, fell tumbling onto his arse, and unwittingly caught his hat with his head, looking around with confusion. The cane snaked out and tripped Chester. Vogina giggled gleefully, for the first time in a long while.

The tramp leaped to his feet, kicked at the zombie where the minority of his stomach was located then skittered away to a safe distance where he stuck his fist in the upraised crook of his other arm. With a satisfied grunt and a clap of heels, he trotted into the mist. Chester miserably pulled himself from the mud with a glare that warned everybody not to say anything. Seamus sniggered.

The group crept crept slowly with frightened airs, their hands clutching the shoulders of others, their heads turning here and there once in a while with startlement. Only Chester, having regained his composure, seemed unperturbed, going as far as to gleefully lead the party, making unnerving splashes as he chased after the ghosts, inquiring of them. The apparitions tolerated him, engaged in conversations of which Chester’s companions only caught snippets:

“—ow’s Buck Mulligan these days, anyways?”
“Called my mother beastly dead, that enemy of mine.”
“I’d say the usual, huh, Steve-o.”
Or:
“Look, I keep telling you, I don’t know who John Galt is!”

They finally exited the swamp wood, shortly after passing a snoring gentleman who had draped his body along the ground, his head resting against a log. His nails were curved in a length that measured several inches long, and a fine down of beard spread in a fantail shape across his body. He seemed to have been there for quite a long time. Chester stood over the body for a long moment. He said, “Rest in peace.” Then he whistled, merrily marching them out of the fog like a demented drum major.

Inveterate unemployment.

The story of my life. I fish in my coat and take a S shaped cigarette from my crushed pack of Farbolos. I hurl smoke rings in the bare room. The phone silently accuses me from my beat desk. Maybe I forgot to pay the bill? My feet are on the desk and I gaze at the raggedy clouds that pull themselves across the small rectangle of visibility my window (income) affords me.

It’s a grey day, and it’s a great day to drink. I take my feet off the desk and daub the cigarette in the ashtray, pour myself a Clown’s Smile Rum. I knock back a slug and grimace. Clown’s smile, indeed. I pour myself another couple fingers. Days like this rum is the best medicine, I muse. From the pack I take a Y shaped—how the hell did that happen?—cigarette and as I light it, a knock thuds on the door.

Another knock.

There is a shatter of glass, and I find my plate glass window—I had just stenciled in my name—resting in pieces on the grimy floor. A dame, in a tight black skirt, with legs all the way to her chin, wearing an expression of astonishment.

Quite literally, in fact.

A mechanoid DAME-X003, a model especially prone to the extremes of human emotion. There is an apologetic whir of optics, the clank of badly greased bearings. I sigh. These were an especially kvetchy sort, if you could believe it. The majority of business down my way, it’s them… Say, I can’t seem to tell whether it’s the always the same robot or a series of ‘em. Either way, business is business.

I wave the robot in.

The day after our zombie friend has  inadvertently wiped out an entire town by the hungry virtue of vice.

“I’m looking for information.” Chester settled onto a barstool. The pub was empty but for a priest slumped at the bar and its bartender who stubbed out his cigarette and took to polishing a glass.

“It’s about the Storied Woods, isn’t it? Just about the only reason folks stop by this godforsaken town.” He rubbed ferociously at the glass, peering closely. “It’s suicide, you know. Nobody ever comes out.”

“I’m aiming to go places no man has ever gone.” False braggadocio there, failing to camouflage the slight quaver of fear that caught in Chester’s throat, and the bartender knew it.

“It’s not that the place is lacking visitors. Just… nobody real comes out. That’s why we don’t mind the likes of you.” The man behind the bar shrugged. “There have been worse.” He put away the glass. “You seem to have a tale caught in your throat. I’m all ears and it’s a slow day.”

Dust settled. The priest woke up. Chester shook his head.

“There’s nobody around, and there ain’t much difference between a bartender and a priest.”

“O-okay. Father, I have sinned.”

“Wot’s that? Heh heh.” The padre nodded at the bartender. “A drink for my new friend, here.”

Chester protested vehemently, suggesting that it would be only a waste of money. The padre wouldn’t hear any of it. “As long as you’re paying,” Chester said, slamming back the shot of corn whiskey. It splashed on the floor, the padre who looked him up and down concluding, “Guess I shoulda listened. So, what’s your grief?”

So the zombie regaled the duo with his sad tale, culminating at the fateful meeting and concluding at the moment he stepped into the pub. The padre smiled a sad smile and said:

“Oncet I brought a boat load of drugs—the boring ones, mind you, antibiotics, aspirin, antibacterials, and all the like—to an impoverished people, they bellies all hanging out like they had gone and swallowed a watermelon whole, who wore pieces of green plastic (PCBs?) they found in the wastes through in their ears and noses and mouths and tongues and Lord knows what else, and I helped them.”

The padre settled his cheek against the smooth bar. Each burst of breath threw a fan of steam on the polished surface. He sat up, his fingers compulsively scrabbling for his brandy.

“I wanted to help them. The medicines I brought were corrupted. Poisoned. They died by the hundreds, painfully. An entire culture vanished before my eyes, and I was the one responsible.” The brandy tumbled golden in its glass until it disappeared into the padre’s mouth. He brought raw, blood etched eyes to bear onto Chester. “I lost my faith. In everything. The Lord, he had made me an angel of death. And why? To these people who most needed his help. I could not accept it.”

He gestured at the bottle. “I drowned myself in a sea of escape. I floundered in these dark and filthy”—nobody noticed the bartender nodding to himself. He knew too well, having had to replace his mop one time more than he preferred—“places until the Lord sent me a message loud and clear.”

The padre slapped the bar top with both hands. “It was you, Chester. You slaughtered an entire town by virtue of your raw hunger, unbridled with your selfish purpose. Me, I was trying to help, and help I did.”—bright beaded eyes raised towards the heavens—”I delivered them from their earthly prison, their pain and suffering, into the bosom of the Lord! I’m not a monster like you. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

“More brandy! It’s a time of celebration!” cried the padre. “So Chester, my green drippy friend, thank you! From now on, I drink for recreation only, not guilt!”

The bartender chuckled at that. “It’s business either way.”

The padre glared at him, as if saying see if ya get a tip, and took the proffered brandy. Chester was looking at the priest with horror. His guilt had doubled, trebled. What remained of his heart palpitated with regret.“Are you sure you’re a priest?”

“Who, me? No!” Guffaws. “T-that’s rich. You thought I was a p-priest?” Wiping laugh tears from the corners of his eyes, the man who looked like a priest told Chester an undependable tale of a whore with a heart of gold, a priest with a fish in his knickers, and himself, a man in the right place at the right time, who had the most to gain from it all. “Look!” he said, lifting a fish from his cassock. “Ain’t that a beaut?”

Shuddering, Chester left the pub and wandered until he fell into a farmer’s pen. Something pushed roughly at him amid curious snorts. After a while, he awoke engorged and covered in blood, sprawled smack dab in bull’s eye circle of stiff hogs with hollowed out brains.

He ran screaming into the morning as the cock crowed.

I miss Nanowrimo. I want it to come back to me.

I’d be happy just to be past all the slower parts in the story. And the part I’m at isn’t even that slow! It’s just a sort of transitioning scene where the characters settle into their new location, and a new setting and a few more minor characters are introduced. The worst part is I’m getting all these ideas for a new story… and a few of its sequels… No! Why me!

I will be writing this new one eventually, because I like it, but not until I finish the present one. I’ve been there before, and I do not intend to go back. (Starting a new novel while another is unfinished. It don’t work.) And besides, there is no way, no chance, that I am not finishing ‘The Defender’. I’m sticking with it to the end, even if it hates me! That might be a bit extreme, but I don’t think the characters will be happy with the ending I’ve picked out for them…

Perhaps, since I am posting about writer’s block, I should add a tip on how to get rid of it:

Wash dishes! It’s not my kitchen week, which might have something to do with it, but it does help. I hate cleaning the kitchen, but when all you’re doing is standing at the sink and rinsing or washing dishes, your mind starts to wander. If you’re lucky, it wanders to plot and scene ideas. And if you’re really lucky, it will wander to the right story, i.e. the one you need ideas for, and not the one that is only getting in the way and will not be written until the current one is done, edited, rewritten, and edited again!

Ahem, but basically, anything that doesn’t involve a lot of your brain works.

And on top of not being able to come up with anything to write in my novel, I’ve had blogger’s-block too. But I suppose I don’t anymore. That’s good. And I can’t think of anything else to post.

That’s all for now I s’pose. God bless! Don’t get writer’s block…

~Birdwhisperer

Yeah, I give up on the whole posting every day thing. It just wasn’t to be. I’ll still try to post often though. I also give up on trying to think up good post titles. Well, maybe not…

But, on the up-side I wrote more than a thousand words today in my novel! Not as much as I had been during Nanorwimo, but I have not been writing much *coughanythingcough* for the past week. I’m very angry with myself for that, but I am forgiven now. It might have been because last week I had kitchen-duty, or because I was at a boring part right before the first big battle in the story. I’ve been writing that part today and it has been going fairly quickly.

I don’t think I posted about this, but I started reading ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Brontë. And have also finished it… It’s an amazing book about a horrible story of Cathy and Heathcliff’s romance (which sometimes looks more like hate than love) and what comes of it as Heathcliff seeks revenge on the residents of Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange. All of the characters are either abused, abusive, insane, evil, drunkards, selfish, manipulative,  sickly, or dead. The only normal person is the housekeeper, Nelly Dean. It’s a classic, so what else is there to say?

I know! “‘Classic’ – a book which people praise and don’t read.”~ Mark Twain. Wuthering Heights is a classic and I am praising it, but you still need to read it. It’s a very good book.

And just ’cause I can, here’s a video of a song about ‘Wuthering Heights’ called ‘Wuthering Heights’. It was written and sung by Kate Bush – a very strange woman I have never heard of before and have never listened to any of her songs besides this one, and probably wouldn’t recommend them either. But, either way, it’s an… interesting song, and Kate Bush portrays Cathy very well: by acting crazy. You really do need to be familiar with the characters and story to truly appreciate this song. And here it is:

First of all, what’s a forum?

A forum is a place where you can link on-line and join a group of others who are in a discussion about a certain topic. Like a group who is writing horror fiction and want to talk about their characters with other horror fiction writers. We can set up different writing topics for different discussions. Those who were in YWP NaNo know what a forum is!

A: No, we don’t have a forum, yet! Do we need one? Do you guys want one? Let’s take a vote! Vote “yes” I want a forum so I can talk back and forth with other young writers on-line. Or “no”, not really interested in that.

Post your vote in the comments here. Come back on January 16 for the results!

Chapter 11

“Look, I don’t think anything was taken, just some damage done, so can I go now?”  I pleaded with Deputy Smithson.  He was a young guy for a deputy, at least I thought so.  He had dark brown eyes and hair and looked like he spent too much time in the sun for a cop.  That’s the impression I would have got if hadn’t known him as “Little Jason”, the youngest Smithson with five older sisters.  It was just weird to see him in this authoritative position. “I have to look for my dogs.”

“Just a couple more things.  You said you were on your way here with one Tom Booker, on your way to look at some property…”

“Oh, my gosh! We’ve already been over this-”

“Yes, but why were you stopping by your house?”

He must have noticed my blush the first time I explained it.  I was thinking about the second reason Tom and I had for coming here.  The first being that I needed my snow boots for slogging around Tom’s newly purchased property, the second reason being… well, a good reason for blushing, anyway.

“I was wearing the wrong shoes for showing the outside property in the snow.”  I lifted my foot to show him my backless kitten heels.  He looked down at them with raised eyebrows as if to question their practicality, but then again, he did have five sisters.

“Right,” he said.  “Okay, I think I’m done here.  If you notice anything missing or out of place just give me a call.”

“I will.  Thanks, Jason.”

I noticed Tom standing over by Jack’s truck.  Talking to him through the driver’s window.  I jogged over to him and said, “I going in to grab the leashes and my other shoes.”

“Are you sure they won’t just come back?” Jack asked. “I mean, you walk them the same route everyday, right?”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to try first, but Dingy always wants to run away.  Thanks for coming by, Jack.  Really everything’s ok.  It’s probably someone just looking for cash or something.  Don’t worry.”

I turned and ran back to the house.  I made note that Ernesto and Sylvie were still in there and I sat down to change into my boots.  While I was tying the laces Sylvie rubbed up against my back and made a little sound between a purr and a meow.  She was such a social little being.  She probably did the same thing to the person who broke in.  Traitor.  I felt that little sting of panic in my chest that I had been holding back for the last couple of hours.  I pushed it back down.  I had to keep it together long enough to find my dogs, then I could curl up in a ball and cry it out.

I wondered what they were looking for.  My desk had been ransacked and the wastebasket beneath had been dumped and little ripped papers and notes were everywhere.  My computer was still in place along with all it’s equipment.  The dresser and nightstand in my bedroom had been rummaged through, also.  But no prints had been left behind.  The only evidence at all was the mess and the shredded door jam.  I don’t keep anything in my trash that has any kind of personal information that someone could use for identity theft.  I shred everything at the office.

The office!

“Wait!” I shouted out the front door hoping to catch Jason before he left.

Now he was standing by Tom talking to Jack through the truck window.  He turned at the yell and started walking up to me.  I met him in the street halfway.

“Did you notice something else?” he asked.

“No, but I had a bunch of personal information and bank records that I took to work today to shred, but I left them in my desk.  Do you think someone is trying to steel my identity?  Can you check out the realty office?”

“Are you sure you locked it up?”

I nodded and said, “Positive.”

“I’ll check it out, but my bet is that it’s fine.  We would have had a call already, being that’s it’s right in the center of town.”

“Ok, thanks a lot.  Well, I’m off to find my dogs,” and started jogging to the park.  I pulled out my cell phone to call Parker at the same time.  I used to run to the vets office to visit Parker on occasion.  There was no answer.  I will just have to run there after the park.  That would be a total of four miles.  I could do it, but I am going to be sore.  I got a little ways down the road when I heard Jack’s truck pull up beside me.

“You wanna ride?” Jack asked through the passenger window.

“Can’t,” I replied, losing my breath.  I’ve never been good at running and talking at the same time.  “If I… don’t follow… the same path… then I… might… miss ‘em,”  I panted.

“Honey, you’re gonna kill yourself.  They’re just dogs.”

I stopped in my tracks to look at him wordlessly.  Tom sat in the passenger seat, silent.  At least he knew when to keep his mouth shut about my dogs.  And I’ve only known him for a few days.

He continued, “Well, what I mean is that they’ll come back right?  And if they don’t, well, everybody in town has seen you with them.  If someone finds them they’ll bring them to you.  Don’t ya think?  It’s pretty cold out for running…”

“Shut up, Jack,” I said and started running again.  My anger was feeding me raw energy now.  Jack was right about one thing.  It was pretty cold out.  Nomad is getting pretty old and Dingy has only three legs and one eye for goodness sake.  How would they fair over night with only each other for warmth instead of my soft warm bed.  They would think I abandoned them.  What if Dingy completely loses his way and runs clear back to New Orleans?  We’ve all seen the movie ,”Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey” right?  Nomad is totally Shadow, that old Golden Retriever, and Dingy could so have the voice of Michael J. Fox.  If only they had Ernesto or Sylvie with them…

Jack pulled ahead of me and stopped.  Tom got out and closed the door, Jack pulled away.  Tom waited for me to catch up with him.  I didn’t stop.  If I stopped again there would be no way for me to get my momentum back up.  To my surprise Tom easily fell into step beside me. 

“What are… you doin’?” I asked.

“I thought you could use another set of eyes,” he said easily. 

Show off, I thought.  But he was being really sweet so I said, “Thanks.”

When we got to the park we ran along the usual path, the twists and turns following the small creek that cut through town.  It was blacktopped so the city would plow it with a riding mower when the rest of the town was already dug out.  We were silent except for our breathing; mine was a little faster than his.  Then again, I probably ran about a half mile more than he did.  Not one to be out done by anyone, I probably ran a little faster than usual.  I was really going to be sore tomorrow.  He had a long stride and seemed to move like fluid, his muscular arms pumping easily with his stride.  I felt awkward and lanky next to him.  I was so engrossed by his physique that I almost missed the turn to get to our little tree.

“Here,” I said, and pointed to our left.  Along the split a little ways I saw Nomad sitting in his usual spot by our old tree.  He got up and loped over to us with his big dumb lab face and tongue rolled out to the side as if to say, It’s about time you got here!

I couldn’t help but mother him all over.  “Hi, baby! Oh, my goodness, what a good boy!  Look at you, my big man!” I grabbed his ears and big head and rubbed him down making sure he wasn’t hurt by whoever broke in to my house.  Knowing Nomad, he probably didn’t give a damn so the robber let him go.

I looked around waiting to see if Dingy was around, but there was no barking or little toenails clicking on the pavement from his insistent hopping.  He would have come running if he had been in the vicinity of the sound of my voice.  I sat down as I snapped the leash to Nomad’s collar.  I was hot and sweaty and needed to catch my breath.  Nomad sat next to me, laying his head on my feet.

I looked up at Tom; he wasn’t out of breath at all, just looking at the old tree, all cool and calm, probably wondering why anyone would pour cement over the roots.

“You know, you didn’t have to come,” I started, “but thanks anyway.” A lump started to form in my throat.  I wondered if my chin was quivering; I could never feel it, but people always told me it did.  He must have noticed the change in my voice because he turned around and looked at me.

He gave me a worried look, but he said, “I just wanted to be sure you found your dogs.” 

“Thanks,” I croaked out.  Nomad started licking my hand as if to say, Come on, let’s find Dingy.  I was starting to get cold and achy now that the sweat had left my clothes a little wet around the neck.  This still was not the time to cry so I swallowed the lump and said, “Well, I was going to run to the vets office if I didn’t find them here.  It’s about a mile from here.  Are you up for it?”

He didn’t even hesitate.  “Of course,” he said and reached down to help me up.

We started back to the main path and turned left toward the vets office.  We had to run at a more steady pace now that Nomad was with us.  It was a little easier to talk now that we weren’t pushing so hard.  I asked him about running and he said he had to learn when he was training to become a fireman.  He tried to run in at least two charity runs in Columbus every year.  I told him I sort of did the same, only I just run in the Race for the Cure in Columbus.  In our town a lot of people run in the fundraiser for the cross country team every Fall and the Fourth of July Race the Lutheran church sponsors.  I told him I used to run in high school, but now I just do it to burn energy and stay healthy.  He talked about playing football in high school and the going to college to study construction management and then work for his father.  He got most of the way through his degree when he decided he didn’t want to do that any more.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, you know.  Things change.  People change.  I didn’t want to be put into something just because someone wanted me to.”  I could tell he was hiding something, and I knew what that something was. 

We were on the sidewalk along the narrow street that led to the vets office just on the edge of town.

“Is that why you moved away, too?”

“Part of it.  I just needed to get away from…. things.”

“Oh,” I said.  I guess he wasn’t ready to tell me.  Well, I would just wait for him to open up.  That’s when I saw footprints in the snow beside the sidewalk.  They hadto be Dingy’s! “Look!”

I stopped and pointed at the prints.  Nomad sniffed and got an excited wag to his tail.  “It has to be Dingy.  We’re almost there. It’s that white building on the right.”

We picked up our speed, almost a sprint now.  By the time we got to the front door I heard Dingy’s frantic barks.  I burst in and saw Parker holding a very wiggly, very ugly, Jack Russell terrier.  It was Dingy.  I burst into tears.

…another opens (two in my case!)

copyright image at: staytondailyphoto.com/?p=271

New Year’s Day: I open my email to find a polite but disappointing message from the library program coordinator stating that although my monthly young writers’ workshop has been successful, it no longer fits in their long term programming goals. *sigh*

Jan2: I open another email message;  from Verna Dreisbach, author and owner of Dreisbach Literary Management, saying she’d like to speak to me regarding a nonprofit young writers group she just founded in CA.

Jan 3: I speak to Verna on the phone (we have an instant connection in our passion for teaching young writers and silly sense of humor about raising boys) and after describing her short and long term goals for Capitol City Young Writers, Verna asks me to be  a board member!  Not only will I be helping young writers across the US get their start, I will be in contact with many people and organizations in the writing and publishing world!  I will keep you appraised as the events unfold…

Jan 5:  I receive another email : )  This one from another mom and volunteer program coordinator who has worked with me in the past. She arranges events and speakers for HelpingGirlsNavigateAdolescence, Inc., and invited me to be the Key Note speaker on journaling for their March meeting!

So, I ask you: when one door closes, do you stand looking at that closed door, or find another to open?

Happy Year of Zen!