Hey there…well, no #fridayflash today, but if you missed last week’s, you can check it out here. Can’t wait to see what everybody else is up to this Friday.
Long weekend coming up, lots on the horizon for fall. I always seem to get a burst of creativity when the seasons change. What about you? Do you notice any outside influences that add or take away from your creativity?
Anyway, something cool from GalleyCat. (Where else?) They’ve compiled a list of the best authors on Facebook and they’re asking for more suggestions. Check it out here. Got any suggestions?
Any cool plans for the weekend? Whatever you end up doing, I hope you have a great time.
The first bullet ripped through his gut. The second and third through his chest. Everything halted to slow motion as he collapsed to the beige linolium floor. The kid who shot him, stunned by his own actions, left the money on the counter and fled. The old lady who owned the store dialed 911.
At first, the pain he felt wasn’t from the gunshots, but from the thought that he’d failed. He never found her this time. This dance they did, lifetime after lifetime…finding each other, only to realize again that their blessing was also a curse.
His pulse sounded in his ears, as blood flowed from him.
The old woman, still clutching the phone to her ear stood over him. Her free hand pressed a hand towel to his chest. “Don’t worry, hon. They’re on the way. You’re going to be fine.” Into the phone she said, “How much longer?”
There was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. The one in the stomach might not have been enough to claim him, but the two in the chest… Breathing was like swimming through syrup. He tried to say something to the lady, to thank her, but nothing came out except a wet, choked gurgle. The lady cringed and went to the front window to watch for the ambulance.
He gazed at the flourescent lights on the ceiling. Hours, days, lifetimes blended together in a miasma of love and sorrow.
From his cloud of memory, he pulled their meeting on boat bound for the Americas. They were children, seven and eight years old, one Irish and one Italian. They couldn’t speak each other’s languages, but there was still a connection. Once the landed in the New World, that connection was broken.
In another life, she was a starlet that he’d loved from afar for years. He sent her letters and tried to get near her at public events. He knew if she could just see him, that she’d know that he was the one and they could finally be together. But after several years of letters and eventually phone calls, he was arrested for stalking and put in jail. She’d never shown up to any of the court dates, never had seen his face, had never guessed that it was him.
Two centuries ago, she, the blushing bride on her wedding day, he, the innkeeper’s son, shared a passionate kiss in the kitchen. The angry and jealous groom witnessed this, but didn’t tip his hand until later, when he strangled his new bride.
Another life as a circus ringleader, and she as a trapeze artist. Yet another with him as an important businessman, and she, a woman of ill-repute. Always, some circumstance brought them together and simultaneously tore them apart. After each lifetime, their memories of each other swirled in their minds, like remembered dreams. Their awareness that there was a missing piece of themselves out there, searching, germinated and grew stronger as time marched on, but it didn’t make finding each other any faster or easier.
And now, Daniel, a teacher, bleeding to death while waiting for an ambulance, because some kid decided to knock over a convenience store. And she? He didn’t know.
“They’re here!” The lady cried as three EMTs in navy blue jumpsuits wheeled in a gurney. There was such hope in the woman’s voice, but the world was already fading to gray, sounds blurred into one long drone, everything smudged together like chalk drawings in the rain.
Daniel closed his eyes. He felt the cold metal of the scissors as one of the EMTs cut his shirt away. He heard the snap of a rubber gloves and the rip of paper packets that held various bandages. Then he heard a voice, “Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me.”
He opened one eye, then the other.
“Good,” she said. We’re going to get you to the hospital, ok?”
He noticed she didn’t say he was going to be fine. Just that he would get to the hospital.
“My name’s Emily. What’s your name?”
He opened his mouth, but just like before, nothing came out but a spurt of blood.
“That’s all right, sir. Just take it easy. We’re going to lift you onto the gurney, ok?”
He nodded.
Emily squatted near his head and slipped her hands under his shoulders. “Ready? One, two, three.”
Their eyes locked. Daniel’s heart accelerated, his breath quickened.
She looked down at him, her eyes reflecting the feeling he had inside of him. The best and worst moment of his life, wrapped into one.
“Let’s go!” she shouted.
They hustled Daniel into the ambulance. The two other EMTs climbed into the cab, leaving Emily to care for the patient in the back.
“You’re going to be fine,” she said as she slid a needle into his arm, and pressed down on his wounds to stop the bleeding. He tried to say something to her, but she slid an oxygen mask over his face. “Just rest. You’ll be fine. You have to be.”
Daniel scanned the monitor he was plugged into. He didn’t know much about medicine, but he knew enough to understand that the jagged, irregular green line wasn’t good. He wanted to live, but that wouldn’t be enough. The world around him started to fade away.
He heard a long unending beep and Emily’s panicked voice in his ear. “Stay with me! Dammit, you can’t die!”
Daniel tried to move his hands to her face, but he couldn’t. Then, he was looking down at them. Emily’s blond ponytail coming undone, her tears streaking her face as she compressed his chest and breathed into his mouth. A kiss he would never taste.
As the ambulance arrived at the hospital, Emily closed Daniel’s eyes and whispered, “Next time, my love. Next time.”
Well, we made it. In a manner of speaking. I mentioned in an earlier post that we were moving to Florida. This, so far, has been met with a few different reactions, but pretty much falling into one of three categories.
1. Oh, Florida is great! You’ll get to go to the beach all the time. There’s so much to do, you’ll love it!!
2. Ugh, Florida? It’s so damn hot and muggy there, you’ll hate it. Not to mention the bugs and gators and hurricanes and crazy people and bad drivers and hurricanes and tourists and voting scandals and sharks and oh did I mention hurricanes? The place has it’s own tag on Fark.com, you know. Why would you move there?
3. (Mostly from family and close friends) You’re moving to Florida?! F*#$ YOU!! You’re leaving?! You suck. Don’t worry, you’ll be back. Oh, you’ll be back!! (Beneath the harsh words is a strong undercurrent of love. Seriously. I love them too, more than they probably know.)
You have to understand, I’ve lived in the Northern Virginia area my whole life. I have friends there I’ve known since elementary school and my entire family is in or around that area too. The roots are so deep there that it was difficult to pull up and move, but life throws you funny curve balls sometimes, and you have to take a swing and see what happens.
On a personal level, it’s been an overwhelming experience. Everything from leaving my family and friends to shedding a lot of personal possessions (that now, I wonder why I carried around in the first place), to cramming 2 cats, 2 hermit crabs, one turtle, one snake and one very brave and mercifully patient 6-year-old into my tiny car and driving for 11 hours straight from Woodbridge to Winter Park. My husband had left a couple of days earlier with the moving truck. He had his own adventure.
On a writing level, it was a whirlwind rich with emotions, sights, sounds and awesome people watching (especially at our almost mid-way point, South of the Border).
And besides my one cat pooping and then two hours later, peeing in his carrier, it was a fairly undramatic drive to Florida.
So here we are, much of our stuff unpacked, almost just as much still in boxes, but things are starting to normalize. We’re starting to get back into the rhythm of our lives, but with palm trees instead of oak trees. I’m starting back to work on my writing and of course the blog. More to come including book reviews, interviews with more authors and more.
I had several flashes of my daughter’s future this morning as she walked down the stairs. She was going to the mall with her friends, then going to prom, then graduating and following her dreams. But then she returned to the little smiley six year old that she is. Care-free and singing to herself a song she learned in school.
She slid on her Little Miss Sunshine backpack and I walked with her to the bus stop. Back in September it was raining, but she shone so vividly with her pink umbrella and dazzling smile. Kindergarten. A new adventure. So much potential, so much anticipation.
Today is the last day. It’s bright and sunny out. There’s no umbrella but the smile is still there. When she started the journey, she could read a few words, but now, she reads full chapters.
She started the year with all of her baby teeth, and now she has lost six of them in total. The four bottom ones are growing in, the top two still missing.
She’s made friends, found new interests and started to truly become her own person, separate from her father and me. It’s sad and beautiful all at the same time, but mostly beautiful. I love when she uses a new word or shares with me a new bit of knowledge she’s gained.
The bus pulls up. In September I worried so much. Would the other kids pick on her? Would she pay attention in class? Would the teachers like her? Would she like them? I cried on the walk back from the bus stop, the rain masking my tears.
Today, the same flutter rumbles in my belly as the yellow and red lights blink on the bus. I wave at the bus driver when she opens the door and she waves back. We’ve done this all school year. Sort of an unspoken agreement that she’ll get her safely to and from school and she has.
The bus pulls away and the tears well again. Not for any fear or concern, but that universal sense of pride that all parents feel when their child completes their first year of school.
The man was back. He comes here to my home often. Always with human things. We do not have such things. Things called, “cameras” and “microphones.”
This man, he is called, “Mitch.” He has been coming here for a moon’s time. At first he was quiet. Then he started talking. I think he talks to me, but I have seen other humans talk to trees or birds or other things here in the woods. He says things like, “I know you’re out there.” And, “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”
My kind does not trust humans. We have seen them kill animals with their shooting sticks. There are not many of us left. There were not many of us to begin with.
I do not think Mitch wants to hurt us, but our hearts tell us to be wary. When Mitch talks, he talks of his “wife.” He talks about his “children.” I have never seen them here. I do not know all of his words, but I think his family does not like him coming here with his “camera.” He talks about people “laughing” and “ridicule.” I do not understand these things, but I know they are not good.
Many times, his eyes leak water and he makes sad sounds. Something inside of me hurts when he does this. My eyes do not leak water like his, but when my sire died, I made sad sounds like Mitch makes.
My kind has feelings like that. Sad, happy, fear. We are like humans or they are like us, but we cannot exist together. For many years, there were not so many humans and we lived without fear of them. Ancient humans, who looked different from Mitch, and talked different from him too, knew of us, but did not seek to harm us. But more humans came, and they changed and they wanted more land to live on, so we went deeper into the forest.
Some humans come here and live in things called, “tents.” Sometimes they leave things behind. Sometimes not good things like old food holders and drink vessels. One time they left a box that makes human voices and something called, “music.” I like this human thing very much. I turn the round thing on it and different sounds come out. The sounds are like nothing here in the woods. I felt sadness when the thing stopped making the sounds. Maybe one day Mitch will bring one of those things.
But not today. Today Mitch sits on the old tree stump. His “camera” is on the thing with three legs. He looks old and tired. Mitch has never brought a shooting stick. Only his “camera” and “microphone.” I do not fear Mitch. I believe that Mitch is different from other humans. I have communicated with others of my kind who see others like Mitch, looking for us. Some of them bring shooting sticks, talk about “trophies” and “money.”
Mitch never talks of these things. Mitch is talking now, like he often talks. He says, “I just need to know you’re real. I don’t want to kill you, I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve given my whole life looking for you and never made a goddamn dime. If I was in it for the money, I would have quit by now. My wife has left me, my kids think I’m crazy…I have nothing left.”
Mitch’s eyes start leaking and he makes the sad sounds again.
“Sounds like a bad country song, doesn’t it? My wife and kids left me, and I’m going to die looking for Sasquatch.”
This is what Mitch calls us. Sasquatch. One time he brought another man who said, “Bigfoot,” and laughed and that man never came back with Mitch.
“I’ve believed in you my whole damn life. Ever since I was a kid. I went camping with my family and I saw you. I got lost in the woods and hurt my leg real bad, broke it. And you helped me. You took me back to my family but snuck away when they weren’t looking. They never believed me, but I knew you were out there. You saved my life.”
He speaks of my mother. She was a gentle one. Always fascinated by humans. I was still growing inside her at this time, but she told me the story when I was young. I think she wanted to communicate with humans, but was afraid, like we all are, of what would happen.
But I believe Mitch when he says he won’t hurt us. And I smell something different about Mitch. Something sick. My sire smelled similar before he died. I know he might not have long to live and it makes me hurt on the inside when he makes the sad sounds. I don’t want him to make the sad sounds anymore.
I step out from my hiding place and he sees me. His eyes leak more than ever now. I step closer and he makes more sad sounds that turn into happy sounds. I don’t understand this, but I know he means me no harm. He doesn’t go to his “camera” or to his “microphone.” He walks over to me and smiles. His smile makes me happy on the inside and I know I have done the right thing.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Author’s note: This story is dedicated to Billy Willard, who inspired this week’s #fridayflash.
I was thinking the other day about what helps me most as a writer. What have I done that has helped me improve my writing. I broke it down into, reading, writing and feedback.
…Reading not only books about writing, but just books in general. Seeing how other writers put sentences together, weave stories, etc.
…Writing of course…as the saying goes, “Practice makes perfect.”
…Feedback. I feel like I made and continue to make big strides after I joined a writer’s group and got feedback. Not the ‘Oh you’re awesome’ variety, (because let me tell you, it’s rare!!) but the constructive variety. Here’s what’s wrong with it, and here’s how you can make it better. I don’t know how writers DON’T go to writer’s groups, honestly.
There are other things that help, workshops, etc. but those are my big three.
As a writer, or any artist really, you get a lot of opinions thrown at you. Art is subjective. Your work will hit everybody a little differently. Your close friends and family will most likely err on the side of being positive about your work, which for a baby artist, can be nice. After all, nobody wants to get shot down before they even start.
But there comes a time, when you have to leave that safety zone and open up your work to the opinions of *gulp* strangers. Not unlike your child’s first day of school or later teaching them how to drive, this can be one of the most exciting and terrifying experiences you will ever have.
I remember the first time I went to my local writer’s group, we read our pieces aloud for each other and then were given a critique. My physical reaction to reading my work to a bunch of strangers for the first time was rather like going in for a job interview that I wasn’t sure I was qualified for. Sweaty palms, guts in knots, that sick burning in your stomach like you’re going to barf. (And this was supposed to be my idea of fun?!) The cup of coffee I slugged down while waiting for my turn didn’t help. But at the end, I managed not to run to the bathroom and barf, and lo and behold, the comments were mostly positive. The criticisms were constructive and helpful. That was over 4 years ago and I STILL consult these people when I write. I know they will be honest yet gentle with their criticisms.
Because criticism is how we grow and learn as writers. But we can’t get the criticism if we don’t put it out there. A friend who recently discovered that I wrote read some of my stuff and then asked why I kind of kept it a secret. Saying, “fear of rejection” wasn’t a good answer, so I just shrugged. He replied, “This isn’t something you should hide.” How true. Because I promise you, there is always going to be somebody out there that doesn’t like your work, and doesn’t have a nice thing to say about it. So it’s true, if you never put it out there, you’ll never get that rejection. You’ll also never get the compliments or criticisms that will help you grow and become better at your craft. So which is worse?
As writer’s we write what we are presented with. An idea or characters start to form, and we write it. When that inspiration hits, it’s the best feeling in the world. Birds sing when you walk by, the sun shines a little brighter. For me, seriously, it’s like falling in love.
Then we edit. Some people love it, some people hate it. For me, this is the time in the relationship where the honeymoon is over, and now we’re starting to fight and argue. We fight, we make up…sometimes. But now the scars are there. It’s make it or break it time. If we can make it through the editing process, we can make it through anything, and hopefully we’ll be better and stronger on the other side.
Then, we send it out, get an agent and a huge advance and a multi book publishing deal. We start hanging out with big time authors and having millions of people worship us. For me…ok, I don’t know what that’s like yet, but I’ll bet it’s awesome.
Basically, we write because we love it and we can’t NOT do it. If we’re honest with ourselves, we write for ourselves, NOT for other people. We hope beyond hope that other people, (besides our writing group buddies) like reading our work too, because if we are to make a LIVING off of our writing, it’s essential that other people like it. But, what do readers really want?
As a reader, my must haves are plot and character. Style is important, but secondary. I love a good turn of phrase, but if there’s no plot and character, so what?
My neck of the woods is about to get hit by possibly the worst snow storm since the 70′s. Fun! Not.
So right now I’m in scramble mode, with the rest of my friends and neighbors, all zillion of them, to try and get ready for the storm that in some areas, is already here.
I’m thinking this might be a fun way to throw out a writing prompt and see what I get back.
Gentlemen, start your pens/pencils/computers… (vroom, vroom)
