Thinking about character development, I am reminded of a short story I wrote several years ago entitled "Broken Rules." The main character of the story, a little girl named Courtney, remains one of my favorite characters from one of my short stories. The story placed 54th in the Genre category of the 74th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition (2005). As there were over 18,000 entries for all catagories, I figured the story had some merit. Some time later, I attempted to improve the story by adding scenes. Those scenes are indicated below by a symbol (***) before and after the inserted scene.
Broken Rules
Chester Lewis adjusted his bow tie and peered through his wire-rimmed glasses at the dead cat in the litle girl's arms as if her request had been perfectly natural. He took the penlight from his pocket, bounced the beam off the lifeless eyes, and then listened to the silent chest before sitting back to make his pronouncement. "I'm sorry, Courtney, but Hippocrates is dead."
"And you can't fix him, Doctor Lewis?" Courtney asked, wide-eyed, her voice rising to an incredibly high pitch.
Chester sighed. "I'm sorry, child, but there are some rules that can't be broken." He got up and shuffled to his closet. He pulled a small wooden box from the shelf, dumped the contents onto his desk, and handed it to her. "Put Hippocrates in this, seal it up tight, and take it to Mr. Porter at the mortuary. He'll be happy to help you. Mind you, though, he's sure to be quite busy. There's going to be a funeral this afternoon."
Courtney nodded solemnly. "Joshua. Mama says he did himself in."
Chester frowned. How could a child of six be so informed all the time about matters that were kept from most adults? He'd have to talk with Mrs. Burgess about the things she said to her daughter. "You just concern yourself with your cat, young lady. Now run along."
He pushed her gently out the door and watched her skip down the narrow lane, the wooden box tucked under her arm, until she turned the corner out of sight.
Chester rubbed the back of his neck. He was too old and too tired to continue with his duties, but he couldn't find a replacement. He didn't blame all the new young physicians. Who wants to be the solitary doctor in an isolated town? So many long hours, so much work, so much responisbility. And then there was that one side-effect that he'd put such a wonderful spin on. "You get to know everyone in town. You truly know your patients. It makes practicing medicine personal." Of course, he didn't tell any of the candidates that the majority of people in this town were, in his medical opinion, insane.
Chester thought about Joshua Blake and sighed again. He remembered the day that boy was born. Thirteen hours of hard work for seven pounds of blue-faced, tight-fisted, angry screams. Still, he'd been adorable once he'd settled down and Muriel held him to her breast.
Chester smiled at the memory. He remembered the birth of nearly every denizen of this community. He'd mended nearly every broken arm, injected virtually every shot, and attended practically every family event. He was the town doctor, after all.
Cester stepped over to the door and turned the sign so that it would read "closed." He needed some time to prepare himself. Like anyone else, he preferred well visits to flu epidemics, cast removals to broken arms, laughter to tears, and births to funerals. But he had a responsibility to his patients that was more than any city doctor could ever comprehend.
Chester puled Joshua Blake's file from the cabinet and asked aloud, "What went wrong, Joshua?"
***Courtney had many things to do today, but at the top on her list was a visit to Milepost 66. She'd been there once before, with Joshua.
"See how the dirt road ends?" Joshua had asked.
Courtney had stared at the road, frowning at the strange black dirt that was as hard as rock and covered the entire width of the road. She gazed down it as far as possible. "What is that rock? Or is it special dirt?"
"It's called macadam. Listen, Courtney. There are sixty-six miles between here and the next town. Same's true to the east, north, and south. Main Street ends on all sides of town and becomes these strange roads."
Courtney bent over to touch the odd, flat black surface.
Joshua jerked her back, his long fingers digging painfully into her shoulder. "Don't, Courtney." He let go, glancing quickly behind them toward town. He grunted and then turned to gaze down the long black stretch. He sighed. "Sixty-six miles is just too far."
"I'm a good walker, Joshua. I walk everywhere, all over town. You know I can walk lots."
Joshua shook his head. "I've already tried, Courtney. They find you. They catch you. You can't run away."
Courtney pulled down her eyebrows as she stared at him. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to wait for them, but you--"
"Joshua! You can't just--"
"YOU are going to do everything you can to follow their dumb rules. Promise me Courtney."
Wiping her cheek where she remembered Joshua's spittle had landed that day, she kicked at the macadam. She had promised. She would follow their dumb rules. But there was no rule about coming out as far as the milepost. She'd checked.
Courtney walked over to the tall, wooden stake. Long ago, someone had painted the wood white and the letters black. The white had faded into gray and the black into gunmetal, slowly bleeding into the wood. Courtney shivered.
Rubbing her arms, she stepped toward the peculiar strips of yellow that divided the flat, black road. She pushed the rubber toes of her shoes againt them, the rest of her feet planted firmly on the dirt road. Slowly, she lifted her left foot placing it on the black surface. Quickly, she snapped it back and looked behind her toward town.
Courtney shaded her eyes, peering down the black road to where it dissapated into the mist that forever draped the mountains. Sighing, she crossed the road back to the post, picked up her wooden box, and then traced the black letters grooved into the wood. "I promise, Joshua." ***
Courtney dropped her box on the counter in front of Mrs. Randolph. It made a satisfying thud, and a little smile played about her lips.
"What's this, a secret treasure?" Alma Randolph inquired, a smile fiddled at her own mouth.
Courtney shrugged. "Sort of. Got any books on prayers for the dead?"
Alma lifted her eyebrows. "There's a nice book of children's prayers on that shelf right over there, honey."
Courtney glanced sideways in the direction Mrs. Randolph indicated. "They'll be corny like graces, or all sappy. I need something to say over the dead body of someone who's been bad."
Alma stared blankly at the little girl. She was probably the most precocious child that had ever come into the town library. Of course, Joshua Blake had been quite the character at that age, too.
Alma sighed. She had seen so many children come and go in and out of that library over the years, but Joshua had always stood out. Long ago, when he was not quite the size of this angel-faced pixie before her, Alma had called him Sad-Sack. His mother, Muriel, that poor woman, had faithfully dragged him in every morning for the toddler reading hour. There he would sit in the little green chair upon his hands as if he couldn't trust them to stay out of mischief. Sure enough, as soon as the story had been read and the cookies and punch presented, those tiny fingers would find their way into verboten nooks and forbidden crannies. There was always a cry, a crash, and a slap. And then, there were those sad round eyes staring up at her accusingly.
Feeling a strange tightness in her throat, Alma said, "Surely, Courtney, none of your little dolls has misbehaved so badly."
Courtney tucked her chin down and glared up at Alma Randolph through lowered brows. Her little tongue quickly swept her lips. Her voice was slightly raised. "No. I'm too old for dolls. It's Hippocrates. He didn't follow the rules and now he's dead."
"Oh. I see." Alma glanced around at the books in the children's wing, searching for a book that might satisfy the child. Her gaze came to rest on the tabletop model of the pharmaceutical plant. Mr. Lord, the CEO, had delivered the model himself with great fanfare and publicity. Alma reflected on the actual building located at the other end of town, and the corporation it housed-- the one that employd nearly every adult in town, influenced every political decision, established every rule of law, affected every baby born, owned each soul.
Alma blinked, swallowed, and then shook her head. "Perhpas you should speak to the main librarian, Mrs. Lord."
Courtney leaned over to look down the hall that led to the main library. She pushed her lips together into a thin line, and then outward into a small, tight, pink rosebud. "She doesn't like me," she pronounced.
Pressing her own lips into a thin line, Alma tipped back her head.
With a dramatic sigh, Courtney removed her wooden box from the counter and tucked it neatly under her arm. She lifted her little chin and tramped smartly toward the main library, her tiny face pinched, eyes focused straight ahead.
Alma watched her go. Over the years, she had witnessed many children walk along that hallway. Some traipsed, some plodded, some strolled. Few marched.
Joshua Blake had learned to march. He'd been a prankster, a rascal, and a rogue. He'd also been a loner. The other children had teased him, mocked him, lied to him. He had learned to strike back, stand up, fabricate. He could look her straight in the eye and deny what he knew she had just seen him do, and he'd do it with a lifted chin, a defiant glare.
Shuddering, Alma rubbed her arms. She worked to keep the tears from her eyes. "Why, Joshua? Why did you do it?"
Cecilia Wolcott kept silent vigil at her window. She nibbled at her thumbnail and pulled at a strand of hair near her ear. She looked down at her dress, brushing away an imagined crumb. "I do hate wearing black," she said to her orange tabby cat.
The cat closed his eyes and turned his head away.
Returning her gaze to the nearly empty street, Cecilia sighed. She watched a little girl as she made her way down the street. The child balanced on the curb, a small wooden box and a rather large book clasped to her chest. Cecilia recognized her.
"It's that Burgess child," she informed the tabby. "Walks the streets like a little tramp. Where's her mother? Sleeping off last night's adventures, no doubt."
Courtney Burgess paused in front of Cecilia's house, her eyes narrowed, her right pointer finger resting on her bottom lip. She bent over to deposit her box and book onto the sidewalk.
Watching, Cecilia leaned forward, her thin, narrow nose nearly touching the glass of the window. Her eyes widened. "That little tramp just picked a flower from my garden, right through the picket fence! Why, I never!"
She bustled toward the door, but froze when her hand grabbed the doorknob. A memory flooded her mind. Joshua Blake had arrived for Sunday School one summer day with a fistful of daisies for the teacher. When Cecilia had joyfully accepted the gift, had praised the youth for his thoughtfulness and generosity, Joshua had collapsed onto the floor, holding his abdomen as he convulsed in peels of laughter. It wasn't until she had returned home that she found her own patch of long-stemmed daisies massacred.
Cecilia dropped her hand from he doorknob. Joshua may have been a scamp, but he had been something else, too. He had sat through her lessons on the heroes of the Bible as if he were a dog chained to he stake. He had rolled his eyes at her lectures about the Ten Commandments. But he had leaned in, his lips pressed, his eyes intense, when she spoke about God's forgiving love.
And then he had made those odd connections-- blasphemous really-- between God and the pharmaceutical company, and those funny-- although inapporpriate, of course-- comparisons between Noah and Mr. Lord, and between the Ten Commandments and the town rules. And he had asked questions-- unexpected ones-- that made her pause and wonder.
She shook her head. Of course, she had known better than that!
She looked down at her black dress, her funeral dress. Today was the day, she only awaited the hour. A small smile played at her lips as she whispered, "Did you forget the rules, Joshua?"
***Carefully, Courtney placed her wooden box and the heavy book on the stone steps of the church. Gently, she placed the lily on top. She frowned. Maybe there was a rule about placing objects on the steps of the church. Perhaps, even, there was a rule about lingering near the church.
"There are so many rules, Joshua," she whispered.
She wondered how she would ever manage to learn all of them.
Of course, all the adults did seem to know the rules. Courtney suspected, however, that the rules were somehow written in the air and that, magically, only the adults could see them there. Every adult's gaze seemed to rest upon something invisible before them as they recited the rules.
Once, Courtney had asked her Sunday School techer to explain a rule. The woman had smiled, her lips pulled thin, hr nostrils flared. "What's to understand, child? It is a rule. That's all you need to know."
Courtney picked up her burden and then gave the bottom step a firm, swift kick.***
"Courtney Burgess," Vincent Leonard stated flatly. He watched the little girl saunter down the middle of the street carrying a wooden box, a large book, and a single lily. He knew who she was. He made it his business to know all the young children in town, especially those who might need his special attention.
He stepped out onto his frnt porch as she passed by, and then stood there watching her as she made steady progress toward the end of the street. He had heard that this little girl had potential, but his decades as a high school principal had taught him that the home environment either enhanced or encumbered. Vincent puckered his lips and blew air out through them, inflating his cheeks. As principal, he got to know two types of students well: the high achievers and the bad attitudes. The high achievers eventually became the pride of the pharmaceutical company. The bad attitudes inevitable broke the town rules and became a project for the special committee. He expected Courtney Burgess would become his personal project soon enough, whatever her abilities.
He looked down at his suit. He was wearing his favorite suit, dark gray, with a white shirt and black tie. He could be going into school dressed like this. But today, his duties lay elsewhere. Today, he faced the final resolution to students like Joshua and maybe Courtney: students he would always fear he had failed to know, failed to reach.
Vince slammed his fist against the porch pillar. "Why didn't you take my advice, Joshua?" he cried.
Sheriff Greg Fletcher buffed his badge and straighted his holster. He strode across his office and leaned over the counter to look at the wooden box that Courtney had brought for his inspection. He smiled. He liked this part of his job. He liked dealing with the kids.
"What'cha got?" he asked.
Courtney drew a long, deep breath. "It's Hippocrates. He broke the rules, and now he's dead."
The sheriff nodded as he peered into the box at the stiff corpse of Courtney's pet. "I see. But tell me, Courtney. What happened?"
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you know. He wasn't supposed to go out at night or cross the street alone. And he was supposed to wear his collar. He took it off somehow. Mama says all those sinfractions add up."
"Sinfrac-- oh! Infractions." The sheriff sighed. "Yes, indeed they do."
"I brought him here for you to see, Sheriff Fletcher, that poor old Hippocrates paid the price of his misdeeds."
"Well, umm, thank you, Miss Burgess. But what are you going to do now?" He eyed the white lily and book in her hand.
"I'm on my way to see Mr. Porter at the mortuary."
Sheriff Fletcher glanced at his watch. "Well, you'd better hurry. There's a funeral scheduled for later today."
Courtney popped up, her small arm snaking over the edge of the counter. She grabbed the box, yanking it down to the floor. She reached back up again and snagged the lid. Without another word, she hopped out of the Sheriff's Office and scurried down the street.
Greg Fletcher laughed and shook his head. "That was one mighty, little dervish," he informed his deputy.
"Reminds me of that kid who played on you Little League team, the one with the red hair. Remember him?"
Fletcher nodded. He remembered all the kids he had coached through the years. Including Joshua Blake. Lord knows he had tried to reach that boy!
He sighed, grabbed his hat and dropped it onto his head.
"About that time, Sheriff?" the deputy asked.
Fletcher sighed aain. "You know, there are some parts of this job I just hate."
Humming, Barnaby Porter gently rubbed the coffin lid with a soft cloth. He smiled, strode away, and then pushed the cloth into a drawer of the desk at the far end of the room. He glance out the window. Today was a beautiful day for a funeral.
"Excuse me, Mr. Porter. Dr. Lewis said I should bring Hippocrates to you." A small child stood in the doorway.
Barnaby blinked. "Hippocrates?"
She nodded solemnly and held out a wooden box.
Barnaby approached, frowning. "Is Hippocrates in the box?"
She tipped her head slightly to one side. "Yes."
"Is he dead?"
She closed her eyes and nodded her head once. "Indeed."
Barnaby lifted his eyebrows. "I take it, he is not human?"
She snorted. "He's a cat."
Barnaby pressed his lips together. "I see." He swore softly under his breath.
The little girl lifted her face to him. "Excuse m?"
He waved it away with his hand. "I was just saying how thoughtful it was of the good doctor."
She narrowed her eyes at him.
He studied her for a moment. He vaguely remembered her name. Courtney something. Whose brat was she anyway? "What exactly do you require?" he ventured.
"A funeral, of course." She smiled.
"But . . . but he's a cat!"
She put the box down on the floor, picked up a book from near her feet, and extended it toward him. "I found a good prayer. It's for bad people. It asks for forgiveness."
Sighing, Barnaby reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bottle.
"Is that a sample bottle from the company?" she asked with a jerk of her chin toward the pill bottle.
He sniffed loudly. "If you must know, yes. It's for anxiety-- like I get from days like these."
"Why?"
"I don't have time for this. What, exactly, do you expect me to do for you?"
"Just read the prayer," she answered.
Barnaby rolled his eyes. He snatched the book from her hands. "Give me that."
Courtney knelt down beside the box, picked up the white lily from the floor, and held it between the palms of her hands. She looked like a cherub in prayer.
Barnaby opened the book and began reading the prayer where she had placed a tattered bookmark. When he was done, he informed the box and its contents that all was forgiven.
Courtney stood. "I guess that's it, then."
"Except for the burial."
"There's a grave already dug," she informed him. She picked up the box, placed the book on top, and handed the flower to Barnaby. "Give this flower to Joshua. He can hold it in his hands."
Barnaby accepted the flower. "I'll be sure to make everything lovely for Joshua."
She smiled into his face. "I know you will."
He watched her skip back out the door.
"Everything will be just fine, Joshua," he whispered.
Chester Lewis asked, "What went wrong, Joshua?"
Joshua's stone face didn't even twitch.
Alma Randolph stepped forward. "Why, Joshua? Why did you do it?"
Joshua rolled his eyes.
Cecilia Wolcott's voice dripped from her smile. "Did you forget the rules. Joshua?"
He turned toward her. "Your rules."
"Why didn't you take my advice?" Vincent Leonard demanded.
Joshua puffed out air. "Why? I'll tell you why! Because it wouldn't have made any differenc. We'd still be standing here today no matter what I did. I didn't fit your mold. I couldn't fall in line. I was never right for your perfect little town, and there was no pill to fix me. I broke your stupid rules and now you're going to kill me."
The Sheriff sighed, pulled out his gun, and shot Joshua Blake point blank. "You know, there are some parts of this job I just hate."
Barnaby Porter gently caressed Greg Fletcher's shoulder before bending over the body. "Everything will be just fine, Joshua."
Courtney Burgess listened for the loud pop, sighing deeply when she heard it. "You see, Hippocrates? You have to follow the rules. There are certain people in town whose job it is to see that you follow those rules."
She sat down on the grass and tied a thin rope around the box. "Some people just don't learn how to follow the rules."
She stood up and tossed the box into the deep hole. "Don't worry, Hippocrates. You'll have company real soon. Joshua won't mind."
Laughing a deep throaty laugh, Courtney skipped away, pausing only once to dance on someone's grave.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Exercise - character development 2 (The Cobbler)
Using the character, Gian Marchetti, I had better developed using Elizabeth George's Character Prompt Sheet from her book Write Away (see last post), I will write a scene now. I also want to add memorable minor characters as suggested by Janet Evanovich in her book How I Write (also noted in last blog).
Squatting, balancing on the balls of his feet, Gian Marchetti stared at the blood caked on the elderly woman's head. By the looks of the crime scene, either she had surprised a burgular, or the burgurlar had surprised her. Marchetti shook his head. Did it really matter how the encounter played out? The woman had bled to death, slowly, for hours.
Marchetti breathed in and out measuredly. He glanced at his partner, Amy Gilroy, who hovered behind his right shoulder. "Anything?"
"Neighbors didn't notice anything unusual." She took a step toward him. "Listen, I know this kind of case brings back--"
"Let's say he hears her coming down those steps." Marchetti nodded toward the stairwell behind Gilroy. "So, he grabs something to hit her with. What would he grab?"
Gilroy sighed. "Nothing here but knick-knacks."
"Okay. He either brought a weapon with him or--"
"Detective Marchetti?" Officer Chapel stepped through the front door.
"What is it, Simon?"
"The victim's son has arrived."
Marchetti stood up. "Good. Maybe we'll get some answers."
As Marchetti walked past Chapel, the young officer smiled. "Careful. Man brought his jockey with him."
Marchetti frowned as he walked toward the door. Gilroy snapped her notepad against Chapel's arm as they followed Marchetti outside.
Drake Hayes, dressed in a tan suit, white shirt buttoned against his neck, and tan tie pinned to his chest with a gold bar, repeatedly drew his hands down his long, narrow face, stopping only when Marchetti approached him. "My mother. When can I see her?"
"Is there somewhere we can talk, Mr. Hayes?"
Hayes' eyes darted around the vicinity, glaning at his mother's house, the neighbors gathered on their front lawns, the police cruisers lined up along the street.
"Go down to the park. There's benches there," said the petite woman beside him.
Marchetti looked at her, taking in her bright orange striped tee-shirt, neon green mini-skirt, and little black riding cap. "You are?"
She stuck out her hand. "Casandra Hayes, but you can call me Cassie." She winked at Marchetti.
"My. . . my wife," Hayes stuttered, pushing his hands deep into his pants pockets.
Marchetti looked down the street. "The park sounds good."
"Go on, take the lead," Cassie pushed her husband, and then, as he turned to walk toward the park, she slipped her right hand down his back, grasping his belt, and turned to wave the others on with her left hand.
Gilroy looked at Marchetti with raised eyebrows, but he just followed the couple down the street.
After Cassie had positioned her husband onto a bench, she turned to Marchetti. "I'm surprised anyone could get into that house. Sadie kept that place wrapped up tighter than a pig in a blanket." She nudged Drake. "Go on, tell them."
Drake looked at Marchetti, but then his gaze wandered.
"Your mother keep anything valuable in the house, Mr. Hayes?" the detective asked.
"Phew!" Cassie crossed her arms. "She dropped all her dimes on the slow boat to chinaware. Tell him, Drake."
"Why don't you go over to that bench with Detective Gilroy, Mrs. Hayes?" Marchetti pointed across the park.
"Oh, I get it. Divide and conquer." Cassie Hayes pursed her lips into an exaggerated pout.
"Standard procedure," Marchetti said.
"Besides," Gilroy stepped forward, "sometimes a little girl-talk reveals more information."
Cassie seemed to consider Gilroy's words. "True enough. Talking to men is like spreading mayonnaise on milquetoast." She stood, sashaying by Marchetti before turning back to her husband. "You'll be fine. I'm just going over here with the nice lady detective."
Marchetti watched Hayes as the husband followed his wife's perky gait across the park with dull eyes. "You have a close relationship with your mother, Mr. Hayes?"
The soft brown eyes abandoned his wife and turned to Marchetti. "Decorous. We had a mother-son relationship, don't you see?" His voice had dropped to a near-whisper.
"When did you last see your mother?"
"Coffee. Two days ago. Liked to sit by the table in the backyard, she did." He looked at his hands in his lap.
"She mention anything unusual?"
Hayes tought for a moment. "Just so. The trellis. It had toppled over. Some of the lattice was broken." He shrugged. "Dogs, I guess."
Marchetti ground his teeth. "Did you fix the trellis for her?"
Hayes frowned. "No. Why?"
"It doesn't appear to be broken now."
Hayes nodded. "Just so. My mother had a handyman."
"I'll need his name."
"I don't know. One of the neighbors, you see." His shoulders tipped forward.
"You never asked your mother who was helping her out?" Marchetti curled his fingers into fists. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering control.
Hayes' body seemed to shrink, along with his energy. "Private, she was. Hmm, I dare say I never thought it was important. She took care of her own business, don't you see? Independent. Just so."
Marchetti gazed across the park at Cassie Hayes, talking animately with Amy Gilroy. He looked away and expelled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. . . . . .
I find that I use dialogue to create character, which is interesting to me because when I wrote as a child and as a teenager, I loved to write description. I created whole worlds with intricate details and characters were depicted from mole to tattoo to jacket to hairstyle. Yet I am certain, plot was very lacking. Perhaps, now I simply want to get right into the story and hope that the character emerges from it.
About a year ago, I wrote a story that is really all about a character "developing" himself. He's trying to figure out how he fits in the world. I think I wanted the reader to also keep thinking about just who the character is and how he fits in. It remains one of my stories that I'm not quite sure if it is a charcter sketch awaiting a story, or a story of its own.
***
The Cobbler
Damon slouched through the alleys, a shadow moving in the dark. Rats scurried away at his approach, the moon glinting from startled eyes. He moved with ease here. Yet, he wanted to thrive beyond these fetid lanes. He just had to find a way to feel a part of the streets, a connection to the people.
Tonight, he decided. Tonight he would concentrate, and learn.
As he approached the neon-lit main avenue, Damon pulled up his black hood, allowing the thick black cotton to flank his face. He moved quickly now, a stallion honing in on the finish line.
There were mobs of them on the sidewalk. They banged on the plate glass and cursed. Damon snaked through the throng, keeping his head covered, his secret hidden, and then used his key to unlock the door.
The man hovered in the corner under the "Adults Only" sign, his meaty fingers testing the connections of wires at the backs of the machines. Damon paused, nostrils flared, breathing in deeply the scents of grease and sweat, of machine and flesh.
"You're late," the man said.
Damon shifted past him, hooking his stiff fingers in the metal loop in the stained carpeting, delighting as his fingernails scraped a fresh gum wad squashed into the dark blue fibers. He lifted the ring and then yanked the trap door upward. He descended into the unlit pit.
His movements fluid again, Damon discarded hood and knit cap as he slipped around the metal poles to the black leather chair, gathering the suspended cables that drifted around it.
His murky pupils wandered toward the cobwebbed ceiling as he tugged on the wires to test their connections. The man was sloppy, Damon knew, despite his great show of care. Still, the cables held, and Damon began the process of gently grooming them. Afterall, this was his only connection to the people above.
One by one, he eyed the frayed ends, licking some into fine points. One by one, he threaded them into the sockets in his head.
Instantly, Damon's senses came alive. His neurons hummed, his vessels throbbed. Eyes wide yet unseeing, he settled back into his chair. A smile crept along his chin.
Damon allowed his cognizance to seep into every corner of all three realities booting his brain. The humans pushing through the door upstairs called those realities games and they gathered here at Ze Game Haus to stand before the machines, legs slightly spread in a stiff-kneed stance, gazes fixed upon the glowing screen, one hand gripping the joy stick, the other hand hovering over the buttons. They thought they were in control of the games. A wet smile oozed from Damon's mouth as saliva dripped unto his black shirt. The humans could believe what they wanted to believe.
Damon's thoughts skittered over the brick walls, stone paths, and brutal halberds. His perceptions hovered over the spiked treetops, frozen waters, and sharp blades. His awareness lurked in the dirty gutters, the dingy pubs, and the dark closets.
These were his realities. True, the machines above him held them during the hours Damon was forced to wander the human world, but the realities waited for him to awaken them, to give them vibrancy and purpose. Only when Damon inserted those cables into the holes in his skull, only when the electrical pulses of his brain traveled along those cables and then into the machines, animating the realities within, did the games exist. Without Damon, the games were but bits of images, pieces of action. Damon was the cobbler who worked the metal of the machine, who dyed the fabric of the game.
And he was connected to the people.
His muscles tensed. He was ready.
"Gorum!" The energy spiked into his consciousness.
Damon's focus fixed briefly onto the being stomping along the frozen river of one recess of his mind, but then quickly flicked away as another energy bolt seared its way into his presence. Jack the Hack reached out a luminous hand to pull aside the grimy lace and peer out the beckoning window A woman approached, hurrying along the dark street beyond the flickering glass. Jack the Hack reached into his pocket. Damon smiled, flicking a switchblade into Jack's hand. Jack stepped swiftly to the door.
Damon's muscles tensed more. The fun was about to begin.
Gorum abruptly jerked on his cerebration. A deer had appeared out of the brush, hesitating on the frozen landscape. Damon gleefully materialized the bowie knife, but the fool standing at the machine above Damon pushed buttons demanding the spear. Damon relented, returning his attention to Jack, the switchblade, and the target stumbling past the open door. Jack stepped out onto the cobblestone street behind her, and Damon tasted blood.
The blade was sharp, the radiant hand sure and quick. Damon drooled. He knew this hand, this player. Standing right above him, feet planted on the gum encrusted blue carpeting, stood a master. Damon was a part of his world.
Damon salivated, the spittle exuding from his mouth. He had balked at releasing his power into the hands of oafs who pumped coins into the machines as if that gave them the authority to tell Damon what to do. The man had told him things had to be this way for a while, until the players were hooked. Damon had relented. He would wait. He had not expected the few players, the cutthroats and connivers, who could dominate the scenes. They gave Damon pleasures he felt to his core.
Gorum approached the fallen deer. His ruddy hand reached out to grasp the spear. Damon misdirected it, thrusting it into the gaping wound, forcing it to grip the fur and flesh, to tear it away from the bone. A rush of heat plowed through Damon. Vaguely, he was aware of shouts above him, and then Gorum withered away. The player had terminated.
The man would be angry. Damon no longer cared.
Three AM. The requisite hour had passed since closing, but the energy still pulsated inside his head, his synapses sparked and throbbed. The evening had been one of the best, yet one of the worst. The players had risen to the challenge, and had pushed for more.
Above him, as Damon sweat and drooled in the dank basement, fists had pounded the machine's buttons, had yanked on the joysticks. The players' shouts had been loud enough to penetrate Damon's concentration and shake his focus. He had at once been truly alive and ashamed. Interacting with the humans, yet only an image.
Walking through the silent real world, Damon considered the last challengers to grip the handles and punch the buttons. Gorum had gleefully accepted the knives Damon had placed in his hands, had reveled in thrusting his redolent hands into the hot flesh, leaving entrails across the snowpack. Savage and beast clashed, vanquishing and mutilating each other and Damon's limbic system. He had hyperventilated, squirmed, trembled, and wept. Even now, sweat brimmed Damon's brow as he shivered at the memory.
Brick walls had tumbled, crushing enemies and pulsating through Damon. The player at the machine above him had chosen the battering ram again and again. Crushing, pulverizing, obliterating while Damon's arteries burned and his fists clenched in frustration. A joyful lust, a bitter hunger for something more, something better, lingered still in Damon's gut.
Again and again, Jack approached victims with stealth and cunning, and then overpowered each with swift precision, igniting Damon's hypothalamus, battering his heart. The final player, the ultimate Jack, had jumped at every opportunity, had demanded even more, grabbing every door handle, jerking every window, thrusting his blade into each dark corner. Damon gnawed at his lips and scratched his cheeks in frustration and shame.
The man always said he would never be accepted into the world of people because he did not understand flesh and blood. The man told him to keep his head covered, his eyes down when moving through their world. "You ain't connected to humans that way, only this way." The fat fingers had tugged on the wires connecting Damon to the machines.
But, perhaps these players were humans that would accept Damon, maybe they would share their world with him. But not until he had met their challenge. Not until he had satisfied their hunger.
Damon ground his teeth, dug his nails into his flesh.
Laughter trickled down the greasy alley pavement. Damon froze. At the far end, he could see two figures beneath a neon sign. One leaned back against the brick wall, her bare leg almost glowing in the light. The other stood close to her, his arm extended, palm pressing against the brick.
Damon slid into the dark corner of two attached buildings and lurked there, watching. He pulled his hood closer around his visage. The laughter vibrated along the wall, jabbing every neuron inside Damon's skull.
Suddenly, the pole ax flashed before him. Damon's muscles tensed, and he pressed his back against the brick, closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. His nostrils flared as he sucked in the scents of garbage and sewers. He heard wooden wheels rattle over cobblestones, the snaps of whips and the whines of horses. No, no. This was not the world he walked in. This was the one that occupied his brain every night in the dank basement beneath Ze Game Haus. With shaking hands, he pulled the hood further still over his face.
"Oh, Baby," the woman moaned.
Damon's eyes opened, and he gazed upon the floe of ice before him. He crouched, listening to the grunt of animals, his hands searching around him for weapons. As his fingers gripped a broken bottle, the world inside his brain fizzled away and Damon's eyes focused on the drainpipe attached the building opposite him. He thrust himself back against the wall.
Footsteps approached, and he watched as a woman in a long dress with a dark cape walked by him. He searched his pocket for the garrote, and finding his pocket empty, realized she had vanished into the air.
"Oh, God. Oh God!" The man down the alley shouted.
Damon shook his head. The woman in the long dress had not been real. The ice did not exist. There were no wooden wagon wheels. Somehow, his brain had conjured up visions from the games. This had never happened before. He shook his head again, trying to dislodge them.
"Where's my money?" the woman asked.
Her voice echoed from behind the brick wall. Ice covered the cobblestone path that snaked along the wall. A massive grizzly bear stood along the path, its breath rank fumes misting the air. Damon shook his head. Cobbled together, the three scenarios of his brain flourished despite their disconnect from their machines.
Damon sensed the three final players staring at him, touching him, pressing upon him. He heard their distant cries, felt their pounding and shaking. He comprehended their demands for more options, bigger challenges, superior actions.
Damon considered researching their world to better understand their desires, to more fully comprehend their needs. Perhaps this human world could provide input for greater vibrancy. Maybe the human world could provide Damon with a game of his own; a game that would bring him fully into their world. He would be a part of the people, a part of reality.
"Oh, yeah." The woman walked toward him counting paper money, smiling.
Damon stepped out of the shadows, ready to garner more information, download more experience, input more knowledge. He followed her out into the main street, peopled with late-night revelers, delivery men, and paperboys. He prepared to expand his capabilities.
Jack struck first and Gorum dawdled longer than necessary.
Covered in blood, Damon stood and looked around the players' world. He was anxious for the games to begin again. Smiling, he bared his head and slowly walked toward the main avenue.
***
I really do write mostly "detective" mysteries. I don't know where I sometimes get these creepy ideas . . . I always blame my husband. He understands that taking blame for things is his job.
Here are the sites for the two writers I have talked about recently.
www.elizabethgeorgeonline.com
www.evanovich.com
Squatting, balancing on the balls of his feet, Gian Marchetti stared at the blood caked on the elderly woman's head. By the looks of the crime scene, either she had surprised a burgular, or the burgurlar had surprised her. Marchetti shook his head. Did it really matter how the encounter played out? The woman had bled to death, slowly, for hours.
Marchetti breathed in and out measuredly. He glanced at his partner, Amy Gilroy, who hovered behind his right shoulder. "Anything?"
"Neighbors didn't notice anything unusual." She took a step toward him. "Listen, I know this kind of case brings back--"
"Let's say he hears her coming down those steps." Marchetti nodded toward the stairwell behind Gilroy. "So, he grabs something to hit her with. What would he grab?"
Gilroy sighed. "Nothing here but knick-knacks."
"Okay. He either brought a weapon with him or--"
"Detective Marchetti?" Officer Chapel stepped through the front door.
"What is it, Simon?"
"The victim's son has arrived."
Marchetti stood up. "Good. Maybe we'll get some answers."
As Marchetti walked past Chapel, the young officer smiled. "Careful. Man brought his jockey with him."
Marchetti frowned as he walked toward the door. Gilroy snapped her notepad against Chapel's arm as they followed Marchetti outside.
Drake Hayes, dressed in a tan suit, white shirt buttoned against his neck, and tan tie pinned to his chest with a gold bar, repeatedly drew his hands down his long, narrow face, stopping only when Marchetti approached him. "My mother. When can I see her?"
"Is there somewhere we can talk, Mr. Hayes?"
Hayes' eyes darted around the vicinity, glaning at his mother's house, the neighbors gathered on their front lawns, the police cruisers lined up along the street.
"Go down to the park. There's benches there," said the petite woman beside him.
Marchetti looked at her, taking in her bright orange striped tee-shirt, neon green mini-skirt, and little black riding cap. "You are?"
She stuck out her hand. "Casandra Hayes, but you can call me Cassie." She winked at Marchetti.
"My. . . my wife," Hayes stuttered, pushing his hands deep into his pants pockets.
Marchetti looked down the street. "The park sounds good."
"Go on, take the lead," Cassie pushed her husband, and then, as he turned to walk toward the park, she slipped her right hand down his back, grasping his belt, and turned to wave the others on with her left hand.
Gilroy looked at Marchetti with raised eyebrows, but he just followed the couple down the street.
After Cassie had positioned her husband onto a bench, she turned to Marchetti. "I'm surprised anyone could get into that house. Sadie kept that place wrapped up tighter than a pig in a blanket." She nudged Drake. "Go on, tell them."
Drake looked at Marchetti, but then his gaze wandered.
"Your mother keep anything valuable in the house, Mr. Hayes?" the detective asked.
"Phew!" Cassie crossed her arms. "She dropped all her dimes on the slow boat to chinaware. Tell him, Drake."
"Why don't you go over to that bench with Detective Gilroy, Mrs. Hayes?" Marchetti pointed across the park.
"Oh, I get it. Divide and conquer." Cassie Hayes pursed her lips into an exaggerated pout.
"Standard procedure," Marchetti said.
"Besides," Gilroy stepped forward, "sometimes a little girl-talk reveals more information."
Cassie seemed to consider Gilroy's words. "True enough. Talking to men is like spreading mayonnaise on milquetoast." She stood, sashaying by Marchetti before turning back to her husband. "You'll be fine. I'm just going over here with the nice lady detective."
Marchetti watched Hayes as the husband followed his wife's perky gait across the park with dull eyes. "You have a close relationship with your mother, Mr. Hayes?"
The soft brown eyes abandoned his wife and turned to Marchetti. "Decorous. We had a mother-son relationship, don't you see?" His voice had dropped to a near-whisper.
"When did you last see your mother?"
"Coffee. Two days ago. Liked to sit by the table in the backyard, she did." He looked at his hands in his lap.
"She mention anything unusual?"
Hayes tought for a moment. "Just so. The trellis. It had toppled over. Some of the lattice was broken." He shrugged. "Dogs, I guess."
Marchetti ground his teeth. "Did you fix the trellis for her?"
Hayes frowned. "No. Why?"
"It doesn't appear to be broken now."
Hayes nodded. "Just so. My mother had a handyman."
"I'll need his name."
"I don't know. One of the neighbors, you see." His shoulders tipped forward.
"You never asked your mother who was helping her out?" Marchetti curled his fingers into fists. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering control.
Hayes' body seemed to shrink, along with his energy. "Private, she was. Hmm, I dare say I never thought it was important. She took care of her own business, don't you see? Independent. Just so."
Marchetti gazed across the park at Cassie Hayes, talking animately with Amy Gilroy. He looked away and expelled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. . . . . .
I find that I use dialogue to create character, which is interesting to me because when I wrote as a child and as a teenager, I loved to write description. I created whole worlds with intricate details and characters were depicted from mole to tattoo to jacket to hairstyle. Yet I am certain, plot was very lacking. Perhaps, now I simply want to get right into the story and hope that the character emerges from it.
About a year ago, I wrote a story that is really all about a character "developing" himself. He's trying to figure out how he fits in the world. I think I wanted the reader to also keep thinking about just who the character is and how he fits in. It remains one of my stories that I'm not quite sure if it is a charcter sketch awaiting a story, or a story of its own.
***
The Cobbler
Damon slouched through the alleys, a shadow moving in the dark. Rats scurried away at his approach, the moon glinting from startled eyes. He moved with ease here. Yet, he wanted to thrive beyond these fetid lanes. He just had to find a way to feel a part of the streets, a connection to the people.
Tonight, he decided. Tonight he would concentrate, and learn.
As he approached the neon-lit main avenue, Damon pulled up his black hood, allowing the thick black cotton to flank his face. He moved quickly now, a stallion honing in on the finish line.
There were mobs of them on the sidewalk. They banged on the plate glass and cursed. Damon snaked through the throng, keeping his head covered, his secret hidden, and then used his key to unlock the door.
The man hovered in the corner under the "Adults Only" sign, his meaty fingers testing the connections of wires at the backs of the machines. Damon paused, nostrils flared, breathing in deeply the scents of grease and sweat, of machine and flesh.
"You're late," the man said.
Damon shifted past him, hooking his stiff fingers in the metal loop in the stained carpeting, delighting as his fingernails scraped a fresh gum wad squashed into the dark blue fibers. He lifted the ring and then yanked the trap door upward. He descended into the unlit pit.
His movements fluid again, Damon discarded hood and knit cap as he slipped around the metal poles to the black leather chair, gathering the suspended cables that drifted around it.
His murky pupils wandered toward the cobwebbed ceiling as he tugged on the wires to test their connections. The man was sloppy, Damon knew, despite his great show of care. Still, the cables held, and Damon began the process of gently grooming them. Afterall, this was his only connection to the people above.
One by one, he eyed the frayed ends, licking some into fine points. One by one, he threaded them into the sockets in his head.
Instantly, Damon's senses came alive. His neurons hummed, his vessels throbbed. Eyes wide yet unseeing, he settled back into his chair. A smile crept along his chin.
Damon allowed his cognizance to seep into every corner of all three realities booting his brain. The humans pushing through the door upstairs called those realities games and they gathered here at Ze Game Haus to stand before the machines, legs slightly spread in a stiff-kneed stance, gazes fixed upon the glowing screen, one hand gripping the joy stick, the other hand hovering over the buttons. They thought they were in control of the games. A wet smile oozed from Damon's mouth as saliva dripped unto his black shirt. The humans could believe what they wanted to believe.
Damon's thoughts skittered over the brick walls, stone paths, and brutal halberds. His perceptions hovered over the spiked treetops, frozen waters, and sharp blades. His awareness lurked in the dirty gutters, the dingy pubs, and the dark closets.
These were his realities. True, the machines above him held them during the hours Damon was forced to wander the human world, but the realities waited for him to awaken them, to give them vibrancy and purpose. Only when Damon inserted those cables into the holes in his skull, only when the electrical pulses of his brain traveled along those cables and then into the machines, animating the realities within, did the games exist. Without Damon, the games were but bits of images, pieces of action. Damon was the cobbler who worked the metal of the machine, who dyed the fabric of the game.
And he was connected to the people.
His muscles tensed. He was ready.
"Gorum!" The energy spiked into his consciousness.
Damon's focus fixed briefly onto the being stomping along the frozen river of one recess of his mind, but then quickly flicked away as another energy bolt seared its way into his presence. Jack the Hack reached out a luminous hand to pull aside the grimy lace and peer out the beckoning window A woman approached, hurrying along the dark street beyond the flickering glass. Jack the Hack reached into his pocket. Damon smiled, flicking a switchblade into Jack's hand. Jack stepped swiftly to the door.
Damon's muscles tensed more. The fun was about to begin.
Gorum abruptly jerked on his cerebration. A deer had appeared out of the brush, hesitating on the frozen landscape. Damon gleefully materialized the bowie knife, but the fool standing at the machine above Damon pushed buttons demanding the spear. Damon relented, returning his attention to Jack, the switchblade, and the target stumbling past the open door. Jack stepped out onto the cobblestone street behind her, and Damon tasted blood.
The blade was sharp, the radiant hand sure and quick. Damon drooled. He knew this hand, this player. Standing right above him, feet planted on the gum encrusted blue carpeting, stood a master. Damon was a part of his world.
Damon salivated, the spittle exuding from his mouth. He had balked at releasing his power into the hands of oafs who pumped coins into the machines as if that gave them the authority to tell Damon what to do. The man had told him things had to be this way for a while, until the players were hooked. Damon had relented. He would wait. He had not expected the few players, the cutthroats and connivers, who could dominate the scenes. They gave Damon pleasures he felt to his core.
Gorum approached the fallen deer. His ruddy hand reached out to grasp the spear. Damon misdirected it, thrusting it into the gaping wound, forcing it to grip the fur and flesh, to tear it away from the bone. A rush of heat plowed through Damon. Vaguely, he was aware of shouts above him, and then Gorum withered away. The player had terminated.
The man would be angry. Damon no longer cared.
Three AM. The requisite hour had passed since closing, but the energy still pulsated inside his head, his synapses sparked and throbbed. The evening had been one of the best, yet one of the worst. The players had risen to the challenge, and had pushed for more.
Above him, as Damon sweat and drooled in the dank basement, fists had pounded the machine's buttons, had yanked on the joysticks. The players' shouts had been loud enough to penetrate Damon's concentration and shake his focus. He had at once been truly alive and ashamed. Interacting with the humans, yet only an image.
Walking through the silent real world, Damon considered the last challengers to grip the handles and punch the buttons. Gorum had gleefully accepted the knives Damon had placed in his hands, had reveled in thrusting his redolent hands into the hot flesh, leaving entrails across the snowpack. Savage and beast clashed, vanquishing and mutilating each other and Damon's limbic system. He had hyperventilated, squirmed, trembled, and wept. Even now, sweat brimmed Damon's brow as he shivered at the memory.
Brick walls had tumbled, crushing enemies and pulsating through Damon. The player at the machine above him had chosen the battering ram again and again. Crushing, pulverizing, obliterating while Damon's arteries burned and his fists clenched in frustration. A joyful lust, a bitter hunger for something more, something better, lingered still in Damon's gut.
Again and again, Jack approached victims with stealth and cunning, and then overpowered each with swift precision, igniting Damon's hypothalamus, battering his heart. The final player, the ultimate Jack, had jumped at every opportunity, had demanded even more, grabbing every door handle, jerking every window, thrusting his blade into each dark corner. Damon gnawed at his lips and scratched his cheeks in frustration and shame.
The man always said he would never be accepted into the world of people because he did not understand flesh and blood. The man told him to keep his head covered, his eyes down when moving through their world. "You ain't connected to humans that way, only this way." The fat fingers had tugged on the wires connecting Damon to the machines.
But, perhaps these players were humans that would accept Damon, maybe they would share their world with him. But not until he had met their challenge. Not until he had satisfied their hunger.
Damon ground his teeth, dug his nails into his flesh.
Laughter trickled down the greasy alley pavement. Damon froze. At the far end, he could see two figures beneath a neon sign. One leaned back against the brick wall, her bare leg almost glowing in the light. The other stood close to her, his arm extended, palm pressing against the brick.
Damon slid into the dark corner of two attached buildings and lurked there, watching. He pulled his hood closer around his visage. The laughter vibrated along the wall, jabbing every neuron inside Damon's skull.
Suddenly, the pole ax flashed before him. Damon's muscles tensed, and he pressed his back against the brick, closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. His nostrils flared as he sucked in the scents of garbage and sewers. He heard wooden wheels rattle over cobblestones, the snaps of whips and the whines of horses. No, no. This was not the world he walked in. This was the one that occupied his brain every night in the dank basement beneath Ze Game Haus. With shaking hands, he pulled the hood further still over his face.
"Oh, Baby," the woman moaned.
Damon's eyes opened, and he gazed upon the floe of ice before him. He crouched, listening to the grunt of animals, his hands searching around him for weapons. As his fingers gripped a broken bottle, the world inside his brain fizzled away and Damon's eyes focused on the drainpipe attached the building opposite him. He thrust himself back against the wall.
Footsteps approached, and he watched as a woman in a long dress with a dark cape walked by him. He searched his pocket for the garrote, and finding his pocket empty, realized she had vanished into the air.
"Oh, God. Oh God!" The man down the alley shouted.
Damon shook his head. The woman in the long dress had not been real. The ice did not exist. There were no wooden wagon wheels. Somehow, his brain had conjured up visions from the games. This had never happened before. He shook his head again, trying to dislodge them.
"Where's my money?" the woman asked.
Her voice echoed from behind the brick wall. Ice covered the cobblestone path that snaked along the wall. A massive grizzly bear stood along the path, its breath rank fumes misting the air. Damon shook his head. Cobbled together, the three scenarios of his brain flourished despite their disconnect from their machines.
Damon sensed the three final players staring at him, touching him, pressing upon him. He heard their distant cries, felt their pounding and shaking. He comprehended their demands for more options, bigger challenges, superior actions.
Damon considered researching their world to better understand their desires, to more fully comprehend their needs. Perhaps this human world could provide input for greater vibrancy. Maybe the human world could provide Damon with a game of his own; a game that would bring him fully into their world. He would be a part of the people, a part of reality.
"Oh, yeah." The woman walked toward him counting paper money, smiling.
Damon stepped out of the shadows, ready to garner more information, download more experience, input more knowledge. He followed her out into the main street, peopled with late-night revelers, delivery men, and paperboys. He prepared to expand his capabilities.
Jack struck first and Gorum dawdled longer than necessary.
Covered in blood, Damon stood and looked around the players' world. He was anxious for the games to begin again. Smiling, he bared his head and slowly walked toward the main avenue.
***
I really do write mostly "detective" mysteries. I don't know where I sometimes get these creepy ideas . . . I always blame my husband. He understands that taking blame for things is his job.
Here are the sites for the two writers I have talked about recently.
www.elizabethgeorgeonline.com
www.evanovich.com
Monday, September 21, 2009
Exercise - character development 1
OK - I'm ready to really focus on my writing. I can't go back to college, so I'm going to "Homeschool" myself.
I have some favorite writers, and I've purchased their "how to write" books over the years. These will be my textbooks.
In her chapter entitled "All About Charcter" in her book Write Away(1), Elizabeth George offers a Character Prompt Sheet, but she writes "I use it only as a guide. I set it up next to my computer screen and I occasionally glance at it as I free write about the character."
Over the years, I have written several stories with repeating characters. Perhaps it is time to truly develop these characters. I have Elizabeth George's Prompt Sheet next to my computer, and one of my favorite repeating charactes in mind. I'll try her method of free writing about him with occasional glances at the prompt sheet. So, here goes.
***
Gian Marchetti is the only son of a carpenter and a maid. He grew up in a small Cape Cod-style home in the town of Wyoming, Pennsylvania. While walking along Wyoming Avenue as a young man, he often passed the Wyoming Barracks of the Pennsylvania State Police and imagined himself as a police officer one day. He stayed true to tht ambition, graduating from the Pennsylvania State Police Acadamy in Hershey and working as a young officer out of the Wyoming Barracks before rising up through the ranks to become a homicide detective.
-glance-
Marchetti is 6'3" tall, of solid build, and walks with a flat-footed gait. He has dark regulation-cut short hair and brown eyes. His partner, Amy Gilroy, says "He's rugged, not handsome," but admits that there is something very appealing about his features.
-glance-
Gian likes to fish the lake at Frances Slocum State Park, renting a row boat to drift along the shore.
Marchetti feels guilty for not responding in time to the radio call when a thief broke in and shot his mother while Gian was on patrol not five minutes away. He has lived with his heartbroken father ever since.
He works tirelessly, sometimes to his own detriment, on cases of murder as a result of robbery.
In truth, he is lonely, and his attempts to assauge his guilt have driven him to act as a crusader for the families of victims of sudden violence.
-glance-
Best friend? Became friends with Ethan Chase, Marchetti's main suspect in first manuscript I wrote with Marchetti as detective.
Core need? To reconcile his "job" as patrolman at the scene of the crime and his grief at the loss of his mom.
Laughs at? Gian is way too serious - something Ethan and Ethan's girlfriend, Chloe, try to change that trait of Marchetti's. They keep "surprising" Gian with blind dates.
***
I simply love Elizabeth George's main characters from her Thomas Lynly series - especially Lynly's partner, Barbara Havers. We learn so much about Barbara from her embarrassment when Lynly stops by her home and her interactions with the little girl from next door. I want to write like that!
One of my favorite minor characters is from Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series. I love, love, love every scene that Grandma Mazur is in!
Janet Evanovich says in her book How I Write,(2) "I pay a lot of attention to my supporting cast of characters, no matter how minor their roles. I try to make them unforgettable in some way."
I've always tried to make my characters distinctive through dress, speech habits, or other quirks because I know, as a great reader of mysteries, I want to be able to keep all the players separated in my own mind. I guess a little tweaking might also make them unforgettable as Janet Evanovich suggests.
Another thing Miss Evanovich said in her book that I want to try to use more often is the following: "If you make a charcter real and vulnerable and kind, as soon as you put that character in jeopardy or any type of distress, the reader will always root for that person to win, or succeed, or make it out safely." Well, I think I've got a start with Gian Marchetti, but I've got to bring out more vulneralbility in future stories.
Be sure to read Elizabeth George's Thomas Lynly series and Janet Evanovich's Stephaine Plum series. Very different from each other, and both so good!
1) George, Elizabeth. Write Away. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2004.
2)Evanovich, Janet, with Ina Yalof. How I Write. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2006.
I have some favorite writers, and I've purchased their "how to write" books over the years. These will be my textbooks.
In her chapter entitled "All About Charcter" in her book Write Away(1), Elizabeth George offers a Character Prompt Sheet, but she writes "I use it only as a guide. I set it up next to my computer screen and I occasionally glance at it as I free write about the character."
Over the years, I have written several stories with repeating characters. Perhaps it is time to truly develop these characters. I have Elizabeth George's Prompt Sheet next to my computer, and one of my favorite repeating charactes in mind. I'll try her method of free writing about him with occasional glances at the prompt sheet. So, here goes.
***
Gian Marchetti is the only son of a carpenter and a maid. He grew up in a small Cape Cod-style home in the town of Wyoming, Pennsylvania. While walking along Wyoming Avenue as a young man, he often passed the Wyoming Barracks of the Pennsylvania State Police and imagined himself as a police officer one day. He stayed true to tht ambition, graduating from the Pennsylvania State Police Acadamy in Hershey and working as a young officer out of the Wyoming Barracks before rising up through the ranks to become a homicide detective.
-glance-
Marchetti is 6'3" tall, of solid build, and walks with a flat-footed gait. He has dark regulation-cut short hair and brown eyes. His partner, Amy Gilroy, says "He's rugged, not handsome," but admits that there is something very appealing about his features.
-glance-
Gian likes to fish the lake at Frances Slocum State Park, renting a row boat to drift along the shore.
Marchetti feels guilty for not responding in time to the radio call when a thief broke in and shot his mother while Gian was on patrol not five minutes away. He has lived with his heartbroken father ever since.
He works tirelessly, sometimes to his own detriment, on cases of murder as a result of robbery.
In truth, he is lonely, and his attempts to assauge his guilt have driven him to act as a crusader for the families of victims of sudden violence.
-glance-
Best friend? Became friends with Ethan Chase, Marchetti's main suspect in first manuscript I wrote with Marchetti as detective.
Core need? To reconcile his "job" as patrolman at the scene of the crime and his grief at the loss of his mom.
Laughs at? Gian is way too serious - something Ethan and Ethan's girlfriend, Chloe, try to change that trait of Marchetti's. They keep "surprising" Gian with blind dates.
***
I simply love Elizabeth George's main characters from her Thomas Lynly series - especially Lynly's partner, Barbara Havers. We learn so much about Barbara from her embarrassment when Lynly stops by her home and her interactions with the little girl from next door. I want to write like that!
One of my favorite minor characters is from Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series. I love, love, love every scene that Grandma Mazur is in!
Janet Evanovich says in her book How I Write,(2) "I pay a lot of attention to my supporting cast of characters, no matter how minor their roles. I try to make them unforgettable in some way."
I've always tried to make my characters distinctive through dress, speech habits, or other quirks because I know, as a great reader of mysteries, I want to be able to keep all the players separated in my own mind. I guess a little tweaking might also make them unforgettable as Janet Evanovich suggests.
Another thing Miss Evanovich said in her book that I want to try to use more often is the following: "If you make a charcter real and vulnerable and kind, as soon as you put that character in jeopardy or any type of distress, the reader will always root for that person to win, or succeed, or make it out safely." Well, I think I've got a start with Gian Marchetti, but I've got to bring out more vulneralbility in future stories.
Be sure to read Elizabeth George's Thomas Lynly series and Janet Evanovich's Stephaine Plum series. Very different from each other, and both so good!
1) George, Elizabeth. Write Away. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2004.
2)Evanovich, Janet, with Ina Yalof. How I Write. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2006.
Cobblestone Hollow
My father, Roy Alexzander Cobb, had no sons. This bothered me when I was a little girl because I felt that a man who was so big and strong, with such huge hands, should have a son to do "male" things with and to carry on his name. I joined a softball league, determined to somehow "be" that son. My dad taught me how to bat by tying a tin can to one end of a rope and the other end of the rope to a stick. He swung the stick so that the can would swing around, and I was to try to hit it with my baseball bat. Well, it worked. I developed a "good eye," never swinging the bat unless I made solid contact with the ball.
One day while at bat during a game, I heard a voice in the crowd call out, "Who's the slugger at bat?" My father's voice, rising clear from his usual position near the fence answered, "That's my kid." One of my proudest moments, for sure.
Even though my dad died several years ago, I still try to keep his name alive. I have written several stories over the years that have taken place at Cobblestone Corners or Cobblestone Hollow. People who reside at the corners are pretty normal. People who reside down in the Hollow have a slightly different view of life. Or, perhaps, they simply live out certain views to the extreme.
This story won 5th place in the Genre category of the 77th Annual (2009) Writer's Digest Writing Competition.
Cobblestone Hollow
"I like living down in the Hollow," Pamela said. "It's a small price to pay for all we have here."
Her husband, Jeff, sighed and looked up from his morning newspaper. "Guys at work are always asking me why I put up with the commute. I'll never explain it to them." He went back to his reading.
"We sure can't let out any of our secrets." Pamela tapped a long red fingernail against the rim of her porcelain cup.
"This one, Mommy?" their three-year old son, Evan, asked as he stepped into the kitchen.
Pamela motioned for him to turn around. "Tuck in your shirttail, and be sure to keep it in all day."
Evan's little fingers struggled with the white cotton.
"What do you think, Jeff? Does Evan look like a child Mama Ruth would favor?"
"Mm-hmm." Jeff turned a page.
"At least look," Pamela said.
Jeff glanced around the paper. "Scrumptious."
Pamela frowned, her focus narrowed at Evan. "You know what? I've changed my mind. Go put on your cream-colored dress shirt.".
Evan heaved a sigh at his mother, then trudged from the kitchen.
Pamela spoke to Jeff over the paper. "I wish you'd show more interest. Just think of all that we could have if Mama Ruth picks Evan."
Jeff carefully folded the paper and placed it on the table. He picked up his coffee cup and gazed at Pamela over the rim.
"You know if Mama Ruth selects Evan, the whole family benefits. The kids could finally attend night school. Mindy Walters is always telling me about it. Her daughter, Susie, no, Sarah. Oh, I don't remember the name. Anyway, the girl got selected last year and now Mindy's son James is on a fast track with computers at the night school."
Jeff reached for the carafe, refilling his cup.
"Just think. We could both work late. You'd finally get that promotion you deserve and I could take on more clients. We'd have more money, Jeff." Pamela leaned across the table, smiling at him. "We could finally put that luxury pool and spa in the backyard."
Corey, their elder son, shuffled into the kitchen. He gingerly placed a science textbook on the table, then sat down. He stared at his mother.
Pamela raised her brows at him. She knew he was brooding. He'd recently learned from his big-mouthed older sister that he had been in the running when he was three years old. He had not been selected.
"You got vanilla scented shampoo." He practically spit the words out. Seven years old and full of himself.
Pamela tried to shrug it off. "You can use it, too."
"And vanilla body wash."
"So use it." Pamela drank coffee.
"Mama Ruth doesn't care how I smell." He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.
Pamela sighed. She wanted to tell him how great it would be for the whole family if Evan got selected by Mama Ruth. She wanted to point out that Corey could finally attend Mama Ruth's night school and learn to play a musical instrument, join one of the elite sports teams. She wanted to remind him that his older sister, Margaret, had been supportive of him when he was up for selection. And she had been so disappointed when he was not selected that she couldn't bring herself to speak to him for a year.
Pamela grunted. Maybe she shouldn't remind him of that. Truth was Corey probably didn't remember any of it because Margaret had returned to her happy, hopeful self when Evan was born. "Don't be jealous, Corey. Just be nice to your brother, okay? And keep his shirt tucked in. Mama Ruth likes them neat and orderly."
Corey stared at Pamela for a long moment, and then deliberately yanked his own shirt out of his pants.
Pamela pursed her lips and then pushed the box of Sugar Twists toward him. "Eat something."
Evan came back to the kitchen holding his arms out at his sides, ready for inspection. Pamela smiled, motioning him toward her. She gave him a hug, and then straightened his clothes. She pulled a vanilla candy from her pocket and tucked it into his pocket. "You can suck on this while Mama Ruth is looking you over for the selection."
Margaret skipped into the kitchen breathing deeply and smiling. "I smell vanilla everywhere. Nice touch, Mother. Mama Ruth loves vanilla." She bent over to inspect Evan, motioning for him to twirl for her. "You look and smell terrific. I think Mama Ruth's just going to love you. She's going to eat you up!" She lifted her face to Pamela. "If I finally get to go to Mama Ruth's night school, I'm taking ballet and the French Horn. Maybe I'll even learn to play field hockey."
Pamela smiled. "That's nice, Margaret."
"We're so lucky to live here in Cobblestone Hollow," Margaret said with a lilt in her voice. She planted a kiss on her father's cheek.
"No need to convince me again," he grumbled.
Margaret winked at her mother before skipping over to the refrigerator and removing a carton of eggs. "I mean, with Mama Ruth as both mayor of the town and owner of the school, it's like the whole town is just for us kids." She smiled at her father, making a slight bow. "Only during the day, of course, when all the other adults are working in the city."
Pamela nodded. "And I love all the family events on weekends. We're lucky to be here." She reached across the table to squeeze Jeff's hand.
"Ladies, please. You've convinced me. I promised not to say another word, remember?"
Margaret cracked an egg on the side of a plate and then tipped back her head, allowing the contents to ooze out of the shell into her mouth. She burst the yolk inside her mouth and swallowed.
Jeff frowned. "I don't think this diet will--"
Margaret ignored him, interrupting. "Mama Ruth sure knows how to run this place. It's Paradise. Really." She cracked another egg, preparing to repeat the process.
Corey snorted. "Maybe when I grow up, I'll be mayor of Cobblestone Hollow, and I'll run the school and the town."
Margaret laughed, tousling his hair. "I'm going to beat you to it. Besides," she cracked another egg, "you're too skinny."
Corey slapped her hand away, standing up so quickly, his chair toppled over. His fists were clenched, his eyes narrowed.
Pamela jumped up, clapping her hands. "Well, if you have any hope of that, we've got to get going. You know Mama Ruth doesn't tolerate tardiness. Everyone to the SUV."
Jeff stood, sighed, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.
As Pamela and the children followed, she offered Evan more advice. "Be sure to smile at Mama Ruth. Show her your chubby cheeks."
Evan nodded, smiling up at his mother.
Pamela helped him into his seat. "And don't forget to suck on that vanilla candy while Mama Ruth interviews you."
"Sweet!" Margaret cried. "You thought of everything this time. French horn, here I come!" and she launched into excited chatter about her hopes and dreams should their family be the lucky one this year.
Corey stared silently out the window. Pamela pulled at loose strings on her scarf. Jeff stayed focused on the road. Evan hummed a nursery song.
"Hey," Margaret said to him as they disembarked at the school. "Hum that tune about Old MacDonald's farm when she's not asking you questions."
"Oh, Margaret. Are you sure that's not pushing it?" Pamela asked.
Margaret smiled. "It's Mama Ruth's favorite song."
Pamela nodded, and stood watching as her children joined the small throng of students entering the building. She focused mostly on Evan's back, hoping Mama Ruth would select him. If only Mama Ruth would choose Evan, then she and Jeff could stay in the city until late at night, make lots of money, and have everything they could ever want.
As the sea of students ebbed away, a lone figure remained just outside the school doors. Mama Ruth. All two hundred and fifty pounds of her. She was stoking the fire in the pit under the rotisserie.
Pamela climbed back into the SUV, her focus still fixed on Mama Ruth. "Think we'll be lucky this time? We'll be the ones able to get wealthy?" she asked Jeff without turning her head. "You think Mama Ruth will choose Evan for the annual feast? Will we return tonight to find him proudly spinning above the fire?"
Jeff shrugged. "He did look scrumptious."
One day while at bat during a game, I heard a voice in the crowd call out, "Who's the slugger at bat?" My father's voice, rising clear from his usual position near the fence answered, "That's my kid." One of my proudest moments, for sure.
Even though my dad died several years ago, I still try to keep his name alive. I have written several stories over the years that have taken place at Cobblestone Corners or Cobblestone Hollow. People who reside at the corners are pretty normal. People who reside down in the Hollow have a slightly different view of life. Or, perhaps, they simply live out certain views to the extreme.
This story won 5th place in the Genre category of the 77th Annual (2009) Writer's Digest Writing Competition.
Cobblestone Hollow
"I like living down in the Hollow," Pamela said. "It's a small price to pay for all we have here."
Her husband, Jeff, sighed and looked up from his morning newspaper. "Guys at work are always asking me why I put up with the commute. I'll never explain it to them." He went back to his reading.
"We sure can't let out any of our secrets." Pamela tapped a long red fingernail against the rim of her porcelain cup.
"This one, Mommy?" their three-year old son, Evan, asked as he stepped into the kitchen.
Pamela motioned for him to turn around. "Tuck in your shirttail, and be sure to keep it in all day."
Evan's little fingers struggled with the white cotton.
"What do you think, Jeff? Does Evan look like a child Mama Ruth would favor?"
"Mm-hmm." Jeff turned a page.
"At least look," Pamela said.
Jeff glanced around the paper. "Scrumptious."
Pamela frowned, her focus narrowed at Evan. "You know what? I've changed my mind. Go put on your cream-colored dress shirt.".
Evan heaved a sigh at his mother, then trudged from the kitchen.
Pamela spoke to Jeff over the paper. "I wish you'd show more interest. Just think of all that we could have if Mama Ruth picks Evan."
Jeff carefully folded the paper and placed it on the table. He picked up his coffee cup and gazed at Pamela over the rim.
"You know if Mama Ruth selects Evan, the whole family benefits. The kids could finally attend night school. Mindy Walters is always telling me about it. Her daughter, Susie, no, Sarah. Oh, I don't remember the name. Anyway, the girl got selected last year and now Mindy's son James is on a fast track with computers at the night school."
Jeff reached for the carafe, refilling his cup.
"Just think. We could both work late. You'd finally get that promotion you deserve and I could take on more clients. We'd have more money, Jeff." Pamela leaned across the table, smiling at him. "We could finally put that luxury pool and spa in the backyard."
Corey, their elder son, shuffled into the kitchen. He gingerly placed a science textbook on the table, then sat down. He stared at his mother.
Pamela raised her brows at him. She knew he was brooding. He'd recently learned from his big-mouthed older sister that he had been in the running when he was three years old. He had not been selected.
"You got vanilla scented shampoo." He practically spit the words out. Seven years old and full of himself.
Pamela tried to shrug it off. "You can use it, too."
"And vanilla body wash."
"So use it." Pamela drank coffee.
"Mama Ruth doesn't care how I smell." He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.
Pamela sighed. She wanted to tell him how great it would be for the whole family if Evan got selected by Mama Ruth. She wanted to point out that Corey could finally attend Mama Ruth's night school and learn to play a musical instrument, join one of the elite sports teams. She wanted to remind him that his older sister, Margaret, had been supportive of him when he was up for selection. And she had been so disappointed when he was not selected that she couldn't bring herself to speak to him for a year.
Pamela grunted. Maybe she shouldn't remind him of that. Truth was Corey probably didn't remember any of it because Margaret had returned to her happy, hopeful self when Evan was born. "Don't be jealous, Corey. Just be nice to your brother, okay? And keep his shirt tucked in. Mama Ruth likes them neat and orderly."
Corey stared at Pamela for a long moment, and then deliberately yanked his own shirt out of his pants.
Pamela pursed her lips and then pushed the box of Sugar Twists toward him. "Eat something."
Evan came back to the kitchen holding his arms out at his sides, ready for inspection. Pamela smiled, motioning him toward her. She gave him a hug, and then straightened his clothes. She pulled a vanilla candy from her pocket and tucked it into his pocket. "You can suck on this while Mama Ruth is looking you over for the selection."
Margaret skipped into the kitchen breathing deeply and smiling. "I smell vanilla everywhere. Nice touch, Mother. Mama Ruth loves vanilla." She bent over to inspect Evan, motioning for him to twirl for her. "You look and smell terrific. I think Mama Ruth's just going to love you. She's going to eat you up!" She lifted her face to Pamela. "If I finally get to go to Mama Ruth's night school, I'm taking ballet and the French Horn. Maybe I'll even learn to play field hockey."
Pamela smiled. "That's nice, Margaret."
"We're so lucky to live here in Cobblestone Hollow," Margaret said with a lilt in her voice. She planted a kiss on her father's cheek.
"No need to convince me again," he grumbled.
Margaret winked at her mother before skipping over to the refrigerator and removing a carton of eggs. "I mean, with Mama Ruth as both mayor of the town and owner of the school, it's like the whole town is just for us kids." She smiled at her father, making a slight bow. "Only during the day, of course, when all the other adults are working in the city."
Pamela nodded. "And I love all the family events on weekends. We're lucky to be here." She reached across the table to squeeze Jeff's hand.
"Ladies, please. You've convinced me. I promised not to say another word, remember?"
Margaret cracked an egg on the side of a plate and then tipped back her head, allowing the contents to ooze out of the shell into her mouth. She burst the yolk inside her mouth and swallowed.
Jeff frowned. "I don't think this diet will--"
Margaret ignored him, interrupting. "Mama Ruth sure knows how to run this place. It's Paradise. Really." She cracked another egg, preparing to repeat the process.
Corey snorted. "Maybe when I grow up, I'll be mayor of Cobblestone Hollow, and I'll run the school and the town."
Margaret laughed, tousling his hair. "I'm going to beat you to it. Besides," she cracked another egg, "you're too skinny."
Corey slapped her hand away, standing up so quickly, his chair toppled over. His fists were clenched, his eyes narrowed.
Pamela jumped up, clapping her hands. "Well, if you have any hope of that, we've got to get going. You know Mama Ruth doesn't tolerate tardiness. Everyone to the SUV."
Jeff stood, sighed, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.
As Pamela and the children followed, she offered Evan more advice. "Be sure to smile at Mama Ruth. Show her your chubby cheeks."
Evan nodded, smiling up at his mother.
Pamela helped him into his seat. "And don't forget to suck on that vanilla candy while Mama Ruth interviews you."
"Sweet!" Margaret cried. "You thought of everything this time. French horn, here I come!" and she launched into excited chatter about her hopes and dreams should their family be the lucky one this year.
Corey stared silently out the window. Pamela pulled at loose strings on her scarf. Jeff stayed focused on the road. Evan hummed a nursery song.
"Hey," Margaret said to him as they disembarked at the school. "Hum that tune about Old MacDonald's farm when she's not asking you questions."
"Oh, Margaret. Are you sure that's not pushing it?" Pamela asked.
Margaret smiled. "It's Mama Ruth's favorite song."
Pamela nodded, and stood watching as her children joined the small throng of students entering the building. She focused mostly on Evan's back, hoping Mama Ruth would select him. If only Mama Ruth would choose Evan, then she and Jeff could stay in the city until late at night, make lots of money, and have everything they could ever want.
As the sea of students ebbed away, a lone figure remained just outside the school doors. Mama Ruth. All two hundred and fifty pounds of her. She was stoking the fire in the pit under the rotisserie.
Pamela climbed back into the SUV, her focus still fixed on Mama Ruth. "Think we'll be lucky this time? We'll be the ones able to get wealthy?" she asked Jeff without turning her head. "You think Mama Ruth will choose Evan for the annual feast? Will we return tonight to find him proudly spinning above the fire?"
Jeff shrugged. "He did look scrumptious."
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Quirky Neighbors, Macabre Friends
This story placed tenth in the Genre catagory of the 73rd Annual (2004) Writer's Digest Writing Competition. It remains my husband's favorite.
Quirky Neighbors, Macabre Friends
"Good morning, Mother!" Michael chirped as he entered the kitchen. He found his mother precisely where he had left her the night before, in the rocking chair facing the window, her empty gaze fixed on the glass. In truth, he expected no more of her.
Often times, Michael was impatient with his mother, who had been this way since the accident, but today his good mood prevailed. He'd had a glorious time with the neighborhood barflies the previous night. He'd won at shuffleboard and darts, been treated to two beers, and shared in the conversations about the beautiful autumn foliage, the many uses of alcohol in cooking, and the miserable state of the neighborhood's teenagers. Who could argue with that?
"I'm treating myself to scrambled eggs and home fries," Michael informed his mother.
She persisted in her silence.
He shrugged, turned his back on her, and began to prepare his breakfast. He hummed a tune, the words long forgotten, but the melody always teasing his thoughts.
"Yoo-hoo! Michael! Are you in there?"
"Damn." Michael glanced at his mother, but she only returned a vacant stare.
"Michael? I thought I heard your voice. I can't quite climb these steps."
"That is precisely why I chose this home, you old nag," he muttered under his breath, but he went to the door and unlatched the locks, and then stepped out onto the back porch. "Mrs. Perry! How nice to see you so early in the morning."
Mrs. Perry blushed, and then batted her false eyelashes at him. "Oh, I don't want to be a pest, but I made a batch of my homemade cinnamon rolls, and, living alone as I do, you know, of course I can't eat two dozen rolls."
"You shouldn't make so many at one time, Mrs. Perry."
"You know me, Michael. I love to make everything from scratch, and I sometimes get carried away."
Indeed, he did know her. She made her own soap, her own clothes, her own tea, and even dyed her own hair. Unfortunately, she smelled like furniture polish, seemed to be popping out of her sackcloth at every angle, pushed her awful brew on the neighbors, and went about in public with neon orange hair and a permanent orange stain on her forehead that reached all the way down to her eyebrows.
"All right, then," he said kindly. "I'll come over for them."
"Good! And bring your little jar for some more of my delicious tea!"
Michael agreed, stepping back into his own kitchen. "I'm stopping next door, Mother. Do you see, now, why I eat so many peaches?" He rummaged around in the cupboard until he found an empty jar and a matching full jar. Dropping the full jar into his pocket, he made his way over to the other side of his double block.
"I see you brought the jar, what a good boy! Now, help yourself to some tea. Be sure to fill the jar to the op. It always seems as though the canister is still full when you leave, even though I see you taking away a full jar." She bustled away to fill a plate with pastries.
Michael turned his back to her as he carefully filled his empty jar. Then, assuring himself that her attention was diverted, he dumped the contents of his other jar into the canister and mixed it through. Tucking the now empty jar into his pocket, he turned to face her, smiling.
She handed him a plate full of nearly-flat mounds of brown goo swimming in white liquid. "I gave you extra frosting!"
Michael thanked her, made excuses as to why he couldn't stay, and hurried home.
"That woman is an abomination!" he informed his mother as he dumped the sweets into the trash can. He frowned at his motionless mother. "You know, Mother, I envy that you no longer have care in the world!" Michael angrily grabbed a peach from the basket on the counter, ripped the flesh from the pit with his perfectly square front teeth, threw the pit onto a cutting board, and smashed the pit with a hammer. This was one way he dealt with his frustrations.
"Are you going somewhere, Michael?" Mrs. Horowitz called out from her position on her glider.
Michael's stomach muscles clenched.
"Are you lying in wait for me, Mrs. Horowitz?"
"Pardon?"
Michael smiled, changed his direction, and mounted the steps to her front porch. "I said I was on my way to the market!" He had to shout because Mrs. Horowitz's white poodle had begun to jump and yip the moment he had emerged from his own house.
"Shush!" she scolded the dog, who ignored her. She looked back at Michael and shrugged. "What can a mother do?"
Michael kept on smiling. "I see you've got Missy dressed in pink today!" he shouted.
"She's going to a birthday party."
"How nice." Michael wondered how Mrs. Horowitz would maneuver her massive bulk off the porch. Of course, he'd always wondered how she even got out of bed, never mind dressed the crazy little bitch in different outfits every day.
"But I was hoping you'd help me out later today." Her neck flab flopped like a fish out of water whenevr she spoke.
"Oh? What do you need?"
"I feel a draft coming in from my attached garage, and I don't want my Missy to catch her death from cold. Could you possibly put sealant on the window in there?"
"Weather stripping on the garage window? I don't know . . ."
"I know I'm always asking you for these little favors, but . . . shush, Missy! Mama's talking! But you are so handy, Michael, and I was hoping that while you're at it, you could . . . now, Missy! See what happens when you get excited? Mama's gonna' have to put another dress on you. And this is your favorite party dress, too. Now, shush up and let Mama talk. Anyway, Michael, I was hoping you'd see to the lock on the door in there, too. Remember I told you it sometimes sticks?"
"I'd be happy to. In fact, I'll pick up some supplies right now. When are you leaving for the party?"
"Not until six tonight. Well, I'll probably start to leave a little earlier than that. You know how long it takes my old jalopy to warm up."
"I'll have everything ready for five thirty."
"Oh, Michael! You're such a dear. Now, Missy, would you like to wear your overalls and help Michael this afternoon? Don't worry, I'll get you all done up for the party later."
Michael smiled even more broadly, then hopped down the steps. He nearly skipped along the sidewalk as he hummed that same old haunting tune.
"Michael! How 'bout a game of darts?" Fred called.
Michael entered the door cautiously, pausing for just a moment to savor the swell of joy he felt. "I'd love to, Friend." Friend. Friend!
"Here, you go first, my man. Good shot! What aim! You'd make a good hunter."
Michael blanched. He stepped back, his heart beating wildly.
"My turn. Let's see if I can get my little harpoon right into the heart of 'er!"
Michael sat down with a thump.
"Hey, Michael. What is it, pal? You look faint!"
"Listen. Could you not be so macabre?"
"So ma . . . what?"
"Please. Stop speaking in sanguine euphemisms."
"In what?"
"Just no more talk of bloody bodies. Please?"
"Geesh, Michael. I didn't know you was so squeamish."
"It's just that I . . . there was an accident . . . my mother . . . she had a knife and I . . . ." Michael closed his eyes. He would not allow his thoughts to go there.
"Hey, man. I'm sorry. Want to stop the game?"
"Yes. Please. I think I'll join the conversation at the bar." Michael felt Fred's eyes on him as he walked to the bar, so he straightened his shoulders. He climbed onto the only empty barstool and accepted the readily produced glass of his favorite brew.
"They're taking turns buying pitchers for the bar," Stan, the bartender, said nodding toward the others.
Michae nodded toward them while lifting his glass, and then tuned into their excited conversation.
"There was that guy in Texas that grabbed a woman from the car wash," Rita stated.
"Like I says, ain't no place safe," Barb lamented.
"I heard'a one guy who liked to cut off his victims' nipples," Joe contributed.
Michael shuddered. More talk of violence. What was with these peopl tonight? What happened to the palatable conversations of last night?
"There's enough serial killers now to have one in every town!" George declared. "Why, there was one over by the bay that liked to hog-tie girls and cut crosses in their chests."
Michael shivered, swallowing stomach acid. He glanced over at Fred who was leading that behemoth, Gabe, to the dart board.
Joe had another killer to describe. "I heard'a one that liked to tattoo nursery rhyme characters on 'em."
Gabe's first dart struck home. Thump.
Barb chortled. "Here's the worst, fellas. Some guy in England, I think, dressed as a woman, skinned his victims alive, and made soup of their organs!"
Whack. Another dart.
Rita gasped. "And I thought cutting nipples was bad."
Stan weighed into the conversation. "No worse'en the guy upstate that grabbed men and hacked off their penises to eat 'em. Said it raised his libido!"
Whack.
Michael stumbled across the worn wooden floor and into the men's room. He had never been in there before, but instinct led him to the sink where he splashed cold water onto his face. The chill helped him breathe again. How could people talk so casually about brutality?
He reached up and yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, patted his face, and then looked around. Debris from the bar was piled in one corner of the dimly lit room. Narrowing his eyes and taking one step closer, Michael could see that most of the garbage piled in the corner were remnants of a party: crumpled paper napkins in bright colors, torn crepe paper streamers, and cracked plastic cups. Smeone had used paint to write on the cups. He could make out "Good Luck" and "Happy Birthday." Michael vaguely wondered how these trimmings had ended up in the men's room. Surely, the party wasn't held in here! He shook his had to dislodge the nonsense that rattled around inside his mind. That's when he saw it: a rat caught in a trap, its head nearly severed by the snap of a spring-relase snare.
Michael reeled, slamming his back against a wall. Fred's voice came to him out of a whirl of noise. "I didn't know you was so squeamish." How could anyone not react to so much physical violence? Stabbings, beatings, mutilations. These were not things to take in stride! The human body was so beautiful, how could anyone maime it, or even speak of disfiguring it?
He looked again at the rat. Every body deserved respect. Every life deserved to end with its vessel of flesh intact.
Michael's focus blurred, then came back sharply, fixed on a carton with a handle of a spoon sticking out of it. He stepped closer to the counter and turned the box around. Rat poison. Fury ripped through him. There was no reason to use that hideous device when there was poison available! What was wrong with these people?
He slammed his fist on the edge of the sink, causing a plastic cup to jump. Michael read the words painted on it. "Carpe diem."
He drew a deep breath. "I must get hold of myself." He picked up the cup and then told his reflection, "You must be more neighborly!"
When Michael emerged from the men's room a few minutes later, he was already in better spirits. "Barkeep! A pitcher or two, if you please! I wish to personally serve my neighbors! And a glass for you, too, my good man! Yes! Thank you! Present your glasses, lads and ladies! I'll be coming 'round to fill them. Let's just throw caution to the wind!"
Complaining loudly, Michael carelessly adjusted his mother's head so that her absent eyes might get a btter view of the softly falling snow. His patience with her was growing thin.
"Mother, how long, do you think, does it take a car to run out of gas? A big old one, like our neighbor's?"
His mother gave no answer, no hint of comprehension.
His annoyance grew. "Is there absolutely nothing in that empty head of yours?"
She showed no sign of life.
Exasperated, Michael threw up his hands and stomped across the kitchen. "I'm making lunch," he announced. "Fish sticks, I guess. With applesauce." He banged around the cupboards, pulling out a cookie sheet, dumping the frozen fish onto it. He ate applesauce right from the jar while the fish baked. The smell of the fish and the cool sweetness of the applesauce mollified him.
"Sorry I'm so impatient with you, Mother. It's just that sometimes, well, I wish I'd get more from you than that hollowed-eyed blank expression." He sighed. "I promise to be more patient. Would you like me to adjust you better?"
As he moved toward her, he heard a door bang. He frowned.
"It's been so quiet here all week. I can't begin to explain how happy I've been. No yapping dogs, no busybodies with homemade crap to thrust upon me, no brawls spilling out from the corner bar. It's been heaven on earth!"
A woman started screaming.
Michael glanced out the window, and groaned. "That miserable wretch's daughter is making a racket next door, Mother. Our wonderful peace and quiet is destroyed." He sighed heavily. "We'll have to move again, Mother, but don't you worry. I promise that I will find us a place to live where the neighbors aren't quirky and my friends are never macabre. I'll find a neighborhood where everyone is normal."
Quietly, efficiently, Michael retrieved the old, hard box-like suitcase from the closet, and carefully, lovingly, packed up his mother, one bone at a time.
Quirky Neighbors, Macabre Friends
"Good morning, Mother!" Michael chirped as he entered the kitchen. He found his mother precisely where he had left her the night before, in the rocking chair facing the window, her empty gaze fixed on the glass. In truth, he expected no more of her.
Often times, Michael was impatient with his mother, who had been this way since the accident, but today his good mood prevailed. He'd had a glorious time with the neighborhood barflies the previous night. He'd won at shuffleboard and darts, been treated to two beers, and shared in the conversations about the beautiful autumn foliage, the many uses of alcohol in cooking, and the miserable state of the neighborhood's teenagers. Who could argue with that?
"I'm treating myself to scrambled eggs and home fries," Michael informed his mother.
She persisted in her silence.
He shrugged, turned his back on her, and began to prepare his breakfast. He hummed a tune, the words long forgotten, but the melody always teasing his thoughts.
"Yoo-hoo! Michael! Are you in there?"
"Damn." Michael glanced at his mother, but she only returned a vacant stare.
"Michael? I thought I heard your voice. I can't quite climb these steps."
"That is precisely why I chose this home, you old nag," he muttered under his breath, but he went to the door and unlatched the locks, and then stepped out onto the back porch. "Mrs. Perry! How nice to see you so early in the morning."
Mrs. Perry blushed, and then batted her false eyelashes at him. "Oh, I don't want to be a pest, but I made a batch of my homemade cinnamon rolls, and, living alone as I do, you know, of course I can't eat two dozen rolls."
"You shouldn't make so many at one time, Mrs. Perry."
"You know me, Michael. I love to make everything from scratch, and I sometimes get carried away."
Indeed, he did know her. She made her own soap, her own clothes, her own tea, and even dyed her own hair. Unfortunately, she smelled like furniture polish, seemed to be popping out of her sackcloth at every angle, pushed her awful brew on the neighbors, and went about in public with neon orange hair and a permanent orange stain on her forehead that reached all the way down to her eyebrows.
"All right, then," he said kindly. "I'll come over for them."
"Good! And bring your little jar for some more of my delicious tea!"
Michael agreed, stepping back into his own kitchen. "I'm stopping next door, Mother. Do you see, now, why I eat so many peaches?" He rummaged around in the cupboard until he found an empty jar and a matching full jar. Dropping the full jar into his pocket, he made his way over to the other side of his double block.
"I see you brought the jar, what a good boy! Now, help yourself to some tea. Be sure to fill the jar to the op. It always seems as though the canister is still full when you leave, even though I see you taking away a full jar." She bustled away to fill a plate with pastries.
Michael turned his back to her as he carefully filled his empty jar. Then, assuring himself that her attention was diverted, he dumped the contents of his other jar into the canister and mixed it through. Tucking the now empty jar into his pocket, he turned to face her, smiling.
She handed him a plate full of nearly-flat mounds of brown goo swimming in white liquid. "I gave you extra frosting!"
Michael thanked her, made excuses as to why he couldn't stay, and hurried home.
"That woman is an abomination!" he informed his mother as he dumped the sweets into the trash can. He frowned at his motionless mother. "You know, Mother, I envy that you no longer have care in the world!" Michael angrily grabbed a peach from the basket on the counter, ripped the flesh from the pit with his perfectly square front teeth, threw the pit onto a cutting board, and smashed the pit with a hammer. This was one way he dealt with his frustrations.
"Are you going somewhere, Michael?" Mrs. Horowitz called out from her position on her glider.
Michael's stomach muscles clenched.
"Are you lying in wait for me, Mrs. Horowitz?"
"Pardon?"
Michael smiled, changed his direction, and mounted the steps to her front porch. "I said I was on my way to the market!" He had to shout because Mrs. Horowitz's white poodle had begun to jump and yip the moment he had emerged from his own house.
"Shush!" she scolded the dog, who ignored her. She looked back at Michael and shrugged. "What can a mother do?"
Michael kept on smiling. "I see you've got Missy dressed in pink today!" he shouted.
"She's going to a birthday party."
"How nice." Michael wondered how Mrs. Horowitz would maneuver her massive bulk off the porch. Of course, he'd always wondered how she even got out of bed, never mind dressed the crazy little bitch in different outfits every day.
"But I was hoping you'd help me out later today." Her neck flab flopped like a fish out of water whenevr she spoke.
"Oh? What do you need?"
"I feel a draft coming in from my attached garage, and I don't want my Missy to catch her death from cold. Could you possibly put sealant on the window in there?"
"Weather stripping on the garage window? I don't know . . ."
"I know I'm always asking you for these little favors, but . . . shush, Missy! Mama's talking! But you are so handy, Michael, and I was hoping that while you're at it, you could . . . now, Missy! See what happens when you get excited? Mama's gonna' have to put another dress on you. And this is your favorite party dress, too. Now, shush up and let Mama talk. Anyway, Michael, I was hoping you'd see to the lock on the door in there, too. Remember I told you it sometimes sticks?"
"I'd be happy to. In fact, I'll pick up some supplies right now. When are you leaving for the party?"
"Not until six tonight. Well, I'll probably start to leave a little earlier than that. You know how long it takes my old jalopy to warm up."
"I'll have everything ready for five thirty."
"Oh, Michael! You're such a dear. Now, Missy, would you like to wear your overalls and help Michael this afternoon? Don't worry, I'll get you all done up for the party later."
Michael smiled even more broadly, then hopped down the steps. He nearly skipped along the sidewalk as he hummed that same old haunting tune.
"Michael! How 'bout a game of darts?" Fred called.
Michael entered the door cautiously, pausing for just a moment to savor the swell of joy he felt. "I'd love to, Friend." Friend. Friend!
"Here, you go first, my man. Good shot! What aim! You'd make a good hunter."
Michael blanched. He stepped back, his heart beating wildly.
"My turn. Let's see if I can get my little harpoon right into the heart of 'er!"
Michael sat down with a thump.
"Hey, Michael. What is it, pal? You look faint!"
"Listen. Could you not be so macabre?"
"So ma . . . what?"
"Please. Stop speaking in sanguine euphemisms."
"In what?"
"Just no more talk of bloody bodies. Please?"
"Geesh, Michael. I didn't know you was so squeamish."
"It's just that I . . . there was an accident . . . my mother . . . she had a knife and I . . . ." Michael closed his eyes. He would not allow his thoughts to go there.
"Hey, man. I'm sorry. Want to stop the game?"
"Yes. Please. I think I'll join the conversation at the bar." Michael felt Fred's eyes on him as he walked to the bar, so he straightened his shoulders. He climbed onto the only empty barstool and accepted the readily produced glass of his favorite brew.
"They're taking turns buying pitchers for the bar," Stan, the bartender, said nodding toward the others.
Michae nodded toward them while lifting his glass, and then tuned into their excited conversation.
"There was that guy in Texas that grabbed a woman from the car wash," Rita stated.
"Like I says, ain't no place safe," Barb lamented.
"I heard'a one guy who liked to cut off his victims' nipples," Joe contributed.
Michael shuddered. More talk of violence. What was with these peopl tonight? What happened to the palatable conversations of last night?
"There's enough serial killers now to have one in every town!" George declared. "Why, there was one over by the bay that liked to hog-tie girls and cut crosses in their chests."
Michael shivered, swallowing stomach acid. He glanced over at Fred who was leading that behemoth, Gabe, to the dart board.
Joe had another killer to describe. "I heard'a one that liked to tattoo nursery rhyme characters on 'em."
Gabe's first dart struck home. Thump.
Barb chortled. "Here's the worst, fellas. Some guy in England, I think, dressed as a woman, skinned his victims alive, and made soup of their organs!"
Whack. Another dart.
Rita gasped. "And I thought cutting nipples was bad."
Stan weighed into the conversation. "No worse'en the guy upstate that grabbed men and hacked off their penises to eat 'em. Said it raised his libido!"
Whack.
Michael stumbled across the worn wooden floor and into the men's room. He had never been in there before, but instinct led him to the sink where he splashed cold water onto his face. The chill helped him breathe again. How could people talk so casually about brutality?
He reached up and yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, patted his face, and then looked around. Debris from the bar was piled in one corner of the dimly lit room. Narrowing his eyes and taking one step closer, Michael could see that most of the garbage piled in the corner were remnants of a party: crumpled paper napkins in bright colors, torn crepe paper streamers, and cracked plastic cups. Smeone had used paint to write on the cups. He could make out "Good Luck" and "Happy Birthday." Michael vaguely wondered how these trimmings had ended up in the men's room. Surely, the party wasn't held in here! He shook his had to dislodge the nonsense that rattled around inside his mind. That's when he saw it: a rat caught in a trap, its head nearly severed by the snap of a spring-relase snare.
Michael reeled, slamming his back against a wall. Fred's voice came to him out of a whirl of noise. "I didn't know you was so squeamish." How could anyone not react to so much physical violence? Stabbings, beatings, mutilations. These were not things to take in stride! The human body was so beautiful, how could anyone maime it, or even speak of disfiguring it?
He looked again at the rat. Every body deserved respect. Every life deserved to end with its vessel of flesh intact.
Michael's focus blurred, then came back sharply, fixed on a carton with a handle of a spoon sticking out of it. He stepped closer to the counter and turned the box around. Rat poison. Fury ripped through him. There was no reason to use that hideous device when there was poison available! What was wrong with these people?
He slammed his fist on the edge of the sink, causing a plastic cup to jump. Michael read the words painted on it. "Carpe diem."
He drew a deep breath. "I must get hold of myself." He picked up the cup and then told his reflection, "You must be more neighborly!"
When Michael emerged from the men's room a few minutes later, he was already in better spirits. "Barkeep! A pitcher or two, if you please! I wish to personally serve my neighbors! And a glass for you, too, my good man! Yes! Thank you! Present your glasses, lads and ladies! I'll be coming 'round to fill them. Let's just throw caution to the wind!"
Complaining loudly, Michael carelessly adjusted his mother's head so that her absent eyes might get a btter view of the softly falling snow. His patience with her was growing thin.
"Mother, how long, do you think, does it take a car to run out of gas? A big old one, like our neighbor's?"
His mother gave no answer, no hint of comprehension.
His annoyance grew. "Is there absolutely nothing in that empty head of yours?"
She showed no sign of life.
Exasperated, Michael threw up his hands and stomped across the kitchen. "I'm making lunch," he announced. "Fish sticks, I guess. With applesauce." He banged around the cupboards, pulling out a cookie sheet, dumping the frozen fish onto it. He ate applesauce right from the jar while the fish baked. The smell of the fish and the cool sweetness of the applesauce mollified him.
"Sorry I'm so impatient with you, Mother. It's just that sometimes, well, I wish I'd get more from you than that hollowed-eyed blank expression." He sighed. "I promise to be more patient. Would you like me to adjust you better?"
As he moved toward her, he heard a door bang. He frowned.
"It's been so quiet here all week. I can't begin to explain how happy I've been. No yapping dogs, no busybodies with homemade crap to thrust upon me, no brawls spilling out from the corner bar. It's been heaven on earth!"
A woman started screaming.
Michael glanced out the window, and groaned. "That miserable wretch's daughter is making a racket next door, Mother. Our wonderful peace and quiet is destroyed." He sighed heavily. "We'll have to move again, Mother, but don't you worry. I promise that I will find us a place to live where the neighbors aren't quirky and my friends are never macabre. I'll find a neighborhood where everyone is normal."
Quietly, efficiently, Michael retrieved the old, hard box-like suitcase from the closet, and carefully, lovingly, packed up his mother, one bone at a time.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Getting started again
By the time I turned 7 years of age, I knew I would be a writer when I grew up. I'll turn 50 in 2010, so I guess it's time to grow up.
Actually, I finally find myself with time to write as my son, Frank, is off to law school and my daughter, Gina, is a freshman in college.
Over the years, I did write, but my writing consisted of little books about using the potty for my kids, a monthly newsletter and press releases for the PTA and the high school Drama Club, and entries into various poetry and short story competitions.
I always defined "being a writer" as writing something that other people read. My children read my little books written for them, strangers read my press releases for information, and judges read my entries. Of course the kids read those books and showed enthusiasm. I controlled the candy jar. Of course the public read my announcements. Those gems were read by parents asking "When and where is that play my kid is performing in?" But the thrill came from those judges who said, "This one's a winner."
Still, I want the thrill of discovering that a complete stranger has read my writing just for the pleasure of reading it. And here is this wonderful thing called "Blogging." Hope you like what you read here as I start writing stories again.
"Empty Nest" photograph courtesy of Tyrrell Photographic Collection, Powerhouse Museum.
Actually, I finally find myself with time to write as my son, Frank, is off to law school and my daughter, Gina, is a freshman in college.
Over the years, I did write, but my writing consisted of little books about using the potty for my kids, a monthly newsletter and press releases for the PTA and the high school Drama Club, and entries into various poetry and short story competitions.
I always defined "being a writer" as writing something that other people read. My children read my little books written for them, strangers read my press releases for information, and judges read my entries. Of course the kids read those books and showed enthusiasm. I controlled the candy jar. Of course the public read my announcements. Those gems were read by parents asking "When and where is that play my kid is performing in?" But the thrill came from those judges who said, "This one's a winner."
Still, I want the thrill of discovering that a complete stranger has read my writing just for the pleasure of reading it. And here is this wonderful thing called "Blogging." Hope you like what you read here as I start writing stories again.
"Empty Nest" photograph courtesy of Tyrrell Photographic Collection, Powerhouse Museum.
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