13 Stories

It’s Later than you Think

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 03:57:16 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

I am a procrastinator by nature. I tend to do things at the last moment. Most of the time it works pretty well for me but sometimes…

Last weekend I was busy. We had a party for my son’s birthday and by the time I thought of the blog post, it was Friday night. I vowed that this week would be different. Yet here it is quarter to midnight and I haven’t written anything yet. Maybe this is why I haven’t had a major publishing success?

Even so, I’m too persistent (too stupid?) to quit. I keep trying.

It’s time to go back to the drawing board. I am going to throw out everything I’ve already done and begin at the beginning with a new idea, a new story, and maybe, finally, a success.

They say that one of the definitions of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. Maybe that is what I’ve been doing. I have about half a dozen different story ideas and I keep trying to redo them and get a bestseller out of it. Maybe I’m just getting bored with my own stories. And, if I’m bored, my readers will be as well. Time to start fresh.

So…

Tonight’s post is going to be short and sweet. I’ve got a book to write.

See you next week…

What did I Say?

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 03:55:44 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

Take a look at the following short exchange and see if you can tell me what’s wrong with it:

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you,” I replied.

“What is new?” said my boss, George Newbinging.

“Nothing. How was your weekend?”

“Great,” he replied. “How are the kids?”

“Oh, same old, same old,” I said.

So, what do you think? Besides being boring as hell, this little dialog does none of the jobs that dialog is supposed to do within a story. Dialogue can do any or all of the following:

advance the plot
tell us about the characters
heighten the conflict
provide information the viewpoint character might not otherwise know

I suppose I could make a case for increased tension if the employee had done something terrible, say screwed up some paperwork or lost an important order. Then the very fact that the boss doesn’t say anything about the incident could be a means to heighten the tension. Otherwise? Not so much.

While people exchange comments like the above every day in real life, they can’t afford to do the same in fiction. Dialogue in fiction must perform at least one of the functions I listed above.

Advance the Plot

Take a look at this short exchange:

“You must be my new master.” The man looked around and sighed. “What year is it?”

“Two thousand and nine,” Ken replied. He tried to get up but he couldn’t move.

“Only eight years this time,” said the man shaking his head. Then he bowed low. “I am a jinni and you are my master. What is thy first wish?”

Now Ken was glad he hadn’t run away. “How many do I get?”

“Three wishes are standard. Everybody knows that. ”

“Finally something is going my way,” said Ken.

In just a few lines we’ve managed to convey the information that Ken has found a jinni and that he is entitled to three wishes in a more entertaining way that “Ken found a jinni and it told him that he was entitled to three wishes.” The narrative version might use less words but the version with dialogue is more interesting.

Tell us About the Characters

If you are doing your job right, the characters in your stories each have their own mannerisms in speech and action. For example:

“Yo, man, how’s it hangin’?”

“Good morning, my dear fellow, how is the world treating you on this fine day?”

Obviously there are differences between these two characters’ speech patterns. The informality of the first speech (yeah, I know it sounds corny) might indicate a lower level of education or it might indicate someone who is putting on a personality that isn’t really his own. Which it is depends on the context of the story of course.

Heighten the Conflict

Dialogue is the perfect way to heighten conflict. Don’t tell us that two characters are angry at each other. Show it in the way that they speak. Instead of:

Mom was angry.

Have Mom show us herself like this:

“Matthew Denis Smith, what in the wide world do you think you are doing?”

No question that Mom is a little bit annoyed now, is there?

Provide Information

Dialogue can give us information that we might not be able to get any other way. For instance, if a story is told from the point of view of a character that was not a witness to something that needs to be presented, a character that did see the incident can tell the viewpoint character about it in a much more interesting way than, “Later I found out, blah, blah, blah.”

I find dialogue is more fun to write than narrative too. But that’s just icing on the cake, so to speak.

A Matter of Character

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 03:51:23 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

I went to a free course at the Gotham Writers Workshop on Wednesday night. It was worth the extra effort that I had to make to attend. It really was a bit of a hardship because the class ended at 8pm so I had to take the 9:58pm train home. That meant that I didn’t get home until 12:30am. How easy is it to get home and go to sleep right away? I can’t do it. By the time I was in bed and falling asleep, it was nearly 2am. Needless to say I was a bit tired the next day, although it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe the high I got from going to the class is what kept me going the next day.

It was a high. The funny thing is that I didn’t really hear anything I didn’t already know, but hearing it made me anxious to apply the information myself. What we talked about was character. We talked about how you go about creating characters that have depth. Really? Everybody knows that.

Then we were given ten minutes to describe a character. It could be someone you know or someone with whom you are barely acquainted. I thought I had this one down pat. I started off and (I thought) was going along great.

After a second little exercise where we were to show the character eating breakfast, the teacher asked some of us to volunteer to read what we had written. That was when I realized what a poor job I was doing. The two students who ready their breakfast scenes had basically written what could have been the beginning of excellent stories. I almost had the feeling that they were ringers, professional writers invited to the class to make the rest of us realize how much we needed to take the full, paid-for 10-week course.

I tried to put my failure down to the fact that I don’t think quickly, that if I had more time I would have done a better job. I even blamed the fact that I was writing with a pen instead of a keyboard.The truth is that most of my characters are about as three-dimensional as paper dolls. I have known for some time that my fiction was missing something and i think this is it. I don’t think I really understood what it meant to create three-dimensional characters.

My characters often have desires, quirks, I try to make their speech patterns enough different so that you can recognize them from their words. But, when it comes right down to it, they’re still boring, often nothing more than a collection of quirks.

Since I was eliminated early (for the second month in a row!) from the monthly writing competition at Bridget’s Flame so I’ve got time to work on my characterization skills before the next competition begins. So this is what I am going to do:

I am going to create a character by giving a physical description.
Then I will write about the person’s past.
I will look at his or her hopes and desires.
Finally I will describe the person’s deepest, darkest secrets.
Once all of that has been done, I will place the character in a situation and see if all that preparation will give me a better story and a more interesting protagonist.

It’s worth a try. If you want to try it too, go ahead. If you end up with something you want to share, put a snippet or two in your comments to this entry. I’d be interested to see what you come up with. My results? See you next Saturday.

Brigit's Flame September 2009 Week Two - ""

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 21:32:14 GMT

The prompt for this week was "gear." Not much to say about the story here except that I had a lot of trouble deciding how to punctuate the story within the story. I think that the proper thing to do is use open quotes for each paragrap and only add closing quotation marks at the end of the story so that is what I have done. I would love to hear what others do under those circumstances.

Without further ado, here is my story...

"Simon Says"

Margaret and her brother, Simon, sat on the front porch of farmhouse where Margaret lived with her husband and children. Croplands stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. Tall corn stalks swayed under the late afternoon sun as her husband supervised the harvesters in their labors. Margaret missed city life and was happy to see her brother, a Dragon Knight, lately come from the capital for a visit.

As they sat, sipping apple juice that had been chilled in the well, they talked lazily about the latest gossip from court. Suddenly, Celia, Margaret's oldest daughter, burst out from between the rows of corn. She came up the front steps and was about to go inside when Simon called her over. He hugged her close and then held her at arms length, examining her. "Well, well, Celia, you've grown so that I hardly recognize you."

Simon was alarmed to see that tears streamed down Margaret's face. Her cheeks were red and her lips were tightly clenched as though she was trying not to cry out loud. "Why what is the matter?"

"Don't want to be a girl no more," said Celia. She scrubbed at her face. "Rob says that girls don't get to go to school and they don't get to be anything but mommies."

"That's not true, Celia," said Simon. "Girls can do lots of things."

"But--but, Rob said that boys don't hav' ta be nice to girls."

"Why that little brat," cried Margaret. She stood up and said, "I am going to remind him of how--

Simon held up on hand in a stopping motion and Margaret sat back down. "Even if you could change," he said, "why would you want to be a boy?"

"Cause boys are more 'portant than girls."

"Nonsense," said Simon. "Let me tell you a story and then you can tell me if you still want to be a boy." He leaned forward in his chair and took a long sip of his juice. "A long time ago, when Sir George, the first Master of my order, still walked amongst us, there came a day when he visited the village of Droflim."

"He was right near here?" said Margaret.

"Yes, he was here for some time before he went to the capitol and founded the order of the Dragon." Then he turned back to Celia and continued, "On that day, many, many years ago, he entered the village square and was shocked to see a man beating a woman who crouched on the ground, covering her head with her arms.

"He approached the scene and said to the people who crowded around the two, 'Why do none of you stop that man?'

"There was no answer at first, but then one of the men said, 'Why should we stop him? That is his wife.'

"'That does not make it right,' said Sir George.

"He approached the man and, just as he pulled back his arm to strike the woman again, Sir George grabbed him by the wrist and stopped him. 'How can you be so stupid?' he asked the man.

"The man stared at Sir George, obviously angry. He finally replied, 'What is stupid? She will not do as I say so I must teach her to behave.'

"'I say that you are stupid and I will show you how. But first, how do you make your living?'

"'I am a miller,' said the man.

"'Then you are familiar with the small gear that transfers the motion of the oxen to the plate that grinds the grain.'

"'Yes, of course,' the man replied.

"Would you smash that gear?'

"'No.'

"'And why not?'

"'It would be stupid. If I broke that gear, the mill wouldn't work.'

"'Exactly. And that is why you should not beat your wife,' concluded Sir George. 'You see, your wife is like that gear. It is she that is at the center of the family; she who makes things work within the home and without it. Break her, physically or mentally, and your home will no longer work.'

"As the man stared, Sir George reached down and helped the woman to her feet. Leaning closer to her, he said, 'If I were you, I would leave this fool and find a man who already understands your value.'"

"Did she leave her husband?" Celia asked. She stood with one hand on Simon's shoulder, leaning close so as not to miss one word of his story.

"The tale does not say," he said. "It ends there. But we all know that it is true that a wife is the heart of a home. Do you disagree?"

Celia shook her head.

"Do you still wish you were not a girl?"

As she opened her mouth to reply, her brother, Rob, came running out of the fields and onto the porch. He screamed with delight when he saw his uncle and threw himself at the man to hug him.

Rob glanced at this sister and saw the tear stains on her now smiling face. He looked from his mother to his uncle, eyes wide, as though waiting for a punishment he was sure would come.

"Rob, who told you that girls were less important than boys?"

"The overseer's son, Stefan," he said. "Isn't he right?"

"Take a look at your mother, children," said Simon. "Do you think your home would be a nice place to be if she wasn't here?" When they both shook their heads, Simon asked again, "Do you still wish you weren't a girl, Celia?"

"No, uncle." She turned to her brother with a mischievous grin and said, "Don't you wish you were a girl?"

Brigit's Flame September 2009 Week One - "In the Stars"

Sun, 06 Sep 2009 21:13:34 GMT

The prompt for this week was "parasite." Speaking of "in the start" the only mood that the editor would allow me to select was "accomplished" when I would actually have seloected "happy."

Let's see if you can find the parasite in this little tale:

In the Stars

"Call me. I can help."

Martin Wayne, the tall, handsome host of "In the Stars," looked soulfully into the camera. He radiated confidence and compassion as the 800 numbers flashed across the screen under his chin.

Suddenly he said, "Susan in Carpenter's Point, I'm sorry, but you're right, he is cheating. I have good news though, so call me."

"Must be a put-up job," Susan muttered. "They probably saw the engagement notice in the paper. Don't know why I watch this show anyway." She turned off the television. as Jack, her fiancé, burst through the door waving a bunch of red roses.

"I brought you one rose for each hour of the day I spend thinking about you." He paused and then continued helpfully, "There are two dozen."

Susan found this speech annoying rather than romantic. Somehow, Jack's behavior struck her more and more often as phony instead of endearing. "I just can't imagine spending the rest of my life listening to speeches like that," she thought.

Jack was distracted and barely heard anything she said. He ate quickly. As she was serving the coffee, he said, "Did you get that money?"

"I did," she replied. "But, Jack, are you sure this is a good investment?"

"Of course," he replied. "Don't you trust me?"

"The money should be in my account tomorrow," she said.

He scribbled his account number on the back of an envelope. "Got to work late tomorrow," he said. "Just transfer the money to this account."

He left without kissing her goodbye.

The next night, she lay in bed, watching the late-night episode of "In the Stars" opened. "We have a great show for you tonight." He gestured at the audience. "We've got Cathy from Syracuse, New York, George from Miami, Florida, and Paul from Everett, Washington." The camera turned to show the surprised faces of Cathy, George, and Paul.

As the music swelled to a crescendo, Martin turned to the audience and said, "Susan, I'm disappointed that you didn't call me." He paused. Then looked directly into Susan's eyes and said, "Don't worry, Susan, it's not a scam"

As though in a trance, Susan leaned over and picked up the phone. When she heard Martin's voice, she said, "Where did you get my name? Why do you want to talk to me?"

"Let me explain how this is going to work," he said. "I will explain who you are, that you are the one I talked to yesterday, and then I will explain everything."

Susan reached behind herself and plumped up the pillows. She lay quietly, listening to the sounds in the studio. Then she heard the fanfare, followed by Martin's voice, "I've got something special for you. For those of you who don't know the story, Susan's name came to me yesterday as I was closing out the afternoon episode. I told her something that she probably didn't want to hear, and asked her to call me.

"Susan, tell the audience what I told you yesterday."

"You said my fiancé had been cheating on me." She stumbled over the words, her face flaming, despite the fact that the audience couldn't see her.

"Was I right?"

"I don't know. I find it hard to believe."

"He brought you flowers, didn't he?" After a pause, he said, "Do you know anybody who wears perfume that smells like roses?"

As she opened her mouth to deny it, she heard Kathleen's, voice in her head saying, "Yes, it is nice isn't it? Essence of roses."

"Well..."

"That's who he's seeing. Call her. He's there now."

"But he's working late."

"Go ahead and call," Martin said. "Then call us back."

Feeling numb, Susan hung up the phone and dialed Kathleen's number. The phone rang two times, three, four, then Kathleen answered.

"Kathleen? Sorry to bother you so late. I'm looking for Jack and someone said he was at your house."

After an eternity, Kathleen said, "Why would he be here?"

Susan heard a man's voice whispering and then the sound was muffled as an indistinct, but obviously heated, argument ensued.

"Susan, what made you think I'd be here?"

"Why are you there, Jack?"

"I asked you a question. Now please answer me. What made you call here looking for me? Have you had me followed? Don't you trust me?"

"I trusted you one hundred percent until yesterday, Jack." Her heart began to pound. Her voice sounded funny in her own ears.

"Susan—"

She slammed the receiver down, breaking off Jack's protest mid-sentence. She sat, frozen with disbelief, for several heartbeats, and then burst into tears. Hands shaking, she dialed the television show.

The staff person who answered told her that Martin would be with her shortly. Gradually her tears subsided and her breathing returned to normal. After another click, she heard Martin's voice. "Was I right?"

"Yes. He was there."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could have been wrong."

"How did you know?"

"The same way I knew that you were watching yesterday afternoon, not watching earlier today and that you are watching now." Susan heard the audience gasp.

She glanced at the screen in time to see a close-up of Martin's face. Either he was a really good actor or he really sympathized. She suddenly became aware that he had the most amazing green eyes she had ever seen.

"You said you had good news for me too. What is it?"

"I'm sure you will find this unbelievable as all the rest of it but, when I heard your voice a little while ago, I realized that you are my soul mate." The audience gasped again. Before Susan could answer, Martin continued, "I won't rush you. Let's get to know each other but I ask you to start by having dinner with me tomorrow night."

"I might as well," she thought. "What do I have to lose?"

"Yes," she said aloud.

Martin called her after the show was over and they talked for hours. The last thing he said as he wished her goodnight was, "As sorry I am about Jack, I'm glad you called. Our meeting was foretold in the stars."

Imitation can be More than Flattery

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 03:40:52 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

When learning to paint, beginners often learn by copying the work of the great masters. Go to any art museum and you are bound to see at least one student sitting in front of a great canvas, sketching different portions of the work and, therefore, learning how to make a few lines and dots appear to have substance.

The technique I am about to describe is similar. I have used it several times more or less successfully and I have always learned something useful in the process. The results you achieve will vary and you may end up with something that you can’t sell because it is too close to the original. On the other hand, you may end up with something totally new. Therefore, this technique is probably more useful for short stories than for longer pieces because only a masochist would write fifty thousand or more words knowing that there is a good chance the final product can’t be sold.

Pick a story you like. Read it casually. Then read it again. Study it. Keep reading until you can state the plot in a single sentence. Identify the protagonist, the antagonist, and any other important characters. Then make a list of the scenes. There may be anywhere from one or two to a dozen or so scenes in a short story. Make a list. Record everything on paper or in a computer file and then go away and do something else for a few days.

Now it is time to write your own story. Don’t try to remember the exact wording of the original; just read over your notes and write the story step by step according to the blueprint you have created. You may want to use a similar voice or style just for fun, but the important thing here is to write the story.

The last step is to compare your story to the original. Did your version progress at the same speed? Did you alter the pace, the voice, or the ending? If you did make changes, does your story please you as much as the original? If so, you have won big time. If not, write it off as a learning experience.

What now? Pick another story and do the same thing or, and this is even more valuable, wait a few days and write another story from the same notes. Whatever you do, make this exercise your own and let me know how it worked for you.

By the way, I came up with this idea several years ago when I was reading Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography. He describes having learned to write newspaper stories by reading existing stories, reducing them to a single sentence, and after giving himself enough time to forget the original, writing his own version. At that point, although I had started a lot of stories, I hadn’t ever finished one. This exercise was, for me, the way to a complete story. I hope it does something as good for you.

Creature of Habit? Shake it Up!

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 15:13:26 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

Is it Saturday already? No?

Actually, today is Sunday and I messed up. Hence the title of this week’s post. If you are shaking your head in confusion at this point I don’t blame you. Let me explain…

Normally I work at home on Friday. My boss is away on vacation this week. She is out of reach by phone or email. I had to be in the office on Friday in case something happened that couldn’t be managed long distance. That little change in my routine threw off everything. To make matters worse, I took two days off earlier in the week to visit with friends from Seattle. I have absolutely no sense of what day it really is.

At least half a dozen times yesterday I thought, “It’s Saturday, I have to write my post.” Then I promptly became involved in programming, writing, or any number of less productive things (like farming on the Facebook app Farmville) and forgot all about it. Don’t worry, it’s just a minor setback. We’ll be back on track next week.

This little error made me think, however, about how much of our lives we spend doing things without thinking about them. Sometimes this is good. For example, the fact that you drive to work the same way every day (if you are unlucky enough to have to drive) means that you don’t have to concentrate to hard on the how of getting to work. You know where to turn, where the traffic lights are and you automatically slow down for the spot where the policeman always hides behind the billboard to catch speeders.

On the other hand, when there is construction along the way, it is extremely difficult to change the route, even if by going a different way you could avoid the delay. We all face this trade-off between habit and thought. And, unfortunately, advertisers are counting on habit winning the battle. This isn’t new. As long as there has been advertising, advertisers have counted on the fact that, once they have won you over, they’ve got you for life. Once they have convinced you to buy, they want you to continue to buy automatically. They don’t want you to think about it.

This type of message is usually reasonably subtle but some aren’t. Lately WalMart has been running an ad on television lately where a woman says (as well as I can remember it), “Luckily WalMart checks the prices of all its competitors so I don’t have to.”

They’re counting on you to do the same. They want you to assume that the WalMart price is the best price, turn on the automatic pilot and shop at WalMart for everything. With our economy in the shape it is, we can’t afford to do that anymore. We have to check out the prices, even when it takes longer. Don’t assume that anybody is the best. Check it out.

By the way, I am not advocating that you not shop at WalMart, I am just saying that you need to compare before you buy.

Case in point I recently bought a new computer. Before I did, I went on the Internet and looked at Best Buy, WalMart, Tiger Direct, and Sam’s Club. I found what I thought would be a good deal at Best Buy. Then I hit the stores.

My husband said, “You should look at Staples too, while we’re out.” I walked in and found that they were having a sale. For less than the price Best Buy wanted, I was able to get a computer with everything the Best Buy computer had plus it had a larger hard drive and for just $20 more than the 2-year warranty, I was able to get a four-year waranty that covered parts, labor, and surge damage.

I nearly bought it on the spot. Then I looked at my husband and I realized that he was going to hold me to my promise to look at Sam’s Club, WalMart, and Best Buy as well. So we did.

Then we went back to Staples and purchased the computer I wanted, confident in the knowledge that we had gotten the best possible deal. We compared features, prices, and service and settled on the best computer for the least money. I ended up saving over $100 and got a more powerful computer than I would have if I had assumed that Best Buy (or WaloMart or Sam’s Club) had the best quality and price.

Will I buy my next computer from Staples? Maybe. If they still have the best computer for the best price, of course. But I am not going to do it out of habit.

On the PATH

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 04:28:22 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

Our parents taught us and we teach our children that if you are nice to others and fair in your dealings, others will be nice and fair to you. If you want to find a place where this is clearly not true, all you need to do is ride mass transit. Take a look at the PATH or the New Yorki City Subway. When those doors whoosh open, there is a general stampede for a seat such that anyone who is polite (doesn’t push and shove) is guaranteed to be standing.

There are signs that say, “Please give this seat to the elderly or infirm.” How old is elderly? If you are 17 and you see someone who looks as though they must be in their 60s, is that “old” enough? Apparently not. I have seen men and women in their twenties and thirties watch an octogenarian stand holding on to the pole for dear life. Have I given up my seat? I hardly ever have one but I have given my seat up more than once to people who seemed more needy than I.

There are other things too…

Most cars have a sign that says, no eating, drinking, smoking or open food containers. More than once I’ve seen people sit directly across from one of those signs while eating a McDonald’s value meal or drinking a Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. Of course, what doesn’t occur to these people who feel they “have the right” to eat and drink whenever and wherever they wish is that it doesn’t take much of a jolt to make them drop food and/or beverages.

I mean, if you spill your coffee down my back in the morning, are you prepared to pay to have my clothing cleaned or to replace a completely destroyed garment? In my case, a disaster like that would mean either buying new clothes or sitting around in wet, smelly clothes all day long.

And there are even smaller things. If you are carrying a huge suitcase, backpack, or briefcase is it that difficult to figure out that the people around you are likely to be hit by it if you don’t pay attention when you move around? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been hit in the face by a tall person’s backpack.

Then there’s my pet peeve. I’m short–barely five feet tall–and that means danger in a crowded car. Does it really take a genius to figure out that the small person in front of you might not want to have their nose jammed into your armpit? Or that if the paper you are holding at reading distance might be unpleasantly close to someone who doesn’t have room to back up? Would it really be so terrible if you couldn’t read the paper for one day?

So much of what I’m complaining about can be prevented with a little bit of consideration for the world around you but so many people are so self-absorbed that they seem completely unaware of anyone else.

We need not spend all of our time saying, “After you…”

“No, after you…”

All we need to do is take five seconds to look around and think, just a little bit, about how much more smoothly and pleasantly the world would work with just a touch of consideration. Just that little change would put us on the path to a much nicer world.

Brigit's Flame August 2009 Week Two - "Ghost Story"

Sat, 15 Aug 2009 18:51:51 GMT

The prompt for this week is Brave and Crazy. Here is my take on the prompt: This week's story is shorter than last, only 1,040 words.

Ghost Story

Gabriella Wilson, Gaby to her friends, leaned closer to the campfire. The last of the light was gone from the sky. Gaby and five of her closest friends sat around the camp fire swapping ghost stories. The small circle of sky overhead was satiny black and thick with stars. It looked as though a drunken decorator had thrown hands full of sequins against satin sheets.

It was getting cold. The wind had picked up around sunset and the six girls huddled closer and closer to the warmth of the fire. Even the trees around the clearing seemed to be leaning forward to share the comfort, rubbing their branches together as though to warm them. A young woman came out of the trees and approached the fire. "May I join you?"

When nobody protested, Gaby said, "I suppose so. We've been telling ghost stories but they've heard most of mine already." This was greeted by shouts of laughter and a couple murmured comments that Gaby couldn't quite catch. "I can always use some new blood." She leered in the stranger's direction.

As the giggles, punctuated by occasional little screams of fright, died down, Gaby looked around the group. She waited patiently for them to stop and give her their full attention, and then she started her story.

“I've saved the best story for last," she said with a grin. "Did you know that these very woods are haunted?”

She looked at each of her friends in turn, and then paused again. Her friends’ surreptitious glances into the darkened woods were gratifying. This story would work so much better out here than it would in a warm, cozy room. “It’s true," she continued. "Many years ago, a girl named Mary came here with some friends on a camping trip.

“From what I understand, she and her friends camped very near to here, maybe right where we are now.” Tracy, Gaby’s best friend, shifted uncomfortably and glanced over her shoulder into the darkness behind her.

“They had a lot of fun during the day, just like we did today. The weather was clear and warm, but shortly after dark, it began to rain. Mary and her friends quickly set up their tents and crawled into their sleeping bags.

“Tired from the day’s activities, they were soon asleep. Mary was normally a sound sleeper, but several hours later, something woke her up. Striking a match, she looked at her watch and saw that it was only minutes before midnight. When she glanced over at her friend’s sleeping bag, she saw it was empty. Thinking that was what had awakened her, she rolled over to go back to sleep. Just as she was dozing off, she heard a scream from beyond the edge of the clearing.

“When Mary finally managed to disentangle herself from her sleeping bag and crawled out of the tent, she realized that it would be stupid for her to go into the woods alone to try and help her friend. If she had been attacked, Mary might be the next victim. So, she opened the flap to the boys’ tent, intending to get them to help her find her friend.

“The tent was empty. With a sinking feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach, Mary realized that she was alone in the middle of the woods.

Gaby reached down and picked up the can of soda at her side. She took a long sip, then put it down again and looked around the circle. The girls stared at her, their eyes wide. They had all moved closer to Gaby and sat leaning forward, waiting anxiously for her to continue.

A draft of air skimmed icy fingers up Gaby’s spine and she shivered. She glanced up and saw that the sky was no longer as clear as it had been when she started her story. Stringy bits of cloud streamed across the face of the moon, obscuring its light. The wind was picking up. She glanced at the stranger who sat staring at her with rapt attention.

“Mary was completely alone," she continued, and the stranger nodded in agreement. "There was no sign of her friends anywhere. She looked around the clearing where they had made their camp, but there was no sign of a struggle. Despite the fact that the ground was muddy, she couldn’t even find footprints from anybody but herself. If her friends had left the clearing, voluntarily or otherwise, they had done it without their feet touching the ground.

“Mary became increasingly frantic. She spent the rest of the night trying to find her friends. She was afraid to stray too far from the clearing, but she walking in increasingly larger circles around the ring of trees, calling the names of her friends every few seconds.

“In the morning, she hiked out of the woods. The police gathered a search party and this entire area was searched for days, but no sign of the three friends who had set out with Mary was ever found."

"Wow, she was brave," said Tracy. "I would have hidden in my sleeping bag until daylight."

“Poor Mary; she was brave all right, but the shock must have driven her slightly mad. Every year on the anniversary of her friends’ disappearance, she returned to the woods and spent the night alone, searching for them. In the late sixties, when she was nearly seventy years old, she died right here in the woods.

“It took several weeks before the body was found by some campers. Her will stated that her last wish was to have her body cremated and her ashes scattered in these woods, so she could be with the friends she had lost so many years before.

With one last look around, Gaby said, “They say she was cremated and her ashes were spread on the exact spot where her body was found.”

"Good story," said the stranger. "But the truth is, they didn't cremate my body. They buried me right over there," she pointed to a large tree on the edge of the clearing, "under that tree."

Gaby and her friends watched, horrified, as the stranger faded to invisibility and the heavens opened to soak them all with icy rainwater.

Brigit's Flame August 2009, Week One - Of Smoke and Mirrors

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 14:41:18 GMT

"Another rejection," I said as I pulled it from the tiny metal mailbox. It was certainly fat enough. I've been writing stories for--well, let's just say that I've been writing stories since I was old enough to draw pictures. I'm into Middle Earth, Oz, and the Disc World. Oh, and don't forget Alice. I certainly shouldn't have. After years of writing stories, I had reached the point of getting personalized rejections but I was becoming tired of the whole process of writing stories, sending them out, and then filing yet another reply that contained some variation of, "Nice story, unfortunately I can't use it."

I nearly tossed the envelope on top of the junk mail pile and forgot about it but on some impulse I still can't explain, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a cover letter, a contract, and a check--a check! I called my best friend, Margery, and shouted into the phone. "I did it--"

"Good for you," she answered. "You've been a little on the tense side lately. When did Paul come home?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, that's not what I meant! I made a sale--for money--" I took a deep breath. "I'm a real writer now."

"So? When can you be here? We have got to celebrate!"

In the twenty-five minutes it took me to get from my house to hers, she had called all of our friends. We drank Cosmopolitans, ate chips and salsa, and just generally partied.

After everybody else had left, Margery brought out a leather-covered box about the size of a cigar box. She opened it and pulled out a joint. Pot, Mary Jane, weed, whatever you want to call it, this stuff was the best and Margery didn't share it with just anybody.

"I know," she said when she saw the look on my face. "You don't usually smoke, but today is a special day."

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the broken-down flowered couch in her living room and staring at the huge mirror over the fireplace, watching the thin plume of smoke rising from the joint in my hand. It proves just how high I was that when my reflection waved at me I didn't scream and run out of the room. I looked down at my own hand where it was resting on my knee. Had it moved? I looked from one to the other, from the real me, the body that I inhabit, to my reflection. My reflection was now making a "come here" gesture.

As I moved closer, the other me nodded with encouragement. I looked over at Margery. She had dozed off, leaning against the footstool. Next to her on the floor, her fat, black cat watched me intently with its mint green eyes. I turned back and touched the mirror. The glass didn't feel right. Instead of cold, slick, and solid it felt warm, soft, and slightly sticky. I pushed against it and the next thing I knew, I lost my balance and fell forward.

I heard a soft noise that reminded me of the sound gauze bandages make when you rip them. Then I was standing on the other side of the mirror, watching the mirror-me walk across the room and drop onto the soft pillows of the couch where she leaned back and took a huge drag on the joint.

I know. I don't believe in that kind of crap either.

I remember reading Through the Looking Glass when I was a little girl. Afterwards, I had spent a lot of time trying to peer into the world behind the glass. But I never really believed that it was possible to go through. I've been wrong about many things in my life.

I did what anybody would try to do in my situation. I tried to get back through the mirror. From this side, the glass felt like--glass. Whatever had happened to facilitate my passage had stopped happening. I was on the other side to stay--at least for now.

I made a circuit of the room. The furniture, the arrangement of the room, everything in the room around me was a reversed image of the room on the other side of the glass. At least, the inanimate objects were the same. I was the only living creature in the room. Both Margery and the cat were gone.

I looked through the glass again. Except that I no longer had a reflection in the normal sense, everything on the other side of the glass was exactly as I had left it. Margery still drowsed against the footstool, the cat still curled on the floor next to her. Mirror-me was still slumped on the couch asleep or unconscious. The only difference that I could see was that the cat, instead of staring at the person on the couch was now staring directly into the mirror.

I knocked on the glass. Maybe I could wake up Margery. If I could make her realize that something was wrong, maybe she could help me. When there was no response from my friend, I knocked again. I waved, I banged on the glass with my fists, and then I noticed something. I tried to yell. And that was when I began to panic. There was no sound.

I suppose, in a weird way that made sense. When you look in a mirror, you see images but there is never any sound from the reversed world on the other side of the glass. I mean, if you stood in front of a mirror and spoke, your mirror image imitated your motions, but you wouldn't hear an echo.

I became obsessed with the idea that if I could find Margery on this side of the mirror that maybe she could help me find a way back. I searched the house from basement to attic but I was the only living occupant. Everything else about the house was a perfect duplicate of the world from which I had come but I was still the only living inhabitant.

Dreams can sometimes move you from place to place in a heartbeat. It was just like that. One minute I was in the mirror equivalent of Margery's house, the next I was standing in front of my own front door, key in hand. I had no memory of driving home but my car was in its accustomed place in my driveway. It was dark outside and none of the houses on either side of me showed any light.

I opened the door, surprised that my key worked, and went inside. My house was as silent as Margery's had been. No joyous barking greeted me.

"Rick," I cried. There was no sound.

I took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. My office, just as messy on this side of the mirror as on the other, was not exactly like the original. The shelf above my computer monitor contained a row of paperback books. In my world, a row of dragons, fairies, and other magical creatures marched across that shelf. I called it my inspiration shelf. I looked more closely and had to acknowledge that the books would have provided me more inspiration than any plastic dragon. The reversed text on the books was just like what Alice had found on her trip through the looking glass. I could still make out the author's name on the books--on all of them--was my name. These were my books. Maybe I didn't want to go home after all.

I searched the rest of the house.

That my husband wasn't there didn't worry me. He was out of town on business but the dog should have been there. My dog, Rick, always greeted me at the door with ecstatic barking, wagging his whole body with excitement. He was gone and might never have existed. There was nothing left to mark his existence, not even a dog dish in the kitchen.

The many photographs that lined the walls of our home were there but instead of friends and family members, the photographs showed empty rooms and landscapes. I looked outside. We live on a main street and there was normally a steady stream of traffic going in both directions but after five minutes of watching I didn't see a single vehicle.

I went into my bedroom and looked in the closet. My clothes hung neatly on the left side of the closet but the right side was empty. The mirror over my dresser showed my room, exactly as it always did. Well, not exactly. I could see my husband's sleeping form on the bed in the mirror but not myself. Somehow, I was not surprised to see that there was nobody on the bed on this side of the mirror. I began to pound on the mirror, using both hands.

This time the glass did what glass usually does if you pound on it--it shattered. Pieces of glass cut into the sides of my fists and shards of glass and blood splattered everywhere. There was nothing behind the glass but a blank wall. What had I been expecting?

I cleaned and bandaged my hands, all the time watching in the mirror above the sink as my life continued on the other side of the mirror without me. Maybe I am sleeping, I thought. I pinched myself. Nothing changed.

Let's see, I thought. I can't get through the mirror, I can't wake myself up, maybe I need to go to sleep.

I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep. It didn't take long. I woke up early the next morning; the sun had barely risen over the horizon. Broken shards of glass were scattered across the top of my dresser, my hands were bandaged, and I was still alone. I picked up the telephone. I don't know who I thought I was going to call but there was no dial tone.

I had to do something, didn't I? I sat down in front of my computer and gave the mouse a slight push to wake it up. When the screen cleared, opened Microsoft Word, and started to type. It took a bit of getting used to because the type was backwards, but after a bit I got into the story and stopped looking at the screen.

At first, I didn't try to direct my thoughts or to write about anything particular, but after a bit I began to describe my circumstances. As I typed, faster and faster, the world around me began to flicker as if there was a strobe light overhead. For the first time since crossing through the looking glass, I began to hear sounds. I focused on the screen and watched in nauseated fascination as the letters flipped back and forth between left to right and right to left.

I felt an electric tingle in my fingers as they danced upon the keys. Encouraged, I continued, describing my arrival on the porch, searching the house, breaking the mirror, and the faster I typed, the faster the flicker between real world and mirror world became.

I felt a popping sensation in my ears, a feeling I associate with taking off or landing in a plane and the world spun around me faster and faster until everything turned black.

When the spinning sensation cleared, I realized that I was in my bed, next to my husband. Rick barked and chased his own tail on the floor next to the bed and downstairs, I heard footsteps on my front porch and the sound of the mailbox lid as it clanked shut. I jumped out of bed and raced the dog down the stairs to get the mail.

Blockbuster — Breaking Writer’s Block

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 14:33:48 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

I have been writing for–oh hell, nearly forty years. I wrote my first book, a horrible mish-mash of The Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland, and Doctor Doolittle when I was 11 years old. It was really bad, but the way, in case you are curious. Not only did I steal every plot twist and turn from my favorite books, I included every one of my friends as characters.

For most of those forty years, I believed that writing fiction was something that had to be inspired. By what? Who knows. I guess I imagined some schizophrenic muse residing somewhere in my brain. Once in a whle she would throw me a bone and I would write a story. Mostly I wrote parts of stories that had beginnings and no ends but that’s beside the point.

When I write non-fiction, articles or documentation, I have no problems. No blocks have ever existed for me with non-fiction. There are times, in fact, when it seems like cheating. I don’t need to be inspired. The words just appear on the page. Sometimes it feels as though someone else is dong the work and I’m just getting it all down.

Fiction is hard. I write, I re-write, and I question every word. At least, I always did. I worry about writing clichéd stories. I want every story to be perfect and wonderful and–you get the idea. Usually about halfway through I begin to hate the story and, more times than not, I end up throwing it away. For every story I have completed, there are at least five more that will never see the light of day.

Today I decided to stop trying to write perfect, unique, absolutely fascinating stories. From now on, I’m going to write stories that are fun to write whether they are “wonderful” and “perfect” or not.

That’s not as easy as it sounds but I wrote a story–a complete story–today in about three hours. It’s not long (only 1,970 words) but it is complete. It’s not perfect. It’s not totally original, but it’s done.

If you want to read it, go here… Of Smoke and Mirrors

Does this mean I’m going to become the prolific, successful story teller that I’ve been trying to become for the past forty years? Probably not. Yet I feel as though I’ve taken a huge step forward today. I’ve stopped believing in writer’s block. I’ve stopped believing that I need to be inspired to write, and–this is the best part–I wrote a complete story because I decided that was what I was going to do. **Pats self on back.** That’s a good start.

Black Holes and Procrastination

Sun, 02 Aug 2009 03:21:43 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

Did you know that the Internet can be a great time waster?

I know, who would have thought it.

There are times when I think that I would get a lot more work done if I turned off the wi-fi. I know that I get a lot more writing done on the train (when there’s no Internet connection) than I do when I am at home.

When I am working at home, I don’t allow myself to spend time surfing the ‘net unless I have research to do. For example, if I’m trying to do something with an application and I’m stuck, I’ll look to see if someone else has solved the problem and written about it. Otherwise, I do my work and pretend that the Internet is “off” for the day.

When I am trying to write, it’s a different story. Stuck with a story and don’t know what people should do next? Check on Facebook, MySpace, Live Journal, or Twitter and see what people are talking about. I can spend tons of time updating my status, writing a blog, uploading pictures and not even realize the time has gone by. Check me out…

Irene Smith on Facebook
Irene on MySpace
13-Stories at Live Journal
Story_Teller at Twitter

Once that’s done, there are online games to play. I have two destinations that are particular favorites. Do you like jigsaw puzzles? I do. JigZone has tons of great jigsaw puzzles and you can decide how difficult it should be from six pieces to 247 pieces and if that doesn’t sound like a lot, believe me, 247 pieces on a computer screen makes the pieces small enough to be a big challenge.

When it comes to other kinds of games, my favorite place to waste time (and believe me, it can waste a lot of time) is Club Bing. It used to be called the Live Search Club but Microsoft changed it recently. This place is not a total waste of time, by the way. At Club Bing you can earn tickets and with tickets you can earn cool prizes. This is one of the few places that doesn’t make the prizes impossible to win either. So far I’ve earned enough tickets to get an XBox 360 game, an XBox 360 controller, and a copy of the Zoo Tycoon 2 Zoo Keeper’s Collection. They even pay the postage.

If nothing else fails, I can pretend that I’m doing “research” for a story. I go to Behind the Name to research the meaning of names and to look for names for my characters. Or, for a whole host of fun name generators, I go to Seventh Sanctum where I can make up names for everything from exotic fantasy races to kingdoms.

All together these web sites (and more like them) combine to make what little free writing time I have disappear as quickly as light into a black hole. I have become a master procrastinator and while I hate myself for it, sometimes I just can’t resist.

So now that I’ve confessed some of my favorite time wasters, it’s your turn. Where do you go to pass the time? Leave a comment and tell me about it.

Scare me…

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 03:48:22 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

Have you noticed how few truly scary movies there are lately? I love horror stories and horror movies but very few new movies are truly scary. For example: I once saw a vampire movie. It was one of the Hammer films, I believe and it wasn’t even in color. I had nightmares for weeks. I couldn’t go to sleep without checking the closet and under the bed and I spent most of each night with the blankets pulled over my head for protection.

What made it scary was the atmosphere; the sense of doom. You knew that something was going wrong but weren’t sure what it was. The vampires seemed to be beautiful and attractive until they show their “true colors” and attacked.

Horror movies today nearly always end up resorting to body parts and blood to make you scream. And when they don’t, they are hardly scary at all. The Vampires have had their fangs extracted and the werewolves have been groomed with a Pedi Paws. They inhabit more romance novels than horror movies.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved the Twilight series of books and Sookie Stackhouse books, but they make the supernatural seem so mundane that they have lost their power to scare. And yet…

I’m watching the movie Coraline. There’s no blood, no gore, no stalking serial killers. And yet, this movie is truly scary in a way I never expected. It does a wonderful job of following the rules of a truly scary story. It starts off by making everything seem wonderful. Coraline is unhappy with her life and then she discovered another world behind a tiny little door.

On the other side, Coraline finds her “other mother” and “other father” and they seem to be so much nicer than the ones she has in real life. Without giving anything away, life for Coraline becomes increasingly terrible until she has to commit to a contest in order to save life as she knows it.

Too bad it’s too hot to hide under the blankets.

Now I’m Miffed

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 08:15:30 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

In the first Lethal Weapon movie, there is a scene where Riggs (Mel Gibson’s character) is shot by Gary Busy’s character and thrown through a plate glass window (as I remember it.) He stands up and says, “Now I’m pissed.” For some bizarre reason, after all they can talk about being pissed off on the network channels, when the movie is run on TBS, “Now I’m pissed,” becomes “Now I’m miffed.” Now back to our regularly scheduled blog post…

As I said in the title, “Now I’m miffed.” And that’s putting it mildly. Back in May I pre-ordered a DVD. The total cost of the transaction was just over $16. On July 15th, the day when the movie was to be released, I checked in at Amazon to see when I would be receiving my order and discovered that there had been a “problem” with my order. It seems my credit card had been declined. I checked the credit card company’s web site to see what was wrong. According to the web site, I had more than enough money to have bought ten or twenty copies of the movie if I had been so inclined.

I called to see why they declined my card and discovered that the account had been closed. They claim to have sent me a letter saying so, but I haven’t gotten it yet and even now, several days later, the web site says I have several hundred dollars available. Am I pissed off that they cancelled the account? Not really. I was considering doing so anyway because I had already received a letter from them telling me that the interest rate was going to be raised sky-high. No, I’m pissed off because I made what I thought was a perfectly legitimate purchase and they made me look like I was trying to pull off a fast one. Fortunately there was no surcharge because the card was declined but I suppose there could have been.

I opened this account about six years ago. It was originally a Paypal credit card. Then it became a Providian credit card, was sold to Washington Mutual, and then was purchased by Chase. During that entire time, I have never missed a payment, never been late with a payment, never gone over my limit or even paid less than the minimum. In fact, I have always paid the bill early and the payments were always considerably more than the minimum. This is true of all of my credit cards. It is also true of the fixed monthly payments as well. My mortgage, my utility bills, and all of my other bills are always paid on time or early.

Now here is what I think. (Not that what I think seems to matter a lot!) I think that by closing this account, Chase has deliberately tanked my credit rating. Furthermore, I think it is irresponsible on their part to take an action that is likely to further damange not only my credit rating but my pocketbook. After all, how long do you suppose it will be before this closed account will set off an avalanche of increased interest rates and/or closed accounts? And if the companies don’t close my other credit card accounts, how long do you suppose I have before they threaten me with interest rates so high that I will be forced to close the accounts myself?

By the way, in doing research into this, I found that the new credit card bill will require companies to give you 30 days notice before they can close your account. Had Chase allowed me this courtesy, I wouldn’t have been so embarrassed or so… um… miffed.

Review of Q10

Sat, 11 Jul 2009 04:22:45 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

Q10

Web Site: http://www.baara.com/q10/

License: Freeware

When you really, truly want to focus on the words, the Q10 word processor helps you do just that. Q10 is not Microsoft Word nor does it try to be. What it does is give you a clean, customizable interface. No distractions, no way to get lost in formatting your pages instead of piling up word count. Best of all, it is free.

If Q10 was simply a text editor, it would be a nice Notepad replacement. However, it’s more than that. Q10 is perfect for people doing timed writing because it includes a timer. If you are the type of writer who sets word count goals for yourself, Q10 can handle that too. You don’t have to worry about compatibility because Q10 saves your work in simple text format. You can import the file into a larger work or have it all ready to be submitted via email or to a blog or other social web site without having to worry about special characters.

Here is a list of useful features:

You can specify the number of words per page. If you know the approximate number of words per page for your finished document, this feature will give you a much better idea of the page count for the finished document.
Set the screen so it is comfortable to look at hour after hour by specifying colors, line spacing, first line indent, and more.
You can put Q10 on a jump drive along with y0ur documents and use it on any computer. The program consists of a single executable.
Yes, Q10 has a spell checker.
Q10 allows you to mark a paragraph as a note. You can view a list of notes and note paragraphs work like internal bookmarks that you can access quickly.
You can set target word count and multiple word counters.
It is possible to define auto-correct entries for those typing errors that you make over and over. You can also define quick text lists for frequently used word and phrases.
If you like to be safe (and who doesn’t?) you can tell Q10 to automatically save your work on a regular basis.
Finally–and this is my favorite–Q10 makes typewriter sounds as you enter text. There’s something comfortable about the clackety-clack for those of old enough to actually remember typewriters.

All in all, Q10 is a small, fast, and stable application that allows me to write without other applications becoming a distraction. I recommend it to anybody who wants an easy to use text processor with a clean undistracting interface. It’s great for sprinting at NaNoWriMo time.

Happy Anniversary irenesmith,com

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 16:40:52 GMT

I can't believe that today is the tenth anniversary of irenesmith.com (I just renewed the domain.) Actually, I probably would have missed it if it weren't for the statistics mod that I have installed. I recently converted the site to a WordPress blog and one of the referrers in the list was from whois. When I checked out the link, I discovered that I bought the domain irenesmith,.com on July 6, 1999. Not even in this century!

I just wish I had the number of comments on that blog that I have on this one. I get about 200 visits a month and since most of my visitors are using Windows XP, I am fairly confident that these numbers don't count my own visits. So, the question is, with so many visitors, how come most of the comments are from spammers who just want to get visitors to their own sites? So far I've had 228 spams and 16 legitimate comments. To be completely honest, some of the "legitimate" comments were probably spam too from people who say things like, "That's very interesting. I was just thinking about that." In other words, I'm posting this so people will see my link and I have no idea what this post is about.

On the other hand, I suppose spam is better than nothing. But I would surely love it if i had some actual comments too. Once in a while.

Google Irene Smith. Go ahead, I dare you. My web site comes up in the first page. Of course that's only when you search on my name and, unless you know me, you wouldn't be searching for my name, would you? I've never been very lucky when it came to getting my site associated with anything else. I wouldn't even know what to associate it with. Any ideas?

OK, enough shameless plug for my "other" site.

By the way, I've been cross-posting here from irenesmith.com using a WordPress plugin. If it isn't interesting, let me know and I'll stop.

Photo Album Updated

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 18:53:11 GMT

I have added a couple dozen photos to my scrapbook. Take a look if you are interested and let me know what you think.

Running away…

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 15:00:11 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

This is the beginning of the year of postings. I actually remembered. Starting today, I plan on posting one entry a week from now until next July.

I have this urge to run away from my life. There has been too much sorrow lately; so much that I don’t notice the good things that are surely happening as well. I want to hide, to be alone, and there isn’t time. I’m watching the movie Elizabethtown. It’s nearly over and Orlando Bloom is running around the flea market, looking for Kirsten Dunst. I’m certainly not looking for Kirsten Dunst, but I think I am looking for something. I just wish I knew what it was.

If I had the money to do it, I’d hop in the car and just drive away. I love my husband and my children and grandchildren, but this is a trip I’d take alone. Just me and a bunch of CDs with my favorite music.

I’d go looking for those places that people seldom notice and rarely visit. I’d visit museums and tourist traps. I would stop to eat when I felt like it and stop to sleep when I got tired. I’d check out big cities and small towns. I think it would be refreshing and invigorating, and when I came back, I’d be ready to go on. Of course few people get to do in real life what people get to do in movies.

Despite the fact that I have a really good job, I can’t afford to “run way” even for a few hours because there’s never any money left over. So I go on from day to day, building up a sleep deficit that I’ll never be able to pay back. Getting more and more emotionally exhausted by the day. I eat too much, I sleep too little, and I don’t know how to change it.

There is something very soothing about writing. I’m sitting here in the darkened living room (it’s daytime outside, but dark in here) with the television running the background (Elizabethtown has given way to The Truman Show) and the physical act of hitting the keys and seeing the words appear on the screen is soothing.

I’m trying to think of a cool way to close this off, but I can’t. So I’m just going to end it. Here.

See you next week…

Brigit's Flame, June 2009, Week Four - Birth Day

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 15:45:04 GMT

So I'm back to my old tricks, waiting until the last minute. I've just written the last sentence of this weeks entry. The prompt for this week is "Thousand Island" and (maybe because of the video) I've been fixated on the thought that "No man is an island." Here you are...

Birth Day

"I think the biggest thing I miss about Earth is the seasons," said Wilbur Writer. "Mars is nice, but it's always dry and windy. There's no greenery except in our hydroponic garden. Nothing ever changes and there's nothing to tell you what time of year it is."

When his wife didn't answer, he glanced up to see what was wrong. She was sitting in the rocking chair, the one piece of furniture they had brought with them from Earth, staring off across the algae fields outside the dome. Meryl was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. The fact that she was his, that she had agreed to move all the millions of miles to start a new life on the red planet never ceased to amaze and thrill him.

Living on Mars was like living on a deserted island somewhere in the middle of a huge ocean. The nearest neighbors were nearly a hundred kilometers away, far across the red sands, at the very end of the range of the small rover vehicle. Contact with the other plantation owners was not easy. Even so, when he had told Meryl about the opportunity, she had been as eager as he was to make a go of this new frontier. "We'll be just like the pioneers during the land rush in the 1800s," she had told him.

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the circuit board he was examining. Being a home owner on Mars was not significantly different from living in the 1800s, despite all the technological advances that had come along I the three hundred years since. A plantation owner on Mars had to be just as much of a jack-of-all-trades as any homesteader on the American prairie. He became involved in his job and never noticed when she left the room.

"I think we have a problem," said Meryl. She was standing close beside him, leaning slightly on his shoulder.

"Hmm..."

"Pay attention, Wilbur."

"Sorry dear." He put down the circuit board and turned towards her gently laying his hand on her swollen belly; caressing her and the baby that swam so energetically within. "What's the problem?"

"It's the baby, dear."

"Yes, of course," said Wilbur. He bent down to talk to his wife's stomach. In the same singsong tone of voice that adults so often use to talk to children he said, "And we can't wait until he gets here."

Meryl shook her head. "No dear, you don't understand, we need to get to the space port. I think the baby is coming now."

"That's silly. He's not going to arrive until Christmas; it's only October--early October. We've got plenty of time."

"I'm afraid he has other plans," she said. "I know you don't like to talk about 'medical stuff,' but the mucus plug just came out."

"The what did what?"

"It's a big blob of mucus that protects the baby by keeping bad bacteria from getting into the uterus."

"And it--?"

"It came out. That's not supposed to happen until I'm ready to go into labor."

"What do we do now?"

"Ask the computer. Maybe there's something we can do that will give us some extra time."

Wilbur picked up the stylus and wrote the words "stop premature labor" on the pressure-sensitive screen. After a series of questions and answers, he turned to face Meryl and said, "Drink a glass of water and go lie down." At the look on Meryl's face, he said, "No, really. The computer says that dehydration can cause premature labor. While you are lying down, I'll contact the space station and see if they can send someone to help us."

"That's going to take hours," said Meryl. Then her eyes widened and she grasped her belly with both hands as fluid mixed with blood cascaded down her legs. She moaned, whether from pain or fear, Wilbur couldn't tell, and sank to her knees on the floor.

Wilbur was afraid to move her. He ran into their bedroom, grabbed the pillows and blankets off the sleeping platform, moved her away from the puddle she had made, and tried to make her as comfortable as possible.

"I don't know a lot about medicine, but I'm pretty sure we're going to have to let the baby come now," he said gently. She closed her eyes and lay back against the pile of pillows. A single tear escaped her closed eyelids and rolled silently down her cheek.

"This is Wilbur Wright as Station 13. We need medical aid as soon as possible." Wilbur listened for the acknowledgement from Space Port Bova but all he heard was static. He tried again but with no better results. Then he looked out through the clear polymer of their habitation dome and saw the reason. A rising wall of dust told him that communication would not be possible for anywhere from a few hours to a few days until the dust storm blew itself out. The chances of getting help in time were slim.

He checked on Meryl. He didn't have the heart to tell her that help wasn't coming. He needed to keep her calm. She stared deeply into his eyes and he had to fight the urge to look away. Looking away would tell her just what he didn't want her to know. "How are you feeling?" he asked her.

"I haven't had any pains yet," she replied. "But I think I'm still leaking. I can feel the moisture under me.

He lifted the blanket, thinking that he would turn it so that the wetness was away from her. He nearly yelled out when he saw the huge red stain that had spread across the blanket. "I'll get some more blankets," he said and moved away into the next room as quickly as he could so she wouldn't see the tears streaming down his face. The only thing left now was to wait until the baby came and just hope that Meryl didn't suffer too much.

He pulled the extra set of blankets out of the storage unit along with nightclothes and some towels. Working as swiftly as possible, he cleaned her up. Then he fashioned a clumsy pad from a towel and placed it under her before putting on her nightgown. "Can I get you anything?"

"Did you reach the spaceport?" She leaned against the pillows again.

"Don't worry. Have you had any pains?"

Her eyes flutter open and she grasped his hand tightly. "I'm not sure." She patted his cheek. "So far there hasn't been anything worse than what I get with my period."

Did he dare hope? Maybe the pains wouldn't start until after the storm was over. Maybe he would be able to contact someone and get help here in time. Maybe--

"Oh no," moaned Meryl. "I think this is it; I think this is the first one."

Hour by hour, Wilbur divided his attention between Meryl and the weather outside the dome. The storm reached them at about the same time as Meryl's labor. The red dust carried by the dome blocked out their view yet Wilbur compulsively stared out into the gloom, trying to make himself believe that it was nearly over. Then Meryl would cry out with another pain and he would run to hold her hand and try to keep her calm while the contraction gripped her. Once the pain eased, he would try again to reach the spaceport and get help.

Finally, he realized that it was going to be too late. Even if the storm stopped immediately, there was no way anybody could arrive at the dome in time to save the baby. He concentrated on Meryl, trying to minimize the discomfort. "I can give you a shot that will take away most of your discomfort," he said.

"No. I'm not going to put the baby at any more risk than he already is," replied Meryl.

He couldn't bring himself to tell her that it didn't matter; that the baby wasn't going to survive anyway so it didn't matter if he gave her drugs to ease the pain. She adamantly refused.

As time passed, she started to cry; started to berate herself for not leaving as soon as she knew she was pregnant. "You told me to go back to the spaceport," she kept repeating. "Why didn't I listen to you?"

"You wanted to be with me and I wanted you here," said Wilbur each time.

He carefully uncovered her and checked again to see what progress she was making. "My god!" He gasped. "The baby's head is right here."

"What?" He saw her stomach ripple, almost as though a shockwave was propagating across the taut surface. He knew that she was going to push again.

"Wait," he cried. Without stopping to think about what he was doing, he placed his hand on the baby's head and tried to hold it in place so he could try to get the blankets beneath her. With great difficulty, Meryl lifted her backside and he inched the blanket underneath so that the baby wouldn't be delivered onto the cold floor.

"Ready?"

When she nodded, he removed his hand and the baby followed. The only comparison he could make afterward when he tried to describe it to her was that the baby popped out of her womb with the same speed and force that bits of lettuce flew out of a salad shooter. He had the feeling that if the baby had not fallen onto a blanket, it would have slid across the floor faster than he would have been able to catch it.

The tiny infant stirred and opened its eyes.

"Boy or girl?" Meryl tried to lift herself onto her elbows so she could see.

"It's a boy," he replied.

"But he isn't crying," she fretted. "Why isn't he crying?"

The baby was lying on its back, eyes wide open, looking around itself with actually seemed to be curiosity. It seemed to be breathing without distress. "He seems to be all right," he said and turned his attention back to Meryl as she delivered the placenta.

As gently as possible, he lifted the baby and placed him in his mother's arm. Reflexively he looked out through the dome and saw that, while he was otherwise occupied, the storm had ended. He leaned over and kissed Meryl before he stood up and returned to the radio. "This is Wilbur Wright at Station 13. We need some help here."

"What is it 13?"

Wilbur felt weak with relief, almost as though all of the blood in his body had rushed away from his head. "My wife has just given premature birth. The baby and his mother both seem fine but we need to get her to--"

"Did you say baby?"

"Yes, and she isn't due for nearly twelve weeks so we need some help."

"On our way 13. I'll get back to you with an ETA--" Wilbur heard voice in the background and then the woman continued, "We'll be there within six hours."

Meryl was nursing the baby when he returned to her side. As he watched, eyes misted over with grateful tears, she lifted the baby from her breast and placed him over her shoulder to burp him. Whether it was the rush of cooler air against his skin when he was lifted away from the warmth of his mother's body or just that he was still hungry, he began to cry. Wilbur thought it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

Brigit's Flame, June 2009, Week Three - Be Careful what you Wish

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 11:54:11 GMT

This week, the prompt was Caesar. Not sure this applies quite as well as it should, but here goes...

Be Careful what you Wish

The party wasn't going well. Ken had been drinking too much, too fast. Only luck prevented him throwing up all over the host's brand new rug. "Fresh air," he mumbled as he went out the door. "B'right back."

Ken tried to clear his head on the way down in the elevator. More was wrong lately than just a party going badly. Life in general wasn't so great. The world was going to hell faster than he could understand it. On a smaller scale, his life wasn't going any better. Everything he tried to do went wrong. "Honestly," he said to his reflection in the mirror on the back wall of the elevator, "I'm just a screw up. Brenda left me, Charlie is this close to firing me, and my dog even bit me," he continued. "Can it get any worse than that?"

The alley, littered with cigarette butts and garbage, was only better than the sidewalk because it was out of the wind. He pulled over a crate from against the wall of the building next door, and almost fell on his butt in the process. A bottle rolled away from the box into the center of the alley. About the size of a liter of wine, the bottle looked like molten gold. He picked it up but couldn't see through the glass. He shook it gently. It made no sound. "Brandy? Wine? There must be something good to drink in there," he said. "Bottle's too fancy for cheap stuff." He pulled the cork.

Smoke poured out, filling the alleyway. Startled, he dropped the bottle. It rolled away, still pouring out smoke which coalesced into the shape of a man; a huge man.

"You must be my new master." The man looked around and sighed. "What year is it?"

"Two thousand and nine," Ken replied. He tried to get up but he couldn't move.

"Only eight years this time," said the man shaking his head. Then he bowed low. "I am a jinni and you are my master. What is thy first wish?"

Now Ken was glad he hadn't run away. "How many do I get?"

"Three wishes are standard. Everybody knows that. "

"Finally something is going my way," said Ken.

He considered. He could wish the world back to the way it was supposed to be. He could wish in a new world order and make everything work right again. Then he considered that he knew nothing about Economics or Politics. Anything he wished could just as easily screw things up as fix them. On the other hand, if he couldn't help everybody, he could help himself.

"Let's see… I want lots of money, enough money so I can live comfortably for the rest of my life."

"As you wish," said the jinni. He bowed low and clapped his hands together.

A large suitcase flew into the alley and landed on the ground at Ken's feet. The lock burst open to reveal stacks of bills.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Ken shook his head. "If I tried to spend that I'd end up in jail for robbing a bank."

"It's up to you," said the jinni. "You wished for money, I gave you money. It's no skin off my nose if you don't want it. That's one wish gone. You've got two left." He clapped his hands again and the suitcase disappeared.

"What do you mean? I don't have the money. That shouldn't count. I want a do-over."

"No such thing."

"Aw, man, you cheat."

"What do you want for wish number two?"

"Let me think," said Ken.

"Like that's going to happen."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying, is all," said the jinni.

"Well, I just wish you'd shut up and give me a chance to think."

"As you wish."

"That wasn't a wish!"

"You said, 'I wish,'" said the jinni. He laughed heartily and shook his head. "You humans are no end of fun. Let's go, genius, you have one wish left."

"Come on, that's not fair," Ken could feel his face flushing with anger. "I still think you're cheating."

The jinni didn't reply. He shrugged his shoulders and then stood with hands clasped behind his back.

Ken tried to think of a wish so straightforward, so simple, and so clear that the jinn could not possibly misunderstand accidentally or otherwise. He couldn't think of anything. Money would come from inappropriate sources, women would be married or have some horrible disease, and things would probably turn out to be stolen or broken. Maybe he should just let it go. Nah, he had to take advantage of the one good thing that had ever happened to him; but how?

"Do you mind?" The jinni interrupted his thoughts. "Neither of us is getting any younger, you know."

"Tough. I want to make this last wish a good one."

"Why don't you just give it up? You aren't coming up with anything new or interesting. You might as well wish for a bottle and crawl in."

"I told you to shut up," said Ken. "I just wish we could trade places. Then you would—"

"As you wish..."

Who has been posting?

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 16:00:50 GMT

Thanks to Jacques who gave me the link to this little utility...

I didn't have as many comments as I thought I did and I was surprised to see myself at the top of the list, but the two people at the top of the list are the ones I expected. ;0)

Total comments: 257

1	13_stories	89
2	cedarwolfsinger	13
3	lacombe	13
4	faerie_spark	12
5	aisling87	10
6	jamais_toujours	8
7	desert_rose	8
8	harlotbug3	8
9	taste_is_sweet	7
10	mermaidbia	6
11	wierdauntie	6
12	mullvaney	4
13	drippedonpaper	4
14	innana88	3
15	intermezzo_poet	3
16	bwh	3
17	dragon_gypsy	3
18	betta329	3
19	insolentscrawl	2
20	attentionhoard	2
21	watchclarewrite	2
22	cynnaz	2
23	lalalaleigha	2
24	ephemeralbreath	2
25	alemara	2
26	kenderlord	2
27	triplescorpio	2
28	the_panic_light	2
29	merthin	2
30	deandratb	2
31	lacruciverbiste	1
32	tigerstriped86	1
33	southernbellakv	1
34	murphpolo13	1
35	wickedmommy	1
36	kithlyara	1
37	hennabee	1
38	amused4ever	1
39	peeeece	1
40	darkmarguerite	1
41	lghawaiian	1
42	escarpe	1
43	merchendiver	1
44	_lippie_	1
45	lee_terati	1
46	andersenmom	1
47	lilcougar	1
48	renga_atama	1
49	windblownglass	1
50	lionteeth	1
51	psychrolute	1
52	____hejira	1
53	leyse	1
54	boundfate	1
55	forallyouare	1
56	pipisafoat	1
57	coldironkiss	1
58	dreamy_idealist	1
59	saturnangel587	1
60	past0rl_insanty	1

Generated by LJ Comment Stats.

In Loving Memory

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 15:37:01 GMT

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

On Sunday, May 10, 2009 my father died. He was 85 years old.

How do you summarize a person’s life? My Dad was on this planet for 85 years. He was a drummer, a photographer, and a business owner. He has held all those jobs and more as well, but to me he was just Daddy and, like most little girls, I thought that my Daddy was the strongest, the handsomest, and the smartest man alive.

In many of my earliest memories of my father, he had a camera in his hands. Mom and I were his favorite subjects. When I was a little girl, I loved having my picture taken. As soon as the camera came out, I began to pose and he was happy to snap shot after shot.

Not only did her take the pictures, he developed them in his home dark room. I will never forget the excitement of watching the image appear on a print that we had exposed and then bathed in chemicals. I remember dancing from one foot to the other as the picture gradually darkened on the paper, holding my breath, hoping that Dad would let me take the picture and plunge it into fresh water before turning on the light to examine the results.

For much of my childhood, Dad worked a long distance from home, first at West Point and then in New York City.

He left the house early in the morning and didn’t get home until late at night, often after I was in bed. When he was home, however, he always made the time we spent together special. Whether I needed help with a diorama for the Science Fair or a presentation for a Video course I was taking on how to produce a training video, Dad was there.
Dad had advice for every aspect of my life. I still remember the day he told me “If a man takes you out for dinner at a restaurant and there’s not a mushroom cap on the filet mignon, dump the guy.” Ok, so I didn’t always follow Dad’s advice but I always listened.

My father had so many wonderful qualities. He was a kind, generous, and caring man. When I had the measles and didn’t feel like eating, he found at least six different ways to serve up oranges in an attempt to get me to eat something. He was strong. When I foolishly stepped on a sewing needle and only the tiniest bit of the tip was left sticking out, he was strong enough to grab it and pull it from my foot with his bare hands. Yet this same tower of strength broke down and cried over the death of our family dog.

I think perhaps the most important lesson I learned from my father is that you have to find something to do that makes you happy and then go for it. At an age when most people are thinking of retiring, he went out on his own and started Graphics and then took over ownership of The Little Paper.

Together he and my mother built a business that has withstood the test of time, a business that is strong enough to continue without him.

When I was about six or seven, Dad brought home a bright red bicycle. Over the course of a long afternoon, he taught me to ride it. At first, he ran alongside me, holding the bike upright so that I wouldn’t fall. Once I began to have some confidence, he moved to a position behind the bicycle, still running along behind, holding me upright until he sensed (I’m not sure exactly how) that I was ready and then, quietly, without saying a word, he allowed me to ride off on my own.

Just as he did on that day, we now have to let go and allow him to leave us here as he moves off into the distance on his own. We will always miss him but he will never be completely gone as long as we hold these wonderful memories of him in our hearts.

Brigit's Flame, June 2009, Week Two - Spice

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 14:37:05 GMT

This week's prompt was "Oil & Vinegar." I thought this one would be easy, but it wasn't.

Spice

"I don’t understand.” Sarah leaned forward, tears streaming down her face, and reached towards her husband. "What have I done wrong?”

Carl paced restlessly back and forth across their small living room unable to sit still. "You haven’t done anything wrong,” he finally replied. "You haven’t done anything.”

"Then why?” She scrubbed at her face with a paper towel and immediately re-wet her cheeks with a waterfall of tears.

Carl stared. "I should feel sorry for her,” he thought. "I am a selfish, heartless bastard.”

"Haven’t I always given you everything you wanted?”

"You have.” He made the mistake of looking directly at her and felt as though he had shot Bambi. He nearly threw himself on his knees in front of her to beg her forgiveness. "I didn’t notice at first, but from the day we married, you laid yourself down and let me walk all over you. May challenges me and I’ve got to be with her.”

"But Carl, you’re married to me.”

"Not for long,” he replied. "I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to continue our marriage. We'll be better off apart.”

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She sobbed. "I’ll do anything you want me to. Just don’t leave.”

"That’s just it.” He finally sat down next to her on the couch. Taking both of her hands in his, he said, "I don’t want you to satisfy my every whim.” He lifted her chin and made him look directly at him. "I just told you that I’ve been seeing another woman; that I’m going to leave you for her. You should be angry. You should be mad as hell. Yet you beg my forgiveness.”

He saw that she just wasn’t getting it. He tried again. "You’re a superb cook. What would you do if you went to a restaurant and they gave you a salad dressed with olive oil?”

Her face brightened. "I would send it back and tell them to finish the job.”

"That’s it exactly.”

"You’re saying that I’m olive oil?”

"It’s an analogy,” he said. "I’m trying to make you understand that you have become boring, bland, and predictable. You used to fight for what you really wanted; now you let me dictate your every move.” She tried to pull away and he tightened his grip, keeping her in place. She struggled briefly and then sat still, staring into his eyes. Was she beginning to get it?

"Just like a salad needs to have oil, vinegar, spices, and a little salt and pepper, I need a woman who adds spice to my life.”

"I can change.”

"I’m sure you’d try.” He shook his head. "You might even succeed for a little while, but I don’t think you love me enough to really change. We never argue. Nothing about our relationship is important enough to fight over.”

He kissed her and then walked over to the door where he picked up the cases and walked out the door without looking back.

Brigit's Flame, June 2009, Week One - Snake Oil

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 09:59:44 GMT

Here is my entry for week one. The topic is "Ranch" and this story came about as the result of a series of thoughts that started with the ranch out on the priairie (as in "Meanwhile, back at the ranch," and progressed through a whole series of twists and turns to lead to...

Snake Oil

Cheerful music poured from the huge speakers atop the ancient travel trailer as it lumbered up and down the streets of the small, dusty, farming town. The crowd swelled as men, women, and children followed behind it along the dusty road out of town. When he found a convenient spot, the trailer pulled off the road and onto the prairie itself. Then the engine shut down and the only sound was the shuffling of people’s shoes and murmur of the breeze flowing across the ocean of long grass under hard blue sky.

The crowd waited patiently at first, soft murmurs drifting back and forth like the rustle of the long grasses out on the prairie. As time went by, the talk grew from whispers to a soft rumble of discussion. "What's it doing here?" An elderly gentleman in battered denim overalls asked of nobody in particular. As the crowd’s patience neared the breaking point, the side door opened and a stage-like platform rumbled slowly into view. A small paunchy man in a gaudy plaid suit stepped out onto it and stood watching the crowd.

Bowing slightly he said, "Welcome, welcome! Come one, come all..." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. Lifting it high over his head, he asked, "Do you know what this is, ladies and gentleman?" Without pausing to wait for an response, he answered his own question. "This is the solution for what ails you. Aches? Pains? This little miracle in a bottle will make them a faint memory."

"Hmph, snake oil salesman," said a stocky woman in the front row. Her face was care worn; she could have been any age from thirty to fifty. She wore a faded navy blue dress with white polka dots and on her feet were tattered white Keds. She looked around at the people nearest to her and said, "In this day and age, what with computers and all, ya wouldn’t think there’d be any of these quacks left."

The people standing near her laughed. Before the laughter could ripple through the crowd, the man leaned down toward her and said, "Ah, a skeptic. There’s one in every crowd." With a conspiratorial wink, he continued, "What is your name, my dear?"

"Martha."

"Well, Martha, you can call me Joe." He squatted at the edge of the platform. "Martha, do you have aches or pains?” When she reluctantly nodded, he said, “Let me give you a complimentary dose of this great little wonder drug. If you don’t feel better as soon as you take it, I’ll leave town immediately. You’ll never see me again."

He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small cup, wrapped in plastic. He tore off the wrapper, filled it with bright red liquid from the bottle, and handed it down to the woman.

She sniffed the liquid, and then tentatively touched her tongue to it. With a smile of pleasure, she drank down the rest of the dose. The crowd watched her expectantly. "It tastes pretty good," she said.

"Give it a few moments madam and then tell us how you feel." He held up the bottle once again and continued his spiel. "Drink it and relieve your pain, rub it into your skin and cure psoriasis, shampoo with it to make your hair shiny and manageable. It’ll even relieve bunions and athlete’s foot."

He leaned back into the trailer and lifted out a guitar. Placing the bottle on the platform at his feet, he put the strap over his shoulder and began to strum a soft tune. "While we’re waiting for the good lady’s verdict, let me entertain you with a song."

The man played a raucous flourish on the strings and launched into a song about the Erie Canal. He was as involved with his playing as he had been with his presentation. When the song ended, the crowd applauded vigorously. "Well, Martha, how are you feeling now? Any aches or pains?"

Martha frowned. "I can't believe it," she said. "Not a single ache or pain." She ran each hand over the opposite arm and then down each leg. "I've had trouble with arthritis for years but the pain is gone. I'll take three bottles."

"That'll be thirty-seven fifty." Reaching through the doorway again, he pulled out three bottles. "What did I tell you friends? Who else wants to solve all of their problems?"

The crowd erupted forward and for quite a while, the man had all he could do to keep up with the orders. Finally, he held up his hands and waited for the crowd to quiet down. "I want to thank you. You've been wonderful customers but I'm out of elixir. Please come back tomorrow when I have a new shipment." He went inside the trailer and closed the door. After waiting a few minutes to see if he would return, the crowd slowly dispersed.

Later that night, Joe sat counting his take from the afternoon show. The door to the trailer opened. "How did we do?" Martha stepped in, and sat on the chair across from Joe. "Did we do as well as you thought?"

"Better. We took in close to seven thousand dollars." He chuckled. "Snake oil? I can't believe people even know what it is any more."

"It worked, didn't it?" She took the cash box and started stacking the money. Then she said, "Don't you think we ought to be on our way before people realize that stuff is just cherry syrup with an alcohol kicker?"

Brigit's Flame, February 2009, Week Four - The Right Thing to Do

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 23:31:34 GMT

This story is a little bit different from the things I've been writing lately. The prompt for this week was "Once more with feeling." Here is my entry:

The Right Thing to Do

"Once more, with feeling," screamed Luther.

"I can't.” John turned away from the crying woman in front of him. “Please don't make me do this any more."

"I'm not making you do it. You have the right to turn me down,” said Luther. He smiled. “but you know what will happen."

Once more, John brought the whip up and then brought it crashing down on the woman's back.

"That's better. You're not so different from me."

"That’s where you’re wrong. I'm definitely better than you are," said John.

"How can you say tht you are better than I when you are the one who is torturing the poor woman?" said Luther. "So again—once more, with feeling."

"No, I refuse," said John.

"Take him to his cell,” said Luther with. He shrugged and picked up the whip. “I guess I'll have to finish the job."

As the guards dragged John to his cell, they heard a single gunshot.

"You bastard,” said John. “How could you do that? Then again, how could I?"

The guards threw him into his cell. Jose, his cell mate, was pacing the room. When John came in, he said, "How is my wife? Did you see her? Is she all right?"

John didn't know what to say. To tell his friend the truth, he would have to explain that he had chosen his own life, his family's lives over the life of Jose's wife. Could he be honest? In a half truth, he could say that she was all right when he saw her last. Which would be crueler?

The cell door opened once again. Two large men came in and grabbed Jose by the arms. As they dragged Jose out, he cried, "Long live the revolution!"

John threw himself on the filthy cot and sat, tears streaming down his cheeks. Who was really at fault for Jose's wife's death? The easy answer was that Luther had pulled the trigger, even that Luther had forced him to beat her with the whip. But did the fact that he didn’t want to hurt anybody make it all right to do so?

Hours, maybe days later, the door opened again and Jose was thrown through the doorway. His eyes looked vacant and his hands trembled. "They killed her, John," he cried. "They beat her with a whip like a dog and that bastard, Luther, tried to make me believe that you are the one who did it. I told him that I would never believe that. You and I are as close as brothers. You would never do anything to hurt a brother." Jose looked at John, and then broke eye contact to stare down at his own hands.

John took the rust-covered cup that held their water and tried to clean off the blood that covered Jose. Thankfully, Jose either fell asleep or passed out; John wasn’t sure which but the was grateful. He didn't know what to say to him. Telling him what had really happened would only make the poor man's pain worse.

When the opportunity to join the revolution had come, John had done so proudly. It was the moral thing to do; to fight for freedom. And three years ago John had considered himself a moral man. He wasn't so sure anymore. He had spent two years in the jungle, living off of what food he could capture, kill, or steal. He had eaten some disgusting things; things that would turn the average man's stomach. He had braved the spring rains, and the cold of winter, the scorching summers, and the separation from his family.

Those at the top of the heap had everything. The citizens of Rhodanthium were either very rich or very poor. If one had money and was willing to agree with Emperor Stefan at every turn, life could be good. The less one had, the more of it ended up going to the government. Taxes were highest for those who had least. And those who had the temerity to disagree with Stefan had no life at all. His second in command, Luther Montague, specialized in enforcing the Emperor's every whim. Those who disagreed face torture and death at his capable hands.

John lived in the small town of Quito and had originally not wanted to have anything to do with the revolution. His law practice allowed him to have a modest but comfortable life. Then in August of '97, Luther's death squad came into the town. They dragged the towns people into the square, separated the old people from the able bodied, and then executed the elderly.

The hands and ankles of the remaining men were tied together with plastic zip-ties and they were forced to lay on their stomach in the middle of the town square, next to the bleeding bodies of their elders. They were guarded by three men with machine guns while the rest of the death squad tortued and raped the women. John thanked God that his wife and child had gone that day to San Sebastian to visit relatives.

When morning came, John and the rest of the men, were transported by truck to a work camp in the mountains. He was forced to join the chain gang that was building new roads into the interior that would connect the mining camps up in the mountains to the cities down on the plains.

John noticed that many of the guards were disappearing. It was whispered throughtt he camp that it was because of the snipers of the revolution. The revolutionaries had reached almost mythic stature. They were talked about as if they weren't human and some believed that the Emperor had spread the rumor of a revolution to give people hope so that he could dash it when he told them the truth.

Fortunately for John, he didn't have to wait for proof. On September fifteenth, a group of revolutionaries over-ran the labor camp, killed all of the guards and set John and the others free, telling them that they were free to go back to the home or to join the revolution.

The leader of the band, Jose, remembered John from a case that he had handled for Jose's mother. "This is the bravest man I know," Jose said. "He defended my mother against the government and actually won the case, despite the fact that they had put him on their list."

And so, John joined the revolution.

With Jose's strength and John's intelligence, they soon became the most-wanted of the revolutionaries.

Two years went by before John was able to contact his family. Not long afterward, they were captured. When John heard of their capture and tried to rescue them, he and Jose were captured as well.

The two men were put in the same cell within the royal dungeon. At first John was left alone and Jose was tortured. Every day he was taken from their cell. He would be gone for hours at a time and, when he came back, Jose’s face would be covered with bruises. After two weeks, John was brought to Luther's dungeon. "John," said Luther, "I'm not getting too far with your friend. Jose seems to be holding out. I want you to help me."

"Why in God's name would I help you?"

"Well, you could choose not to. However, if you refuse, your family will suffer. I am sure that you can withstand torture, you are a strong man, but what about your wife and son?"

John lunged forward. He would have beaten Luther to death. He was only stopped when three of the guards beat him to the ground. "I'll kill you," he cried.

Luther only laughed. “I suppose you can try, " he said, “but you really have only one choice, John. You can do what I tell you to my prisoners or you can choose to have me do it to your family."

And so, day after day, he honored his pact with the devil to protect his family. At first, he tortured only people he didn't know. That didn't make it right but it made it possible. Then he was forced to start on Jose's family. He didn't knonw what happened to Jose's daughter though Luther had assured him that, after the torture, she had been sent to entertain the troops.

When he was broght in to torture Jose's wife, he refused at first. Luther told him that he would have to torture Jose's wife but, if he told Jose, it would be a death sentence, not only for Jose's wife but for his own as well. He weighed the consequences of his actions and continued his pact with the devil.

When he heard the shot, he knew that Jose's wife had been killed and he wanted to tell him the truth and beg for forgiveness but truthfulness didn't outweigh the life of his own wife.

Saturday night, Jose's agony increased and he called John to his side. "John, listen, I know that I am dying and I don't have much time. Under my cot is a knife. I was going to try and kill Luther but I am not strong enough. You have to do it for me and I have to ask you for forgiveness. He made me promise not to tell because he would kill my wife. But I must die with a clear conscience. He told me that he would kill my wife if I didn't torture and two of the people I was responsible for were your son and your wife."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I killed them. I was forced to. I know you can't understand that. I know it isn't something that you would do. Please forgive me. And please, I beg you, kill Luther."

John heard the church bells ringing from outside the dungeon. It was Sunday morning. Jose had been quiet for hours. When John checked on him, he was already cold.

John got to his knees and rummaged under the cot. When he found the knife, he tucked it into the pocket of his ragged pants. John knew that Luther would bring him to his office and they would be alone.

When he was brought into the office. He was forced into the chair in front of Luther's desk. The guards left and they were alone. Luther got up and started around the desk to get closer to John. "I hear that your friend died last night. Do you know that he wasn't very brave? When faced with protecting himself and his family over you, he chose his family but that's not so unusual," he said as he bent down to look into John's face. "He was a coward like you."

John reached into his pocket, withdrew the knife and plunged it into Luther's throat. Luther fell to his knees, a crimson shower bathed them both as John said, "You tried to kill my spirit by using my feelings against me."

As he plunged the knife into Luther's chest, he said, "Just as you commanded, I'm doing it once more, with feeling."