Groan... I Can't Complain, But I Will Comment

A day of obligation, which is a good thing because it means I've gotten something.

It's been a busy week, trying to keep up with four writer's websites along with trying to keep pace with life.

I'm still peeking in on Authonomy, dropping my observations about the other sites that I've checked out. I never did cancel my membership on Scribophile. I thought about it, but left it standing. As for Book Country, I did hit the delete button on that. Not being able to upload anything was frustrating - even though... Well, enough. It was frustrating so I gave up. If they fix it, I may go back, but I have no interest in retyping 60,000+ words so I can put up a story - and that's what seems to be needed based on my experience.

Scribblers is a writer's site set up by some of the clever people from Authonomy, and it's great to be able to go and visit with the people I've come to know. I submitted to the Flash Fiction thread and spent an hour this morning reading and voting, but after posting there yesterday... Honestly? I do not know what's come into me this week.

There, the prompt there was torchlight. My story was about a woman whose older brother is a tease. One night when they're kids, they're "camping" in their backyard and she eggs him into telling her the story 'The Man With The Golden Arm' - that classic tale of murder that frightened many of my generation when told by the the light of the moon. Years later, all grown up, she gets home late. She's already irritated by a 'bitch' of a day, and is further angered by the fact that the faulty wiring is out. Again. She's getting the candles out when she's surprised by her brother coming into the room behind her, holding his torch under his chin to highlight his face in that odd and eerie way. Angry at her day, furious with her brother because he just won't stop doing crap like that, she steps forward and wham - right between the legs. He goes down and that's when the finicky lights come on. And she discovers it's not her brother and he, whoever he is, was carrying a knife.

Over on WriteOn the Weekend Write-In prompt was falsetto with a five-hundred word limit that had to address someone breaking into song an an inopportune moment. In that, my story was about a young woman who's being walked home by someone she met in a bar. Along the way, he drags her off the street, into an alley, not knowing she studies mixed martial arts. Story opens with him on the ground, wheezing and shrieking through his teeth while clutching himself - there. It's actually quite funny, because I end with them at the police station giving their statements. He bursts into song when asked what he does for a living. The song? 'I Feel Pretty' because his job is acting in a drag revue.

Variations on a theme... Nonetheless, those plus the WEbook Monthly competition are calling my attention because for the comments I receive, I must return - so it's time consuming, although entertaining. Another four or five on WEbook, and then I have to turn my attention to WriteOn. There, I have a number of entries in their writing competition, and then I have a book to read and comment upon, and then, maybe, I'll have a little time to work on mine? If I'm not exhausted and burned out.

The hardest part about commenting, for me, is saying what I think in such a way that it's understandable - I have to explain what I found and then explain what could be improved. For instance, I read one piece yesterday where there are a lot of 'I' driven actions. I did this, and I did that and I did the other. After complaining about the driver, I rewrote the paragraph to eliminate them - so it's not only a reading exercise, it's a composition exercise that takes time and energy. But it's what I hope to get so that I can improve, too. Quid pro quo goes a long way in the writing world.

So, I'll wrap this up, go get some sustenance for the writerly journey, and get to work. Have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Scarecrow and Chapter One

I feel like the Scarecrow from L. Frank Baum's 'The Wizard of Oz', the line after they've been attacked by the Wicked Witch's flying monkeys and the Cowardly Lion and Tinman are re-stuffing him: 'That's you all over'.

It's been crazy around here this morning - dashing hither and yon, trying to catch up with myself. I finally have and now I'm too worn out to think of anything to write here. Not amusing, not boring, not same-old, same-old, so I'll post a couple of chapters from one of my books and get back to writing.

This is from 'Matters of Friendship' which is available for reading at Authonomy. It's free to sign up, totally spam free, and a place to read up-and-comers.  https://www.authonomy.com/book/294687/

Have a lovely day!

Philippa
Follow me at Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Matters of Friendship

Chapter 1 - Resurrection

The ‘Resurrection Party’ was supposed to be a celebration of my divorce, but it wasn’t. It was anything but a celebration.

“Did you hear…?”

“Isn’t it awful? Poor thing.”

“Poor Peter! What’s he going to do…?”

“I wonder how the kids are dealing with it…”

Moving from group to group in my role as guest of honor, I overheard at least a dozen conversations, all on the same theme, but I didn’t mind. How could I?

Some of the people there were friends from other times, other places. The rest, the majority, were colleagues and work friends. These people also knew Peter and some had met his wife, Lara.

The first group wanted to spend time catching up, to ask how I was doing, what it was like to be single again. I circulated through them, answering questions, asking my own, and hearing about kids grown up, moved away, new grand babies and the lives I had missed. Some also wanted to meet my other, newer friends, the ones they might have heard of from me.

The rest, the people who knew Peter or Peter and Lara, wanted to talk about them and her cancer. They ignored the others, the strangers or waiting-to-be friends, and clustered together shifting from place to place while they dissected the gossip.

Balancing both groups with all the undercurrents was an uphill battle. It was a challenge that would stump the best hostess in the world, which I wasn’t. Still I tried.

As usual for summer in Sonoma County, the afternoon started hot but cooled rapidly when the fog came across the coast. The fuzzy edge of it trimmed the tops of the distant hills while the wind carried its chill dampness inland. Sundresses and polo shirts were no match, so the patio cleared and we all moved into the winery tasting room where the drinking, nibbling and gossiping continued.

When the sun began to set behind the encroaching fog, the party wound down. People stopped on their drift toward the doors to say all the usual things people say at a time, in a place like that. As the group thinned, the strains of light jazz coming from the built-in speakers grew proportionally louder, filling the fresh made gaps. Outside, evening grew and someone turned on the inside lights.

After making one last circuit of the room, pausing by the laggards to offer my thank yous for their coming and encourage them to leave, I caught up with Karen and Stan. They were my friends who had organized the party and had spent the evening behind the bar, pouring drinks and replenishing the trays of food. With them was Brendan, the winery owner and Stan’s boss. As I approached, Karen looked past Brendan and offered a rueful smile.

“Hey, Allison, there you are!” She stepped forward, proffering a swapped air kiss when I came to a stop. “It’s a shame about Lara, really terrible news. I hope it didn’t mess things up for you tonight, and you still had a good time?”

“I had a wonderful time, given the circumstances.” Looking back down the long room, I allowed myself a sigh. Of all the people Karen had said she would invite, Peter was the only one I had really wanted to see. The others would have been the cake, but he would have been the icing.

Oh well, no regrets, remember?

Turning back, I smiled and took her hand in mine. “It’s awful about Lara, and I feel terrible for Peter and the kids. So sad for them, but it was thoughtful and kind for you and Stan to put this together for me. I can’t thank you enough. It was great to see everyone again.”

“Oh, good, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I did, so thank you again, but I also came to say good night. I’ve got to feed Charley and get some stuff done for tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Her dark eyebrows rose, “We were just talking about going out to dinner after we shoo everyone else out of here.”

“Gee,” a flash of embarrassment swept through me as my eyes flicked over to Brendan.

He was a good looking, tall, barrel chested man in his mid-fifties with a creased face and brilliant blue eyes. To me, he looked more like a cowboy than a winery owner.

Still, I was nowhere close to being ready to start going out or dating. Not even a casual dinner that felt like a set-up so I smiled at him, a ‘no hard feelings’ gesture because he was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

“That sounds really nice, but… I’m sorry. Perhaps we could do it another time?”

Karen looked faintly hurt and I felt badly. She had been generous with arranging the party and was trying to be a good friend.

Smiling, I offered an alternative. One that I hoped wouldn’t feel quite like such a trap for either Brendan or me. “I am sorry, but I really can’t tonight. How about you all come to my place for dinner next Saturday and we’ll do a barbecue?”

Brendan shifted and looked away, the muscles in his face tighter than they had been. Was he irritated, resentful, embarrassed or was it something else?

Stan tossed a grimace at his wife, who looked only slightly abashed, and said, “That sounds good to us. How about it, Brendan?”

“Uh … yeah, sure, that sounds good.” He didn’t look thrilled. There was no smile or brightening of the eyes as he glanced from Stan to Karen and then at me. It looked as if he was searching for an excuse and not finding one. “When next Saturday?”

“Why don’t we say six o’clock? Would that be okay?” I thought my voice sounded unnaturally cheerful and it was my turn to squirm, hoping no one else noticed.

There were murmurs all around while I smiled at Karen, even though I wanted to throttle her for putting me on the spot like that. Instead, I just said good night and left, waiting until I pulled the car door shut behind me before saying what I was thinking.

“Geez Louise, Karen! The ink is barely dry on the decree, and you’re already trying to set me up!”

I had to laugh, at both of us, and did as I slipped the key into the ignition and backed out of the parking space. As I drove away, my laughter fell behind as sadness crept in with the thoughts of Lara and Peter.

Chapter Two - Introductions

Four years before my ‘resurrection’, the company at which I had I worked underwent a massive reorganization. In the course of six months, half the upper management left in either forced ‘retirement’ or terminated disgrace. New management transferred in or came onboard. Departments were reconstituted, streamlined and became new things.

Through it all, I kept my head down and my powder dry. Too many of my co-workers received transfers or terminations. Many others quit. I didn’t want to join them, so I trod carefully, balancing on the precipice, never quite sure where the edge might be. That edge got narrower when my boss, the general manager, called me into his office one day.

The Transition Manager was sitting in front of the desk, watching me. I sensed something, a tension, so I closed the door.

“Allison,” Bryce looked pale, shaken. He stopped, shook his head and cleared his throat, took a moment and then looked up at me. “I’m being let go.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe it and took a step closer to the desk.

Bryce had founded the company, had built it, grown it, and then sold it to a multi-national company in the same industry. They had kept him on, let him lead, and now … this?

He just looked away, down, and nodded. The strain was painful to see and my heart went out to him.

We had not always worked comfortably together, but we had made a good team. His approach to managing people was sometimes overbearing. Occasionally he would verbally club people to try to get them to perform, but he had always been fair, treating everyone the same without favorites.

After the first time I had seen what I thought was unfair and unreasonable, I went into his office, supposedly to get his signature on some letters.

“It’s a shame about Morrie.” I was standing at the end of his desk and spoke neutrally.

“Oh?” He looked up. His dark bristly eyebrows had already drawn down over his frosty eyes.

I didn’t back down, but didn’t challenge his stare, either. Instead, I looked at the sheaf of papers in my hands.

“Mm. I heard his daughter was in an accident last week, hit by a pickup truck. Seems one of her legs and an arm are broken, and she’s in a back brace. It must be awful for him and Marie.” I watched him through the corner of my eye, to gauge his reaction. “I can’t imagine the strain that’s putting on him.”

He shifted on the chair, his pen hovering over the latest page. The pen landed and moved as he said, “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t think so, but I think that’s why he’s been so distracted lately. There’s probably a lot going on at home.”

He grunted and shoved the letters into my hand, looking at the wall across the room with that crease still between his brows.

“How old is she?”

“Six and her name is Sally.”

Without another word, I left and went back to my desk from which I could see into his office. Perhaps a minute later, he stood up, came to and paused in the doorway before sauntering off, heading in the direction of Morrie’s workstation.

From then, when I thought he had crossed the line, I tried to find little ways to let him know that sugar and honey attract more than vinegar and brine. He gradually learned and I was always careful not to step into things that were strictly performance related.

Now, he cleared his throat again, “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes, but I wanted to let you know,” he looked up at me. Tears edged his lower eyelids, “you have been a great assistant. I appreciate it and I’ve put in a good word.” He shrugged and a ghost of a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth. “I don’t know what good that will do, but I’ve done what I can.”

It took me a moment to gather my wits, and then I nodded, “Thank you. Thank you for telling me, personally.”

The woman we all resented and feared rose, her face smooth, as if she felt nothing about what she was doing to Alan, to me, to everyone else who had worked there.

“Please excuse us.” Her perfume caught in my nose when she reached past me and opened the door.

“Of course,” still in shock, I stepped through, glanced back and then closed the door behind me.

Back at my desk, it was impossible to work. I kept looking at the office door and the narrow sidelight through which I could see the woman’s shoulder above the chair back.

Things gradually balanced out, settled down. The new general manager came in. Carolyn, the Transition Manager who had dropped the axe on Bryce introduced us, and that was that. Stay or leave, take it or leave it, and I decided to try.

I was still as jumpy as a cat in a dog kennel five months after the change when Cecily, the Director of Manufacturing Processes appeared at my desk one morning. One of the newcomers, a transfer from another division, stood behind her.

He was a tall lanky man with a mop of brown hair over a long narrow face slightly marked by long-ago acne and warm brown eyes.

“Allison, we need your help. This is Peter. I don’t think you’ve met.” She waved at him, briefly, but didn’t wait, “Adam and Dave want us to revamp our technical procedures, make them more consistent so they’re easier to follow.

“Peter is our new document control specialist, and he has some ideas but needs help implementing them, standardizing everything. He thinks templates might be best, and I’m hoping you can lend a hand.”