It's Pretty Much Like Life

I think it's definite. It's at least probably definite that I'll do NaNoWriMo this year. I've pondered it in the past couple of years, but never felt motivated. This year I have the motivation and the story idea. It's pretty strong, too, so I think it will be reasonably easy.

The whole point of NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words in thirty days. That's substantially a complete novel since most commercial published stories are in the range of 50,000 to 90,000 words, depending on genre.

Because of the time constraint, I've decided that I'm going to do something I never do when it comes to my stories.

I am what's known as a "pantser" - meaning I write by the seat of my pants. I don't draw up an outline for stories. I don't plot them. I don't do character development off to the side. In fact, I don't do much of anything but write them down and then fiddle with them endlessly. Mostly because I hate barriers and restrictions and I do see an outline as a restriction.

If I say, "this is how chapter one should be, and chapter two and..." I get locked in. Then, if something unexpected develops from what I'm writing, I have to struggle with how or whether to follow that thread - even if that thread seems brilliant but will blow the rest of the outline out of the water. It creates an unnecessary conundrum, in my opinion.

Now, because of the time frame and the story I have in mind, I will draw up an outline. I even have the title (I think). Just a bit of research to make sure that James Bond had the proverb correctly when he spoke it. If so, I'm good to go. Otherwise, I'll have to come up with another, similar declaration.

It's going to be a surprise for those who read my posts here. I'm not going to give anything away - not the title, not the outline, nothing. If you want to know what it is, you'll have to wait and then read each day in November because I have decided to serialize it. It should be fun for both of us.

In the meantime, Authonomy did shut down, as HC threatened. It's a sad day for many people, but we have other places to go.

Kudos to Harper Collins for doing the decent thing and giving everyone prior warning. Not just twenty-four hours, either. They gave us more than a month's warning. That was marvelous because it gave us a chance to search out new homes, to discuss them - their pluses and minuses - and to decide what would work for us, as individuals, to reconnect in new places. It was a gracious thing to do and I, for one, appreciate it very much.

I did check out several. Some on which I already had accounts, others were new. None are like Authonomy, but they all have their minuses and pluses, just like everything in life. I've picked my new homes - WriteOn for the writing. It's affiliated with Amazon's Kindle which will make the step to publication easier. Scribblers will be my place for the communing with my fellow writers.

My flash pieces will start on Scribblers and may end up here. Or not. I'll chat there and work on WriteOn. Or maybe I'll do flash on both places since Scribblers has the weekly FFF thread, and WriteOn has a Weekend Write-In. Both are different, both are challenging although I do find the WriteOn theme more difficult since it limits the word count to five hundred instead of one thousand.

If you want to try it, just start writing a story - whatever you choose - and then complete it in under five-hundred words.

It's hard at first, but as with everything else, if you practice, you get better - which means you're cutting the chaff and keeping the kernels, which is something imperative to good writing. You don't want your story to get lost in too many words. Keep it to just enough and you're golden. But it is hard because stories do tend to take on a life of their own.

On WriteOn, I already have two books up and two flash books started. It's an active site and encouraging, although if you're not active your books fall off the radar - which is actually a good thing.

That was one complaint I had about Authonomy, and about Book Country. You never knew whether the book you were reading and commenting upon was active or someone's abandoned baby. In just the past ten days, since I was focused on wedding stuff and wedding recovery, I haven't been writing / updating and posting. And my books have evaporated into the background. Which is fine. I'll get active, they'll resurface and things will get back on track.

I looked at some other places, too, but none compare to Authonomy. And they shouldn't. They should stand or fall on their own merits. Some people like this or that and I don't, so we'll commune together on Scribblers and go our separate ways (or not) for our writing. Pretty much like life.

Now, I hope you have a wonderful day!

Best~
Philippa

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

Quiet Sunday - A Time for Flash

It's Sunday morning and I'm feeling lazy. I got a lot of stuff done yesterday - mending, errands, some writing and commenting, but today, I feel blah. Just lazy with limited energy and I have to go run some more errands later, so I'll pace myself. I'll post a couple of flash pieces.

One, sadly, is based on something that happened on Friday. The prompt this week for the Flash Fiction group on Scribblers was 'castaway'.

The second is my entry for the Weekend Write-in on WriteOn.

I hope you enjoy these.

* * * *

Life's Castaway

“Excuse me, sir.” The young woman leaned down, keeping her voice low so the other patrons wouldn’t overhear, even though some of them had been the ones to complain. “I have to ask you to leave.”

Tim looked up at the girl, taking note of the gray-green eyes, brown hair under the uniform cap. Defeated, again, he sighed, nodded, and gathered his battered belongings together. “Sure.”

After sliding off the bench, he set the precious dime down next to the empty coffee cup. It wasn’t much but it was more than he could afford, yet Pride insisted he leave something.

She stepped back, away from him. He was used to it. Everyone did it. That’s what people do with society’s castaways.

Outside, the sun was just rising over the hills. Shadows were still long and the air hinted at the warmth the day would bring. Feeling the tiny heat seeping through the worn out clothes, he considered his options.

Thirty yards away, the overpass rose up and arched across the six lanes of freeway, but he could see the shelter through the trees across the way. He looked at it, considering. Thirty yards, a climb and twenty yards back to the shelter door is a long walk, and I’m tired. I’ll cut across. Hell, I’ve done it a million times.

He shifted the stained and filthy backpack, clutched the plastic bag with his dumpster findings more tightly, and shuffled over to the metal guardrail that separated the restaurant parking lot from the on-ramp and freeway.

Pausing, he waited for the metering light to stop traffic, then skirted between the two lanes of cars. People behind the glass gaped at him, and he saw one punch a button on the steering wheel. But he turned away. He’d be across the road before the cops got there.

A semi blew past, whipping freeway grit, exhaust and papers against him. After a squint he looked.  There was a gap… He stepped forward, hurrying.  One lane behind him and then…

Candy and her friend Brian, commute buddies, were on their way to work. Laughing and talking and… She landed both feet, with all of her might, on the brake pedal but it was too late.

The look of surprise on the man’s face stayed with her long after the car came to a halt. Behind her, the Mercedes slammed into the trunk of her car, bolting her forward and skewing her into the far left lane while other cars swerved, honked and crashed together.

After what felt like a century Candy breathed. “Oh my God!”

“FUCK!” Brian was craning his torso to look backward. Legs encased in dirty cargo pants was all he could see of the man. They were terribly still. He turned back.

Candy was white, her eyes staring through the windshield, her hands, clutched to her face, were visibly shaking. A high-pitched whine filled the interior of the car while the radio announcer cheerfully prattled on about the new Prius.

“Hey!” Brian twisted toward her, grabbed her wrists. “Hey, he walked in front of you. You couldn’t help it.”

That didn’t help either. Her entire body shook, the moan rising higher. Faint sirens grew and he moved.

“Candy. Come on, Candy.” He released the seat belt, opened the door and realized he was shaking just as hard as his friend. A stagger landed him against the crumpled fender and it was all he could do to hold himself upright while he fought not to throw up.

Behind and around him other people were getting out of their cars, milling around, looking at the dead man, talking and staring at him. Several started in his direction but looked away, into the car.

Candy hadn’t moved, still sitting, staring, her hands held to her face.

Forcing himself, he moved forward, around the front of the car. He reached her door just before a Highway Patrolman.

“Are you okay, sir? Is this the car that hit him?”

“Yeah,” a gulp, a breath, “Yeah, he walked right in front of us. Candy,” he opened the door, a little relieved when she looked over at him although the look in her eyes was disturbing, “never had a chance to stop.”

The cop bent down, nudging Brian out of the way. “Are you okay, miss? Do you need an ambulance?”

Her head jerked, the stare becoming less intense. “No.” She turned away, trying to see out the back window.

“Never mind him right now, he’s being taken care of.” He released the belt, looking for obvious injury, noting the deflated airbag pooled in her lap.

“He walked in front of me. I wasn’t speeding, I know I wasn’t because I had just looked and” her head collapsed into her hands and shock turned to sobs. “I killed him.”

“Can you get out?”

Many people were inconvenienced that morning. Two left the scene with burning memories that would last all of their lives. One, a castaway, arrived on a different shore.

 
* * * *

Bambi in the Cabinet

2005

"There you go." The keys passed from the realtor's hand into Kate's fingers.

A thrill fled through her, escaping in a smile. "Thank you."

"Congratulations." Linda smiled at her client, "I think the last tenant got everything, but in case they didn't, just put it all into the garage and let me know, okay?"

Kate nodded, "Thanks for everything, Linda. I'd invite you in..." She gestured to the shadowed foyer, piled with boxes.

"How about a rain check?"

"Sure - I'll give you a call in a few days, after I see if anything was left."

Minutes later, with the screen door closed, the front door propped open, Kate looked around the bare rooms. The furniture wouldn't arrive for a few days, so she would stay in the apartment, but some things could be put away, now.

~ ~ ~ ~

1998

"Mom!" Brendan's eyes glowed with the triumph of his find. His fingers caressed the curves in awe. "Look at this."

Sara stopped watching her feet, turned and looked. The riverbed was a treacherous place to walk, but Saturday hikes with her son were too precious to skip, and this was where he had wanted to go - up the canyon to the ridge where his dad had last been seen six years before.

“Wow.” She turned back, focusing on the smooth object, seamed and holed. “It’s a deer skull.”

“Isn’t it cool?” Her late husband’s eyes in their son’s face pierced her.

Ignoring the familiar pang, she smiled, “Yeah, way cool.” Giving into his excitement, she said, “We’ll take it home and clean it up. You can take it to school Monday.”

“Coool.”

~ ~ ~ ~

2004

“I’ve got everything, Mom.” Brendan was exasperated. He was eighteen after all, and heading for college.

“What about Bambi?”

“Why would I take that? It’ll get busted, but it’ll be safe here, right?”

“Yes,” resigned, she sighed. “I’ll put it in your treasure box, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.” A hand on her shoulder, a kiss on her cheek and he was gone.

She watched his departing back through the screen door, her full heart breaking, again.

~ ~ ~ ~

2005

Kate started in the kitchen, washing the drawers and cabinets before measuring them. Left open to dry, she started trimming the liners. She was just about finished. The sun, lowering through the trees, shot rays into a corner that seemed blank. Something caught her eye. Curious, she put the scissors down and crossed to the corner. Her hands found the faint line, then the hidden button. She pressed, heard a muffled snick and saw the panel shift. The crack widened and a crease appeared.

Linda said this house was old and the original owner a bit… weird. Pushing the crease she pulled at the crack. The folding door moved.

Katie shrieked and leapt back, her heart pounding. There, on one of the shelves crusted with dust and age, the blank eyes of a long-dead deer stared at her.

* * * *

Have a lovely day!

Best~

Philippa

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

Waistcoats and Pocket Watches

I am doing my very best imitation of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland today - I'm late! I'm late!

This has been a day where I woke up and struggled to get up. Got to work reasonably on time and settled in, but the fact that this wasn't already done and posted has been bugging me. So, here I am, on my lunch hour, typing away with no clue. Of course, that is my normal state, so status quo.

Had a good weekend with the review / comment process. Spent quality time with a number of different things across a variety of sites. I even had time to work on my story and got a couple of chapters done. Naturally, though, the well is now dry, so I'm going to "cheat" and paste the flash stories I came up with and mentioned in yesterday's post. I'll let you decide if I'm wicked, evil or simply sick and demented. Or, perfectly normal.

* * * *

Light and Shadow (Posted on the FFF thread in response to the prompt "Torchlight")

July, 1992.

Outside the canvas walls, the night was soft with dew and crickets whispered. Warm light still glowed from the windows, and the faint murmur of the television washed the yard.

Inside the tent, it was dark. Sandy and Matthew had been given permission to ‘go camping’. Even though it was past her bedtime, Sandy snuggled inside the sleeping roll.

“Come on,” she sneered at her brother, older by three years, “I’m not afraid.”

“No. Mom’ll get mad if you wet your bed or run crying into the house.” He slid down and pulled the covering up.

“You’re a chicken, that’s what, but I’m not.”

They had argued for almost twenty minutes and Matt was tired of it. He hated being called a chicken. Sometimes his friends said it, and it stung. Having his little sister say it stung more.

“All right.” He grabbed the torch and flicked the switch, moving it up and holding it under his chin so that the wash of light changed his face into something new. His voice was low, menacing and he leaned forward.

“Once, not too far from here…”

Sandy slid up to listen, made uncomfortable by the change the angles of light made to Matt’s face, but not willing to whine or show it.

“…he had a golden arm…”

Outside, there was a sharp rustle followed by the crack of a breaking branch and the neighbor’s dog began to bark. Sandy skittered out of the sleeping bag, darted between the canvas flaps, and threw herself in the direction of the warm lights.

* * * *

November, 2014

“Damn.” Sandy stepped inside to flick the switch from a different angle. The lights still didn’t come on. After dropping her purse and coat onto the sofa, she headed for the kitchen to get the candles.

The house, built in the 1950’s, had wiring that seemed to supply power only when it felt like it. Rain or shine it didn’t matter.

“I should just leave these out,” she muttered as she opened the cabinet door.

There was a sound from the doorway into the dining room. Whirling, she saw the bulk of a figure. Her lips tightened in irritation. It had been one solid bitch of a day and she was in no mood for her brother’s antics. When the torch flicked on, casting light and shadow, she’d had enough.

“I warned you!” She crossed the floor in three quick steps, balanced, and flung her foot upward, into the channel between his legs and wham, caught him as hard as she could.

With a shriek, he collapsed, curling into a fetal position, gasping and clutching himself. At the same instant, something clattered to the floor and the finicky lights flickered to life.

She stepped back. Shock became horror as she realized it wasn’t Matt. She didn’t know who it was – she had never seen him before. Next to him lay a knife, not one of hers. She stepped back, again, turned, ran through the family room, down the short hall and out the front door.

Matt was coming up the street with Jess and Dave when his little sister came tearing out of the house.

“What is it?” He lurched forward to grab her, seeing the shock and fear in her staring eyes.

When she pointed, he let her go and raced to the house, closely followed by his friends.

WEST SIDE RAPIST FELLED IN ONE BLOW

Sandy McLaine arrived home at eleven o’clock last night where she found an intruder she mistook for her brother, Matthew. An altercation ensued…

* * * * *

An Unexpected Assailant

(Posted on WriteOn in response to the Weekend Write-In prompt of "Falsetto")

It sounded like the high-pitched whine of a teakettle on the boil, a hoarse and muffled shriek of pain. He lay on his side, curled in a fetal position, his cheeks wet with tears while his hands clutched his crotch, not yet rocking to comfort himself.

Kelly stepped back, the adrenaline still pounding through her body in a flood that stiffened her spine even though her nerves were waiting to collapse. The knife, blood tipped, glinted eerily in the shadow cast by his body. A step forward and she scooped it up, gingerly, and then paused, debating. Sounds from the street, just thirty feet away, intruded on them.

I could. No one would know. The chill night breathed on her neck, raising goose-pimples and a shiver. No. I would know and he’s not worth that.

Extracting her cell phone from her pocket she stood over him while she dialed. Guess all those hours working with my sensei paid off after all. Bastard never stood a…

“911. What is your emergency?”

* * * *

“We met in a bar earlier tonight.” God, she was tired, particularly in the aftermath. “He offered to walk me home because it was late. I live close by, so didn’t think about it.”

* * * *

In a room down the hall, Drake held the ice bag between his legs. The need to throw up had passed, but he knew he was going to be in a world of hurt for at least a few days.

“She came on to me, I swear. I thought she’d like it.”

The cop’s eyes were blank and jaded. He’d heard it all before, a million times, and he was bored. “So you shoved her into the alley without asking.”

“Yes… I mean, no. I…” Drake shook his head. It was so fucked up. The pretty blonde babe, slender at the waist with a nice rack and hips that… well, they made him hard just thinking about her, and that hurt. He shifted, clearing his throat, hoping the squeaky girl sound in his voice wasn’t going to be permanent. “We were kidding around, joking, and I grabbed her and pulled her along. She didn’t resist. Well, not much.”

The cop nodded, wrote and looked up, “What do you do for a living?”

Drake looked up with a smile, straightened on the chair and began to sing – a bouncy rendition of “I Feel Pretty”.

The cop stared, his jaw dropped in surprise and, a few bars into it, burst into laughter, collapsing against the hard plastic chair while Drake continued to belt out the lines in the falsetto created by his balls having been kicked into his throat.

“I’m a singer in a drag revue.”

* * * * *

Have a lovely (entirely pain-free) day!

Best~

Philippa

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