a book review: The Hermit, by Monica Friedman

I don't have many words for how deeply this story touched me, but I can tell you how it did so:

The characters are people first; they are individuals, not the named trait-collections one finds in some books. These characters have their own voices that are not dictated by the stereotypes attached to them. Men experience sadness; women experience anger; children can be calm; adults can be playful. There is no watering down of a smart character's vocabulary, no fluffing up of the simpler characters' vocabulary. There is never a time when the characters experience only one emotion. They're all too human for that.

It is also true that these characters are archetypes in the fairy tale Friedman weaves. It's a fairy tale about humanity, despite the greater number of animals than humans in the cast. I felt connected to the characters as people, no matter their species.

I could hear the author's voice in this story. It was strong, consistent, and clear. I could also hear the voices of the characters, for the reasons I've already mentioned. And, I could hear my own story in their voices. I cried when I saw my voice in a character's pain; when I saw, finally, how that pain came to be; when I saw how much of our pain is our own creation. I cried again when I was reminded that there's still hope - there will always be hope, and a choice.

This story is everything a fairy tale should be: it reflects us with almost obscene clarity at our best, and at our worst, and it shows us a path through the dark.

I will read this many times, whenever I need to hear it again.

[book review] Viper Wine

"Venetia Stanley was the great beauty of her day, so dazzling she inspired Ben Jonson to poetry and Van Dyck to painting. But now she is married, the adoration to which she has become accustomed has curdled to scrutiny, and she fears her powers are waning. Her devoted husband, Sir Kenelm Digby—explorer, diplomat, philosopher, alchemist— refuses to prepare a beauty tonic for her, insisting on her continued perfection.

Venetia, growing desperate, secretly engages an apothecary to sell her “viper wine”—a strange potion said to bolster the blood and invigorate the skin.  The results are instant, glorious, and addictive, and soon the ladies of the court of Charles I are looking unnaturally youthful. But there is a terrible price to be paid, as science clashes with magic, puritans rebel against the decadent monarchy, and England slides into civil war.

Based on real events and written with anachronistic verve, Viper Wine is an intoxicating brew of love, longing and vanity, where the 17th and 21st centuries mix and mingle in the most enchanting and mind-bending ways."

This book has the potential to address the ways vanity and the exultation of youth corrupt the human mind and rot our social structures from inside the individuals. - 12 May 2015



Clearly, it took me a loooooong time to get through halfway through this book.
I'm still not done with it, really. I've written my review based on what I've read so far, and I feel free now to read it at a more leisurely pace.

More leisurely than taking two months to read 200 75 pages? Yes.

I haven't been able to read much this summer, and this book takes more energy than I've had anyway. It's not for the lighthearted.

You may have noticed that I haven't written much either.

I took a hiatus from my computer.

I'm probably back. Mostly.

~~~

My review of Viper Wine by Hermione Eyre follows:

My first thought, after reading the description of the book, was that Viper Wine had the potential to make a powerful statement about the social and psychological damage done by the beauty standard. The false value of aesthetic beauty, the judgment of worth by beauty, the patriarchal grading of women by their relative beauty, the competition that arises and demands unnatural measures to achieve "beauty" - all of these damage ourselves and our society, and this book could show us how.

 I looked at the table of contents. The chapter titles sounded like short stories ("A Discourse Between Brothers") or poems ("Moonbeams Are Cold and Moist"). The include modern pop culture references ("Fame" and "Yellow Submarine"). Together, they hinted at a poetic, ornate, satirically flowery style of writing. They were right.

 There is a prologue, and Epilogue, and 38 chapters. There are about 400 pages of text. Large pages. There is also a Bibliography (selected), and a list of illustrations. This surprised me. I mean, yeah, it says it's based on real events, but that phrase gets tossed about quite a lot with very little research to back it up. Not so in this case. Perhaps it's because this novel, this fictionalization, was written by a journalist. But frankly, calling Hermione Eyre (surely that's a pen name?) a journalist after reading any of this book at all, feels so incomplete as to be false. This woman is an Author. She has crafted what is perhaps a masterpiece.

 I took a peek at the author photo on the back flap, curious about the face that made Viper Wine. The woman in the photo challenges the viewer and does not seem above leaping out of the photo for a fist fight - if only to place bets on the winner.

 I wondered, before beginning the journey that has been Reading The Book, whether there could be a connection between the ornate writing style and the theme of social beauty concepts, especially in the damage those concepts do; is the writing style another layer of satire? Now that I'm halfway into the book, I feel it must be intentional. Whatever the case, it works.

 Seriously, don't let the ornate style turn you away before giving this book a try. It isn't over the top, and somehow it manages to not be pretentious. The story is woven by its prose. Every thread is important. Every word addresses the characters in the most human terms and stabs at the modern feminist's foes. The text describes the patriarchy without subscribing to it. If nothing else, this story is a feminist victory.

In the end, I ranked this book at four stars instead of five only because it is not broadly accessible; the average reader will have difficulty with some of the style devices - both the overall ornateness and the insertion of radio static (no really; I don't know how else to describe it), which is original and interesting, but hard to 'get' at first. 

(I ranked the back cover copy fairly low because books that only list their praise on the back annoy me. Give me a reason to open it, not sound bites.)

the General's pen

The sleek black enamel was long worn from the grip. Finger-burnished brass from underneath showed the hand's once-hidden habits. The high ungrasped end, where the enamel remained unscathed, reflected a heavy-jowled face in miniature. Squinting, the face could discern its own features. Grey squirreled eyebrows nearly hid the black eyes; That frown seemed deeper, more terminal than before.
A small bell rang in the hall. The office's double doors parted with a thin complaint.
Business, he thought, was ever at hand. He laid the pen down and stood to receive his guest.
The man who entered - the man who must be the renowned Colonel "Got'em" Archer, recently retired - was not what he had expected. This man was more slender than square, more bold than built. No matter. It'd all be sorted out soon enough.
"Colonel Abraham Archer, yes?" He felt the slightest tremble in his hand as he extended it, and prayed the Colonel wouldn't notice. The tension around the other man's eyes didn't lessen, but he grasped the proffered hand.
"I'm retired," the Colonel said, "as you are surely aware. Young Peter here must have heard that from someone. His invitation was from you, yes? It was most intriguing."
Peter sulked behind the Colonel, looking more the cur at being named.
Setting aside his irritation with his recalcitrant son, the man with the pen replied, "Of course, but you never lose your stripes." He waved Peter toward the liquor cabinet and hoped the boy wouldn't embarrass him further. He should have sent someone Raul to fetch their guest. "So, Colonel Archer, I am General - retired, if you will - Rodney DeWitt, Mayor of Asylum, and I would like to personally welcome you to our city."



~~~
The above passage is a rework of a piece I've never been happy with. It's from When Stones Sing, my currently-mostly-dormant novel. A lot has changed. I wrote this from a different perspective originally, not intending to ever give the Mayor his own voice in the story. Hell, I was barely aware of who the Mayor was when I first wrote this scene. (Which was, obviously, one of my issues with writing it that first time. I didn't know who I was dealing with.)

This began as a response to a prompt, in the writing class I'm taking. The instructor had laid a few dozen items out in the middle of our communal table and said: pick an item and write a story about it. I don't know what it was about the pen in front of me that made me think of this conversation between Archer and the Mayor. I didn't know that's where the pen was taking me until I heard the small bell ring, and I suddenly pictured the same ancient doors I'd seen Archer walk through when I first wrote this scene. This entire reworking of this scene was written without a single glance back at the original. I'm pretty amazed at the similarity, now that I've looked (literall, just now) back at the original.

Incidentally, that nickname - "Got'em" - is subject to change. In fact, just consider it a place holder for something much more awesome. 

Against the Stark

Two Cranes Dancing
- all awkward grace and
squawking leaps
against the stark white face
- of winter, darkening.

This is what my father's origami crane makes me think: dark nights in a dark home, warmed by the woodfire stove in the basement, insulated and imprisoned. Then an orange cat tumbles across the modern floor of my apartment, and I'm brought back to now. The cat shreds its prize: a red paper crane whose wings no longer fly.

via

The Room, by Jonas Karlsson [a book review]

This is the best depiction of mental illness in fiction that I have read. Ever. Yet. Et cetera.

And yet, I've had a hard time beginning this review. I read the book two weeks ago and have stared at this mostly blank post every day for at least a few minutes.

I'm just not sure how to express the emotions stirred by this book.

Tell you what, I'll just start here: the description on the Blogging for Books website says -

Bjorn is a compulsive, meticulous bureaucrat who discovers a secret room at the government office where he works--a secret room that no one else in his office will acknowledge. When Bjorn is in his room, what his co-workers see is him standing by the wall and staring off into space looking dazed, relaxed, and decidedly creepy. Bjorn's bizarre behavior eventually leads his co-workers to try and have him fired, but Bjorn will turn the tables on them with help from his secret room.
      Debut author Jonas Karlsson doesn't leave a word out of place in this brilliant, bizarre, delightful take on how far we will go--in a world ruled by conformity--to live an individual and examined life. 

I believe that's the publisher's blurb.

Over on goodreads.com, the reviews seem to divide into those who got that Bjorn was mentally ill, and those who didn't. At least one (that I read) pinpointed Bjorn's mental illnesses as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and a form of Autism. Neither of those is something I know enough about to validate - or invalidate - that diagnosis, but it seems apt from what I do know. (Feel free to enlighten me if you are better versed in these.)

Those reviewers who didn't get that Bjorn had some sort of mental illness were either entertained by the potential magic of the story (Bjorn is, without a doubt delusional), or were irritated with the inconclusiveness of his characterization - that is, they thought he was just a jerk.

Except, in his own mind, Bjorn is perfectly reasonable. Polite. Nice even, though only as kind as might be appropriate for his aims.

Okay, seriously, I'm going to stop myself right here. See, the thing is, this character just straight up fascinates me. This depiction of mental illness from the inside - this flawless depiction - fascinates me. I could talk about the content of the story for... well, pages. But this isn't a book report. It's a review. So instead of going on about the intricacies of Bjorn's character development, I'll just tell you this: if you have any interest in mental illness - if you are curious about how delusion sounds on the inside - you should read this book.

It's a quick, fast-moving, somewhat surreal, infinitely fascinating look at the inner workings of a delusional mind. Just go for it. If you don't like it - this book isn't for everyone, for sure - you won't have lost much time because it's only 125 pages, and they're not even all full.

Bonus: the book includes study questions at the end. If you're into that sort of thing.



~~~

Bloggingforbooks.org sent me a review copy, in exchange for the review. It's a cool site if you're into getting free books and don't mind giving them a few words back in exchange. Check it out.

excerpt, and the mindset against Others

He was thin and his flip flops were broken. His wife was a school teacher. He liked that she wore high heels. His brown eyes lit like bonfires when he talked about his three children. He wanted to write a book one day, but he doubted anyone would read it. He had black hair, and like most men in that place, it was beginning to show salt. He'd been a Colonel in the Iraqi Army, before the Fall. Then we came, and he helped us hunt the bad guys with a GPS and a radio. Now he was a detainee with a number for a name. The orange jumpsuit was dirty and it didn't fit him well. He never looked discomfited by it. He treated the guards as his honored escorts.

At the first meeting: The interrogator is a soft young woman in uniform, dark blond bun pulling her face tight. He's not sure he's speaking to the right person at first. Where is the interrogator he asked for? He has been asking for so long. What took them so long? Are there so many requests to speak with the Army? He is caught off guard when she says she doesn't know why he hasn't been seen earlier. Six months is a very long time, longer than she has been here, she tells him. I'm still trying to understand all this myself, she says. There are not so many requests such as yours, she guesses, and he knew this already. "Nobody knew what to do with it, probably - you know how armies are, I think? Maybe that's why they gave it to me. I'm the new guy." He's quiet for a moment, expecting to be interrupted, to be asked questions, but she waits for him. So he speaks.

At the third meeting: Her right hand is red; there's a cut between the last two knuckles. By the end of the meeting, a galaxy of a bruise envelopes three knuckles. There's a strain in her smile, but her manners are intact. "I am Sheik Imad al Juburi," he said, with his head held high. Then a twinkle appeared, and he added, "but you may call me Abu Thabit."

At the last meeting: "I hope to read your book someday, Abu Thabit." She shakes his hand. "Ah," he responds, "who knows what might happen? It is in the hands of God."





~~~~~~~~

I'm considering writing a fictional memoir of a US Army Interrogator, based loosely on my own experiences. Mom's been after me for  - well, since I redeployed in 2008 - to write about what I experienced in Baghdad. I doubt I'll ever be ready to write about it the way she wants me to, full of my feelings and thoughts. Today, though, this idea popped into my head. At first I wasn't thinking about writing anything military/Iraq-related at all. A title showed up in my thoughts and scattered whatever else I'd been thinking about.

The title was this: A Memoir in Case Studies. Then I thought I could write the life of a counselor or psychologist, through the eyes of their clients/patients. The realization of just how much research that would take - since I'm neither of those two professions, despite my academic leanings - was enough to squash that idea. I decided to make a note about it, anyway.

Then I realized I have, in fact, done work that would fit into that structure: I was an interrogator. I functioned as a counselor whose goal is to find out all they can from the client, no more or less, and certainly no caring or counseling unless it was a farce to get the interogatee to say more. I wasn't very good at the not caring bit. I wasn't even good at not offering advice. But I had a caseload of people I interviewed, and their perspective is one I wish more people had heard.

...I've just realized what I'd been thinking about before the title came to mind. I'd read an article about a US soldier, a sniper, who had written a book and is apparently somewhat famous. He died quite recently, the article said, when he was accidentally shot at a gun range (I'm really working hard to avoid commenting on the irony, just out of respect for the dead and because it really is tragic, but damn really?). That wasn't the focus of the article, though. Oh fuck it, I went and found the damn article again. Here ya go. Chris Kyle was the guy's name. Maybe you've heard of him. It'd be easier to be respectful of the dead if this one weren't so damn ignorant and, well, anyway. I don't want to get all swear-y.

Here's what stuck with me after I read it: In “American Sniper,” Kyle describes killing as “fun” and something he “loved” to do. This pleasure was no doubt facilitated by his utter conviction that every person he shot was a “bad guy.” (That's a quote from the article, I'm just too tired and cranky to go reformat it so the quotations marks are right so I just italicized it).

There's our human tendency to categorize and rationalize.
I'm so very tired of hearing people rationalize the Iraq War this way. I mean, we have a variety of bad rationales for this war to chose from, but this - this idea that Iraqi people are less of a mix of good and bad than any other person on the planet, that Iraq is full of 'bad people,' that Iraqis are bad people, even - all that shit, is shit. And I'm so sick of it.

It's so easy to dehumanize people who are unfamiliar to us; we do it unconsciously (mostly) and immediately (often). But familiarity breeds comprehension, which breeds empathy and then compassion.

So I'm going to tell this story.
I'll do it my way, without a lot of me in the story.
It'll be fictionalized, because I don't want to argue with the government. Not like that, anyway.
I'm not promising this will happen soon. I have other projects to finish first, but this was in my head today. 

Flash Fiction 55: "Man, you gotta go"

Four letters, infinite power: move. One pair of boots, colored by hard ground, treading the old road's dead-grass track, thrust dirt ahead of their scuffs. All the steps behind had faded into days, uncounted, known only for the cold shade and thawing sun. All the steps ahead were lovely, in the heart above the boots. 

----------

Inspired by the imaginary garden with real toads, the lure of movement against my own stagnation, and Abraham Archer, who has been tracking through my thoughts lately. 

The Howl Thief begins...

I'll start by telling you this:
The italicized part below is something I've posted before, with just the tiniest of changes right there at the very end. For the longest time, I had no idea where this story was going. Then Magaly's Blooming Howls inspired me, and I thought a little more about who these two characters were, and where they were going. I can finally see the path they have to tread, and though it's a longer one than I can scribe in a few nights, I'll share the beginning with you here...

Eggs scrambled with spinach and mushrooms, a little salt. Peaches, sliced. Cottage cheese.

Check, check, and check.

Naylee will give me that face, the one filled with sweet happiness. I turn off the stove and scrape the eggs onto a plate.

A couple forks from the drawer, and -

There she is. Radiant. Bouncing into the room.

“Jorg! Look what I made!” Naylee giggles and holds up a ridiculous… sea slug? “It’s a sweater, obviously,” she laughs, unable to even attempt a straight face. I’m grinning back at her, despite being completely confused. The knitted thing is huge, and orange, and when she holds it up that high it blocks my view of her. Still smiling, I let her hand it to me. It could be a sweater, if I had no arms. I’m helpless. Naylee’s smile quiets. “Don’t worry,” she coos, “you can put it with the rest.” Relieved, I toss it to the top of the kitchen cabinets, where a collection of ill-fated knitting projects is accumulating.

“I’ll get the hang of these things one of these days,” Naylee insists. “I don’t know about that orange though. That might be a trim-only sort of color. A little goes a long, long way, ya know. Oooo! Peaches! Hmmm, you must like me an awful lot.”

That’s my Naylee. Teeny Queen of Distraction. My heart thumps. I reach for her waist, and I like the way my hand wraps from one hip to the other.

“Come here.” It comes out of my throat as a growl.

“Oh, scary! You know sexual dimorphism in humanoids isn’t supposed to be this distinctive, Jorg.”

“Mmmm, I love when you talk dirty to me, Naylee.”

She’s giggling again and just like that, I’m taken. Again and again.

“Hey there big man,” Naylee bats her eyelashes, “are you gonna feed me first or what?”

I pull her close, so gently, and ask her, so softly, if she’s really that hungry. A kiss on her cheek, then her lips.

“Not really, no,” she whispers back.

“I need you,” I admit.

“Oh please,” she laughs.

I had meant it, but that’s okay. I smile and kiss her again and play along. “My princess, my love, you taste like joy.”

I’m rewarded with a new round of giggles and accusations of romantic delusions. She’s right. She always is, she just doesn’t know it yet. I pick her up and kiss her again.

“Oh, you got me!” she squeals and smirks, “whatcha gonna do with me now?”

I carry her across the kitchen and into her gardening room. There’s a couch there, under the big bay windows.

“Naylee, may I?” I whisper in her ear.

“Yes please,” she says.

I set her down and lay myself on the couch. I’m careful - no need to break any more furniture throwing my weight around. When I’m settled, I tug her hand. She straddles me, her knees at my hips, and leans down for more kisses. I catch her again in my arms and hold her as close as I dare. The air around us seems to heat as we kiss. She rubs her body against me, sending hisses of urgency up my spine. Distantly, I feel myself rumbling and I grow stronger against her warmth. I open my eyes to take in this whirlwind of a woman - sometimes I have to see to believe - and a flicker of movement comes from the open room to my left. Releasing Naylee with my left arm, I grasp her tighter with my right and catch the little fucker in my left hand. My grip dwarfs his fist, and I give it a shove, sending him back across the room. Still squeezing Naylee with my right arm, I pull her in closer to that side. She’s taking advantage of my turned head and trailing little kisses along the side of my neck.

“You really need to do something about that,” Naylee says between kisses.

“I know,” I grunt. A blond scrapper of a boy is taking aim for my head again. This time when I catch his fist, I squeeze. First the bones crack - a very satisfying sound - then they crumble, and the boy disintegrates. I sigh. Naylee trails her kisses back up to my face, and I hold her with both arms again. And I’m -

Waking up.

Damn.

Jorg blinked. His eyes felt strained, as though he hadn’t been asleep for hours. The sun was streaming in, highlighting the empty space on Naylee’s side of the bed. She must have gone to work already. Jorg grumbled and got out of bed. Strange dreams had interrupted his sleep, and waking alone wasn’t comforting. Nevermind the several centuries he had spent alone before meeting Naylee; he’d had three years to get accustomed to having her around, and he never liked her absence.

A plastic crash came from the bathroom, followed quickly by a muffled “Sorry!” Not at work, then. She must have dropped something. He frowned. Hopefully she hadn’t dropped a plant pot. No, it couldn’t have been that, he decided. That would have sounded like ceramic breaking.

Naylee cracked the bathroom door and poked her head into the bedroom. “Sorry Jorg, did I wake you? I dropped my lotion. Slippery stuff.”

Jorg smiled, happy to see her round, cinnamon face peering back at him. “I was awake,” he said.

She smiled back, relieved. She was always so worried about him. It was endearing.

“Naylee,” he began, “do you know anything about dreams?”

A frown played on her lips. “Not really. I never got into all that stuff. Why?”

His brow creased. “I had that strange dream again last night. It felt,” he paused, casting about for the right word, “it felt too real, I guess.”

The frown settled more firmly on Naylee’s face as she considered this. This was the third time Jorg had woken with those bleary eyes and that worried mien. 

He described the dream, skipping over the embarrassing bits, but it wasn’t much different from the others he’d had. They all started out normal enough, but that blond boy, that worried him. The boy felt separate from the rest of the dream, as if he didn't belong there. As if the boy were not wholly part of the dream.

As he spoke, Naylee came to sit next to him on the bed. When he was done, she thought quietly for a moment.

“There’s a dream reader,” she said finally, “on my way to work. They have a shop just a few blocks from here. I go by it every day. It looks clean, reputable. Maybe you should stop in there today and ask about a reading.”

Jorg knew the place. He’d seen it too. It was at the edge of the Rev - The Reverie, officially - where all the Dreamers lived. It wasn’t visited much by anyone who wasn’t a dream witch. Witches of any type had always seemed a bit too clannish for him. The dream witches hated the green witches, who hated the fire witches, and so on. That whole attitude annoyed him. Then there was the general seediness of those dream shops. They tended to attract people Jorg wanted nothing to do with.

But, Naylee’s suggestion made sense. He had the impression this dream was something he shouldn’t ignore. Following his hunches had gotten him out of many a tight corner; no reason to stop now. He agreed to check out the shop before going to work. He had a light day planned, anyway. Plenty of time.

The sun was making an unusually intense appearance in the San Francisco sky when Jorg walked to the edge of the Rev. The Dreamer’s shop seemed huddled into the first floor of a decrepit brownstone. “Dream Reader is IN!” the sign blared, giving the only indication that life existed on the other side of the blacked out windows. Sighing, Jorg, pulled the door open and squeezed his bulk through it.

The tiny room held an aged upholstered chair in each corner facing the windowed wall. One of these chairs held a dog. A border collie, Jorg thought. The dog lifted its black-and-white head and peered at Jorg, seeming surprised. Then it stood and stretched its way to the floor, and trotted through a curtain-covered doorway in the back wall. Jorg stared after it, not sure what to do next.

Jorg had just decided to sit in the other chair when a reedy man burst through the curtained door, arms wide and jaw flapping.

“Welcome!” the man said. He brought his hands back to together and wrung them, eyeing Jorg and clearly unsure what had just crossed his threshold. Jorg felt his face pulling into a frown, and carefully brought himself back to neutral.

“I need a dream reading,” he said calmly.

tarot solves writing blocks, for real

I've been working on the Jorg and Naylee story... except that everything I've written so far is background stuff. Important, yes, but the more background I write, the more I realize I have no idea where to take this next.

So I'm turning to my trusty tarot deck to tell me what happens next. The exercise goes like this: I do a reading for Jorg and Naylee's story, and whatever the cards say, I have to write. Then I expand on that and, voila: story!

Now let's see how this goes...



First, as I grabbed my cards, the animal oracle deck felt necessary - I realized that J & N are each related to some sort of animal. I drew two of these. Jorg is a frog; Naylee is an otter. I can totally see that, based on the descriptions of each that I wrote yesterday.

This has nothing to do with their colors. The Frog is a healer; it is compassionate because it has lived in two worlds, and understands both. It uses this wisdom to help others. The otter is playful and easily distracted, but capable of hyperfocus when it's time to work. Naylee can teach Jorg to play; Jorg can understands Naylee's distraction, and grounds her.

On to the tarot. The draw I'll use is one I came up with while I was working exclusively with my oracle deck. I used it to tell a story for people, about themselves. It works for fiction, too.

Not a great picture.

Here's the spread:
Knight of Wands, Devil (R), 10 of Pentacles (R)
2 of Swords (R), Ace of Pentacles, 3 of Wands
Ace of Cups (R), 7 of Pentacles (R), Lovers (R)
2 of Pentacles (R)

The beginning:
Knight/Wands - someone who dashes in on will alone; determination without reason
Devil - a problem of your own making
10/Pentacles - the summit of prosperity; a stable happiness

The journey:
2/Swords - a conflict, a catch-22; ignoring indecision, but tiring by holding out
Ace/Pentacles - a fleeting chance for prosperity
3/Wands - actively waiting; watching the next step coming

What the journey brings:
Ace/Cups - a chance for emotional growth
7/Pentacles - a pause in the progress, to assess achievement thus far
Lovers - satisfaction with a decision made

Summary:
2/Pentacles - retaining balance with great difficulty



... And we're off!

Jorg and Naylee prepare for blooming howls

The last time I wrote about Jorg and Naylee, it was primarily to convey a dream I had into written words. I said very little about their appearances, because that wasn't a detail of the dream I had retained. So to prepare for their upcoming appearance at Magaly Guerrero's Crafting Blooming Howls party, I thought I should get an idea of what their appearances might actually be.  

So here you go, Jorg and Naylee, as I see them:  

Jorg has a fecund howl; it drips from the ceilings and vines across walls, laden with ghostly blooms. It makes him feel manly. Men should create, he says.

He has skin like sage and a frosting of evergreen fur, soft as silk, that gives him a faint glow in the right light. In any other light, that fur is nearly invisible.

His thick throat gives him a deep and resonate voice and he likes to sing to the gardens he sees. They always respond in kind.

Jorg thinks deliberately, generously, and thoroughly. He speaks slowly, weighing each word as it comes. He always means what he says.

He says his name with a soft /j/ and a hard /g/. 

Naylee is diminutive and forceful. She is more skilled at decomposition and reverse engineering than she is at creating. She is light-hearted and at ease; she is hope. She is easily distracted. 

Her skin is the color of Arizona adobe. Her eyes and short hair are the same shade of manzanita-brown. 

They are each something west of human, or perhaps in Jorg's case, east of human. 

Look for more of Jorg and Naylee on 17 October 2014, at the Crafting Blooming Howls gala.

flash fiction 55: Lost Bones

The trees grew thick as thieves, racing to capture the light from the clouds. The bones stumbled, clacking along, alone. So far past flesh and shivered by the rising night, the bones careened across the root-strewn floor. A glance back revealed nothing but the crowding trees. Faster, they seemed to accuse, find the child!


~This post has been brought to you by the flash fiction 55 writing prompt at the imaginary garden with real toads, by the letter k for kink, and by a ravaged mind having a grand old time. You're welcome.

Crafting Blooming Howls with Magaly Guerrero

I first met Jorg and Naylee in a deam last June. In the dream, I was Jorg. I suppose that's beside the point.

So anyway.

No shit, there I was, neck-deep in smoothies and dishwater, when all the sudden -

...I don't know where that was going.

So. Anyway.

Magaly Guerrero over at Pagan Culture has this annual blog party in October, and it's awesome. You should totally check it out.

My contribution will probably be another chapter in the J&N story. I wasn't sure, at first, that I would be able to do that. I wasn't sure I knew where that story was going at all, or even whether or not there would be anything truly witchy or magicy about it.

My backup plan is to blog about my first Samhain as a dedicant of Hel, and my first Samhain without a coven. That's this year, by the way, not something that happened in the past. It's happening Right Now. Cool, huh?

As it turns out, I think I'll start work on the J&N story. I was at work today (in a cafe, making smoothies and washing dishes, but not both at the same time), thinking about writing. And thinking about J & N as characters. I really don't know much about them, but today I got some hints.

I'll be shaping Jorg's fecund howl long into the night, just the way he likes it.

a bit of fiction

A bit of fiction, pulled from my dreams last night. 

I have weird dreams.

~

Eggs scrambled with spinach and mushrooms, a little salt. Peaches, sliced. Cottage cheese.

Check, check, and check.

Naylee will give me that face, the one filled with sweet happiness. I turn off the stove and scrape the eggs onto a plate.

A couple forks from the drawer, and -

There she is. Radiant. Bouncing into the room.

“Jorg! Look what I made!” Naylee giggles and holds up a ridiculous… sea slug? “It’s a sweater, obviously.” She’s laughing outright now, unable to even attempt a straight face. I’m grinning back at her, despite being completely confused. The knitted thing is huge, and orange, and when she holds it up that high it blocks my view of her. Still smiling, I let her hand it to me. It could be a sweater, if I had no arms. I’m helpless. Naylee’s smile quiets. “Don’t worry,” she coos, “you can put it with the rest.” Relieved, I toss it to the top of the kitchen cabinets, where a collection of ill-fated knitting projects is accumulating.

“I’ll get the hang of these things one of these days,” Naylee insists. “I don’t know about that orange though. That might be a trim-only sort of color. A little goes a long, long way, ya know. Oooo! Peaches! Hmmm, you must like me an awful lot.”

That’s my Naylee. Teeny Queen of Distraction. My heart thumps. I reach for her waist, and I like the way my hand wraps from one hip to the other.

“Come here.” It comes out of my throat as a growl.

“Oh, scary! You know sexual dimorphism in humans isn’t supposed to be this distinctive, Jorg.”

“Mmmm, I love when you talk dirty to me, Naylee.”

She’s giggling again and just like that, I’m taken. Again and again.

“Hey there big man,” Naylee bats her eyelashes, “are you gonna feed me first or what?”

I pull her close, so gently, and ask her, so softly, if she’s really that hungry. A kiss on her cheek, then her lips.

“Not really, no,” she whispers back.

“I need you,” I admit.

“Oh please,” she laughs.

I had meant it, but that’s okay. I smile and kiss her again and play along. “My princess, my love, you taste like joy.”

I’m rewarded with a new round of giggles and accusations of romantic delusions. She’s right. She always is, she just doesn’t know it yet. I pick her up and kiss her again.

“Oh, you got me!” she squeals and smirks, “whatcha gonna do with me now?”

I carry her across the kitchen and into her gardening room. There’s a couch there, under the big bay windows.

“Naylee, may I?” I whisper in her ear.

“Yes please,” she says.

I set her down and lay myself on the couch. I’m careful - no need to break any more furniture throwing my weight around. When I’m settled, I tug her hand. She straddles me, her knees at my hips, and leans down for more kisses. I catch her again in my arms and hold her as close as I dare. The air around us seems to heat as we kiss. She rubs her body against me, sending hisses of urgency up my spine. Distantly, I feel myself rumbling and I grow stronger against her warmth. I open my eyes to take in this whirlwind of a woman - sometimes I have to see to believe - and a flicker of movement comes from the open room to my left. Releasing Naylee with my left arm, I grasp her tighter with my right and catch the little fucker in my left hand. My grip dwarfs his fist, and I give it a shove, sending him back across the room. Still squeezing Naylee with my right arm, I pull her in closer to that side. She’s taking advantage of my turned head and trailing little kisses along the side of my neck.

“You really need to do something about that,” Naylee says between kisses.

“I know,” I grunt. A blond scrapper of a boy is taking aim for my head again. This time when I catch his fist, I squeeze. First the bones crack - a very satisfying sound - then they crumble, and the boy disintegrates. I sigh. Naylee trails her kisses back up to my face, and I hold her with both arms again. And I’m taken. Again and again.

NaNoWriMo: Day 28

The last few (several) days have been plot-work days for my novel. I just couldn't write any more until I had a clue where all this was going. So I'm not going to 'win' NaNoWriMo. That's cool, because I haven't lost anything, either. Instead, I've gained a novel with a plot, that's just waiting for me to write it. This particular chapter, from which today's excerpt comes, is tricky. I've had to move carefully with this one, and it has taken a lot of thought. It's important.


Excerpt:

Abraham Archer woke to the feeling of being watched. He kept his eyes closed and his breath deep and even. He kept his body relaxed, and just listened.

Whoever it was, wasn’t making any noise at all. He knew they were there, though. He could feelthem. They were – there – at the foot of his bed. Just one of them, watching him. It was – male – and – old – old enough to manifest visually. But it wouldn’t do that. It was being cautious.

Archer opened his eyes. Sure enough, there was no trace of the spirit who had watched him. He didn’t get the impression that this was a spirit which would be easily cowed, or prone to timidity. Was he so strange, even the spirits found him frightening? He got out of bed and began dressing. As he pulled his clothes on, he began talking quietly, almost to himself. He spoke of his first two days in Bisbee – how he had bought a horse that he hadn’t yet ridden, how he had found treasure in the library and a gem in the cafe. As he shaved in the bathroom mirror, he spoke between swipes, about his appreciation of the fine people he had met and the impressive amenities of the hotel. Finally, Archer expressed his gratitude for the hotel’s hospitality. Then he slipped out the door, leaving his room to the spirits. 

An excerpt from The Night of Writing Dangerously, Live

I'm at The Night of Writing Dangerously. Wanna see what I'm working on tonight? Keep reading...
 
Excerpt:

The Mayor's office was in the Courthouse on Quality Hill, on the fourth floor. There was an elevator that once had a motor, but the motor was long ago replaced by a crank, manned by a sour looking man who smells of onions. He said nothing as Archer and Peter approached, merely grimaced and put his hands to the crank. Peter slid the gate closed behind them and the sour man cranks them to the fourth floor.

The ride up was silent.

At the top, Peter slid the gate back open and gestured for Archer to precede him. Archer stepped out of the elevator, and into a plush world of faded maroon velvets and dark, dense wood.This building, like the library, was an architectural jewel. Somewhere deep, Archer squashed the urge to examine the walls - were they facades, or real? - and contented himself with regarding his task at hand: the boy. Peter's posture had straightened markedly from the haunched and angry shape it had been when they left the Grande. The boy seemed almost a man when he knocked on the burnished double doors at the end of the hall.

The doors swung inward with a creak. Beyond them an office opened, lit by the windows lining its outer walls. There were phosporescent lights here too, unlit. Law books lined the walls in recessed bookshelves, and two large men, perhaps brothers of the onion man from the elevator, stood to either side of the open doors. Archer noted them as a show of force, and narrowed his attention to the man behind the desk. The resemblence to Peter was visible in their small, cold eyes, but where Peter was gawky with youth, the Mayor was jowled and ruddy. A man prone to drink, thought Archer, and with an affinity for keys in his decor. The desk between them was a monsterous block of wood, post-Fall production no doubt but reminiscient of the pre-Fall art deco style, with naught for embellishment but two guilded keys reaching from top to bottom on either side of the desk's front. The Mayor stood and extended his hand, smiling briefly. Archer stepped forward and clasped the Mayor's hand in return.

"Colonel Abraham Archer?" the Mayor said. "I'm so glad you've come. When I heard that the esteemed Colonel Archer of Fort Valor had made his way into our little corner of the Arizonas, I just had to welcome you myself, man to man."

The Mayor gestured to a chair, "Please, sit. Peter, fetch us a refreshment."

Peter stalked to the far wall and retrieved a platter set with two small glasses and a clear glass bottle of something brown - probably whiskey, Archer guessed.

"That's thoughtful of you," Archer allowed. "Might I have your name?"

The Mayor cleared his throat and shot the barest dark glimpse at his son, who had set the platter down and was pouring two glasses from the bottle. "Forgive me, Sir, I've been remiss. I am Rodney DeWitt, honored Mayor of this town, and I am, as I said, terribly pleased that you have come."

Archer returned the Mayor's gaze, his face neutral.

DeWitt cleared his throat again, then gestured for Archer to take a glass, now half full of the brown drink.

"Whiskey," the Mayor began proudly, "from my own distillery." He swirled the glass beneath his nose  and inhaled deeply. "It's not easy, you know, making whiskey in this climate. Have to improvise, what work what you do have." He paused again, looking pointedly at Archer. "It's much the same as running a town. It's not easy to keep this town clean and safe. We got the fighting to the east, as you well know, and nothing but coyotes and mountain lions on all sides. You know, after the Fall, Bisbee was in just as precarious position as every other city in the continent. We just got lucky, being small as cities went, and having so many good people here. People who didn't mind getting their hands dirty and doing some work. That work ethic is what keeps us stronger, growing even. We buckled down and do what we have to do. Never relied much on the outside world before the Fall, and haven't needed it since." DeWitt paused again to regard Archer, who only regarded him back. "But I expect a man of your abilities knows all that. Some say that's all ancient history, but I say history puts us where we are. What do you say, Colonel Archer?"

"Oh I suspect both opinions have merit."

When Archer didn't continue, DeWitt did. "You might be right. But we're not here to philosophize, are we? You strike me as a straight-forward man, Colonel, so I'll just ask you upfront: what brings you to Bisbee?"

Archer held the Mayor's gaze for a moment, then sipped from his glass. Smooth and oaky, the whiskey was better than he had anticipated, and he let the Mayor simmer while he pondered the flavors the alcohol presented. Peter, standing behind his father, began shifting from foot to foot.

Archer began slowly, turning the glass in his hand, "First, I'm not a Colonel anymore. I'm retired." There was a flash of something predatory in the Mayor's face. Archer continued. "Second, I'm not sure yet, that I'm staying." He raised his eyes to meet the Mayor's, then set his glass on the desk.

"Well I hope you do stay. I hope you do. We've got the best town between the oceans here. Good people here, and we need more good people working to keep it safe for those folks. You know what I'm saying. Not everyone who follows the law is good, and not everyone who is good, follows the law. That's just the nature of human beings.."

Archer raised an eyebrow, but the Mayor pushed on.

"Take your story for example - oh yes I know it, I've got family in Tombstone, too, you know. Anyway, you did a good thing and got branded an outlaw. Now, most folks would say you paid your dues putting your all into your military service the last twenty years. That's longer than Peter here's been alive! But I say you never had any dues to pay, and we owe you now, and big! Yes Sir, you've earned yourself a big rest and the gratitude of the Arizona Republic. Well, I can't speak for the Republic or any other towns in it, but you're welcome here, Sir, and I want you to know that if there's anything at all you need, you just ask ol' Rodney DeWitt, and I'll come help you out."

Archer took another sip from his glass, then set it down and contemplated the way light came through from the windows, through the glass and the whiskey, and reflected odd parabolas against the wood grain of the desk. "That's mighty kind of you," Archer said.

As he anticipated, the Mayor filled the proceding silence for him. "Of course, you don't seem the kind to sit idle. No Sir, you're a man of action. Am I right?"

Archer nodded cautiously.

"Well Sir," the Mayor continued, "As I've said, this town could always use more people of conviction to help keep the streets safe for all the good people who live here. You are, of course, welcome to make this you home. In fact, I hope that you do."

"You've mentioned that," Archer said, wiping his hand over his face. "But there's something you're not mentioning." Archer was tiring of this game.

DeWitt feigned shock; surprise would have been more honest, Archer thought.

"Mayor DeWitt, what war are you fighting, that you need an old soldier like me?" The Mayor sputtered, but Archer talked over him. "I'm no outlaw, whatever anyone said. That's all ancient history, anyway, and I have earned a rest. But you don't give a personal welcome and fine whiskey to every man that wanders into town. So who are you fighting?"

Rodney DeWitt sucked in his cheeks and reappraised his guest. Archer watched the big man pick up his whiskey glass and set it back down three times before he lost patience.

"If you'll excuse me, I believe our business is concluded," Archer said as he stood. "Thank you kindly for the welcome and the whiskey."

The Mayor raised his hand, "Wait Colonel Archer, please. Sit, please."

Archer paused, then took his seat.

DeWitt continued, "That's better, yes, thank you." He took a deep drink of his whiskey. "Forgive me. I get carried away, I'm afraid. This town is my heart and soul. I believe in this town, and want nothing so much as to keep the people of Bisbee safe and happy. Please, forgive me. I - I had not intended to burden you with this, but I see now that I must." He paused with a sigh, and locked eyes with Archer. "You see, there is trouble brewing. Trouble that could mean the end for this town, and I mean to have the best team I can muster to help me preserve our way of life here."

Archer steepled his fingers under his chin. His silence spurred the Mayor to continue.

"Colonel Archer, I intend to offer you a job. A man of your skills and experience," DeWitt raised his hand, shaking a finger at the ceiling, "you should be - you should be celebrated! Esteemed!" He lowered his finger in Archer's direction. "You should be well paid." He dropped his hand, and his voice dropped several decibels. "And I can do that for you."

Archer grimaced, about to speak, but DeWitt cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Sir, what I'm asking you is to help me uphold the law. You have been here, what, two days? You've seen the people here. They're good people. We don't have much crime here. Maybe a man gets a little too drunk and does some property damage now and then, or walks into the wrong house and gets removed a little too roughly. That's about it. Keeping the people safe from each other isn't much work." The Mayor leaned across his desk. "It's keeping them safe from them that isn't so easy." He pointed off to his right.

Archer raised an eyebrow. "Them?"

"Them." The Mayor nodded. "The mine."

"I thought the mine was closed - defunct."

"That's what they want you to think!" DeWitt's face flushed. "Shut it down back in '17. Nobody even remembers that anymore. But just last year, an entire district was evacuated, and now all those people are gone. Vanished. Where did they go? Why can't I walk into that district and see what's there? Or what's not there - that's more to the point. All those families, all those people - gone. There's a fence around it. That land - that land that used to be a town - is now part of a  mine that's supposed to be shut down. And I want to know why. And I want to keep them from taking the rest of this town." He looked meaningfully at Archer. "And where can I go for help with this? The government doesn't care unless it's keeping Old Mexico from taking Arizonan land. I've got nowhere to turn, but to the people around me. And forgive me, but I can't let the opportunity to enlist your aid pass me by. You know what you're doing like nobody else. You can find out what's going on, if anybody can. I need you. This town needs you. I'll make it worth your efforts. What do you say?"

Archer looked down at the Mayor's desk. With great care, he said, "Mayor DeWitt, you're in a tough spot here. I can see that. I'll consider your offer. If - if - I accept, I'll name my price, and you can agree to it, or not. But we'll get there when we get there. Until then, I'll need you to give me a few days. I'm not going to say exactly how long, and you won't come bothering me while I'm thinking." He cast a glance a Peter, who was glowering in the corner of the room. "Ask your son how I feel about courtesy. You'll need to respect my space until I come to you with my answer. Are we clear?"

DeWitt sucked in a deep breath. "Yes, I understand. I'm a patient man, Colonel, but I'm afraid the mine is neither patient, nor man. Do not dally too long, for the sake of the good people of Bisbee." He glanced back at his son, whose face was flushed and tight. DeWitt scowled and turned back to Archer. "You know how to find me. If I'm not in, Otis and Melroy here will bring you to me." He gestured to his oniony bodyguards.

"That'll be just fine," Archer said. "I'll take my leave of you." He swallowed the last of his whiskey and left the glass on the desk. "Good day," he said, waving to both the Mayor and Peter.

"Good day Colonel Archer," the Mayor responded. "And thank you."

Archer nodded, and found his way out.

NaNoWriMo, Day 12: a quickie

This is a quickie because I'm packing for the Night of Writing Dangerously.

I'm packing for the Night of Writing Dangerously.

Ahem.

Anyway. I'm not done writing today, but I'm posting my excerpt now because I probably won't have time later. And, I may or may not write en route. I don't know yet.

So without further ado, today's excerpt:

Archer was enjoying a mid-afternoon beer at the hotel bar and contemplating the apartment above the cafe when he next saw the young man who had directed him to San Pedro’s Stable the other day. The youth – Peter, Archer recalled – sauntered in the front door, leaned across the bar, and beckoned for Flynn to come. The young man had a lot of nerve, it appeared. He had the look of a young officer, but none of the respect. Archer doubted the boy had ever done a lick of real work. Flynn had gone quickly enough to see to the boy’s needs, and now his gaze flickered in Archer’s direction, then back to the boy, who leaned back away from the bar looking smug. Archer frowned and took another swig from his beer. He pushed the barstool back and stood. Stein in hand, he walked over to Peter. Flynn seemed startled by Archer’s approach; Peter clearly disapproved.

“Gentlemen,” Archer said, nodding at each of the other men, “I wanted to thank you both for the good guidance you gave me. I found the most excellent horse at San Pedro’s, and for a fair price.”

“I was glad to hear of that, Mister Archer,” said Flynn.

Peter’s face flashed something – distaste, Archer thought – but the boy pasted a smile on and oozed charm like a sewer oozes stink. Archer smiled back at him.

“So pleased to be of service, Sir,” the boy practically cooed. “So I hear you’re a military man.”

Archer felt the hairs on his neck creeping up to his scalp. “Formerly. I’m retired.”

“Surely a man of your ability does not plan to be put to pasture?” the whelp asked, all innocence but for those conniving eyes.

Archer’s tension released a flow of energy limbs from his fingers to his toes; this was the type of warfare he knew, and this insolent brat was no match for him.

“Oh I think a pasture sounds refreshing, particularly if I can populate it with mares,” he rejoined. “But perhaps I shouldn’t speak so to children – I would be remiss if my poor, soldierly manners were to corrupt this fair town’s youth.”

Peter’s face burned and his lips pressed together into a thin red line. Flynn’s face was impassive, but Archer detected the faintest sparkle in the man’s pale eyes.

“I can see I’ve stolen your words, child,” Archer continued, “please, you came here with some curiosity about me, ask me your question and I shall try my utmost to answer it chivalrously.”

Peter sputtered, then raised his finger to Archer’s face. The boy was about to say something, but Archer didn’t wait to hear it – whatever it was, it would not have been congenial. Instead, he struck; between the boy’s intake of breath and the first word he might have said, Archer grabbed Peter’s pointing wrist and spun, bringing the boy across his own back and down. Peter found himself inexplicably on his back, on the floor, with his arm locked tight in the kneeling Archer’s grasp, and gasping for air like a fish out of water. The smattering of other patrons in the bar were whispering ferociously behind their hands.

“Young man,” Archer said to him, “I don’t have time for people with poor manners. Kindly keep your fingers out of my face.”

Peter nodded, dazed but certain that he didn’t want to remain in this position.

“Good then,” Archer said. “It’s always good to know one’s boundaries.” He smiled then, and released Peter, who scrambled to his feet.

Flynn cleared his throat. Archer glanced at the barkeep in acknowledgement but kept his attention focused on the boy dusting himself with shaking hands off a few feet away.

“It’s true, Sir, Peter did have a message for you,” Flynn said. “Might better deliver your message Peter.”

Peter glared at the barkeep and growled, “My father will meet with you now. He sent me to fetch you.”

“And your father would be?” Archer inquired.

“The Mayor,” Peter said, regaining enough composure to put a gloating smile on his face.

“Ah, so you’re just the errand boy, then?” Archer asked, goading the boy. “Will you lead the way? It just so happens that I was just wondering whom I should seek apology from for your rudeness.”

Peter’s face purpled; some of the other patrons had stepped forward to see better, but now they edged carefully backwards.

“We’ll have none of that, errand boy,” Archer said, gesturing to Peter’s holster. “You’ll be taking me to your father now.”

Peter’s hand dropped – he hadn’t been aware that he had been reaching for his pistol. Fuming, Peter stomped out of the bar. Archer smiled at Flynn and asked if he could pay for his beer when he returned. Flynn thought that would be just fine.

“I’ll put it on your tab, Mister Archer.”

“You do that, Flynn. Good to see you. I’ll be back soon enough, I’m sure.”

“Yes sir, Mister Archer.”

NaNoWriMo, Day 11

Today I wrote 1163 words of When Stones Sing.
This brings my total to 16,473. It's pretty good, but not quite where I need to be. That's ok though, because I'm on a roll now. If I'd had more time to sit in front of my computer today, I'd have a lot more words. They're in there, in my head, just waiting to be written. The writing life is good.

Today, I had a deeply meaningful conversation with Archer, the real Archer, in which we figured out that we love each other. Again. He is, as always, a blessing in my life.

Today I spent time with friends, and that reminded me how wonderful my friends are. All of them, even the ones I didn't see today. I love you guys.

Today I won the battle against depression. The war is ongoing, but this was a victory.

And in two days, I'm driving to San Francisco.
More on that later - it's past my bedtime.

Excerpt: 

In the Sanctuary, was life. It could not properly be called a room; beyond the stairway, there was nothing manmade here. The roots of the great tree above marbled the ceiling and hung between dripping stalactites of azurite and malachite. The floor of the Sanctuary was speckled by stalagmites, but between them wove a Labyrinth marked by azurite stones placed end to end. At the center of the Labyrinth, The Well bubbled happily, looking more like a pond leaping along its stone shores than a well.

Splashing her hands joyfully in the dancing water, was a tiny little girl with ratty brown hair and the filthiest clothes Jacq had seen, maybe ever.

Jacq looked at Sasha and Frank. Sasha’s hand was over her mouth. Frank’s hands were in his pockets and there was a sour look on his face. Jacq sidled up to Sasha.

“So, I guess that’s the girl?” Jacq asked.

Frank grunted. “That’s her.” He took a long breath. “One of the acolytes tried bathing her, but she wasn’t having it. That little bag of bones has Loki’s fire in her blood. She took off while the acolyte was drawing the water for the bath. Found her down here, playing in the Well.”

“And she just – ” Jacq started.
“Middle of the Labyrinth,” Frank added, rather unnecessarily, Jacq thought. His voice had taken on an awed edge, though, that made Jacq recall her own trip to the center of the Labyrinth. It had not been easy or pleasant for Jacq, but there was that little girl who with her happiness brought Jacq’s difficulties into question.

Sasha’s hand finally released her lips, and she whispered, “how old is she?”

“Don’t know. Told ya that,” Frank said.

“She’s so tiny.” Jacq couldn’t make sense of the girl at all. “Are they all that little?”

Two sets of eyes turned to evaluate Jacq.

Sasha might have growled, Jacq wasn’t sure.

“Really Jacq,” the other woman said, “why did I even bring you?”

“Cuz you didn’t wanna walk!” Jacq’s head felt like it might explode.

“By the Bones! You two are worse than children! Knock it off, for Hel’s sake!” Frank’s raised voice cut through Jacq’s sudden anger, deflating her wounded pride.

“Sorry Frank,” she mumbled.

Sasha sighed, and said, “I’m sorry too, Frank. And Jacq, please forgive me. I didn’t mean it.”

“S’okay. I’m sorry too.” Jacq couldn’t look at the two adults next to her, so she looked at the child instead. The tiny girl had stopped playing, and was standing at the edge of the water, looking right back at Jacq.

Jacq blinked.

Sasha gasped.

Frank raised his voice to carry across the distance: “Come along now sweetheart, I’d like you to meet these two. They’re Hands, like me.”

Jacq felt herself crouching down the way she would to meet a new dog. She hoped Sasha wouldn’t think that rude. It felt right. “Hi,” she said, softly. She wasn’t sure the girl heard her at first. The girl tilted her head down, as though she were looking at her feet, and began walking back through the Labyrinth. She heard me,Jacq realized, staying crouched. Jacq became completely engrossed with watching the child pick her way carefully back through the Labyrinth, step by tiny step. The sights and sounds of the bubbling water, the dripping stalactites, and the two other people next to Jacq faded away. All she could hear, all she could see, was the feathery touch of the girl’s slippers on the stone path. Jacq nearly stopped breathing when, an eternity later, the girl’s toes crossed over the end of the Labyrinth’s path. She let out a sigh then that relaxed her down to her bones.

“Hi,” Jacq whispered.

The girl’s ice blue eyes peered into Jacq’s face. Her tiny hand reached out slowly, almost touching Jacq’s face, but stopped just short and pulled back.

“Who are you?” the little girl’s raspy whisper squeezed Jacq’s heart.

“I’m just Jacq,” she said. “What’s your name?”

Unblinking, the girl’s eyes shuttered and looked away. “I’m just Dolly.”

Intuitively, Jacq reached out, grabbing the girl’s skinny arm, her fierce expression reflected by the girl’s sudden fear. “There’s nothing ‘just’ about you, child. You are not ordinary. You are not unwanted. You are necessary. You are real.”

“Jacq! You’re scaring her half to death!” Sasha’s cry broke through Jacq’s trance. Jacq’s fingers sprang open, releasing the girl’s arm, but the girl didn’t move. She stood shock-still, staring open-mouthed at Jacq.

Sasha swooped in to gather the child in her arms. “Come with me little one. My name is Sasha. Miss Jacq didn’t mean to scare you, honey.” Sasha pointed a quick glare at Jacq just before she sweep up the stairs with the girl. Her chatter quickly faded from hearing as she rose out of sight.

“Well,” Frank stuck his thumbs into his pockets and harrumphed. “That went... well.”

NaNoWriMo: Day 9

Word count: 15310

Battling the depression today. Didn't get nearly as much written as I would have liked. Yesterday was a work day, and tomorrow will be too. Sigh.

Have you met Isaiah yet? Here meet Isaiah. He's fun to write, when he's not fussing.

Something of an excerpt, though this chapter is still very, very rough: 

He wanted to deliver the letter himself. He wanted to see the look on his father’s face, wanted to know if the man had ever loved his mother, Christ have mercy on her soul. He had been almost excited by the prospect. But even if he had joined the mail service, they would not have let him deliver that letter. He had asked. You need training, they had told him. Wouldn’t be ready to carry the mail until after he had been trained. There were too many hazards crossing borders like that for them to send fresh new recruits across the continent. That training would have taken too long for his purpose. Besides, the Christian Confederation of Arkansas’ Mail Service sent cross-continental mail by train partways, anyway. It would get picked up by a carrier in the Republic of Arizona, then delivered however they did that there. If he wanted to deliver it himself, he needed to get his hands on it before it got into the mail system. But the letter was already gone when he figured that out. A day late and a Promise short, as always. So instead, he followed it. The letter moved faster than he did, by train, but he hoped it would slow down once it hit the Republic’s borders. Everything slowed down there, he had heard.

They had no cars there except the ones they built by hand – monstrous things that no sane mother would allow her children near, so much did they resemble demons. And demons they had aplenty. It was a godless land, filled with devils that masqueraded as petty gods, and who led the people away from the Christ and his Church. The people of the Republic of Arizonaspent all their money on whores and wars. So his mother – Christ have mercy on her soul – had whispered, and so Isaiah Archer believed.

His father had been different, she had whispered more than once, his father had been saintly. Abraham Archer – that name, his father’s name, had been her last whisper. The man had saved her, had given her a new life, had given her a chance to redeem herself in God’s eyes, had given her Isaiah. But if that man was so great, Isaiah had wondered, where on God’s green Earth was he? She had never answered that, just told him to be grateful that he had saved her when he did.

Even when he reached Manhood, she would not tell him. When he had turned eighteen and gone to serve his two years in the Blessed Army, he had hoped she would tell him before he left. She refused. And when he came home, twenty years old and feeling like he had earned the information, she refused. But when he cried over his mother’s coffin, his Aunt Amelia had put her shaking hand on his shoulder, told him what she knew of his father’s story, and told him to find Abraham Archer. Your mother has nothing to leave you, but your father can give you an inheritance. Find him. There is nothing here for you but sorrow. I’ll give you enough funds to make the trip and keep you through the next few months. Then you’ll have to find something else, because that’s all I can do for you.

She had sent a letter, she told Isaiah, so his father would know that his mother, Theodora – Christ have mercy on her soul – had died, finally, from the coughing disease that had plagued her since her arrival in Hope, Arkansas. He does not know you, she had said. Theodora didn’t know she was to be blessed with child when she came here, and I said nothing of you in my letter. It seemed to me, that you might want to decide for yourself whether you want him to know you. So Isaiah had followed the letter, never stopping to wonder how his Aunt had known where to send it, until he was two train stops away. He had spent his time on the train in his tiny compartment, reading his Bible and agonizing over what his father would look like, be like, think like. The man must have had a darker complexion than Isaiah’s mother had; Isaiah himself had been ‘born with a tan,’ she said. Her own skin had been lily-white and her hair golden blond. There is no doubt you are an Archer, she had said, with that black hair and that golden skin. As if there were any doubt. His mother was above such suspicion, obviously. She must have been teasing.

Aunt Amelia had confided that day, over her sister’s coffin, that Abraham Archer was a soldier in the Army of the Republic of Arizona. Look for him at Fort Valor, she had told him.
~

He had wished, on that first day off the train, that he had paid more attention to the changing scenery as it had flashed past his window. He felt he had disembarked the train in an alien world. Where were the trees with their changing leaves? Where was the green grass? How did the plants – were those plants? – grow into such oddly angled shapes? This land must truly be blighted. The air was so dry it burned his throat and stung his eyes. The heat seemed to sap the energy from his bones. He could not fathom setting out on horseback, but the man at the stable had laughed at his concerns. These here are desert horses, young’un, they’ll take good care of you. Don’t you worry that fool head. He had wanted to shout: I’ve served in the Blessed Army! He held his tongue though. Feeling outnumbered – one Blessed Army veteran to a desert full of these presumptuous old horse-traders – he said his thanks just like his mother had taught him, bought the horse – pony, more like – and asked directions to someplace he might get some supplies.

That night, well stocked and foddered, he set up camp just outside of town. As the night chilled, he silently thanked the shopkeeper who had – in a more courteous manner than that stable man – offered some much more useful advice on surviving the desert, including the blankets Isaiah had suspected would be unnecessary. In the biting cold of midnight, Isaiah had wondered, for the first time, why he had come.
~

Isaiah finally made his way to the walls of Fort Valorat midmorning of the seventh day out of San Simon. He had expected some bit of familiarity about the place, a military feel, at least. He got a glimpse of the fort from the top of a peak the road skirted. From there, Fort Valorlooked starker than Isaiah’s post had been, but as he approached, he thought perhaps it was just shabby. There were no persimmons ripening here, no fruit trees at all in fact, the walls looked as though they’d never seen a paintbrush – and were they made of mud? – and even the men standing guard at the gate looked as though they had been working in the dirt all day. Where were their shiny buttons? Where were their medals, their pressed uniforms? Did this army have no pride in its achievements? They wore grayish pants and shirts that from a distance had looked like coveralls. They nearly blended in with the wall they guarded.

He must look a mess, too, he realized. He hadn’t had a proper shower in so long, he would count himself lucky to smell only as bad as his horse. There was no helping it. He wasn’t going to get a shower outside the walls. He brushed himself off, squared his shoulders, and rode toward the gate.

The guards didn’t seem particularly interested in him. He had anticipated certain protocols. In his own unit, they had challenged every person, no matter what the circumstances. These guards let him get all the way to the gate – which turned out to be nothing but a double door, made of some dark metal that Isaiah didn’t recognize.

There were two guards, and they didn’t even stand up from their card game when one shouted at Isaiah. “What’re ya doin’ out here by yerself, boy?”

Boy! Isaiah grimaced. “I am looking for Abraham Archer. I’m told he serves here.” Surely not with this motley crew!

“Oh sure, he sure did. Right up ‘til the day afore yesterday. Ya won’t find him here, son. You run along now,” the first guard replied. The other guard just stared at Isaiah.

Gone. He must have gotten the letter, but why leave? Was this army so ragtag as to allow a man to just leave on a whim? Isaiah struggled to contain himself. “Could you Sirs please tell me where I might find him? I have come quite some distance to speak with him.”

“Heh,” the first guard said, “I can see that. The old bird’s got quite popular this past couple weeks. Might be he’s gone back to Tombstone. He’s got a sister there, I hear. Anyway, you can’t stay here.”

“Tombstone? Is that a Fort?”

The guards laughed then, a guffawing sound that grated down Isaiah’s last nerve.

“Oh don’t get yer panties in a twist, boy. You ain’t from here at all, huh?” the second guard found his voice. His companion was still chuckling. “It’s not far at all. You just keep going the way you came, around the other side of this wall. You’re almost there. Might be there by dark tonight if you ride straight through.”

Isaiah jerked his horse’s head around and left them laughing.

He reached Tombstonejust after dusk. Full dark was settling, but lamps burned brightly along an alley of saloons. He rode through ‘til he found a livery, on the far end, where he stabled his horse and asked after a hotel. The stable boy took his money, gave him a hard look, and pointed him in the direction of “Tad Miller’s place, just up thataway.”

The innkeeper gave Isaiah a curious look when he asked after Abraham Archer.

“Haven’t heard that name in a good long time, boy. What do you want with that one?”

“Official business,” Isaiah had replied. “No matter, I’ll need a room for tonight.”

The innkeeper didn’t budge. “You might ask his sister, if you’re serious about finding him. As far as I know, he’s off fighting the war still.”

What war? Isaiah wanted to ask, but he was tired of being laughed at. He just sighed, and asked after Abraham Archer’s sister – his aunt, too, he realized with a jolt.

The innkeeper finally looked away. “You’ll find her at the bank tomorrow. It’s hers, or her husband’s, anyway.”

“Do you have a room available for tonight, then?”

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

 ~

In his room on his second night in Tombstone, with the sounds of a banjo band playing below him, he wrote a letter of his own:

Dearest Aunt Amelia, I went to Fort Valor as you said. It seems your letter found him first, after all, because he was no longer there when I reached the place. The men there – I cannot call them soldiers, so shoddy was their presentation – directed me to seek him out in Tombstone. What a name! But the name suits the place – the streets are filled with debauchery, and nearly every hotel is a brothel. I have sought out the one that is not, rest assured, but it wasn’t easy. I’ve asked about my father at every opportunity, but have heard only that he hasn’t been here in twenty years, or that he was here momentarily a few days ago but left again without so much as a ‘hello’ to anyone. If the latter is true, I can see why he didn’t stay. This, truly, is a den of godless iniquity, no place for a man of Abraham Archer’s stature. I have been forced to associate with these heathens in order to ask after Father, but I maintain my Faith, a staunch follower of the Christ Who Sees All. I have put in a word to speak to his sister, but she has not seen me yet. I’m ever hopeful for tomorrow. Yours in the Mercy of Christ, Isaiah. 

NaNoWriMo: Day 6

I had to go a bit outside my own head for the bit I worked on today. Luckily, I have some pretty amazing friends, and one in particular was willing to help me out with that. With her gentle shove to get me moving, I made it to 1260 words today. I'd keep writing but it's past my bedtime, so this will have to do.

Word count: 14,130

An excerpt from today's efforts, compliments of Miss Beatrix "Trixie" Jackman:

Abraham Archer had pushed off the nagging ‘what next’ concerns all morning, focusing instead on finding a good horse and some appropriate – civilian – clothing to wear. Now he was as hungry as any cavalry horse. He stopped in at a cafe on the main street. There was nobody else there at that hour – somewhere after the proper lunch hour and before dinner – and that suited him just fine.

“Hi there honey!” a chipper young woman with unnaturally red hair greeted him at the counter of the cafe.

“Hello,” he grunted, pulling up a stool underneath himself.

“What can I do for ya today?”

“I’m awfully hungry,” he replied, “what’s good here?”

“Everything, of course!” she smiled widely and her eyes seemed to drink him in. “Our special today is the meatloaf. It’s just about the best thing that ever came from a cow!”

“I’ll take it.” He was not completely comfortable with her congeniality, but the mention of meatloaf made his mouth water.

“Okay, what can I get you to drink? We have coffee, tea, water, and fresh-squeezed lemonade!”

Was everything exciting to this woman? “Coffee please. Black. Thank you.” He hoped she would leave him alone now.

Instead, she repeated his order back to him in that same energetic voice.

“Yes yes, you’ve got it. Thank you.” He grumbled.

Finally, she turned and flounced into the kitchen, where another woman was pulling a huge pan of something from an oven. Abraham sighed. All too soon the young woman was back, but with a mug of coffee steaming in her hand. She lowered it to the counter in front of him and smiled sweetly – and something about that smile caught at his memories. In that moment, she reminded him of Theodora. He shook the thought clear of his head. There was no going back. Anyway, there was no resemblance, really. Where this woman was vibrant and happy and ...red, Theodora had been a pale, shy thing with hair so blond it was yellow.

“Everything all right, honey?” the woman asked, concern bringing her voice down an octave.

“Yes fine thanks. I’m fine.”

She frowned.

“Really, I am.” He forced a smile to his face and was rewarded by her smile in turn.

Something eased inside him, and he found himself really looking at the woman.

She was really quite shapely, with a sweet face and warm hazel eyes that seemed lit from within.

“So where ya from honey? I know you’re not from here because I know all the locals.”

Abraham frowned. “Tombstone, originally. But that hasn’t been home in a very long time.” His honesty surprised him.

“Oh don’t I know how that goes. I didn’t grow up here, either, but it’s home now. You aregoing to stay, aren’t you?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he replied. The woman in the back called out something that Abraham didn’t understand. The woman he was talking to said, “stay put just a moment, honey, I’ll be right back with your lunch.”

True to her word, she came right back with a plate of meatloaf, still steaming and accompanied by a thick slice of bread. She set the plate in front of him and handed him a fork.

“Well I sure hope ya do stick around,” she said.

He should be suspicious, he thought, when a stranger wanted him to stick around, but there was nothing sinister about her besides an odd forthrightness. Alright, he thought, I’ll play. He stabbed piece of meatloaf and cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Oh?” he said, “Why’s that?”

“This town could use some more eye candy,” she winked. Then she whisked away, back to the kitchen with his empty coffee mug.

Abraham was left slack-jawed with his fork halfway to his mouth. He might have watched her sway for hours, had she not stopped to fill his mug from a pot. Blinking, he tore his gaze away and looked down to his plate. Reminded of his hunger, he began eating in earnest, hardly looking up when she set his coffee mug back down.

When his bites began to slow to a more leisurely pace, he began to steal glances at her. She was wiping down the countertops on her side of the bar. Looking closely, he realized she wasn’t as young as he’d first thought. Closer to his own age, maybe. There was a softness to her skin that only came with age. On her, it was beautiful. He wanted to ask, but suspected that question wouldn’t be met kindly. Not if his limited experience with women was any indicator, anyway.

She seemed to notice he was slowing. Or perhaps she had seen him watching.

“Was it good?” she asked.

“Oh. Marvelous.” He leaned back and rubbed his hand over his stomach. He hadn’t had such a meal in years, and he told her so.

She smiled all the way to her eyes. “Well good! That’s what we’re here for.”

“Well I sure appreciate it,” he replied, his heart warming with good food and cheerful company.

“So where are you comin’ from these days?” she asked.

“Fort Valor.”

“Ooooh a military man, eh? What ‘cha doin’ here?”

“I don’t know yet. Looking for a place to be, I guess.”

“Ain’t we all? I’m Trixie, by the way.” She held her hand out.

“I’m – Abraham,” he said, taking her hand gently. Her hands felt delicate in his.

“You sure?” she laughed.

He smiled back, almost blushing. “Habit, I’m afraid. I haven’t introduced myself with my first name in about twenty years. I’m working on that.”

“No worries, honey, we get all kinds in this town. I won’t hold it against you.”

“That’s awfully kind of you.”

“So, Abraham, are you planning to find work here? You’re too young to be retired.”

“No Ma’am, I am, in fact, retired.”

“How did that happen? Early retirement?”

He smiled, and this time the smile reached his eyes. “I’m forty-six years old, I’ll have you know.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” she teased, “Where’s your Mama, I’m gonna make a liar out of you!”

“I’m afraid she’s passed, Ma’am,” he replied, his tone softened to ease her embarrassment.

“Oh dear, there I go makin’ an ass of myself. I’m so sorry honey. That was a stupid thing for me to say.” Her hands flew to cover her mouth, and it looked to Abraham like she was about to cry. He reached toward her but she was too far away.

“Oh no, don’t worry about that. Both my parents passed when I was a child. It’s no matter anymore, and hasn’t been for a good long time. Anyway, I’m newly retired and looking for something to fill my time. I don’t even know if I’m looking for a job or not, to be honest with you. I might just keep to myself for a bit. I don’t know.”

She had been nodding her head with the rhythm of his words. “O-okay,” she said when he had finished. He could see her composing herself, pulling her thoughts back together. “Well, I am sorry about your parents, honey,” she said. “And if you need anything at all while you’re here, you just let me know, okay?”

“Will do, Ma’am,” he said. “Thank you kindly for providing me such a wonderful meal. I did need that.” He settled his bill with her then and wandered out of the cafe, back to the bustling streets. There was something about this place, about this town, that drew him. He had come here because it was the closest city to his hometown of Tombstone– and really, he just hadn’t known where else to go. Now that he was here, though, he didn’t want to leave. Maybe it was time to start thinking about what happened next. Maybe. Or maybe he’d do that tomorrow.