Posts Tagged ‘Writing’

I don’t really count PirateCon as having been my ‘first,’ really, since I was more a voyeur than anything else. It was closer to finding your dad’s Playboy stash than your first actual kiss.

As with any blundering virgin, mistakes were made; I didn’t realize, for instance, that the Masquerade was an actual contest, and not a Ball. I saved my most elaborate costume for that night, only to discover that the participants had written up skits and signed up well in advance. Ah well. Next time. Besides, it was nice to kick back and watch the pros do their thing- there were some amazing, detailed costumes out there. It’s definitely something to shoot for going forward.

Despite getting to the party way late (so late in fact winners had already been selected) I got what amounted to a runner-up ribbon the first night, and another ribbon and encouragement the Masquerade night, telling me to keep it up, and be sure to enter for real next time, that I had an excellent shot. So that was nice pretty damn awesome. Charlie said the grin damn near split my face in half when they pinned it on me.

It’s only fitting, then, that that first costume was a Seamstress’ outfit. Again, not knowing all the convention conventions, I took the ‘Seamstresses Ball’ literally- and since Seamstress is a euphemism for “woman of negotiable affection,” I was…uh…not subtle.

In fact, I was in a dither before I left, and Charlie encouraged me to wear a red monstrosity of a wig which totally clashed with everything I had on, but what the hell. If you’re out there, trolling for business, ya wanna stand out, right? Right? Please? Ah well. Besides, the wig matched the whip. It’s those kind of details you need a pro for.

The strange thing was that there were very few seamstresses in the crowd. Maybe they have better shame mechanisms than I have?

At any rate, I’ll put up several posts on the Con, mostly about the guest of honor, of course, and then there was the side trip to the Grand Canyon, but I’ll kindly spare you the vile grossness I got sick with once we got home.

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Listening for Jesus was one of the prompts for this week, and I decided to take it in a rather odd direction. Granted, I decided to do this from 10pm-1am last night (remembering the deadline was midnight. Ah hem.), so the time might’ve had a little something to do with the decision.

Still, I got some good feedback from it, but nobody figured out what the central problem is. Have an idea?

I actually like the premise; I think I’m going to stick with these characters for awhile in the writing group and see where it goes.

As always, any comments welcome.

All but three of the nineteen bedrooms held an untrusting, nervous occupant. It was Mitch?s turn to be out, and Cali sat out in the recently carved out common area, listening to the unhappy rustling behind the closed doors above her as she gathered her thoughts. Only one bedroom was left unaccounted for- the smallest bedroom at the far end of the hallway, now vacant since its occupant vanished two months ago.

Not vanished, Cali corrected herself. Adam wasn?t gone at all. Absorbed. Integrated. These were the terms she was supposed to be using now. Unified. That was the idea she was supposed to be hanging onto when the doubts crept in. All nineteen of them, together as one, that?s what Jesus said had to be; that?s where salvation lay.

But, still. Poor little Adam had been the first to go, the first sacrifice that Jesus said had to be made. Barely a toddler, his diaper was perpetually sodden, and was born a deaf-mute. He rarely ventured out beyond his miniature hobbit-esque door, and when he did, his eyes would be swollen and bloodshot as he silently bawled his endless angry tears.

The baby would occasionally wander through the other rooms, feeling his way along the wall and clutching onto whoever he found, desperate but inconsolable. As much as everyone tried to help, they always ended up feeling guilty, having failed him once again. Poor Adam. Poor baby.

She told herself that of course Jesus was right; it was kindest to release Adam from his pain. But there was that guilt again, because it wasn?t only the tot who?d been freed, was it? Everyone else in their system had benefited from Adam?s?integration. And that felt wrong. Evil, even. You didn?t kill people because it made your life easier, did you?

Cali paced the little room and heard a door in Mama?s room slam. Adam hadn?t really been her son- none of them were biologically hers, but Mama still took his absence hard, and she was none too pleased about today?s meeting with Jesus.

They were going to start deciding who would go next.

Cali had crept up to Adam?s tiny door before coming down to wait. His doorknob and hinges had faded over the last weeks before disappearing, leaving no way back inside. She?s wanted to check, just to be sure. The idea that he was stuck behind that door, silent and unable to call for help haunted Cali?s dreams.

Mitch had to be almost to Jesus? office by now; it seemed like hours had passed, though it could be hard to gage realtime when you were locked inside. Mitch could drive, but Cali?d never learned, so he bringing them to the appointment, though Jesus had wanted to talk specifically to her this time, that she should be ready and with no one else hanging over her, listening.

She chewed a nail, turning the problem over again as she waited for it to be her turn. It was pretty much all she?d done since their last meeting. Did Jesus want her advice? To ask how their system was getting along? Or did he want to tell Cali that he?d chosen her and she was the next to go?

Her heart pounded at the thought. It couldn?t be her. Everybody here needed her. She kept things orderly, made sure the kids didn?t fight, worried about the appointments. She and Mitch kept everybody calm and relatively on track. She was essential. It couldn?t be her, she prayed. Not me.

She sat in the relative stillness and waited, listening for Jesus to call her to come out and face her fate.

So this was what I sent to the group on Sunday.

Each Monday the group moderator releases four text prompts, one photo prompt and one competition and you have until Sunday night to chose at least one to write about. If you don’t submit at least one post in four weeks, you’re out of the group. I’d already missed three weeks and was up against the deadline, so I wrote this pretty quickly to get in under the wire- sent in at 11:15pm. Obviously, I didn’t have a chance to edit it, so it ain’t great, but it’s not awful. Probably.

This was inspired by my new work at the PRC, but isn’t about a specific case. The protagonist isn’t anyone in particular- my friend Michelle’s job is basically to go to these hearings and argue for preservation, but that’s as close as it gets. She does a hell of a job and fights as hard as if she really did have family and friends inside those houses, but you just can’t win ‘em all.

EDIT: forgot to insert the photos of the house I had in mind while writing this.

Della had already lost one of her cases today, a cute cottage on Piety Street, and the sheaf of papers on her lap was showing the strain of her agitation. She clutched and crinkled, shredding their corners a bit at a time until there was nothing left as she fumed and waited for the next demolition hearing to begin so she could bang her head against the wall a while longer.

Almost four years after Katrina and there seemed to be no more answers then there were at the start. All she could do was show up at these meetings and fight, over and over, hearing the same arguments until she thought she?d scream. Over six thousand, five hundred houses had been knocked down, each one ripping out a thread of the city?s fabric, altering the feel of the neighborhood and leaving yet another gaping hole in the streetscape. Now, within 48 hours, there would be another empty lot on Piety.

And at each hearing, the same phrases, the same condescension toward those who wanted to preserve New Orleans? history. Property does not contribute to the neighborhood or cost prohibitive, or her new personal favorite: Of little consequence.

The inspector had included that last gem his report on the house at 1755 Jackson, and that was a house she was determined to save, come hell or? well, the hurricane had already brought the high water. It was only hell she had to face, then. Good. After everything Alavada had done for Della in that house, she figured a little Hell was a small price to pay.

It might be hard to see now, but 1755 Jackson had once been an oasis.

When her parents were fighting, or her dad was drunk, or her mother had blown the grocery money, Miss Alavada was Della?s savior. Every day her huge slobbery mutts had trampled through the palms and vines and roses, happily knocking Della down in welcome, making her forget the shame of coming over for yet another handout. There was always something that smelled wonderful on the stove and open arms to smother you in. Alavada had listened, consoled, advised, cajoled and fed three generations of Jackson Avenue residents out of that house.

She?d long been the soul of an entire neighborhood, and now she was still sitting in a formaldehyde poisoned FEMA trailer outside of town, frail and unable to do for herself.

To Della, the maddening irony was that Alavada?s house sat just three blocks outside of the Garden District, where it would have enjoyed protected Historic District status. Instead, the city was so sure they?d get approval to demolish that the house was already flagged with big, red Fire Department ?do not enter? warnings- ?Let it burn,? they meant. ?Save us the trouble of knocking it down.”

6500 houses demolished, not including the ones completely flattened by the storm. How many Alavedas did that represent, Della wondered? She glared again at the inspector?s phrase, recognizing herself in its mirror. She?d been ?of little consequence? once herself, until Miss A had found her.

Della was determined to return the favor.

Who is busy slamming his head on his keyboard, trying to meet a fixed deadline while his boss keeps moving the damned target. :::sigh:::

The doorbell begins its annoying song, setting off a blur of dog tumbleweed racing through the house and smashing into the front door. The blinds chink and clink as the dogs attack them, looking for an opening to investigate who dared approach their domain.

‘Alright, quiet girls!’ I yell over the yowling. Still hoping against hope, I peer through the blinds.

‘Heeeey,’ Alfred calls, his standard greeting, grinning widely so as to best show off all four of his remaining teeth.

‘Yeah, Alfred.’ This is my standard greeting these days, delivered in flat tones while taking his measure. Looks like this could be a doozy. He’d made the extra effort and worn his eye patch over the empty left socket- a mixed blessing at best. He’ll expect to be paid a few dollars just for the courtesy. It made him look a pirate’ ragged at the edges, certainly one who’d seen better days, but still out to plunder what he could.

Oh, and the neck brace. How nice for me- a double header. Ever since he’d been hit by a slow moving car a year ago the brace came and went according to whim. Since it was here today, he must be looking for a little sympathy cash on top of the eye patch bonus.

‘I come to do some work. These leafs got to be taken care of. It looks bad.’ He points to a single leaf that had fallen onto the sidewalk, his manner both proprietary and reproachful: How could you let my walkway sink to this state’

‘Not today Alfred, I’m in the middle of…’

‘You in a mood’’ He eyed me critically, trying to calculate how far he could push today. ‘Hey, your pimple’s gone! God is good, see!’ he said, buttering me up. Read the rest of this entry »

I’m addicted to the Writer’s Digest writing prompts. Every week (theoretically. Lots of times they’re late- not top priority over there) they post a new topic idea and you’re supposed to come up with a short story of no more than 500 words to explain, etc.

It’s actually harder than it sounds. It’s nice to have a framework. And I’ll be honest, it’s a bit of an ego stroke, because some of the posts are flat out awful. Charlie doesn’t see the point, and really, he’s right. I’m sure no one of importance reads them, and half the time I just ship ‘em over to him to look at anyway, and not even post them.

But I’m looking at it more as a limbering-up exercise. Yeah, I should be doing real writing here, and not playing in the sandbox, but if it gets words across the screen, does it matter so much where they originated?

Anyway, here’s a sample: Read the rest of this entry »