Select Page

Leave the Line Open; or, The Boys of Stinky Joe’s

by | Apr 11, 2012 | From Hell (A Love Story), Short Stories, Uncategorized

This is what happens when I take a nap after brunch and a beer (scrambled eggs and bacon, and a Bear Republic Racer 5, for anyone interested):

Once upon a time, there were three boys – Devon, Kent, and Cleve – who worked the counter at Stinky Joe’s Pizza. (Actually, only two of them were working; the third was just hanging around because he had nothing better to do.)

Would you go to a place called "Stinky Joe's"?

Stinky Joe’s Pizza was never very busy. In fact, it almost never got any business at all. The three boys didn’t know why this was. All they knew was that the lack of business made them very bored. And very, very lonely.

One bright day, the telephone rang, and this made the boys quite excited. They’d never received a telephone call before-!

They fought over the handset for a minute, and then Devon – the bravest, the tallest, and the oldest – ventured, “Hullo…?”

“Hello.” The high, gentle voice on the other end sounded very friendly. And very pretty.

Devon smiled brightly at his mates, each of whom smiled back.

“Is this Older Forty-Four?” the voice went on.

Devon wilted. “Oh,” he said, and the other two boys wilted, too, by association. “No. This is Stinky Joe’s Pizza.”

“Oh,” the girl on the line repeated. She sounded just as disappointed as Devon felt. “I’m sorry. You see, I was looking to make reservations, at Older Forty-Four. I thought this was the number listed.”

“No,” Devon said again. Then he brightened once more. “But- why don’t you come here? We have plenty of food!”

The other two boys – Kent and Cleve – gave a chorus of excited cheers: “Yes, come here!” and “We’d be happy to serve you!”

The girl’s voice hummed. “I’m afraid I can’t, this evening,” she said, and then she gave a little sigh. Even that sounded nice, though, and pretty. Then she drew a breath, and Devon could hear in her voice a smile. “But,” she said, “why don’t you tell me your address, and maybe I can come by some other time?”

Devon grinned. “Yes, yes!” he said, and he snapped his fingers at his mates. “Our address… Our address is… um…!” Oh, no! He couldn’t remember the address!

The other two boys – Kent and Cleve – looked at each other, and then began to scramble around and about the counter, ducking beneath shelves and yanking open drawers, trying to find the address. They bumped into each other in their frantic search, falling to the floor in a tumble.

The girl’s voice hummed again in Devon’s ear. “Listen,” she said. “I really need to go. I have to make those reservations-”

“No, no! Don’t hang up!” Devon told her. What if she never rang again? “I’ve almost got it…!” he said, and he shuffled some papers about, trying to sound busy.

“Why don’t you just read it from the menu?” the girl asked of a sudden, giggling softly beneath her breath. Devon knew that she was likely giggling at him, but even that sounded kind.

He smiled again. The menu. Of course! He grabbed one from beside the telephone – how could he have missed it, there? – and scanned the front of the paper, with its drawing of Stinky Joe, and its orange-on-white lettering. Finally, he found it, and he read it aloud to her, word by word.

“Thanks,” the girl told him when he was done. She giggled again, high and sweet. “You have a pleasant evening, now.”

“You, too,” Devon said, smiling and a-flutter and full of joy. Then he hung up.

Kent and Cleve screamed.

“Her name!” Kent said.

“You didn’t get her name!” Cleve echoed.

Devon stared at the phone in his hand, horrified at what he’d done. That girl would never ring back. She sounded too sweet, too smart, too kind, to ring back to someplace called “Stinky Joe’s.”

Mustering his courage, he opened the line again. Maybe an operator could help him find her again. Maybe the police could help him find her again!

The telephone beeped as he pressed the button and brought it to his ear again. But there was no dial tone. Instead, there was quiet laughter.

“Don’t you want my name?”

Devon felt something inside of him soar at the sound of the girl’s voice, already familiar to his ears. “Devon,” he said through his grin. “I mean, my name’s Devon. What- What’s yours?”

The girl hummed a third time, charming him. “Tyne,” she said, and that was all he needed to hear.

Leave the line open

I honestly can’t say what possessed me, to write down the details of this dream. When I woke up, I found it funny – three rather dim, bumbling stoner kids fumbling over finding the address of the pizza place where they worked, just to keep a girl on the line because they’re bored. But, as I wrote, Devon, Kent, and Cleve (though mostly Devon) became more sympathetic to me. Almost sad. And Tyne became much more playful.

The Dude is my all-time favourite stoner character from film, but Brad Pitt's Floyd, from "True Romance", did come first.

I wrote this down in a rush, mostly just to get it down…though, again, I’m not entirely certain as to why. I guess it just felt nice to write freely and straight from the pen, without worrying over craft or thematic meaning.

“She’s a Woman”

by | Apr 9, 2012 | Fearless, Process, Short Stories

The product of a ten-minute writing challenge issued to our Art Night group, which theme was “First Kiss.” Because I can’t draw even a stick figure in ten minutes, I stuck with writing. Not surprisingly, mine was the darkest of the group’s pieces. This little drabble is actually one of the earliest attempts at (and inspirations for) what eventually became Fearless.

It’s the aerosol feel of splashing, salty waves against rocks that reminds her of another time like this one, where her husband once sat beside her beneath a shimmering moon and asked if she would always be his. That’s what makes her turn to the boy beside her now.

He’s so very young and so very strong, like her husband was, so long ago. He’s a different kind of handsome, this boy, though it’s a different era, now, isn’t it? Her husband had a gentleman’s part in his already-greying hair, and it was soft and silken, a controlled coif atop chiseled features. The boy’s blond locks – made coarse and dry by too many mornings spent in this salty sea – fall loose around still-full cheeks; he’s got no crow’s feet or laugh lines. He can barely grow a semblance of a beard over his chin.

But the boy is here, where her husband is not. The boy is beside her, and that is perhaps the reason most of all that she speaks to him, now.

“You’re quite cute, you know,” she says with a tickling smile.

He laughs, looking embarrassed as he glances away. But then he turns back again, and that boyish abashment is replaced by a more manly boldness. “You think?” he asks…though it is much more a goad than a mere question.

He isn’t very good at fishing, but she bites anyway – the hunter playing prey – and inclines her head. “I do.”

She lifts her chin again, stretching her neck. Will he bite, this time, she wonders? She thinks he will; he’s that right blend of curious and bashful: a boy looking for…not quite love, but perhaps a boastful notch on his belt (or on that board sitting forgotten beside him).

“It’s been a long time since I was with a man,” she tells him, and that’s truthful enough. “Would you mind very much if I kissed you?”

He blinks, but he doesn’t look away. “Not at all,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving hers.

She smiles at his answer; she’s still very much a woman, no matter what any of the crones around this small-minded village say. This boy’s needy kiss is proof enough.

Of course, it’s not just one kiss, and it’s not just two. It’s not even just five or ten or twenty, but a brief misjudgment of propriety that becomes sojourns behind the rocks, and made-up excuses, and a shouting match behind tightly-shuttered windows.

And the tears of a grey-haired man.

And a boy’s broken heart.

But she’s still a woman. She’s proven that much, if nothing else. And that’s what matters.

The Graduate still

One of the more (in)famous May-December seduction scenes, from "The Graduate"

There’s a lot of taboo around May-December romances, though more often when it’s the woman who’s older. She’s seen as a temptress, a cougar, a sexual predator. This character – who would become the prickly Susanna Braden in the final story – is really not that different, at least from Ross’s point of view. Still, it was interesting to get her perspective on things.

100-Word Challenge: Such Wondrous Adventures

by | Apr 4, 2012 | Short Stories, Songbirds

100 Word Challenge for Grown-UpsCarrying over from last time, is this week’s 100 Word Challenge for Grown-Ups:

The prompt this week is to go back to last week’s entries. You are to use the last 10 words of the post next to yours and using just 100 words create a story. It may be a follow-on from the previous one or you may like to take it in a different direction. So:
  1. You find your entry HERE
  2. You go to the next entry (if you were 6 you go to 7 etc)
    (I was #16, so I’m using #17 for my prompt: “An Important Date” by Andrea, the gothcatlady. It is a lovely little ode to Carroll’s original story, and I suggest you read it for yourself, before going on to my take on her prompt!)
  3. Using the last ten words as the prompt you write your piece. The prompt can be anywhere in the piece but must be complete as it was in the original.
  4. If you didn’t take part last week, choose any entry to use the last 10 words from.

I was lucky enough to get a very charming prompt – What a wondrous adventure with young Alice that would be – for this week, and I’m delighted that I can even (sort of) continue from my own challenge from last time! So, without further ado, here it is.

Daddy-Daughter

Such Wondrous Adventures

With pinafore and ponytails bouncing, Katie bounds across the playground, away from them.

Watching her, Larry sighs. “Seems like yesterday,” he murmurs, “we were pregnant, and I was reading her Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.”

Beside him, Sally shrugs. “She’s growing up.”

“Does she have to do?” Larry asks, chuckling.

“What a wondrous adventure with young Alice that would be!” Sally says, and they laugh. But then they quiet, cuddling close.

“I didn’t think it would happen so fast,” Larry laments. He meets her gaze, chuckling anew. “I want another one!”

Sally blinks, then smiles, softly. “Funny, you should mention that….”

I do so love these little challenges, and being able to incorporate them into my own universes, in this case, that of my Songbirds, Sally and Larry. I wish I could share them with more people, too, especially the ones who enjoyed the original Songbirds series of stories. Who knows? Maybe, someday, I can…and will!

I can only hope that Judee, over at write tuit, has as much fun with my prompt as I had with Andrea’s!

Excerpt: Fearless, Chapter 10 (draft)

by | Apr 2, 2012 | Excerpts, Fearless, Persona 4 Fan Fiction, Process

Neville scowled at the doctor’s back. “Twat,” he muttered.

Venus snorted in mild amusement. “All doctors are twats,” she told him. “It comes with the territory. But he’s good,” she murmured, now. “Very good. And well-respected around here. And Amber’s his patient, so they’re more likely to release information to him than to an off-duty nurse,” she added with a shallow shrug.

Ross offered her a smile that he didn’t quite fully feel but managed anyway. “I’d still rather have you here,” he said.

Venus smiled up at him, and reached out to rub her hand over his back. “Thanks, duckie,” she murmured, and he hugged her close for a second in reply. She gave him a returning quick squeeze and sighed. Then she led him back to the chairs against the wall, to sit and sip at their coffee, and wait.

The coffee wasn’t particularly good. It was too bitter and too sweet at the same time, reminding Ross of nothing so much as one morning barely three weeks ago, when Amber had tried her hand at using Freddie’s French press. She’d gotten the balance of grounds to water wrong – or something – and had tried to cover it up with copious amounts of milk and sugar, with less than poor results. The hot mess had ended up tasting so sludgy and so burnt and so utterly terrible that Ross had made her promise never to make coffee again, despite how much she’d protested that she only needed some practice, and if he’d let her try again, she was sure she could do it right.

He would have given anything to be drinking her coffee, now. To have her standing next to him with that cautiously inquiring smile she would use when she was seeking his favour, the one that made one side of her mouth curl up hopefully, pressing one dimple into her cheek. And to feel her cuddle guardedly close, tucked almost under his shoulder, with her hair smelling so clean and her arms already wound mostly around him, itching to hug him when he finally smiled at her.

He pressed his face into the palm of one hand, focusing firmly on his breathing because anything else was simply too difficult to do.

I admit it: I enjoy writing stories in arcs. I like seeing characters through one adventure or crisis for a few chapters, lead them to a resolution, give them a little bit of downtime, and then slap them in the face with a new crisis. I like my videogames and movies and books to do the same thing, for the most part.

Naughty Dog’s “Uncharted” series of games is a good example of what I’m talking about. (There are others, of course. I just like looking at Nate Drake, the protagonist of the series, best.)

Nate's back!
...and, oh, what a back it is!

The hero (Nate Drake, whom the player controls through the game) bounces from one location to the next, finding clues to the over-arching mystery adventure, which usually involves shoot-outs, corporate thievery, hanging from ledges, and the occasional romantic entanglement. Each point on the adventure map has its own little story, mystery, and climax, but they all contribute to the whole. You can set down the game after each mini-adventure, as it were, and take a breather, before you jump headlong into the next one. (Nate always jumps headlong into everything. It’s a character trait.)

I – and this is just me, personally – like stories structured the same way. If it’s a constant uphill rise or battle toward one grandiose climax, I get tired reading that (or watching it, or playing it). There’s no time for me to relax. For some genres, of course, that can be a good thing, I suppose. In a thriller, you might want to never let up on the tension. (I can’t imagine anyone surviving very long in a story like that, but I’m digressing.) But in a romance/drama/relationship story, which is what I’m writing, I think it’s worth it to the reader to see the characters get some happy time before the next bus comes crashing into the building.

And there are buses. Emotional ones and physical. Because all stories need some conflict.

What does all of this have to do with the excerpt above? I guess I just thought that you were seeing a lot of happy-happy, and I wanted to let you know that the story does actually have some meat to it. Emotional meat. Heavy emotional meat. But there’s an end coming for that, too. You just have to see it through.

Oh, Glorious Heap!

by | Mar 31, 2012 | Fearless, Process, Uncategorized

I wonder how many writers out there are like me, and keep relatively close at hand previous drafts of passages, scenes, pages, or even chapters? For every story I write – even those 100 word challenges – I keep a separate document, where I drop all of the phrases, sentences, and paragraphs that don’t end up in the final draft. Some of these “unused” documents are small, of course, but others are hundreds of pages long. When I was writing 1 More Chance!, I put entire scrapped chapters into that standby document…!

Most of the time, what goes into the scrap heap stays in the scrap heap, but, on occasion, I go back to the well. Sometimes I do this just because I’m bored, and it’s interesting to see what I’ve edited out. But sometimes, I’ll pick up some discarded piece of prose and find a new use for it, with a new group of characters or a new situation. (Does this mean I’m plagiarising myself?)

A “draft” of any of my stories will usually undergo a great deal of change from inception to completion. That’s not to say that I don’t know what’s going to happen in beginning, middle, and end. But the plot (especially for the longer stories) will jump from Point A to Point D to Point G, before moving on to the originally-planned Point B. Even Fearless has done that, a little bit, and I’ve known since the first sentence how that one is going to progress.

I suppose that all of this has to do mostly with the fluidity of stories. It’s not an issue for me, despite what you may glean from the above musing. I just wonder if I’m the only one who holds on to everything to come before. Not that I’m going to change the way that I write. I mean, I like letting the characters and situations take over, for a while. After all, doesn’t that help to make the writing true?

Excerpt: Fearless, Chapter 9 (draft)

by | Mar 26, 2012 | Excerpts, Fearless, Process

“This is for you,” he said, clicking open the small velvet-covered jewellery box with a flick of his thumb, to show her the fragile silver necklace with its moonstone briolette and the tiny pearls wrapped around it.

Amber’s delicately made-up lips broke into a wide smile. “Oh, Ross…!” she breathed as she looked from the box to him. “You shouldn’t have done!”

He wrinkled his nose dismissively. “It’s a Christmas present,” he muttered.

She giggled. “That’s still almost two weeks away!”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I know,” he said, and then grinned. “But, I couldn’t wait.”

Even the bright lustre of the chain couldn’t outshine the smile she graced on him. “Well, thank you,” she whispered. “It’s lovely.”

He smiled again, and plucked the necklace from its black bed with his fingers. “Here,” he said, passing her the box as he shifted around behind her. He pushed the blonde curtain of her hair over one shoulder, then lowered the chain in front of her, settling the dangling pearl onto her chest, not far above her cleavage. He fastened the catch and smoothed it down upon the back of her neck, then paused very briefly, to lay a light kiss just above it, between the scooping collar of her coat and her hairline.

“Thank you,” she whispered again, pressing back into his hands, which he’d settled on her shoulders. Then she turned about on her toes in a graceful little pirouette, and wound her arms around his neck. She didn’t say another word, just rose up and kissed him, while the rain came down upon the awning above their heads.

Recently, I’ve had several conversations about the value and necessity of depth of description in stories. Personally, I’ve always been something of a word-hound, and I like setting scene and offering details. I have been known to go overboard with my details, though. (That’s one of the reasons why I’m really enjoying the 100-Word Challenges; they really make me think about the words I’m putting down on paper.) However, I think that – especially in a genre such as romance – details are quite important.

Even though women tend to be the main readership of romance, writing from a man’s perspective has made me consider how visual men are, as a gender. They’re stimulated by what they see. Not that women don’t have that visual stimulation, too, but with men it seems to be so much more acute. The male voice also tends to be a lot more immediate than the female voice, at least for my men. So, with this story, I’ve tried to concentrate on offering details mostly when they’re warranted, and when they’re in relation to what Ross would notice in the world around him: such as the way Amber looks, feels, smells, and moves.

It’s been very interesting to find a voice for Ross. I hope that readers can sympathise (or even empathise) with him along the way. But, even if they don’t, even if I don’t find readers for this story, it’s still been a fun and enlightening experience for me.