Time capsule inspiration

November 3, 20194 Comments

The University of California in Santa Barbara has done something wonderful, and I had completely forgotten about it until about a month ago.

I’ve had this short story sitting on my hard drive now for about three years (and yes, short is a relative term), and I finally had both the time and the inclination to get back to working on it. It went through one round of revisions after I’d initially written it, but it’s been so long since I’ve read through it, let alone actually worked on it, that I decided to go back to my standard revision practice of recopying the entire MS and making changes as I went. When I’m done, I’ll type it up and make a few more changes as I type.

But my revision process is beside the point.

Anyway, one of the focal points of the story is…

World War IV

July 25, 2017July 30, 2017Leave a comment

A piece of brick caught my eye as I hunkered down in the ruins of the ancient capital.

“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.” -Albert Einstein

I snorted as I picked up my bow and nocked an arrow. I didn’t know who this Einstein guy was, but he hadn’t been far off.

I froze as an arrow whizzed by, narrowly missing my ear. The world was a lot smaller now, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t fight to the death to save what was left.

Maybe

June 3, 2017June 6, 20172 Comments

The bell clanged long and loud and low outside her window. Day was done, and with it, her toil. She sat back and stretched, shaking the cramps from her fingers before kneading the knots from her neck and shoulders. The bell’s echo receded into the distance, replaced by the sound of jingling keys, of rusty hinges screeching in protest.

He wasn’t supposed to come till tomorrow. She was supposed to have more time. Maybe if she didn’t turn around, if she refused to acknowledge him, maybe he would leave her. Maybe he would come back tomorrow, like he’d promised.

She wasn’t ready to die. No matter what she’d said.

The Devil Dogs

March 26, 2017March 26, 2017Leave a comment

It was a dry snow; I could tell by the way it swirled in the wind. I shivered.

Old Man Winter wasn’t about to go quietly into the night. Oh, no. He raged outside me window against the coming of the light, huffing and puffing with all of his might. We’d have another foot by morning, or I wasn’t Effie McCray.

At least it would move easily, being so dry. Thank goodness it weren’t packing snow.

Packing snow was heavy, wet stuff, perfect for felling timbers and building snowmen. But we didn’t have any old trees, or even any young ones, to worry about anymore, nor any young’uns itchin’ to build a snowman. The ice storms had already taken care of ’em.

They’d taken care of a lotta things.

I rolled over in bed so’s I faced away from the window. The fire was out in the hearth, and I was out of logs. Oh sure, there were plenty out in the woodshed, but I weren’t about to fetch more. Not after dark, no siree. My Peter had always kept…

The Earworm’s Tune

March 8, 2017Leave a comment

She could feel it burrowing inside her; the earworm was nothing if not persistent, and it had lodged itself firmly within her brain before cranking up the volume to eleven. Pretty soon, the bright and brassy sound of a new age jazz tune was the only thing she could hear; its rhythm pulsed through her, and she couldn’t stop her toes from tapping along in time. Though she tried – oh, how she tried – to stifle the urge, the day finally came when she could no longer keep from singing; she threw herself up onto the stage and belted out the earworm’s tune, and the thunderous applause made the months of torture worth every minute.

Bones

March 6, 2017October 12, 2017Leave a comment

She crouched over his body on the floor. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be happily ever after. He’d sold her a fairy tale, a life she’d barely been able to imagine.

And now he was dead.

They had had only a month together, hardly enough time in which to give her the moon and the stars like he’d promised. He’d sold her a fairy tale, a dream he could not make true.

And now he was dead.

The wind carried her anguish to the hills, swirled her bitter tears out to sea. The trees bent beneath her wails, snapping and cracking like his bones, creaking and groaning like the bones of her house.

When the freak storm finally passed, her neighbors found her frozen in the rubble, still crouched over his body, and thought how sweet it was that they had perished together.

Until We Meet Again

March 2, 2017March 3, 2017Leave a comment

“Fare thee well, my love,” the old man whispered.

The love of his life lay broken on the beach below, hair splayed out like rays from the sun, and he thought as he plummeted toward her that he’d never seen her look more beautiful.

Photo courtesy of Purple128 and Flickr’s Interesting Photos section. 🙂

Lake of Fog

February 22, 2017February 22, 20171 Comment

It was rainy and dreary here on Monday, then foggy as anything yesterday morning. Nothing inspires me quite the way fog and rain do, especially at this time of year. Add to that “Gretchen am Spinnrade,” which has been getting a lot of play on my iPod, and I quickly found myself in Inspiration City. This piece has been brewing for a couple of days, and I hope you like it. 🙂

The steady beat of the rain on the glass echoed the steady beat of her tears on the floor. The fog on the lake mirrored the fog in her soul, and she wore it the way she’d have worn a comfy old coat. If she could just find him, she could make him see. If she could just find him, then she’d be free.

But the fog hid more than her drooping frame, and the rain did wash freedom’s sun away. She searched through the windows, tore open the door, but the fog hid her love forevermore. She climbed up the mountain, looked high and low, but the fog hid everything in the valley below.

Then a flash caught her eye and without hesitation, she stepped into the sky. She dove toward the lake where he’d rested his head on a pillow of stone, with sand for a bed. But a trick of the light was all it had been, and the freezing cold water welcomed her in. The bitter blue waves stole every breath; with tears in her eyes, she at last greeted Death.

The steady beat of the rain on the glass echoed the steady beat of her tears on the floor. The fog on the lake mirrored the fog in her soul; she wore it the way she’d have worn a comfy old coat. If she could just find him, she could make him see. But she never could find him; she’ll never be free.

A work in progress

February 18, 20172 Comments

Work on my novel continues…slowly. I’m my own worst critic, I know, but it’s very hard to turn that inner critic off.

Still, I didn’t think this bit was all that bad:

It was then that he noticed the silence. Riverdell was a small, quiet town, but it had nothing on this place. Even on the quietest night in Riverdell, there was always traffic thrumming in the distance. Electricity sang through the power lines; streetlights hummed on otherwise dark streets; kids toting stereos pumped up the bass loud enough to rattle a whole building.

There was none of that here. There was only the wind in the trees here, tall grass waving in the breeze, a cricket choir backed by a bug band singing him to sleep.

It was another beautiful day here today, and the warmth of the sun has been most welcome. I hope you’re all having a fantastic weekend!

Writing bunnies

February 10, 2017February 10, 2017Leave a comment

I’m home from work today with a sick little Thumper bunny and taking advantage of the unexpected time off to catch up on a bit of writing. I’m working on revisions for another novel, and it’s not going as well as I’d initially thought it would. There’s so much more to cut than I’d first thought: trying to keep it to one POV per scene is a major challenge.

I’ve been fiddling around with these books for a good decade. I even queried them a few years ago, but didn’t get anywhere. That, of course, happened long before I decided that one book should become two, but even then it was a hot mess. It’s still a hot mess, but at least I think I’ve grown as a writer since then. I still feel like the head-hopping isn’t such a big deal, but others (okay, pretty much everyone else) disagree, so I’m changing it.

And it’s hard. So very, very hard.

Silencing my diligent and devoted inner literary critic is even harder.

I think the changes I’m making will…