Category: My work

Voice Week 2013: Monday

  By ,

First day of Voice Week! Going with a dialogue angle this year. Read everyone else’s voices here.

“They was out in the hall when they broke up. Ah heard the whole thing. Ah poke mah head outside the do’ when she was gone, he was leanin’ on the wall, lookin’ like he was about to cry. Ah aksed him, was he gonna be O.K.?—He was always a good boy, heppin’ me carry mah groceries up the stair.—An’ he look at me and he say, ‘Miss Emma? Ah was gonna marry that girl.’ An’ ah says, ‘Well ah guess you just gonna hafta marry some other girl. And that’s O.K.’ An’ he smile at me. He was sad, but ah jus don’t think that boy’d kill his-self. Had to much sense to be doin’ some foolish thing like that.”

—

Who is it? Stick your thoughts in the comments.

How to Sneak in Scenic Description

  By ,
Photo by Tri Nguyen

Photo by Tri Nguyen

Setting is as necessary as plot and character, but only as far as it influences plot and character, the way the water-starved planet Arrakis affects everything that happens in Dune.

No one reads a book for the scenery; it’s a nice bonus if described artfully, but it’s not what makes us crack the pages.

Yet so many writers spend paragraphs painting a picture before even touching on the action. Many try a “zoom in” approach, first describing a wide shot, like a city, then zooming in on a particular street or building, then zooming in further to describe a character. Only after all that do they finally get around to the story.

At best, this approach is risky, especially on the first page, when you only have seconds to secure a reader’s attention. So instead of dedicating whole paragraphs to weather, scenery, and character appearance, try dispersing it throughout the action and dialogue.

As an experiment, I’ve written two different versions of the beginning of a story. See which one grabs your attention sooner. Maybe you’ll disagree with me. Let me know in the comments.

VERSION ONE

The city went on forever, a steel and glass jungle clogged with concrete and grime. Skyscrapers rubbed shoulders with factories; trains shoved aside shops and cafés, and crowds oozed through bottleneck alleys.

In the bustle at the station on the corner of 3rd and Main stood a man with a brown coat and hat; a static chocolate freckle in a surging confetti sea. His face was round and crinkled; his eyebrows spikey and gray. He had two fingers shoved in the little pocket where he kept his watch, feeling the tick tock in his fingertips like the pulse in his veins.

It seemed like it was slowing.

How many ticks did he have left before the train came? How many tocks before he stepped aboard for the last time? How many heartbeats before he flinched at the hiss of the air brakes, anticipating the final exhalation of his own rattling lungs?

And then suddenly it was before him, light strobing off its speeding windows, the tracks screeching with sparks. Slower and slower until it stopped, staring at him.

The train was on time. He was about to be late.

Done? Now pretend you’ve forgotten that and read this version:

VERSION TWO

He had two fingers shoved in the little pocket where he kept his watch, feeling the tick tock in his fingertips like the pulse in his veins.

It seemed like it was slowing.

His brown hat bowed as he squinted at the minute hand. How many ticks did he have left before the train came? How many tocks before he stepped aboard for the last time? How many heartbeats before he flinched at the hiss of the air brakes, anticipating the final exhalation of his own rattling lungs?

The endless city seemed to press down on him, a steel and glass jungle clogged with concrete and grime. But he stood frozen in the bustle, a static chocolate freckle in the surging confetti sea at the corner of 3rd and Main.

He could almost feel it scream closer, slipping beneath skyscrapers that rubbed shoulders with factories, squeezing past overflowing shops and cafes, shoving aside crowds that oozed through bottleneck alleys.

And then suddenly it was before him, light strobing off its speeding windows, the tracks screeching with sparks. Slower and slower until it stopped, staring at him.

The train was on time. He was about to be late.

–

Leave your verdict in the comments!

–

Fraternization – revised!

  By

The unbearably schmaltzy story is back – now edited according to your suggestions! 

Big stuff that changed:

  • I kept the Times job, but gave our heroine a little more control over her emotions
  • I made up a specific memory from the relationship to be more showy, less telly
  • I reworked the boss’s character based on the “you look like a zebra” line from the original
  • I deleted some fluff, and with what I added, it made for a story about 100 words shorter

I also tweaked some wording and corrected some tense inconsistencies – with all three tenses in the story, it was easy to get them mixed up. (Read the original here.)

So kick back with some bon bons and let me know what you think!

Picture by Jodi Michelle

Phhoto by Jodi Michelle

Fraternization

It’s the first day of my dream job. Everything is perfect. I sit at my mahogany desk and try not to cry.

I didn’t even apply for this job. The offer came out of the blue, on the heels of seven other unsolicited offers. Higher salaries, better benefits, but I turned them all down. I didn’t want to leave him.

But I couldn’t resist this one.

The worst part was telling him. I was shaking that morning as I rode the elevator to the fourth floor. No amount of daisy-petal pulling could compare to this moment.

I was finally going to find out if he loved me.

I imagined how it would go – you know, fairy-tale scenario.

I’ve received an offer for the editor position at the Times, I’d say, You know how much I love working here, but this is the job I’ve dreamed about for as long as—are you alright?

 I’d interrupt myself at this point because I’d notice how crestfallen he had become.

Christy… he’d stammer, I just…don’t think I’m ready to lose you. I know I’ve never told you how I felt, but—I’ve always loved you.

Of course that wouldn’t happen. But I was hoping for at least a hint of disappointment. Something that would show he cared for me as more than—well, you know.

I arrived at his office. His door was open, as usual, but he was hunched over his address book. I knocked; he looked up. He looked tired, sad, nigh despairing! I wondered if he’d already heard. If he was already grieving for me. He welcomed me in, his eyes searching my face. I sat down across from him, took a deep breath.

“I’ve received an offer,” I began. His expression froze. “For a job,” I dropped my gaze to my fingers, twisted in my lap. “As an editor. At the Times. It’s um—”

“Christy, that’s fantastic!”

Fantastic. Fan-bloody-tastic. His whole face lit up when he said it.

I dutifully put in my last two weeks, but it didn’t get any better. The best I could get out of him was “We are going to miss you around here.”

We. Not I.

It’s replaying that part of the conversation that makes me finally break down. I know it sounds stupid, but when you meet another human being who not only knows but appreciates James P. Blaylock books as much as you do, and who volunteers to waste an entire Monday with you trying to recreate Cap’n Binky’s burnt-jungle-mud coffee from The Disappearing Dwarf because you’re still trying to get over your mom’s death, well. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that you’ll probably never see him again.

And here in my new office, I don’t even know where the tissues are. I’ll have to make a break for the bathroom to bawl my eyes out on a roll of toilet paper.

I collide with my new boss as I’m bursting into the hallway.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nrrthing,” I say—the first half of the word drowning in my snotty throat.

She arches an eyebrow. “Has someone died?”

I shake my head.

“Seriously injured? Diagnosed with cancer?”

“No, no. Everything’s fine. Just…allergies.”

“Well good. As highly as Steve recommended you, I’d hate to find out you were one of those hypochondriacal schoolgirls who’s always dealing with some kind of crisis.”

 “Recommended me…” heart drops to gut. “What?”

But I already understand.

He knew I was in love with him. I hadn’t hidden it as well as I thought. And rather than hurt my feelings, he found a better position for me elsewhere. All those offers. He must have been calling in favors all over town.

“Shoot,” (she uses a different vowel) “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

I can feel my mouth twisting up as I lose control of the muscles in my face. But four feet of no-nonsense pantsuit stand between me and the ladies’ room, and I know if I open my lips to excuse myself, all that’ll come out is a sob.

“Oh,” she squints at me. “I know what’s going on.”

She pushes me back into my office and shuts the door. Now my chin is trembling. Barely five hours at this job and I’m going to get fired.

She bends down to open a cupboard. “If she’s so perfect for the job, I said, why the heck”—she uses different consonants—“are you trying to get rid of her? And do you know what he said?”

I sniff, shaking my head.

“Because—and these were his exact words—‘I constantly have to remind myself not to kiss her.’ You see?”

I stare at her.

She hands me a box of tissues. “Your boss couldn’t make a move while you still worked there. It’s got to be against company policy, right?”

“He…he didn’t say that…”

“Are you calling me a liar?” she plants her hands on her hips.

“I…” I’m floundering now, lightheaded. “That’s not…”

“And now here he comes to take you to lunch, and I’ve screwed up the surprise.”

She’s looking out the window down at the parking lot. I lean forward to see. It’s him. Heading for the door like he’s on a mission. A bunch of flowers in his hand.

I look at my new boss. She grins. “Told you.”

I smile. I forget to breathe.

“You have about twenty seconds to get that eyeliner cleaned up. You look like a zebra.”

She turns on a heel and walks out. I scramble for more tissues.

First day of my dream job. Everything is perfect.

 

Flash Fiction: The Mysterious Case of the Marshmallow Mushroom Forest

  By

I wrote this piece for Jubilare, who figured out a way to redeem her awesome points. She gave me a writing challenge. The prompt: “The Mysterious Case of the Marshmallow Mushroom Forest.” No other stipulations. This is what I came up with. I hope you like it, Anne!

–

Photo by Reb

The story you are about to read is fiction. The names have been made up to protect no one, because none of the characters actually exist.

The Mysterious Case of the Marshmallow Mushroom Forest

This is the kitchen. Suburbia, USA. A canvas of bacon grease, Kool Aid stains, and Cheerio dust. A place where juveniles come to sneak M&Ms and adults come to swig whiskey when one too many episodes of Spongebob has made them forget they never bought any. A place for cooks, Pinterest addicts, and me.

I carry a bowl.

It’s Tuesday, March 15. It’s a sunny day, I’m working the breakfast shift out of the Your Turn division. My partner’s the Mrs. My name’s Daddy.

8:02 a.m., I pull in at the door just like any other morning. It takes me six steps to get to the pantry. When I arrive, the cereal box is waiting for me. It’s open.

Warily, I pour a little into the bowl. I don’t see any bugs, but something else isn’t right.

The Mrs. arrives on the scene, yawning.

“You were up late last night.”

“He kept begging for one more chapter.”

“Dahl again?”

“Carroll. He’ll be drawing white rabbits for weeks.”

I glance at the refrigerator. It’s plastered with a construction paper panorama of a factory. Cotton balls stream out of the smoke stacks, and at the front gate, little men drawn with orange crayon are carting out magazine clippings of candy bars. For a moment, I consider the difficulty of adding a top coat of grinning cats and smoking caterpillars over the three-dimensional collage, but the Mrs. interrupts my thoughts.

“These Cheerios are deformed.”

“They’re Lucky Charms.”

We both look in the bowl. Then we look at each other. It strikes us at the same moment.

“No marshmallows.”

8:05 a.m.. We call the suspect into the dining room. We place the Lucky Charms box and the half-filled bowl on the table in front of him. We stare at him: Me. the Mrs. The cartoon man in the green top hat.

“Ben. Did you eat all of the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms again?”

“Nooo.”

We glance at each other.

“I dedn’t eat the mushrellows!”

“Then what happened to them?”

“I glueded them.”

“Glued them? To what?”

The suspect jumps from his chair and runs out of the room. We chase him down the hall, and arrive in his bedroom at 8:06 a.m.. He is at his drawing table, holding a sheet of paper.

“I glueded them to the forest.”

We look at the paper. It is spattered with hard sugar hearts, stars, horseshoes, clovers and blue moons. A fat worm is outlined with green marker, and a girl in a blue dress towers over him.

“See?” says the suspect. “These ones make you grow big and tall. But thoses makes you  get shrunk.”

“All we want are the facts, Ben. Why did you glue marshmallows to the paper?”

“I think they’re mushrooms, Joe.”

“Mushrellows. I couldn’t find any musher-rooms. This is a subs-ta-toot.”

“I guess they do sound alike.”

“No, silly Mommy.” He pats her arm.

“No? Then why did you use marshmallows?”

“Becuzzz. The Hatter says they’re magically delicious.”

Upon closer inspection of the cereal box, the Mrs. finds that the cartoon man indeed bears a striking resemblance to the character known as “the Mad Hatter.”

On March 15, at 8:09 a.m. the suspect appears in court before a jury of his parents. The jury finds the defendant guilty of cereal killing and sentences him to a stern reprimand.

This is the kitchen. Suburbia, USA. It’s a wasteland of lopsided art projects encrusted with peanut-butter-and-jelly stains. It’s a den of thievery, now made just a little bit safer. It’s a place for breakfast – maybe not cereal; maybe eggs this time – breakfast for the Mrs. And the munchkin. And me.

I carry a skillet.

 

—

Voice Week 2012: Friday

  By ,

I survived the wedding! Now still catching up on linking, commenting, replying, etc., but also still hanging with relatives and friends from out of town, so I may not completely catch up until tomorrow.

I forgot, since last year, how fun this project is!

Here’s my piece to end the week!

"Today my voice is ______."

–

Hurricanes deleted. Tsunamis deleted. Rained-out picnics deleted. All forms of natural precipitation deleted worldwide for 6 months and counting. Post millennia, they hacked even weather. They proved there was no God.

That they were alone.

Her browser displayed Lawn East. Yellow sun. Blue sky. Always blue. She denied tears—facial secretions required quarantine. 

A smudge on screen. “Screen, sanitize,” she said. Wiper passed over 3 times.

1 smudge now 2.

 2 smudges 5.

Not smudges on screen; drops on lens.

Not scheduled. Not possible.

Sky shook. She shook. Large drops fell inside and out.

–

What type of story does this feel like to you? When does it take place? Tell me in the comments!

Check out the Voice Week homepage for links to everyone’s voices.

–