Have you ever wanted to change your life? One Year of Letters, written with my co-authors: Elaina Portugal, Colleen Aune, and Mary Knuckles, is how we're changing ours.
Each week we'll write letters seeking to change the very essence of who we are: by facing our challenges, by conquering our fears, and by working through our traumas. While we hope we find stronger, authentic women after the year is through, I know, in the process, we'll discover both hope and courage.
Join us! If you were to write yourself a letter about this week, about obstacles you face and how you will overcome them, what would you say? Say it at One Year of Letters
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Friday, August 22, 2014
BlackMan: The Revolution Freebie: #4 STL
For free! A VERY short "Blackman: The Revolution" Short:
STL
STL
Her words poured over him,
cold at first and then biting into his sweat glands like acid.
“I’m not going.”
“What do you mean you’re not going? You’re my wife.”
She stared nails into the palms he proffered. “I am not going to
Ferguson, Missouri. People are getting *killed* there. Your stunt with the kid
was bad enough. Are you going to take him, too?”
“If he wants to go, I don’t see why not.”
She threw her hands into the air, making strangled noises. Her
hair whipped out around her when she turned. The floor creaks diminished as she
stamped deeper into the house.
Alone. He’d have to do this alone. Her position was written all
over her face, even if he pretended he couldn’t see it. She wouldn’t go. She
wouldn’t let him take Big D, their ersatz foster kid. Maybe it was the way her
jaw worked or the set of her spine as she left, but he knew. He’d do this
alone.
If he did it at all.
People were getting shot. Mike Brown did, and now protesters,
too? Maybe it was too dangerous.
Or maybe it was exactly the time. The time to talk peaceful
protest. The time to talk signs and words, not guns and knives.
The carpet scrunched under his toes. The cool air (Damn that
polar-bear wife!) blew over him, raising the hairs on his arms. Turning the
corner to the kitchen, he spotted her cradling the mug of hot cocoa. Damn, she
must be upset. Hot cocoa was PMS medication, or Somebody Died therapy. Not some
trifling thing.
“A superhero isn’t needed when everything’s OK. He’s needed when
it’s dark and dangerous.”
She eyed him over the brim of her cup.
Fuck.
Her voice echoed, hollow and scary, from the ceramic. “You are
not a super hero. You are someone who shoots videos, not guns. That shit you
pulled at Tops? That ain’t never happening again. And you are NOT going to St.
Louis to fight no goddamned race war.”
He tried a smile on: “You know I like it when you talk ghetto.”
A manicured nail sparkled in the kitchen’s light. The middle
one.
“I’m going.”
“You are not.”
“I’m going, Madeline. You know I have to. They’re sick out
there. Sick with rage. They shootin’ and lootin’ because they can’t find their
voice, like when you stormed out of the bedroom. They can’t talk about what’s
wrong ‘cause it’s just so much that’s wrong. 300 years and it’s got to stop.
And they gotta breathe. And someone’s gotta get them talking instead of
fighting. But fightin’s all they know, and it’s all they’ll do unless I go out
there and show them otherwise.”
“You’re serious? You think you got some super-powers now?
Because you know the names of little kids who steal food. Because you know the
name of a beaten prostitute?”
“Because they didn’t shoot Big D. Here, I can show you.”
“Show me?”
Her hand heated his. The air around her smelled like hot cocoa
and buttery lotion. A habit she’d picked up from him, putting lotion on every
day out of the shower.
The heat of the day beat on them as soon as he opened the door.
Gray sky hung over them, sealing them in, as it did most days in August. Rocks
stabbed the soles of his feet but he half-jogged through the gap in the fence
toward the parking lot.
“Where are we going? Why don’t you have shoes?”
He ignored her. His cheeks hurt from smiling. He pulled her
toward the street, slowed down. “Stand here.”
She stood, holding onto the pole of the bus stop sign out of
habit. Anchoring herself. “What are you doing?”
“Just stay there.”
The bus stop shelter smelled like piss in the heat, but he
ducked behind it anyway, careful not to touch it. Soon enough, the stop light
turned yellow and then red. Cars piled up quickly, forming perfect rows,
waiting for the light to change.
“Listen up.”
She turned toward his whisper, and he stepped out from behind
the shelter. “What—?”
“Shh. Listen.”
Cement struck his heels as he strode toward the stop. At first,
nothing. Then a single *chunk* of a door lock.
Madeline’s hair shined gold as she spun toward the sound.
Another step. *chunk, chunk*
Now he was even with the pole. He looked into the passenger
window at dyed-red wiry curls. White wrinkled neck dripped over the seat belt.
Step.
Chunk. Chunk. Pop chunk chunk pop snap chunk.
He turned back toward his wife, arms up and shining blackly in
the sun. “See? Superpowers.”
Her
finger came up again. Not to him this time, but to every car stopped at the
light. “Fucking racist assholes!” She turned to him, gray eyes flashing. “I’m
coming with you.”
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Busy, Busy Beaver
Hello!
It's been quite the ride over the past few months. I've learned so much about writing, and I've written so much, that I'm dizzy with all of the updates.
For the first time, probably ever, the reality of being a full-time writer/editor/coach is close enough for me to actually believe in.
Not only am I working on a new series (the Blackman series of short stories), but I have TWO trad-published books coming out soon. Plus, I'm excited by my re-write of Scales, which is so close to being done that I want to jump up and down.
Because of my critique group, I'm going to start offering critiques and coaching for a fee.
I am so excited! I'm building a platform! And I couldn't do it without my wonderful readers. Thank you for believing in me even when I didn't!
It's been quite the ride over the past few months. I've learned so much about writing, and I've written so much, that I'm dizzy with all of the updates.
For the first time, probably ever, the reality of being a full-time writer/editor/coach is close enough for me to actually believe in.
Not only am I working on a new series (the Blackman series of short stories), but I have TWO trad-published books coming out soon. Plus, I'm excited by my re-write of Scales, which is so close to being done that I want to jump up and down.
Because of my critique group, I'm going to start offering critiques and coaching for a fee.
I am so excited! I'm building a platform! And I couldn't do it without my wonderful readers. Thank you for believing in me even when I didn't!
Friday, April 18, 2014
Trying
Ice pit
Ice bites into my fingers. It’s not going to hold. Already, I can feel sandy granules breaking off against my skin. This isn’t solid, like some sheet of water frozen in one go; this isn’t orderly molecules aligned in hexagonal prisms. No, this is an amalgam of ice pebbles, with a mortar as arbitrarily strong as my muscles: some strong, some weak, some tearing under the strain.
A twitch vibrates up my thigh; I can’t hold out much longer. What can my abducting muscles handle: 80 lbs? And they’re holding at least 150. My triceps scream, but they can hold the other 100 lbs for a few minutes more. Enough to ease myself out of this chimney.
God, damn it. I saw the rock. I knew it was there. I know better than this, to walk near one. I know they melt the snow under the crust, leaving pockets. And I fucking walked right into it. Foom. Buried to my thighs, ice walls on my right and nothing but pocket everywhere else. Just air, like someone decided to make me a bedroom in the great outdoors. My breath didn’t even frost down there; it must be 40 degrees. The ceiling dripped onto the sides of the rock, releasing silicate smells in the dampness. My salvation, however tempting, would not be the rock. “Rock solid” doesn’t apply to the snow around the damn thing. Ice walls it would have to be.
And now, most of the way up the ice walls, the side of each knee digging into any divot I can find, I grip the top of the crust of snow, away from the rock, and I know it’s not going to hold. It’s going to crack, or melt under my bare fingers, or it’s going to break when my thighs give out.
I pull my body up, an inch at a time. I don’t even hear the break.
I fall. Foom. Into the snow. Back into my bedroom of ice.
Would it be so bad, to take a nap here? I’m tired. My legs are shaking and now my arms are shaking and when was the last time I ate anything?
The snow collapses in my hand. I suck the water, so much less voluminous than the snow. No napping. Recharge and retry.
I pull my body up, an inch at a time. I don’t even hear the break.
I fall. Foom. Into the snow. Back into my bedroom of ice.
Would it be so bad, to take a nap here? I’m tired. My legs are shaking and now my arms are shaking and when was the last time I ate anything?
The snow collapses in my hand. I suck the water, so much less voluminous than the snow. No napping. Recharge and retry.
The walls are too clean. No footholds, but too close together to put my back to one and push against the other. That would be the ideal way, my biceps femoris and my quads can support my whole weight plus a hundred pounds, easy, indefinitely. Well, for minutes and minutes and minutes. Enough minutes to get the Hell out of here.
The walls are too clean. I know that’s my problem. My real problem. I’m only stuck in here because I can’t get a grip. I only have the one knife—no climbing picks. But compress ice and what happens? Water. One of the few substances on Earth for which that’s true. And a knife functions on what? Pressure. Force applied to a small area-the edge. Maybe I can cut some footholds, some handholds. After all, I’m in here until I get out, right? I have all the time in the world. Three weeks, to be exact, since I have insulation in the form of the air bubble in the snow, and I have fresh water. I’ll live until I starve, and with my reserves, that could be more than three weeks. Plenty of time to cut into the ice.
I push the blade, using my weight and not my muscles to apply the pressure. It’s working. The knife is sinking in: a half a centimeter. A centimeter. This might actually work. Ugh! But it’s hard!
Fuck it. I’m not going to try that hard. This place is comfortable. So what if I die here? It’s nice here. I’ll work with what I’ve got in here and I won’t use my tools or put in a lot of effort. Besides, the snow will melt some day and I’ll be able to just walk out of here. In three weeks, it will be May. I’m sure it won’t snow much in the meantime.
My stomach growls. Muscles shake. God, but I’m hungry. Oh, well. It doesn’t matter anyway. This story was just for fun.
…and THAT, my dear colleagues, is why it is so frustrating when people don’t really try your advice, or they say they aren’t serious after you’ve done a lot of work. Trying and failing is fine, as you can see in the story. But not trying hard is unsatisfying. We are all the protagonists of our life-stories. If we don’t try with every bit of what we have, or if we say it’s not serious, then we are doing a great disservice not only to ourselves, but to the audience—our loved ones, our friends, our acquaintances who watch our lives. And how many times will you read a story if you know the protagonist always gives up? How often will you engage?
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
To the Cusp
My parents could have worked in Marketing for any University
in the world. All my life, they told me that if I just hung in there, I would
go to college, where the professors would take me to the cusp of knowledge, to
the very precipice, to the cliff, after which the wide gulf of discovery would
open up before me.
The cusp.
That’s where I feel now. Not the cliff my parents talked
about, but the crest of a hill. Right now all I can see is my dashboard and the
sky, but in a minute or two, my car will level out and I’ll see the wide world
of creating verbal art. I’ll see it from the airplane perspective: all
geometric fields and wooly forests. Rivers of plot wind through character
rills, and the perfect stone outcroppings dot the world like upthrust thumbs.
The sensation started with the gut-level understanding of
something that had only lived in my head: stories are manufactured. Everything
in them is planned and calculated for effect. They are DESIGNED.
Well, duh. That’s what my head said. Of course they are
manufactured. They don’t grow under mushrooms (although a few ideas have grown
OUT FROM mushrooms, I must admit).
But my heart did not hear this. My heart heard: I will sit
at my keyboard and story shall stream from my fingertips!
Then I picked up Swain. And I believed. Ahh! Cried the
angels. I learned even more: climax must be a choice between what is right and
what is easy, for both the protagonist and often the antagonist. Then the
character should get what he or she deserves: the essence of (not the actual)
his goal, or conversely the actual accomplishment, but robbed of meaning.
Judgment. Justice.
Stories aren’t real life! Bad guys get punished. People get
second chances! Good guys finish, if not first, at least with their dignity
intact! Oh my God, how did I never see this?
After that, of course I devoured Stein. And Stein had even
more to say: dialogue should be a confrontation. An oblique one. It shouldn’t
sound “real”, because you’re only using the meat. But it should be
distinguishable, from character to character.
Wow.
And then, the coup de grace: What we want to see is that
picture in the pocket that the characters hide from everyone else. That one
soul-jerking moment, that one vulnerable spot.
This echoes with what Randall has been teaching: be
vulnerable. Suddenly, I read Stein saying the same thing: Start with your
vulnerable moment. Start with that photo you wouldn’t show your best friend,
that the paramedics would find upon searching your pockets, and you’d be
mortified (dead!) if you knew they saw it: the dirty undies of your soul.
And here I am, encased in this knowledge, cresting this
hill: I get it. I get it, and I’m ready to DO it. I will dive into the gulf of
discovery, taken to the cusp of knowledge by these wonderful authors and
editors.
And, after a good swim, I’ll be ready to dive back into
these and other books for my next cusp.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
NYC Midnight Short Story Contest_ Made it through the First Round!
I made it through the first round of the NYC Midnight Short Story Competition. I'm very excited. We were separated into heats, and the top five stories from each heat were selected to continue. I was heat 18, if you want to check it out here.
The story requirements were genre: historical fiction (not my forte), Character: ballerina, and plot device: secret club.
The story requirements were genre: historical fiction (not my forte), Character: ballerina, and plot device: secret club.
Burning Truth
SYNOPSIS: Marguerite de Valois,
Queen of France, wrote her memoirs while imprisoned by her brother in his
castle. Only after she delivers them to their keeper, where they remain hidden
until her death, does she sit at her desk to pen the true story of her
husband’s salvation from the Bartholomew’s Day Massacre.
To read the Actual letters, click here: http://www.fullbooks.com/The-Memoirs-of-Marguerite-de-Valois-V1.html
***18-Burning
Truth
Marguerite de Valois,
Queen of France, fanned herself with her palimpsest of secrets. Though pursing
her lips might ruin her powder, she made the face anyway. No one of consequence
would see it. Unlike this salty memoir in her hands, most of which was even
true.
The tang of blood
burned her mouth as she chewed her lip. If she tarried any longer, her resolve
might burn to ashes. She must execute this final transaction anon.
Queen Marguerite thrust
the parchment toward a servant. Slender fingers, cool and sure, closed around
her clammy ones.
“Here!” Marguerite
commanded. “I charge you to take this and hide it where you will. Do not
release these words of scandal and mischief until my death.”
She whirled away from
her act, heavy skirts swishing. Rank fear billowed from under brocade and
starched collars. The servant should have left by now, but Marguerite heard her
breath.
“I may be a prisoner in
this castle,” Marguerite complained, “but I am still wife to King Henry IV of
France, am I not?”
A familiar squeak
sounded behind her. She did not turn. This would not do. This was no regular
servant. This woman...she owed this woman her life, the Monarchy. The Queen
softened her voice.
“Do as I bid, Anne. I
swear upon my crown, my gowns, and the sweet Virgin that I have not exposed
your role that night.” Marguerite turned back toward the woman. She held out
her hands as if to grasp the servant’s, but stopped. Her hands rubbed
themselves against her bodice, soiled by the mere thought. She locked eyes on
the poor girl.
“Now, child, our
previous familiarity endears you to me, and as a consequence, I have written
this letter recommending your service to anyone who would wish to have you. I
may never escape my gilded cage, but you will, my nymph. You have saved my
silly Huguenot husband more than once; I will admit to wondering if the ballet
you danced for the Royal wedding were some portent. But, enough." Queen
Marguerite pointed her finger. "If you dally any longer, I will have your
head. These parchments must be hid, rested until my demise. If word reaches me
or my successors that these secrets came out, or were lost…my revenge upon my
brother is worth even your life.
“Away with you, that
you might be safe from Catholics and Huguenots alike. That my words might be
safe from the Queen my mother, who schemes whilst her plots fail around her.
Dance away.”
Hearkening to her
former ballet career, Anne arose and glided through the doorway, past the guards
in wigs, tights, and pikes. Now, with Anne safely away, she would write the
last scandal: the secret clan of ballerinas and the improbable rescue by common
court dancers.
She perched upon her
ornate chair. A quill, not yet cold, fit snugly into her hand. There was
nothing else to do, she reasoned. For her own safety she'd been imprisoned by
her brother, so no fit vengeance for her lot in life existed except to tell the
truth. The trivial truth from a woman, a non-entity, a vacuous girl with dreams
and laughter in her head and no cares except donning the most expensive frock.
Well, she’d given them that. No one could fault her for the whimsical tone in
her memoirs, for that is how they saw her: whimsical. Weak. Powerless.
But here, in her hand,
she held more power than her mother ever did. Catherine de Medici’s family
thought power resided with the Church, but the Protestants proved it resided in
ink when they printed those Bibles and unleashed the Huguenots upon the world.
Words had beaten down the once mighty Catholic Church; her words would beat
down this farce of a monarchy.
She dipped her nib into
the ink, tapping her quill.
“Letter V Redux
“The True Events of the
Massacre of the Huguenots on St. Bartholomew's Day.
“King Charles, as I
have written before, a prince of great prudence, always paying a particular
deference to his mother, did indeed adopt a sudden resolve to follow her
counsel, and put himself under the protection of the Catholics. Sadly, it was
not in his power to save the wretched Teligny, honorable La Noue, or M. de La
Rochefoucauld.
“However, after Charles
resolved upon the “Massacre of St. Bartholomew” with M. de Guise, the Princes,
and the Catholic officers, and before I became aware of the goings-on inside
the palace, my original history took a fictitious, though believable, bent.
“I did, as I reported
so genuinely before, go to the Queen my mother’s bed chamber in my panic,
whereupon it was not my sister who shared my mother’s chambers, but a lowly
servant, whose tears gushed down her linens, and who begged me to stay and defy
the Queen’s request for me to retire. The Queen was, as I wrote in my previous
account, in discourse with another party whom I could not see. The servant
sobbed so loudly I could not hear, except to hear the servant warn me that
leaving the Queen’s bedchamber would mean my life, and I must not go.
“But the Queen
commanded obedience, and, upon the Queen my mother’s wroth, the servant Anne,
rushed me from the room, escorting me to my own chambers, and prevailed upon me
to listen to her tales of intrigue. I would never have listened, despite our
occasional dalliance in the past, except that, in all the palace, she seemed
the only one to be informed as to the general panic and activity.
“As you may know, years
before this night, on the subsequent festival days of my marriage to Prince
Henri of Navarre, dancers performed in a series of festivities arranged by the
Queen my mother, always so fond of the arts. Girls dressed in feathers and
lace, disguised as nymphs, performed a dance, to wit a ballet, much to the
delight of the Court. The aforementioned serving girl was one of these dancers.
Without my knowledge, nor the knowledge of anyone in the Court, including the
shrewd and observant Queen my mother, these dancers then insinuated themselves
into the Courts and the nobles, with that oldest of recreations.
“Having taken up as
lovers with the Princes of the Court and even the Huguenots in the country, who
claimed to eschew such things, their secret group was in the perfect position
to know the impending Massacre and to save the Royal family. You will recall,
prior to the religious wars that plague our country, the manipulation and
misalignments perpetrated by Queen Catherine served only to infuriate both
sides. Far from quelling the fire of religious fervor, her acts merely fanned
the flames of fanaticism. Thus, the plot.
“This the servant told
me, crying into my ear, and bid me to stay in these my own bedchambers as she
barred the door.
“The remainder occurred
as written, with my husband the King and I retired for the night, although we
did not sleep for fear, surrounded by his gentlemen and my new servant, Anne,
whom no one recognized as the dancer. When, in the morning, King Henri IV and
his gentlemen repaired for the tennis courts to speak to King Charles, and
after the hour during which I finally reposed, the pounding on the door and the
shouts, “Navarre! Navarre!” did wake me from my slumber and transfix my nurse,
who threw open the door.
“Despite my previous
chronicle depicting M. de Teian saving me from archers, the afternoon’s
activities unfolded quite differently. M. de Teian did indeed recover from his
injuries, which were sustained outside as he ushered the King to my room. But
as it is unkingly for the King of France to hide inside his wife’s bedchamber,
I have penned the fictitious account, sans dancers, sans secret groups, and
sans hiding King. That the monarchy was saved not by the Grace of God,
Protestant or Catholic, but by lowly courtesans brings me mirth and melancholy
in equal measure.”
Marguerite sprinkled
sand upon the parchment. Her lungs deflated as she leaned back. Her corset
creaked. This history, the true version, amused her now that years separated
her from the affair’s tensions. She stood and held the parchment up to the
light streaming in her window. Her words droll now that the smell of blood and
steel no longer assaulted her nose, now that the bile of fear no longer soured
her breath.
Yet what would such
amusement serve? What would the commoners do if they realized their exalted
King had shivered and cried in the night, and accidentally stabbed a man,
already injured, who’d come to protect him?
It would not serve. If
Kings were not chosen by God to rule—Queen Marguerite shuddered to think. She
drifted toward the fire.
If Kings were not
chosen by God, but were flawed people, no more special than common dancers and
serving girls, then she could foresee a true massacre. A real French
revolution. Her hand fluttered to her chest. No, that could never be. Not now,
not in 200 years. But it was one thing to narrate the Court’s licentiousness.
It was quite another to defame the King, to mortify him. The Court was no place
for truth.
She bent toward the
grate, dropping her secrets into fire. Blackened, the parchment crackled and
curled in the flames.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Check Out my Flash Memoir at "Run to the Roundhouse, Nellie"!
Check out my 246-word memoir at "Run to the Roundhouse, Nellie". Hurry! I don't know how long it will stay up!
Run to the Roundhouse, Nellie
Run to the Roundhouse, Nellie
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Something Happened
I don't know exactly when it happened. I think it
started last year, when I became bound and determined to do whatever it took to
get Scales published by a third-party publisher. Something snapped in my
head that told me I had to do something different about my writing career.
That Nanowrimo and scribbling short stories in my
spare time wasn’t enough.
So I started to take my work seriously. I started
seeking critiques, no matter how much they hurt. I started reading about
writing, and actually applying the lessons, instead of nursing the ache in my
chest when I realized I wrote something “wrong”.
Perhaps it happened this past December, when I
purchased and read some of the most influential writing books of all-time. I
realized, with a certain amount of heartache, and more than a little
excitement, that everything I had written was wrong. Wrong in very specific,
fixable ways. I realized I could salvage my old work, without losing the
essence of the story, and spin it better this time. Make it more durable. Make
it speak louder to people’s hearts.
Maybe it began when I submitted a story, and I didn’t
look for the response right away in my email. I patted myself on the back for
submitting it and let it go, regardless of the response.
It may have started last year, but it came into
fruition this year.
This year; this first week of January, I’ve had
positive responses (even in a rejection) from every person to whom I’ve sent a
story or poem. Positive.
For the first time in my life, people are not telling
me that they can’t understand what’s going on, that the writing is pretty, but
confusing.
For the first time in my life, when I ask someone to
publish my work, their answer is simply “Yes.”
Yes.
What a powerful word it is to hear. And the “yes” robs
the sting from the “no”. I am now more excited than ever to learn about
writing. And I want to write everything. I want to write even when I don’t want
to write; I just write about something else.
For the first time, I can actually see a future in
this path I’ve been unable to unchoose.
Since I was little, writing caused me pain. I got in
trouble, over and over, for things I’d written. My school said there was too
much sex and violence. Fiction got interpreted as fact too often, but never
when I actually meant it to be interpreted that way. Letters and poems and
journals all were read, shared without my permission.
It hurts to be violated that way.
But I couldn’t stop. I had to write. Even after
publishing shitty books, and realizing they were shitty, I could not stop. I
had to keep moving on.
And now, for the first time, it’s bringing me
pleasure.
Something happened. After all this time writing, I
learned how to write.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Swain to the Rescue!
Swain (and Stein) to the Rescue
One of the first things Swain mentions in his book
“Techniques of the Selling Writer,” is the concept of specificity. Newbie
writers, he tells us, write in general terms. They talk of “people” and
“sheep”, “rivers” and “lands”.
Experienced, selling authors, however, describe the passerby in the
purple top hat, stopping to stare at our main character, mouth agape and gold
tooth shining. The professional writer will talk about the blackface sheep with
the limp, hobbling as fast as it can from the wolf and bleating to its fleeing
mother. The beginning writer might also
discuss “rain”, and then modify the rain with the word “hard”, instead of using
the specific noun “downpour” or even, “monsoon”. Adjectives can be almost eliminated
if one uses the correct, specific noun instead of a generic noun.
The same is true for adverbs and verbs. If one “ran quickly”, perhaps one “sprinted”. If someone “laughs heartily”, maybe it is more appropriate to say he “guffaws”. The right verb can clarify the action without using an adverb (most of the time). This is how adverbs and adjectives got such a bad name in writing: it isn’t because they are bad, but simply because many a beginning author will use them instead of picking a specific noun and verb.
I’m also going to highlight, in a separate color, redundant words, verb phrases, and prepositional phrases, all of which can be addressed by using specific nouns and verbs.
As an example, I will work with a flash fiction piece of my own called “Holy Woman”.
Original text: (933 words)
The yellow light from the windows smears out across the snow, casting the flickering shadows of the dancers intolonglines of motion.
Despite the frigid
air, I can still
fell the warmth of
the praise and faithin my blood. I thank the man againfor his hospitality and immediately stumble blindly as my breath fogs up my glasses. His strong grip on my arm steadies
me until my breath evaporates off the lenses. Maybe he had glasses once up on a time, but
as I look at
his handsome, dedicated
face I can see
no evidence of spectacles now.
“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out
here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop,” he tells me, careful to keep his breath-cloud
pointed away. “And all that waiting ou tin the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”
I smile, trying to ignore the warm, squirmy feeling low
in my stomach
that threatens to overwhelm me whenever I look in his eyes.
I break away from thelight grayeyes, so compellingly wrapped in dark lashes. I cannot look, or else I will
lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure.
His careis a docile tan vehicle in a line offlashiercars. It’s a boxy design, and a practical decision in this kind of climate. The good-natured ribbing of hisyoungersiblings precedes them to the vehicle, and soon all is slamming doors and
laughing as he opens the door for me.
I bundle myself in, trying to dust the
snow that has
blownup on me during theshortwalk.
I avoid his eyes this way for
almost ten secondsbefore I realize he has not started the car.
When I turn to ask him if there’s something wrong, the
intensity of his
gaze stops my tongue. I feel as though my mouth has frozen into a surprised “oh!” shape, stuck by theicy, fieryeyesneedling into mine.
“I wanted to ask you a question,” he nearly whispers.
Even though I’m consciousof the noise
and vibration ofarguingyoungmen in the back seat,
I can hear
his low voice as
clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps stand up on my arms, blessedly covered by my coat, as I
imagine the tickle of his warm
breath on my ear.
If only he had beenthat close!
My tongue comes unglued, “ask away,” I tell him, trying to lighten
up the heaviness in
my stomach. How can I advise this man in this state? I try to pray, to communewith my godwhilekeeping my gaze
locked on this
Adonis.
“My brothers,” he says, and he cocks
his head toward the
backseat, “they have some friends who come over. These friends live so
dangerously, taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them.
They’re rebellious and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I
guess I’m not sure what I should do about it.”
He leans in closer,
listening for my
answer.
I have to close my eyes to keep his beauty from distracting
me. “Are you responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under
your care, are you responsible?”
I can hear the petulant tone of The Old Crone in my voice, and inwardly I cringe. Even though it was the Sybil he
wanted, I wished I didn’t
have to set him thinking of me as some
Prophetess. I wanted
him to thinkof me
as a woman, not a shaman.
But the gleam in his eye tells me I have done what he
wanted. He leans in closer,
almost halfway
across the carnow,
and eagerly nods.
“Yes!” he hisses.
The Crone smiles with my face, and
says with my mouth,
“then you know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you
guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you
are just and kind, and they will respond.”
I feel the holy presence leave me and sighin relief. When I look back to him, he is nodding, pulling the car out from his parking spot, and beginning the drive
down the lane.
I watch him mullingover the witchy
words I spoke, and I wonder if he knows the power that comes over me,
the role that assumes me in necessity.
But no, I know he doesn’t. He glances over to
me appreciatively, but
not the way I want.
“Yes,” he says, smiling.
I can see the creamy, satisfied look in his eyes. His oracle has performedas he wished.
Diminished, I lookout the front windowin timeto
see the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I ask him.
I see the hesitation, and I add, “I feel a strong pull by the
Spirit to be here, now.”
He nods in agreement and pulls the car over. Before he can open his door,
I have leapt
knee-deep into the
snowbankat the side of the road. I start closing the door, but his voice stops
me.
“If you don’t mind me asking, is there
anything you struggle with, that I might help?”
I look one more time at the sculpted face and the hair like the tips of raven’s wings. His whole countenance is touched by awe
and submission—a stain across
the otherwise
perfect features.
I look away.
“The Devil,” I say to him. “Every day.Inside us
all.”
I shut the door on his worship and
wait for the bus.
Notice that I have not highlighted anything in the speech.
Why not? Because people talk like this. I will, however, make sure (in a later
lesson) that each character stands out (sounds different, has specific
details).
I took out the prepositional phrases, simplified the verbs,
and removed (most of)the adverbs and the adjectives. Note that the majority of
the story makes sense, but it is much shorter (541):
The light smears, casting shadows.
Despite the air, praise and faith warm my blood. I thank the man and stumble as
my breath fogs up my glasses. His grip steadies me until my breath evaporates
off the lenses. Maybe he wore glasses once, but I see no evidence of spectacles.
“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out
here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop.” He keeps his breath-cloud pointed
away. “And all that waiting out in the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”
I smile, ignore my stomachwhich
threatens to overwhelm me.I break away. I cannot look, or else I will lose my
composure. I can’t lose my composure.
His younger siblings’ ribbing precedes
us. he opens the door.
I bundle myself in, dusting snow off.
I avoid his eyes.
“Is there something wrong?” His eyes
needle into mine.
His gaze stops my tongue. My mouth freezes
into an “oh!” shape.
“I wanted to ask you a question,” he
whispers.
The brothers argue in the back seat,
but I hear his voice as clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps
stand as I imagine the tickle of his breath. If only he were close!
My tongue unglues, “ask away.” My
stomach lightens. How can I advise this man? I commune with my god until my
gaze locks on this Adonis.
“My brothers,” he cocks his head,
“they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously,
taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious
and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure
what I should do about it.” He leans in,
listening.
I shutout his beauty. “Are you
responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under your care,
are you responsible?”
The Old Crone speaks for me, and I
cringe. He wanted the Sybil, but I wished he saw me, not some Prophetess. A
woman, not a shaman.
His eyes gleam. He leans in closer.
“Yes!” he hisses.
The Crone smiles with my face, her
words pour forth, “then you know what you must do. You must guard and keep
these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for
them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”
The presence releases me. I watch him mull
my witchy words. Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity?
But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to
me.“Yes,” he says, smiling. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as
expected.
Diminished, I look through the
windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?”
He hesitates.
“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to
be here, now.”
He nods and pulls over. Before he can
open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snowbank. His voice stops (snags?) me.
I wait.
“If you don’t mind me asking, is there
anything you struggle with, that I might help?”
Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me.
Awe and submission stain his features. I look away.“The Devil.Every day.Inside
us all.”
I shut the door on his worship and
wait for the bus.
So, what about using specific nouns and verbs? Great question! As you can see, just taking
out the extra verbiage isn’t really enough to make the story pop. In order to do that, we review the text
again, but this time, we insert very specific nouns and active verbs wherever
we can.
The light smears, throws shadows. Despite
the chill, praise and
faith warm my blood. I thank the man and stumble as my breath fogs up my
glasses. His grip steadies me until I see again. Kindness confuses me: maybe he
wore glasses once. I see no evidence of spectacles. Maybe he wants something
from me.
“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out
here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop.” He averts his breath-cloud. “And all that waiting out
in the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”
I smile. My stomach lurches.I glance away. I cannot
look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure.
His younger siblingsrib each other. He opens
the passenger’s door.
I bundle myself in, dusting snow off.
I avoid his eyes. (shut the door, get in the other side, still bothered by
kindness)
“Is there something wrong?” His eyes
needle into mine.
His gaze stops my tongue. My mouth
freezes into an “oh!” shape.
“I wanted to ask you a question,” he
whispers.
The brothers argue in the back seat,
but I hear his voice as clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps
stand as I imagine his
breath tickling my neck. If only he were close!
My tongue unglues, “ask away.” My
stomach lightens. How can I advise this man? I commune with my god until my
gaze locks on this Adonis.
“My brothers,” he cocks his head,
“they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously,
taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious
and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure
what I should do about it.” He leans in,
listening.
I shutout his beauty. “Are you
responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under your care,
are you responsible?”
The Old Crone speaks for me, and I
cringe. He wanted the Sybil, but I wished he saw me, not some Prophetess. A
woman, not a shaman.
His eyes gleam. He leans in closer.
“Yes!” he hisses.
The Crone smiles with my face, her
words pour forth, “then you know what you must do. You must guard and keep
these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for
them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”
The presence releases me. I watch him
mull my witchy words. Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity?
But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to
me.“Yes,” he says, smiling. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as
expected.
Diminished, I look through the
windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?”
He hesitates.
“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to
be here, now.”
He nods and pulls over. Before he can
open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.
“If you don’t mind me asking, is there
anything you struggle with, that I might help?”
Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me.
Awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil.Every day.Inside
us all.”
I shut the door on his worship and
wait for the bus.
Note that we didn’t change much—yet. But already, the words
we changed have given a more specific picture of the events. The reason I
haven’t gone into too much of the word-changing is this: Our lessons are not
complete. Before I delve in and worry about how
I’m wording something, I first want to go into the story and answer some
questions. First, from Swain:
- · What is the story about?
- · What is the climax?
- · How is the climax a choice between following the protagonist’s values or not?
- · What is her easy way out?
- · How does the protagonist get what she deserves?
These are weighty questions.
Firstly, in a sentence, the story is about a woman considered Holy by others, who does not feel so holy. In other words, people are attributing Holiness to her, when she feels that it is some other presence working in her. The Climax of the story is her decision to continue (what she feels is) the charade. Her values tell her not to lie. Her body tells her that she wants this man—this is the real her. By denying her body’s desires (according to some of her values), she is actually promoting this Holy lie (violating other values).
In this case, there are two easy ways out: she can continue the charade, or she can permanently destroy the charade and let her lust take over. The valiant way would be to correct him, and not take advantage of him, all at the same time.
How does the protagonist get what she deserves? By continuing the Holy Woman sham, she is so disgusted with herself that she purposely puts herself back out into the cold.
Great. Now we know what the story is about. Let’s switch writing coaches for a moment, and move to Sol Stein. While both coaches describe writing as the production of emotion in the reader, Stein goes a bit further:
Which emotions are we trying to convey in each portion of the story—and do those emotions make sense, according to the climax?
At the climax of the story, we want to feel the strength of the walls boxing in our protagonist. Once she makes her decision, I want the audience to feel …what do I want them to feel? I want them to feel sympathetic to the woman, so I have to give her no choice but to continue the farce. I want them to feel like there is no good answer, only a lesser of two evils. Because of this, she has no choice but to be punished, and it is because it is her judgment alone calling her Holiness a farce, she punishes herself. The reader must feel like she is creating her own prison, but be sympathetic to her in the same way.
Wow, that’s complicated, right?
Of course it is. You thought that all that BS in High School was the teacher putting his/her own views into a piece of fiction, didn’t you? Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. There’s a lot of intent that is put in a story, or a book, or everything else. It is manufactured.
So, the first feeling we want is one of sympathy. Since we want the reader to feel this way throughout the story, I’m going to address it later. Secondly, we want people to feel that there is no right answer. Already we have a plot hole: I mentioned earlier that a third option was to just talk to Adonis, tell him that it was all a lie, that she wasn’t holy, and that it was something else moving inside her.
So what do we do? We take this option away. How do we take it away? We have her go ahead and take this option, and we make it not work. That’s the most obvious way to do it. Now we only have to evils: follow the script laid out for her, or nail the hot guy in the car. Voila! Character effectively boxed in.
Thirdly, we want the reader to feel, in the climax, that her feelings belong only to her; the outside world sees her very differently. Because we can only show this through dialogue (whether spoken or unspoken) because of the POV, this ties into another one of Stein’s commandments: dialogue is a conflict. All dialogue should be a conflict.
In our current story, the dialogue is not a conflict. It’s an exchange of information:
Char 1: “I have a question.”
Char 2: “I have an answer.”
Char 1: “I have another question.”
Char 2: “I have an answer to that question, too.”
READER: Ho, hum.
So, what if we revamp the dialogue?
He takes her arm and tells her he won’t let her wait out in the cold for the bus. He’ll drive her home. What if he says, instead, that he knows such a spiritual woman doesn’t mind the cold, but he’d be honored to drive her home? This way, he’s kissing up to her, but he’s also trapping her.
She’s already suspicious. She looks at him. He’s effing cute. “No, son, don’t waste your time on an old hag like me.”
“Come on,” he insists. Well, that’s what he would insist if he DIDN’T think she was some Saint. But he does. So he says, “It’s no trouble at all.” And leads her toward the car.
(the kids are misbehaving)
Adonis yells at the kids, to get them to settle down. Now he’s established authority.
“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys will be boys,” She’s enjoying their antics, still feels uneasy, like there are strings attached.
“Actually, I want to be able to talk with you. You see, I have this question.”
Aha!
Sympathy: “No, child, let this old woman rest.”
“You’re not that old,”
“And yet, you lap at my font of wisdom” (sarcasm).
“It’s just a quick question. Look, the car is already warm.”
“I am not a Saint, child. I am a woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine spirit.”
“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”
“You don’t know what you saw.” At the same time: damn, that door is closed.
“Just hear me out.”
“Ask away” (sarcasm). Better: “Ask, then.”
Giving Space
Swain believes in space. He believes that, the more important an event is to the story, the more space it should take up.
Let’s assume that our story is 1000 words long—the upper limit of flash fiction. Our climax is the most important part of the story. We could conceivably give the climax of our story 250-500 words. Let’s keep that in the back of our minds, while we work on one more important item: the plot diagram.
Plot diagram
In middle school or high school, you may have come across a Plot diagram. The picture looks something like this:
There’s an intro, rising action, a
climax, falling action, and resolution. In real life, most plot diagrams look
like this:
This is because, in a very short story, there are only a few
events that lead up to the climax. The climax and the end of the story (the
character getting what he/she deserves) take up the majority of the story. In
fact, in our example, about half.
So now we know how our story is going to be structured. We know we want (in this case) two or three events that ratchet up the tension, until we get to our climax. Then we want to show the protagonist making a decision between following her values or not, and getting what she deserves.
Our events, as we’ve outlined our story, need to generate sympathy for the old woman AND set up the climax.
So far, we have these events in the story:
- · The woman falls down.
- · The man offers the woman a ride. (she’s suspicious)
- · The man asks a question, once she’s trapped in the car and they are pulling off. (she’s trapped)
- · The parts of her fight one another
Since we only want two or three events in the story, then we
can probably lose the woman slipping in the snow from her foggy glasses.
Besides, glasses usually fog up worse when you go into someplace warm, so what
if we make her feel even more vulnerable by making her glasses fog when she’s
in the car with him, helpless.
How does the story start? Well, she’s a Holy Woman, so it starts off with her being Holy.
Characterization
Swain discusses the significant detail when describing
characters. A significant detail about her appearance: Maybe our Holy Woman keeps a piece of jewelry.
Maybe it’s a rosary necklace. That would make Christians uncomfortable. Maybe
it’s a rosary necklace with a five-pointed star. That would make Christians
incredibly uncomfortable. Maybe she
shows this symbol to try to get out of telling the man the answer he seeks.
A significant detail about her personality: she is viewing what many people would consider the Holy Spirit as some kind of invading spirit. She does not like someone else speaking with her voice. Even if that someone might be God. And it might be God: she really doesn’t know, but simply isn’t comfortable with it.
She is trapped, literally in the car, by the weather and the driving, and figuratively because both extremes she feels are unacceptable. She can neither give in to lust nor give in to Holiness. She is not either one, but a mixture of both. Yet she is trapped to do one or the other.
So, let us take our sentences, our events, and put them in
the order they go, knowing all we know
about how our story is going to go:
The light smears, throws shadows.
Despite the chill, praise and faith warm my blood. A beautiful man slides his
arm into mine.
“I know such a spiritual woman as
yourself don’t mind the cold, but I’d be honored to drive you home.” His voice,
syrup sweet, warms me. As do his chocolate-colored eyes.
“No, son, don’t waste your time on an
old hag like me.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” And leads me
toward the car.
His younger siblings rib each other.
He opens the passenger’s door.
I bundle myself in, dusting snow off.
I avoid his eyes. (shut the door, get in the other side, still bothered by
kindness). I smile. My stomach lurches. I glance away. I cannot look, or else I
will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure. He wants something. It’s the
only reason such a beautiful man would ask her into his car. Last Sunday had
been equally cold; but he had not offered then.
Adonis yells at the kids, to get them
to settle down. Now he’s established authority.
“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys
will be boys,” She’s enjoying their antics, still feels uneasy, like there are
strings attached.
He pulls the car out into the street.
The automatic locks click down. “Actually, I want to be able to talk with you.
You see, I have this question.”
Aha!
Sympathy: “No, child, let this old
woman rest.” She clutches her necklace beads.
“You’re not that old,”
“And yet, you lap at my font of
wisdom” (sarcasm). She toys with the necklace, letting the pentacle capture the
light.
“It’s just a quick question. I’ve
heard you answer questions in church for others. I’ve seen the Spirit come over
you. You’re Holy.”
“I am not a Saint, child. I am a
woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine spirit.” Just a woman,
she thought. Her eyes drifted over his body. Maybe she could prove it?
“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”
“You don’t know what you saw. I have
no choice about when the Spirit moves in me. The Crone, I call it. A witch”
“You are not a witch. Just hear me
out.”
My stomach lightens. How can I advise
this man? I commune with my god until my gaze locks on this Adonis.
“My brothers,” he cocks his head,
“they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously,
taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious
and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure
what I should do about it.” He leans in,
listening.
Does he know the power that assumes me
in necessity? Right now, his cocoa eyes, fringed with delicate lashes, lure me
in. I wet my lips. Parts of me, long since dried by menopause, tingle in the
same way they tingled with the first boy I ever loved. My cheeks redden.
But when The Spirit—The Crone—overtakes
me, I lose all of that. The zest will drain away. I feel Her now, sucking pink
life from my lips. Drying me out. Calling me Magdalene, wanton, whorish. The
Whore of Babylon and the Crone Who Serves the Lord. One or the other. Never balance.
Never both.
Does he know the power that assumes me
in necessity? Is he aware of the strength of the Spirit, that it will take over
my mouth, my lips, my womb? Is he aware that, in the Spirit, I could kill his
brothers for their accidental blasphemies, or stone him for an adulterer?
Does he know the power that assumes me
in necessity? How close is he to God? How tight the bond between his Spirit and
the Spirit of Truth? If he knew the Spirit, wouldn’t he already know the
answer?
But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to
me. Chocolate eyes melt my tongue. Magdalene,
the Spirit whispers to me. She will not be denied, the Crone.
I shut out his beauty, let hers in. “You
know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep
your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and
kind, and they will respond.”
The presence releases me. Such a small
defeat. A minuscule chip at my individuality. I tempt myself to think that it
doesn’t matter that I have eroded myself once more.
I watch him mull my witchy words. His
eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.
Diminished, I look through the
windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I hardly
recognize my own voice.
He hesitates.
“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to
be here, now.”
He nods and pulls over. Before he can
open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.
“If you don’t mind me asking, is there
anything you struggle with, that I might help?”
Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me.
Awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil. Every day. You.
Me. Inside us all.”
I shut the door on his worship, on his
blind faith.
So there it is, our story. The final step is to go back to
the beginning, to the specific nouns and active verbs. Doing so yields these
changes:
The light smears, throws shadows. Despite the chill, praise
and faith warm my blood. Adonis
slides his arm into mine.
“I know such a spiritual woman as
yourself doesn’t mind the cold, but I’d be honored to drive you home.” His
voice, syrup sweet, warms me. As do his chocolate-colored eyes.
“No, son, don’t waste your time on an
old hag like me.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” He steers me
toward the Buick.
His brothers rib each other. He opens the passenger’s
door.
I bundle myself in, dusting snow onto the floor mats.
I smile at the heating
vents. My stomach lurches with the shocks as he sits. The heating vents help me keep my
composure. He wants something. It’s the only reason such a beautiful man would
ask me into his car. Last Sunday had been equally cold; but he had not offered
then.
The brothers bump the front bench
seats.
“Settle down back there!”
“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys
will be boys,” I say to my
wringing hands.
The
Buick oozes into the street. Automatic locks click. “Actually, I want to be able to talk
with you. You see, I have this question.”
Aha! He does want something from me.
Would that I could trade what he wants for what I want: an hour undisturbed,
punctuated by giggles and whispers. “No, child, let this old woman rest.” I
clutch my tired bosoms.
“You’re not that old,”
“And yet, you lap at my font of
wisdom” I dangle my rosary
before him, draining the innuendo out onto the floor mats with the melting
snow. It has a pentacle on it, but must not see it. If he did, he’d surely say something.
Then we could talk about anything other than his spiritual question.
“It’s just a quick question. I’ve
heard you answer questions in church for others. I’ve seen the Spirit come over
you. You’re Holy.”
Holy. Full of holes. “I am not a
Saint, child. I am a woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine
spirit.” Just a woman. Maybe
I should prove it.
“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”
“You don’t know what you saw. I have
no choice about when the Spirit moves in me. The Crone, I call it. A witch”
“You are not a witch. Just hear me
out.” He does not wait for
my reply.
“My brothers,” he cocks his head, “they have
some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously, taking risks and
playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious and
disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure what
I should do about it.” He leans in,
listening.
Does he know the power that assumes me
in necessity? Right now, his cocoa eyes, fringed with delicate lashes, lure me
in. I wet my lips. Parts of me, long since dried by menopause, tingle in the
same way they tingled with the first boy I ever loved. My cheeks redden.
But when The Spirit—The Crone—overtakes
me, I lose all of that. The zest will drain away. I feel Her now, sucking pink
life from my lips. Drying me out. Calling me Magdalene, wanton, whorish. The
Whore of Babylon and the Crone Who Serves the Lord. One or the other. Never balance.
Never both.
Does he know the power that assumes me
in necessity? Is he aware of the strength of the Spirit, that it will take over
my mouth, my lips, my womb? Is he aware that, in the Spirit, I could kill his
brothers for their accidental blasphemies, or stone him for an adulterer?
Does he know the power that assumes me
in necessity? How close is he to God? How tight the bond between his Spirit and
the Spirit of Truth? If he knew the Spirit, wouldn’t he already know the
answer?
But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to
me. Chocolate eyes melt my tongue. Magdalene,
the Spirit whispers to me. She will not be denied, the Crone.
I shut out his beauty, let Hers in. “You
know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep
your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and
kind, and they will respond.”
The presence releases me. Such a small defeat. A minuscule
chip at my individuality. I tempt myself to think that it doesn’t matter that I
have eroded myself once more.
I watch him mull my witchy words. His
eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.
Diminished, I look through the
windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I hardly
recognize my own voice.
He hesitates.
“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to
be here, now.”
He nods and pulls over. Before he can
open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.
“If you don’t mind me asking, is there
anything you struggle with, that I might help you?”
Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me.
But awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil. Every day.
You. Me. Inside us all.” I shut the door on his blind faith.
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