HOA BOTTC 2.3

I’ve got a shorter scene for you, but one that drops a bit of important information. This is the final scene in Chapter Two, and Chapter Three begins with a major transformation. Enjoy.

This weeks art is another conceptual drawing by Dana Song. Here, she sketches out some ideas on what Erica might look like.

* * *

Oliver clicked at his computer long after the sun had set. He checked the clock on his screen—two in the morning. He had to get up in four hours to get to school, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop working on the game. Too close to quit now. Another minute of debugging final code and he’d be ready to compile and compress the Beta, nearly a week earlier than he’d expected.

The thought of impressing Erica pushed him that much harder. Erica didn’t hate him, amazingly. She talked with him, sat with him, and met him in the computer lab where she actually seemed excited by what he’d put together. She even complimented it directly, without the guise of sarcasm. Perhaps she liked the game, maybe even him.

He tapped furiously on the keyboard. The soft icy glow of the screen dimly illuminated his room. He scrolled through thousands of pages of code, making minute adjustments, checking and rechecking for consistency. He should remain humble, but pride swelled in his chest and filled his lungs. Most professional design teams took years to develop games half as complex and fluid. And he had written it all, every line of code, every idea from Lauren’s imagination found a home in what she lovingly called “Oliver’s file of gibberish.”

What Lauren saw as gibberish, he saw as Deep Red, a groundbreaking new scripting language that would revolutionize the gaming industry. When he ran the file, the world would understand.

His phone beeped, and he jumped. It took him a minute to find the black cell phone in the darkness of his room. He flipped it open. He recognized Erica’s number. U up?

He smiled and pumped his fist in the air. Whats up? He debugged the last few lines, and began the process of compiling and compressing. He put in the first DVD disk and pressed the execute button. The disk drive whirred and his screen dimmed a bit. Another beep, but not from his computer. Game looks legit. Laurens a witch.

He frowned. Laurens nice. Get 2 no her. Game will b playable 2moro.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Exhausted, he refused to sleep until he’d finished the game. It would likely take two DVDs, nearly full, to fit everything he needed, an hour long process at least.

Beep. Sounds chill.

He grinned. c u in bio. He sent his final message, and closed his eyes. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but the gentle hum of the disk drive lulled him to sleep.

WW—Birth by Death

Here’s another Workshop Wednesday. Thanks again to all who participated last week and helped make our first digital workshop a success! I thought the tone of the comments was appropriate, and the content beneficial. As always, this will remain anonymous (unless the author wishes to make himself or herself known in the comment section). This is the prologue from a novel in progress tentatively titled “Birth by Death.”

Prologue
The Wanderer

-Continent of Valdeterra, year L.D. 3045-

A pale crescent moon looked down over the land. Nestled between two mountains was Ingensilva, the capital of the kingdom of Aedes. There was a vast forest to the west beyond the mountains. Although it was full of life, the forest was almost silent. A grassy plain lay on the other side of the city’s entrance, and a winding dirt road meandered into the distance.

Many of the city’s lights remained burning as most of the residents had not yet retired for the night. The buildings were carved out of the region’s natural mountains, tinting the entire city in warm shades of reddish brown. Two guards dressed in platinum armor and armed with halberds stood at the main gate. They both wore tabards of red and gold, the nation’s colors.

A lone traveler made his way down the road. The hood of a long black and white coat cast a shadow over most of his face, save for the lower part of his nose and the delicate line of his mouth. Black leather boots secured his aching feet. A long single-edged sword was cradled in the scabbard at his hip. His clothes were dirty and tattered, as if he had been on the road for quite some time.

“Halt! Unidentified travelers are not allowed into Ingensilva at night!” The adventurer had reached the capital. He casually observed the guard that had spoken. This one was a woman. Her golden hair had been neatly cut to her shoulders, and she gazed at him with wide green eyes.

“My humblest apologies,” the young man replied, “But as you said, I am merely a traveler. I have come to seek shelter in the sanctuary, as my family was lost to the recent attacks by the Disgraced. Surely you know of the one that has been traveling the countryside, murdering everyone in sight.” He spoke with a bizarre foreign accent.

The female soldier wasn’t fazed. “Many people have the same story,” she told him matter-of-factly, “I can’t let you in unless I know who you are, and your exact reasons for coming here.”

The traveler tilted his head slightly to the side. “Ah, I am no one of consequence. Merely a wanderer. But if it is my name that you require, then you may call me Palus. My full name is Palus Demens. I have nowhere to go, and hope to stay the night here. I will then leave this place and continue my wanderings.”

“You’re one of the Disgraced, aren’t you? No human has an accent like that.” It was the second guard that spoke. He had a faint trace of a mustache, and keen brown eyes. “Our reports say it’s a male Disgraced who’s doing these killings. According to the rumors, he’s about your age. That’s a bit …suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

Palus shook his head. “I am not he. If I were a maddened killer, you both would have died already, no? I wield this sword for defense. What reason have I for carrying it otherwise?”

The male guard sighed. “Very well, you may pass.”

“My thanks.”

As he strolled through the gate, Palus’ hand moved to his blade. He drew it with a practiced hand. “Poor choice,” he said softly.

The woman turned just in time to see the Disgraced rushing at her. Her scream was cut short by a cold blade tearing into her face and skull. Bright crimson blood gushed from the wound, distorting her features and staining her tabard.

“You killed her,” the man said in fear and disbelief, “How could you? You killed her, you sick bastard!” He lunged at Palus with a savage cry, his halberd positioned for the kill.

Palus smirked and swiftly leapt sideways, avoiding his adversary’s attack. “How strange that so many people seem to think that.” He chuckled softly.

The man attacked again, and Palus dove into a roll. He stopped close enough to touch the man if he wanted to. In one gossamer movement, he thrust him under the chin. The guard went down, blood spurting out in a gory fountain.

A large group of rapid footsteps alerted the mysterious killer to a squad of soldiers running towards him, their weapons catching the moonlight in wicked, flashing arcs. There were around fifty of them, excluding the archers that were breaking away from the formation to the rooftops where they would attempt to shoot him from above. There were some crossbowmen among the approaching unit. One of their bolts shot past him, grazing his cheek. A small trickle of blood made its way down and dripped onto Palus’ shoulder. He grinned as he faced the approaching soldiers, revealing his long canine teeth, the source of his accent.

I will not leave one alive, he thought as he tightened his grip on his sword.

The cries of the Aedesian soldiers echoed through the night. He was vastly outnumbered, but Palus somehow managed to dispatch each one that came his way. He was careful to dodge the splashes of blood and internal fluids from his enemies as they fell at his feet. He sustained a few minor wounds, but his injuries were minor annoyances compared to the severed body parts and exposed organs of his enemies.

When it was obvious that the intruder would be victorious, several soldiers attempted to run for safety. The expression of pure glee never left the young man’s face as he chased them down with alarming speed. A portly fellow with a mace was especially slower than his compatriots, and Palus cleanly separated his head from the rest of his body. An especially beautiful female guard wielding a pike came at the killer from behind. He let out a soft, childish little laugh and cut her throat with a flick of his wrist. A mixture of astonishment and confusion illuminated the woman’s face as the light left her eyes. “Silly girl,” Palus scoffed as if he were a schoolmaster scolding a slow pupil.

The night fell silent and Palus wiped his blade clean on his newest victim’s tabard. It seemed that he had eradicated the city of its defense force in a matter of hours. He was well aware of many civilians watching in terrified silence from the windows of Ingensilva. However, he did not pay them any heed as he sheathed his sword and caught his breath. He needed somewhere to rest for the night, for he was exhausted and battered, and so he started to look around for a place that would accept a weary adventurer such as himself.

He found what he required when he came across a small chapel a short walk from the gates. It was common knowledge that such places in service to the Infinite provided lodgings for those who could not afford or were otherwise turned away from typical inns Palus slipped inside, closing the door behind him. A small boy, not more than ten years old, sprang from the shadows, a blunt dagger in hand. The murderer deflected the boy’s assault with the flat side of his blade, and laid the sword gently across the child’s neck.

“You should not attempt to bring down such a dangerous enemy,” Palus whispered, “Especially with a weapon like that. If I were anyone else I might have killed you. And that would make your family sad, would it not? Go to them, and give thanks that you are alive.”

The child said nothing, but exited the chapel, ran down a narrow street, and disappeared into a tiny house. Palus watched to make sure the child would not return before he once again shut the door and removed his black and white coat to use as a makeshift blanket.

He considered the possibility of waking the preacher of the chapel, but decided against the unnecessary trouble and settled for a dusty little space behind the altar. Palus curled up under his coat and drifted into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

Creativity’s Archenemy

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.  The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.  ~Sylvia Plath

When talking with writers, I’ve come to notice several commonalities—one of which is that we’re our own greatest enemies. Our self-doubt rules over our creative process with an iron scepter (forgive the cliché). I’m starting to think we need to have a creative revolution if we ever want to succeed. Our creativity needs to rally against the oppressive reign of self-doubt. But how?

Of the several strategies for overcoming self-doubt, I’ve found one the most empowering: give yourself the right to write garbage. If you enter into a novel thinking you’re going to craft the perfect book right off, you’re sorely mistaken. Most novels and stories undergo multiple drafts before they end up on the shelves of your Barnes and Nobles. And the first drafts are seldom good.

If you listen to the voice in the back of your head that tells you that what you’ve written is worthless, you’ll never finish a project. You need the imagination to improvise. Rather than giving up, harness the self-doubt and turn it into motivation. Yes, your first draft may be terrible. All of ours are. But it doesn’t mean you’re a failure as a writer. It simply means you’re a writer.

Take your doubt, wrestle it into submission, and assert your right to write, your right to revise something that you feel has little worth and turn it into a masterpiece. Imagine sculptors throwing away entire slabs of marble after a few taps with hammer and chisel. We’d call them crazy. But how many of us do the same thing with our first few pages?

Give your art the time it needs to be shaped and crafted into art.

Happy Memorial Day.

HOA BOTTC 2.2

The second scene of chapter two finds our characters in the computer lab. It marks the first time all four characters occupy the same space at the same time. We get to see a bit more of the tension between Erica and Lauren, and a bit more about Lauren’s infatuation with Aiden. Also, we get to see Oliver’s mother for the first time. Todays art, by Dana Song, features her rendition of this scene. Enjoy.

* * *

The computer lab of North Chester High boasted some of the best technology in the state of Minnesota. Located in the basement level and big as two classrooms, the lab had stations for up to fifty students laid out in two horseshoe shapes, each lining the outer walls.

When Lauren and Oliver arrived at the lab, Oliver’s mom, Mrs. Shaw, opened the door for them. She wore jeans and an orange turtleneck. She had a walkie-talkie clipped to the waist of her jeans and pair of sunglasses on top of her head to keep her black hair out of her face.

“Thanks for staying in here with us, mom,” Oliver said.

“No problem, baby. Anything for you and Lauren.”

Oliver slung his backpack under a computer station and flipped the computer on. “Can you never call me ‘baby’ at school again?”

She laughed and pinched his cheek. “Awww. Am I embarrassing you?”

Lauren’s lips pulled into a sad smile. It’d be nice to have a mother embarrass her with love instead of insult.

“Seriously, mom. I love you and all, but you don’t have to broadcast it.”

Mrs. Shaw gestured to the empty room with both arms stretched wide. “Broadcast it to whom, exactly? Are we on some reality show?”

“You know what I mean,” he said. He pushed a flash drive into the CPU and began copying files. “We should only be here for an hour or so. I’m going to show someone Alrujah and Lauren’s going to help someone with his English. So be cool, okay mom?”

Mrs. Shaw sat at the teacher work station and logged into the computer in front of her. “I’m always cool. How about I do the chat with you on the internets? Maybe I can write something on your MySpace?”

He sighed. “MySpace died about a million teraflops ago. Just don’t pinch my cheek or call me baby.”

“Got it,” she said. “Can I talk to Lauren at least?”

“Of course you can, Mrs. Shaw,” Lauren said. She opened a word processor and a highly organized word-processing document detailing every facet of Alrujah. She leaned closer to Oliver and whispered, “At least she didn’t suggest you go see a counselor.”

“So how are you, sweetie?”

It was nice to be called “Sweetie” for once. Bailey Renee didn’t understand how lucky she was to have the affection of their mother, to be called sweetie by someone who meant it. “I’m okay. How are you?”

Her walkie-talkie squawked. She shot up fast and headed out of the room. “Hang on a second, guys. Actually, this may take a bit. I’ll be back when I can. Be good.” She disappeared from the lab, probably to help break up an after-school fight. As a part-time proctor for the school, part of her duties included responding to emergency calls from the administration every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Shortly after, Aiden came in. His iceberg blue eyes froze her, and she felt like a flower blooming in reverse. “There you are,” he said. He sat at the computer next to her. He smiled. “I like your sweater. That’s a cool shade of purple.”

Oh. My. Gosh. “Thanks,” she said. “I like your,” she paused. She wanted to say “everything,” but didn’t want to come on too strong. “I like your arms.”

“My arms?” he asked, half laughing. “Right. Thanks. Anyway, here’s my essay.” He handed her a jump drive.

Lauren took it, making sure her finger lightly brushed his—a gentle gesture, easily explained away as an accident. But, when their skin touched—the tip of her forefinger and this thumb—she thought her skin might erupt in electricity.

“What’s this here?” he asked, pointing to her file of information about Alrujah.

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

Oliver turned in his seat slightly. “Actually, it’s information for a game we’re creating and …”

“Oliver!”

“What?”

“You guys are making a game?”

The flame of her embarrassment ignited beneath her cheeks.

“A role playing game, called Alrujah. She does all the writing for it, and I do the graphics and the development—physics engines and all that.”

“Bro, that’s intense.”

“Can you please stop talking,” she whispered to Oliver.

Erica walked in, with her black hair all pulled up into a rat’s nest on the back of her head. A silver stud rested like some steel orb on her left nostril. She’d gotten fancy with her eyeliner and made some elaborate design at the corner of each eyelid, an ornate flowery design all in black, traced down to her high cheekbones. Black lipstick covered her lips like a bruise, and her purple eye-shadow made her eyes look swollen and puffy, like she’d gone ten rounds with an expert MMA fighter. Uncountable studs and rings ran up the outside of her ears.

“Hi, Erica,” Oliver said. “Come sit down.”

Erica stared at Lauren. “Honestly, I’d rather not. Not if she’s going to be here.”

“Something wrong?” Aiden asked.

“A whole lot of things,” Erica said.

Lauren rolled her eyes. She didn’t want Erica there, but Oliver liked her. Otherwise, he never would have asked her to put her into the game. “I can leave,” she said. She stood up and Aiden put his hand on her wrist.

“Hold on, you shouldn’t have to leave. You’re supposed to help me with my essay.”

Erica sent the same knife-tipped stare toward him. “The jock needs help on an essay. There’s a switch.”

“The game won’t take long. It’s not even fully finished. Still have another night’s worth of work to go, but it’s really cool, I promise,” Oliver said.

Erica folded her arms across her chest and dropped her bag in the chair next to Oliver. She stood over his shoulder. “Be fast. I have other things to waste my time on.”

Oliver smiled. He opened a file browser and began to show her the artwork he’d digitized, even the demo he’d made a few months back.

Lauren couldn’t figure out why Oliver smiled at her, why he gawked at her like she was a celebrity. Erica had been rude to him since he knew her, but still he took every insult like a compliment. What would she do if they ever started dating?

She wondered again how someone like Aiden ended up sitting next to someone like her. But it happened. And he hadn’t once said anything about her weight. For a short second, hope stretched its wings. What if Aiden wasn’t the typical date-the-perfect-cheerleader jock? But danger always hovered over hope. She put it out of her mind and focused, instead, on his paper. “Okay. What you want to do is start off here with a stronger thesis statement.”

“Lauren, you’re going to have to slow way down.”

Workshop Wednesday—The Near Fall

As promised two weeks ago, here is my first “Workshop Wednesday” submission. By way of introduction, this is the first few pages of the first chapter of a novel. For some of my student (and Christian) readers, I’d rate this about a PG-13 (a little language and adult situations). Nothing bad. I’ll include a little feedback in the comment section, and our submitter would love to hear what you think as well.

GUIDELINES: Some quick guidelines for responses.

1. Be polite. No one learns anything from vague, inflammatory comments like, “this sucks!”
2. Be constructive. Use specifics in your responses.
3. Say something positive. Lead with the good.
4. Pinpoint an area for our submitter to target in revision. We’re all busy, so rather than listing three vague things that need to be fixed (like—needs more depth, characters are stock, and language is too loose), list one specific area (preferably not addressed by other commenters). Something like “I like the characters, but I don’t get a strong sense of Bobby. I’d like to see a bit more of his history to better ground us in who he is.”
5. Interact with other commenters where possible. Something like, “I like what Sam Smith had to say about the plot—it’s intriguing, but it needs a little more complexity, more motivation.”

CHAPTER 1

I have thirty seconds. My thighs are on fire, but I crouch low to the mat and circle him, moving in and out quickly. I shoot in and grab his leg, then explode up through his body. Again. And again.

Sweat streams into my eyes, but I couldn’t see him clearly even if he was really there. I watch him, my imaginary opponent, as Three Doors Down plays Kryptonite in the corner of the gym. If I go crazy now will you still call me Superman? I check the clock and go again. I’m on my two hundredth shot when I feel a jolt of electricity right behind my elbow. I lose my balance, and stumble in the middle of the take down. I look at my time; 199 take downs in twenty minutes. I failed.

She should have warned me. Made a noise. Stomped her fucking Eskimo boots. Something. She’s lucky I didn’t jab her in the eyeball.

"What?"

Erin Breedlove taps her ear, and I take my ear buds out. I don’t know what to say. I should have said something earlier, back last spring when it happened. Her sister OD’ed and woke up dead. Or didn’t wake up at all, rather. Heroin. I don’t bring it up.

"What?"

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to let you know I’m here. Didn’t want to freak you out if you saw me in the office." She jerks her head toward the little glassed-in room in the corner of the gym.

"No. That’s okay. I’m just going over moves."

"Yep. Okay, then. I’m getting the picture forms. Here. Here’s yours." She thrusts a sheet of paper at me. "You know I’m the manager? Erin Breedlove?"

"Yes. No. Okay." I should not speak at all.

"Were you just in the stadium? Running the bleachers?" Her boobs are right under her shirt. Right there.

"Yes." My voice cracks. The S goes up high, then disappears like some under-aged middle schooler’s. I focus on the fine print on the picture form, like it’s something new and interesting.

She laughs. Is she laughing because my voice cracked?

"Well, you get the most-ready award. If that’s even an award."

"What?"

"Most prepared for the season. Do you see anyone else running the bleachers? Or doing anything else the coach doesn’t make them?"

"Oh. No." I make a sound like a laugh.

"Okay. George, right? I’ll see you around."

I put the music back in my ear, and look away from her round butt in those tight jeans.

I turn back to the mat but my opponent is nowhere to be found. All I can see is her ass in the office. Bending over the file cabinet. Leaning over the desk. God.

I pull up my hood and run out of the wrestling room. There’s still half an hour until practice, enough time for five more laps up the stadium steps. I wonder if I smell. If she could smell me. I sniff under the neck of my sweatshirt. God.

Short, quick steps. Arms pumping. Breathing like a mother-fucking robot. I head up the concrete bleachers, leaping over the deep landings with only one step. They see me coming, but I don’t turn back. What the fuck? It’s not like it’s anything new.

They make noises, all of them. Low and under their breaths.

"What’s up," I say. I don’t expect an answer.

"Loser."

"Running off lunch?"

"You better not even smell lunch."

Hilarious.

Putting up with their shit is the hardest part of staying out. Not that I don’t deserve it. I cost us the state title.

But I need a scholarship to get me out of Waterboro. I wouldn’t mind it here if I lived across the street. Literally, across the two-lane road that separates my neighborhood from Riverwood. You’ve never seen such a juxtaposition. Ten yards of well-kept asphalt might as well be the Great Wall of China for all the differences between the two sides. My street is lined with shanties sagging in the center. Windows sealed with jumbo garbage bags in winter, and plastic outbuildings thrown up for the overflow of junk. But not all of it. That’s what front porches are for.

Ours isn’t as bad as most; we painted the house last summer, and finally fixed the gutter that dangled across the front all summer. But you still have to pass them to get to my house.

Across the highway, in Riverwood, mansions loom on every hill crest, and plump, round shrubs live happily around the circle driveways. Any household excess is sequestered away in a three-car garage; no broken washing machines rust on the front porches.

Houston’s house sits in the middle of three huge lots, and was built before the Civil War. There is a wooden bench carved right into the staircase, and gigantic doors that slide into the walls. There’s an old bunker in the side yard, dug into the side of the hill. It used to be our hideout until Dorrie took it over. The popular girls used her so they could have it for their parties, and she didn’t even care.

Dorrie made it out of Waterboro, and will be inducted into the Sports Hall of Fame in the spring. My All-American, Salutatorian sister swam her way all the way to Lake Forest College in Illinois. My mother doesn’t pronounce the L clearly; she wants people to think she’s saying Wake. Wake Forest is so much more prestigious than Lake Forest.

If I don’t get a scholarship to wrestle, I’ll be here. Waterboro Community College at the fucking mall. And working at the restaurant. Mr. Greek. God. Don’t start in on the name. I hear enough about it at home. It was my dad’s idea to change the name from Trata Estiatorio. He said it made it more happening. That’s the word he used. God.

and then we came to the end…

17 Dec

Today I’m honored to post another of Diane Sherlock’s blog postings. This one comes from her December 17th, 2011 post. It’s a great look at endings, something I talked about a few weeks back. I like her take on it. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Also, you really need to buy her book, Growing Chocolate. It’s five bucks for a full-length novel (201 pages). Great value, but more importantly, great quality. I’ve had the privilege of publishing several of her stories at The Citron Review. You’d do well to pick it up. And now, without further delay, Diane Sherlocks’s

and then we came to the end…

…but not of the blog! No, the end of your novel. How do you know when you’re finished? Last night, I had dinner with a group of writers and one reminded me I’d said I knew I’d finished my novel when I was so sick of the thing, I couldn’t go over it one more time. Well, there is that. But there’s also experience and feedback from your readers.

If you’ve gone over your manuscript 10-20 times, corrected the grammar, polished on multiple levels (sentences, paragraphs, chapters, sections, plus imagery and sensory details) checked for your personal writing tics (phrases, adverbs or adjectives that you lean on too heavily – do a word check for “just,” “really,” “suddenly” and so on; as my friend said, those are the “ums” of the literary world) and read the entire manuscript out loud, you might be finished or close to it. If your readers light up, saying you have something, that you’re close, and you trust them to tell you the truth and not what you want to hear, you can send excerpts to literary journals and see what kind of response you get. If you can afford it, hire a professional editor, preferably someone who’s taught literature and composition. Do your best to assemble a team who will inspire you to bring your A game, who will push you to do better and do it with kindness and generosity. Do the same for them if you’re exchanging writing/reading favors.

The final test comes from Rob Roberge – does your story reach a point where it could open up in a new way? That is where you want to stop. That will protect you from the “tie it all up with a bow” pat ending. You certainly don’t want a sentence – much less a paragraph – that sums up the book or the plot or the theme. Trust your reader.

By the way, the novel, And Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris is a fun read.

 

 

Diane Sherlock is the author of four novels, Dead Weight, Willful Ignorance, Growing Chocolate, and the upcoming Wrestling Alligators. Her writing has appeared in The Rumpus, scissors and spackle, The Citron Review, Mo+th (Bombshelter), and Bird in the Hand: Risk & Flight (Outrider).

She is one of the co-founders and fiction editors for AnnotationNation.com, a site for writers to annotate books in terms of craft and maintains a blog on the craft of fiction writing. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles in 2009. Born in La Jolla, CA, she currently lives in Los Angeles. You can find her on Facebook and Twitter @Diane_Sherlock

http://dianesherlock.wordpress.com/2010/12/28/759/

HOA BOTTC 2.1

We’re on to Chapter Two. This week’s entry is a bit longer, hope you don’t mind. This scene holds a special place in my heart because it’s the first time we see Aiden and Erica. I’ve included another rough sketch by Dana Song (who worked very hard to produce some great art for my book). I’m forever in her debt. On an unrelated note, next Wednesday will be my first “Workshop Wednesday.” Be sure to check it out. Until then, enjoy the first scene of Chapter Two of the Hand of Adonai, and the Book of Things to Come. 

CHAPTER TWO

“They will be of two worlds, not of one. They will hail from a land beyond Alrujah, and within Alrujah. It will be, has been, and is. None may see the world from which they come, but they themselves. They will speak of the world and reveal great mysteries.”
–The Book of Things to Come

Lauren hated the cafeteria. She much preferred eating in the computer lab, something Mr. Benson let her and Oliver do, but no one else. But Mr. Benson was out sick today, and the sub left for lunch. Besides, for whatever reason, Oliver insisted on sitting here today. Weird, because he hated this place as much as much as she did.

They put their lunch trays on the table in the far back. Lauren faced the back wall so she wouldn’t see all the mean kids staring at her. No one else sat at the table, and likely, no one else would. The one advantage to not being popular—for the most part people left you alone.

Her blonde hair fell in gentle curls around her face. She wondered what month they’d made the grilled cheese sandwich. It looked, amazingly enough, soggy and crunchy at the same time. And the cheese hardly melted. It didn’t even smell like cheese. She’d do better to not eat.

Oliver finished his sandwich in a few bites. He washed it down with milk and eyed Lauren’s plate.

“Help yourself.”

“You need to eat,” he said.

“I’ll eat when I get home. Trust me. That sandwich looks like a relic from the Civil War.”

“You sure it’s not because…you know.”

Her doctor had told her to make sure she kept eating as normal. Not eating wouldn’t make her lose weight, not until they found the right medication to make her thyroid settle down. Still, simple logic said fewer calories, fewer fat. So she skipped a few meals. She could handle being dizzy and moody, but not being 200 pounds. “Eat it.”

“If you insist.” He snatched up her meal and finished it as quickly as he had the first. His face split with a dopey grin.

“It couldn’t have been that good.”

“The sandwich? Terrible. But today’s going to be a good day. I can feel it.”

“Did you finish the code?”

“Worked most the night on it. I’m running on about three hours sleep, but I might finish it up tonight if I can stay awake.” He gulped the last of his milk. “I texted Erica last night. She wants to talk to me today.”

Her eyes widened. “Serious?”

“Totally.”

Lauren followed Oliver’s gaze behind her. Erica walked toward them. She wore a black skirt, black and green striped stockings that went up over her knees, a black halter top and black vest. Her hair was black, her make-up was black, her shoes were black. Lauren wondered if she were simply covering for being color blind.

Before Erica was close enough to hear, she asked Oliver, “Are you going to ask what’s up with the gloves?”

No matter how hot the weather, Erica always wore a pair of thin black gloves with the fingers cut off. They looked like peasant’s gloves, beggar gloves.

“It’s fashion. Get with it.”

“No one else wears them.”

“Not yet. She’ll set a trend. Watch.” He stood up and waved.

Erica rolled her eyes. She set her tray next to his and sat down. She scowled at Lauren. “Who’s this?”

“Lauren, my best friend.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Lauren said. She put her hand out, but Erica stared at her.

“So what, you’re like my stalker or something?” Erica asked Oliver.

“I’m not a stalker. I’m making a game. Well, we are. Me and Lauren, a role playing game. Thought you might be interested in it.”

Erica’s black lips pulled into a sneer. “A video game? What makes you think I’d be interested in that?”

Oliver’s face fell. He shrugged. “Thought you might think it was cool.”

Lauren’s stomach growled. She pushed the gnawing hunger from her mind. Oliver was embarrassed, humiliated. Without even trying, Erica managed to trivialize the one thing she and Oliver had worked so tirelessly on for the last few years. No one thought it was important but them, and Lauren was getting sick of it. She was getting sick of a lot of things. Her face heated. Irritation and anger welled up in her like they had last night. She leaned in real close to Erica. “We were thinking of putting you in the game.”

Erica grinned with half her mouth, amused, but not willing to laugh. “Really.”

Lauren said, “Of course. We need a wicked witch, and you fit the bill perfectly.”

Erica’s half-grin mutated into a sneer. “Sounds about right. Fat girl insecurity. I’ve seen it before.”

Lauren wanted to cry or to punch Erica. She didn’t do either. Instead, Oliver spoke up, much to Lauren’s surprise. His soft voice sounded confident, which confused Lauren completely—how could he keep his calm? “Hey, come on, Erica. Come on, Lauren. Let’s not get so mean. Get to know each other.”

“She’s not worth it,” Erica said. She stood up, leaving her tray of food. Lauren couldn’t blame her for that.

Her streak of meanness nauseated her, but she couldn’t help it. She raised her voice and called after Erica. “So what’s with the gloves? I mean, I get that it’s cold, but your gloves don’t even cover your fingers. It’s not fashion—none of the other Goth Girls wear gloves. Especially not in the spring and summer. Not like you do.”

Erica’s hair bristled. She turned around, ruthless eyes masking a deeper sadness. For a minute, Lauren almost felt sorry for her. “What’s with your fat face?” She turned back and walked away.

Oliver threw his empty milk carton at Lauren. “Nice going.”

“What?”

“She hates me now. She didn’t know me before, but now she hates me.”

Lauren shrugged. “No, she hates me. You, she likes.”

“I doubt it.”

“I seriously don’t even know why you like her. She’s a witch.”

Oliver put his hands behind his head and stretched his elbows out to either side of his head. “Did you ever stop to think that she’s mean as a defense mechanism? Maybe something happened to her to make her sensitive and insecure and that the only way to defend herself is through sarcasm and social isolation?”

Lauren’s blood froze. “You’re talking about me, aren’t you?”

“We all have problems, Lauren. It doesn’t mean we have to be so cruel to each other, to your mom or sister or even Erica.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this right now. She called me fat and insecure!”

“I’m not taking sides. I’m worried about you.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it.”

Oliver looked behind her again. Erica must be back for more. Lauren didn’t turn around.

“Hey,” Oliver said.

“Everything cool here, bro?” someone asked. The voice sounded familiar, a boy’s voice, deep and dreamy.

Crap. Aiden. And here she was all fat and blotchy faced. She closed her eyes and prayed he’d go away.

“Yeah. Grab a seat.”

Impossibly, he put his tray next to Lauren and sat down. “You’re Lauren, right?”

Her mouth instantly went dry, and she became hyper aware of her hands. What should she do with them? They sat there looking stupid and ugly.

“Yeah,” Oliver said.

“Bailey Renee’s sister, right?”

Disappointment stabbed her, and Lauren closed her eyes. It only made sense he’d be into Bailey Renee. Hot new kid, all-star football receiver could never be interested in loser fat girl.

“Yes,” Oliver said. “Why?”

Aiden pushed his curly sand-colored hair back. “This is kind of embarrassing. So Bailey Renee’s dating a friend of mine, and she told me you were really good at English.”

Lauren cleared her throat, surprised that Bailey Renee said something nice about her. She finally found her voice. “I guess so.”

“She’s rocking an A+ right now,” Oliver said. “She’s totally killing that class.”

“Thank God, because I’m totally not. Coach says I got to pull my grade up or I’m off the team. We’ve got playoffs coming up and I can’t miss them. I’m supposed to rewrite an essay and retake a few tests next week. Can you help me out?”

Her stupid fat hands sat on the table like two seals sunning themselves on tide rocks. “Uhm, I think so. I mean, if I’m not grounded for forever.” Hope, ridiculously light and cheery, settled on her heart and tickled her with feathery wings.

Oliver smiled. His confidence could really tick her off sometimes.

The final lunch bell rang. Aiden stood up and straightened his red and white letterman jacket. “So can we talk after school? If you need a ride home or whatever I can get you one. Franky is already planning on giving Bailey Renee a ride home, so he can take us too, if that’s cool.”

“What? No, yeah. I drove, but whatever. I’ll call my mom and find out if I can stay late or something. Meet me at the computer lab?”

“For sure.” He smiled.

Lauren dizzied.

Voice and Narrative

So Diane Sherlock, good friend and amazing writer, is running my blogs on Vonnegut’s eight rules of writing. I’m honored to run a few of her blog posts over the next few weeks. Be sure to check out her blog each week. Some great advise there.

Voice and Narrative

An essential element for good writing is a good ear: One must listen to the sound of one’s own prose. – Barbara Tuchman

I’ve found that I’m not alone in the experience of writing at least in part because I didn’t have a voice growing up. Many find their voice when they escape their families or when the overbearing parent loses theirs through illness or death. Writing well is the best revenge in so many ways. So then, what about your voice as a writer?

The word prose comes from the Latin prosa, meaning straightforward, the language ordinary people use to write or speak. One of the many challenges for the novelist is how to create a compelling connection with the reader; one of the points of connection is the author’s voice. According to structuralist Seymour Chatman, “Voice … refers to the speech or other overt means through which events and existents are communicated to the audience.”  He goes on to add that voice is “the medium through which perception, conception, and everything else are communicated.” Just as a person has his or her own unique voice whether speaking, groaning, shouting, or singing, so an author has a unique writing voice. The primary objective in exploring and mastering your own writing voice is to enliven prose in order to hold the attention of the reader.

A writer’s exclusive style is based on many things: life experience, books read, schooling, taste, and choices made in the creation of narrative.  Individual writing voice transcends the general concept of idiolects (singular word and grammar choices each individual writer makes), as well as choice of narrator, tense, point of view, time, and setting.  The sum is greater than its parts.  You have a voice. Use it. Go write something amazing.

 

 

Diane Sherlock is the author of four novels, Dead Weight, Willful Ignorance, Growing Chocolate, and the upcoming Wrestling Alligators. Her writing has appeared in The Rumpus, scissors and spackle, The Citron Review, Mo+th (Bombshelter), and Bird in the Hand: Risk & Flight (Outrider).

She is one of the co-founders and fiction editors for AnnotationNation.com, a site for writers to annotate books in terms of craft and maintains a blog on the craft of fiction writing. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles in 2009. Born in La Jolla, CA, she currently lives in Los Angeles. You can find her on Facebook and Twitter @Diane_Sherlock

http://dianesherlock.wordpress.com/2010/12/28/759/

HOA BOTTC 1.3

Here is the third and final scene in the opening chapter of the Hand of Adonai and the Book of things to Come. In it, Oliver has a short texting conversation with Erica. Next week, we’ll see Oliver and Lauren in school. The picture this week comes from Dana Song, who’s done several pictures for me from this book. this is a conceptual drawing of Oliver. Enjoy!

* * *

When Oliver got home, he stayed in his car. He turned the engine off and flipped open his cell phone. Snow collected on the edges of the windshield. He waited for a few minutes while the car slowly cooled. Taking out his phone, he composed a new text message to Erica. What r u doing Tues after school?

The car got colder. His breath came out in tendrils of mist. He put his jacket on. His phone beeped and he checked it. Who is this?

He should have known better. He wasn’t even supposed to have her number. A week ago, as he walked down the Science Hall of North Chester High School, he’d overheard her giving it to a friend, and he memorized it. He put it in his phone and, almost nightly, composed a text message to her, but never actually sent them.

He should have introduced himself. He should have said something witty, something funny and memorable. But Oliver wasn’t known for his wit.

He put the phone and his hands in his pocket and closed his eyes. He started the car and let the engine heat up again. His parents would hear him. His ’82 Honda wasn’t a classic or quiet. But he couldn’t go inside until he’d said his peace. He was tired of loving and never daring to say anything about it. If Lauren wasn’t brave enough to talk to Aiden, the new kid at North Chester and football All-Star, he should be the brave one. Oliver from Bio.

How did u get my ###?

He knew she would ask this, eventually. On Facebook. True, and slightly less stalkerish.

A beep. Whats up Tues?

The snow melted away when it hit the pewter gray hood, still warm from the drive from Lauren’s. Want 2 show u something in the comp lab. A game I made.

Beep. Talk 2 me 2moro

Oliver grinned and closed his phone.

Workshop Wednesday

Here’s what I love about my wife—she’s brilliant. Of course, there are several other reasons, but you don’t read my blog to find out about my personal life. You read it to find out about writing. Here’s how my wife fits into that:

Last night, on our way home from a Bible study, we got to talking about my blog, and the idea came up for a “Workshop Wednesday” feature. The idea’s fairly simple: You submit a few pages of your current work to me via e-mail (adgansky@msn.com) with the subject line “Workshop Wednesday.” I put the pages up anonymously, give a few pieces of constructive criticism, and encourage my followers to do so as well. What you get is unfiltered constructive feedback (closely monitored by me). In exchange, I ask you follow the Workshop Wednesday feature of my blog (as well as my Flash Fridays and my normal Craft Mondays), and respond to the other submissions. Pretty simple, really.

If you’re interested, let me know. I’ll get the ball rolling next week. Until then, good writing.

ADG