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Date Posted: 04:03:16 06/17/09 Wed
Author: Larnsturt
Subject: I Am Tossing Down The Gauntlet, Per Se

I put in a killer day at work today. Tomorrow, I'm sleeping till noon and then buying a pair of shoes. I have no other plans or goals. This is awesome.

I'm posting super on time. This, too, is awesome.

Lord, I'm sleepy.


1. Lay Thy Weary Head. This fortnight, we shall think about sleep. Slumber. Rest. Snoozing. Napping. And various forms thereof. Your characters are sleeping. Why and wherefore?

2. Half-A-Dozen Words. This time, there's only six. We're getting all crazy up in here.

Folded, whiff, blanked, checkered, orange, milk


Awesome work lately, guys. I know the board has been slow, but the work is continuing in excellence. In an industry that prides itself on word count, it really is quality over quantity for me. That's not to say we don't love lots of quality, either. Let's not forget the loquaciousness of the books which brought us all here in the first place, nor the impending arrival of the newest one this fall.

Let's set a goal, shall we? Let's make a deal to finish something to first completed draft status. Whether it's a novel, screenplay, or even just a collection of short stories, let's make a pact to finish a project by the time Echo gets here. That gives us a little over three months. It's a stiff deadline, but one I think we can all shoot for. Not quite a NaNo challenge, but a personal one to say the least.

Who's with me?

I leave you with WORDS OF STUFF I'VE ACCIDENTLY STUMBLED UPON WHILE USING GOOGLE IN THE PAST AND LIKED ENOUGH TO WRITE DOWN:

"Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, the baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, the poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, th' indifferent judge between the high and low."-Sir Philip Sidney

However, when all the analysis is written and pondered over, when all the background is considered and digested, it is to the stories that we must turn and we should never forget that they were told for entertainment: that the were meant to be enjoyed as well as learned from. Above all, we should not forget that a sense of mischievous fun is never far from the surface. -Peter Berresford Ellis

"Do you wonder where the self resides? Is it in your head or between your sides? And who will be the one who will decide its true location?" -Andrew Bird



A good e'en to ye all.

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Replies:

[> Re: I Am Tossing Down The Gauntlet, Per Se -- Debi, 06:44:06 06/17/09 Wed

>Let's set a goal, shall we? Let's make a deal to
>finish something to first completed draft status.
>Whether it's a novel, screenplay, or even just a
>collection of short stories, let's make a pact to
>finish a project by the time Echo gets here. That
>gives us a little over three months. It's a stiff
>deadline, but one I think we can all shoot for. Not
>quite a NaNo challenge, but a personal one to say the
>least.
>
>Who's with me?

I'm in. Valerie and Daniel will be my choice to finish. I have several un-written but imagined scenes I can add into the mix. Here's hoping I can manage to finish.

Maybe I can get some writing done between now and my long weekend in September, though that should lend itself to writing too. My in-laws are renting an A-frame in Franklin NC for two weeks and DH and I are going up for a long weekend in the middle! Now if the Smokies don't inspire some ideas in me, I might as well lay it all down and give up writing.

Sleepy-time scene coming up soon.

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[> Re: I Am Tossing Down The Gauntlet, Per Se -- Page, 17:01:16 06/17/09 Wed

I'm in, too. Maybe the thought that I MUST finish will be the major kick in the hiney I need. I haven't written one, single, solitary thing in months. So now my goal is to finish Katie & Jay's tale before Echo is released. Of course, I'm going to be painting my living room week after next, which is the perfect time to force myself to start writing again, isn't it? I'm nothing if not a glutton for supreme punishment.

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[> [> LOL Page, way to put the pressure on. -- Debi, 18:58:01 06/17/09 Wed

I've been writing, but the aimless sort of writing I'm best at. Never really making any progress, just rambling on and on... I'll be staying home a lot anyway since we're poor, paying to fix the fuel pump in my car and have someplace to go in September anyway, so I have no excuses to not write my butt off.

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[> [> I hear you, Debi. -- Larn, 15:47:39 06/23/09 Tue

Poor is the same reason I've gotten so much work done. If you can't afford distractions, seems less of them tend to appear.

Luck painting the living room, Page. I've wanted to repaint my tiny kitchen, but when I think of all the work, even for my small apartment, I shudder. Again, sometimes being too poor is a good excuse to get out of home improvements.


Whoo! We can do this!

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[> Okay...Larn threw down the gauntlet, so...>>> -- Esther, 16:50:05 06/20/09 Sat

Is it only me waiting for the gorgeous naked man to run down the line??? *G*

Seriously, this is a great idea! To focus on something and get it done? What could be better?

Well...hmmmm. I got an idea.

Let me explain first. This time of year is always, always, always, slow on this board, and while I know I've been absent of late and not doing my part, it's slower than slow. And I miss it. After a quick scroll, I know I'm not the only one MIA. This board is what keeps me sane, and it's the only place I go where I freely admit that I dabble in the written word. I'd like to see, and participate, in more activity here, and I think this is the perfect opportunity for us. So...

How about as well as typing 'I'm in' we pick a day of the week that works in our schedule, and then on each self designated day, post a quick update on our progress, our triumphs and frustrations, and post say the last 500 words we wrote for the week.

Now, I've been thinking about my first WIP for a bit now, and am past ready to get it together. And I mean that literally, cause I have scenes for it saved all over the place. If I remember correctly, I have about seven different, or edited, versions saved on disc, on zip and now on flash drives. And now that I'm being honest with myself, I have numerous individual scenes on about three different computers. And besides, the opening scene deals with the homework assigned this week, and I'm taking it to mean that this is fated. *G*

So I'm in, and I'm posting a scene.




Excerpt from working title ‘Pander’
by E. M. Sawatzky © 2001-2009 All rights reserved.
Posted for critiquing purposes only and does not constitute publication.


By naming the road indicative of dreams, will death stalk us? Will ignoring the censure of others cause harm? Can something so beautiful, so pure, kill?

Denial, the uncharted expanse of potential, is beyond comprehension. It is the ultimate tome of picturesque scenes, written in the language of possibilities and achievements. Imagine a world where we can run free through the welcoming meadows of opportunity, swim in the churning rivers of setbacks and scale the haughty mountains of success, without fear of failure or consequence. Where no one would dare question our choices, in the pretence of kindness, because the decisions we make are not acceptable, understood or qualified by the lofty standards of the well intentioned.

No, in the great Land of Denial, we wouldn’t have to face the criticism of strangers.

Who does she think she is anyway? Her, an outsider, possessing an education with no knowledge, and yet she is the one with the audacity to confront me with her idea of the truth? What does she know? She wasn’t even my doctor. She was just the one working the night the ambulance brought me to the emergency room. I don’t even remember her name.

I close my eyes to remove the image of her pity, but by doing so have to hear the concern in her voice as it repeats in my mind. I’m releasing you today. I can’t justify keeping you in here any longer. I suggest you go home and take a long look in the mirror, because your denial is going to kill you. You have to face reality. Your home isn’t safe. You need to get out. If not for yourself, do it for your children.

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know. I can prove it.

My eyes open and I glance in the mirrored closet doors in our bedroom. I see the truth.

And I know it’s not me with the purple bruises and blackened eyes concealed from the world with makeup and dark sunglasses. It’s not me with the swollen cheek and split lip. It’s not me who lies to my children and smiles through the pain. No honey, Daddy didn’t hurt me. It was an accident. Mommy was careless. Again.

I am the good mother, the obedient wife. The provider when things are tough and he can’t find work. I am the one who knows of his childhood of abuse and his struggle with alcohol and drugs. I’m the only one who understands him. The only one who supports him and all his decisions.

I am not the stranger in the mirror.

My shaky fingers reach out to touch her cheek, as if my touch will get through to her when all the lessons haven’t. If only she were a better wife, a better mother, he wouldn’t do this to her. She should try harder. Then the beatings would stop. She wouldn’t be hurting him anymore. They would be happy. A family. He only did this because he loved her.

It’s her fault. All of it. Everything.

Why didn’t she just go? Why had she waited? Of course, he was angry.

She deserves this.

Dull, lifeless eyes stare back at me from a face devoid of expression. She wants to die. It’s the only way for her suffering to end.

I turn away, unable to bear her pain. Her reflection stares back at me from the window. I can’t escape. She taunts me. She pleads with me when I’m powerless to help her.

A pivot back, my fingers seize the glass sculpture of a raptor in flight sitting on the night table. Intent on the insatiable urge to destroy her and everything she represents, I hurl the beautiful object at her.

She’s tough. She emerges unscathed.

The crystal, a gift I received from my father, destroyed. My hand on my side, I shuffle over the carpet and wince from the sharp jab of pain in my ribs as I bend at the knees and pick up the pieces. Her wings broken, she can no longer fly.

“What have I done?” I have no strength and sink down to the carpet in anguish, confronting the manifestation of despair in the image before me. A pathetic excuse for a woman who cowers of the floor. Ashamed, I glance down, at the fragmented pieces of shattered glass that represent my life.

Through the blurry haze of tears, I see the person that once was. I am the stranger in the mirror. The bruises around my throat are a threat to my sanity. I understand the reality I created when the hopelessness of my situation became too much to face. When my son was born and I was too worthless to get out and find the help he deserved. When I brought my daughter home and he sneered she’d grow up to be as useless as me. After denying the truth for so long…it hurts. Great Spirit, it hurts. Worse than anything, and everything, my husband did to me.

My fingers stroke back and forth, over and over, testing the edge. It’s sharp now, like a razor. Blood wells up where it slices into my thumb, trickling down and across my wrist in a trail of coincidence. Numb to physical sensation, it doesn’t even sting.

No. In the misery of living, we are all liars. Just like me. Just like the doctor.

Denial isn’t going to kill me.

I am.



*~*~*~*~*~*

His body could not endure the abuse much longer. He hadn’t slept in more days than he could remember, although with an odd detachment, knew he had been sitting cross-legged in the clearing for two moons, waiting. Weak from fasting, from purging his system to make him worthy, and still, he hadn’t sacrificed enough. He unsheathed his knife, chanting as the tip sliced through skin on his chest and forearms. When the prayer faded to the heavens, the knife slipped from his bloody fingers.

With calm unconcern, he placed his hands wrist up on his knees, flexing and curling his fingers, encouraging the blood to flow. Ruby-red liquid, his life force, welled up from the slits on his arms, following a twisted path of fate over his wrists and spattering on the ground. The severity and number of cuts a grave indication that this was the last resort of a desperate man. But he would do anything, even surrender his life, to feel her presence once more.

Time had ceased to matter. Weightless, he drifted unconcerned, confident an attempt to find her spirit would succeed.

How or why he didn’t understand. It was a queasy sensation inside himself, an intuition he had learned to follow. Experience had taught him not to ignore the hurtful twisting in his guts. Anguish was the instinctual drive that prompted him to rein in his horse, leave his companions with the hunting party and return to a place he never intended to revisit.

All for her. She called to him, and if necessary, today was the day he would join her.

A centered mind would allow him to distance himself from the hurt, the loneliness, from the suffocating darkness and apprehension holding him back. His resolve strengthened, he forced himself to take shallow breaths, to relax and remain calm. He could feel his heart as it laboured.

One beat. Two beats…Three…Fou…

After years of enduring without her, he could still see her beautiful face in his mind. Feel her lush curves under his hands, the warmth of her smooth skin. The vision of her so real he was at peace, lulled into contentment. He remembered her compassion, the empathy she gifted to others. He let the sound of her laughter guide him to her, to allow her presence to fill the empty void of loneliness. It was a treasure to be with her again, to be able to reach out and touch her, to hold her hand.

Her grip turned cold. Despair clashed with his dream. Hopelessness meant to torment him, misery called him a fool. The desperation in the whispered words he couldn’t comprehend haunted him.

Again the pressure pushed at his chest, his wrists. He couldn’t breathe. His body felt cumbersome, his arms and legs useless. His fingers wouldn’t curl into a fist. Troubled, he concentrated. And sensed another.

This was wrong. She had invaded his world. Her. A white woman choosing to make the final journey. Tired of the pain of life, she wanted to sleep the eternal slumber. He stopped his struggles. The onerous heaviness and discontent disappeared. The words became clear, even if he had to strain to hear them. He saw her through a blurry haze.

She beguiled him, a presence out of time. He raised his hand to cup her cheek, to make sure she was real, but he was weak and his arm was heavy, the simple gesture a monumental task too much for him. “Woman, why do you do this?” His voice, hoarse from his prayers, emerged as a gruff whisper.

“Why do you?”

He glanced at the foreign material bound tight over each wrist, the bloodstained cloth hiding cuts he did not remember inflicting upon himself. “If not for the giving of yourself to bind my wounds, I’d be dead. Why is my life worth more than yours?”

She didn’t answer.

He saw her then, felt her purpose, recognized her for who she was. He smiled, relieved, elated, and saddened all at once. Her life, the life he had wished for her, was to be filled with love. Not with the pain he glimpsed within the shadows of her eyes. “You are meant for important things. You have many joys ahead of you.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I must go.” With a stumbling movement, she twisted away and gained her feet.

Exhausted, she didn’t have the will to see the wonder. This place made her uneasy and heightened her fears and despair. The shifting in her eyes spoke of her need to flee. Anxiousness defined her tense muscles and her desire to escape from her suffering. She was as far from weak as he was from strong, her coming to him told him much, but she would leave him and that was not an option until she understood the consequences.

“Wait!” He tried to swallow. “Thirsty. My canteen…?”

Without answering, her gaze swept over his surroundings, until she spotted his saddlebags. “In there?”

Drowsy, he closed his eyes, listening.

She rifled through his possessions; her footsteps loud behind him as she hurried back.

“Wake up!” Her hand touched his shoulder. “Don’t you dare go to sleep.”

“Tired.”

“If you die on me, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” He opened his eyes. “Leave me to rot? Woman, you were going to anyway.”

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“No. You shouldn’t be.”

She passed him the canteen, and when he made no move to take it, set it on the ground where he could reach it. “I must go.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Glad? Why?”

“Could you hold my hand? Please. Just for a few minutes?”

Suspicion crept into her expression.

“I am afraid. I only ask for comfort before I am alone. The memories hurt me and I have no one. But I suppose you wouldn’t understand what it’s like to have no one care for you.” He swallowed, the words using up his remaining strength. “To die alone.”

She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I understand.”

Aware that blood still flowed from her wounds on each wrist, he shifted toward her. With an impotent rage, he realized she wouldn’t let him touch her, or help. She would withdraw and be lost to him forever. He feigned a greater weakness, a deception of truth. “I am ashamed. I am not worthy of you.” He turned his face away from her, his body following. “Go.”

His fingers stiff and clumsy, he worked at the knots out of the binding. Waiting. He knew her; he understood the kindness she possessed that wouldn’t allow her to leave him. And then, when most would begin to begin to wonder, when they would doubt the strength of their convictions, he felt her tentative touch on his shoulder. He smiled.

“I am here. You are not alone.” She settled close beside him and threaded her fingers with his.

Determined she survive, he tightened his grasp and struggled to wrap the strip of cloth around her wrist. She resisted his wishes, offering nothing more than a token resistance and yet, he was breathing hard, panting with effort, and still the fabric wasn’t secured. “Woman, stop fighting me.”

“Let me go. I’m tired.”

“Then let me hold you until we are both rested.”

As frail as she was, she defied him. Until his blood smeared across her hand.

He smiled in triumph. “I’m bleeding again. We will rest together.”

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[> [> Good idea, Esther, and good excerpt -- Debi, 18:19:02 06/20/09 Sat

>How about as well as typing 'I'm in' we pick a day of
>the week that works in our schedule, and then on each
>self designated day, post a quick update on our
>progress, our triumphs and frustrations, and post say
>the last 500 words we wrote for the week.

Most excellent idea!

You introduction is interesting, making the reader consider denial for its good and bad aspects. Though, in her case, the denial will kill her soon, if she didn't take matters into her own hands, literally. But isn't that what a lot of abused women think? "If I don't help him/stay with him/take care of him, who will?"

And in the man's case, he is mourning for someone lost, right? The woman he loves, if I recall correctly. It's a little unclear if he's disciplining himself to gain understanding or if he's bent on suicide too. Or maybe he wasn't in the beginning, but it seems his only way to see her again? Grief makes people do strange things sometimes.

A short crit, I'm sorry, and not much of one to boot, but my headache is coming back. Or maybe I need to eat...

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[> [> [> Thanks Debi! >>> -- Esther, 13:24:28 06/27/09 Sat

>>How about as well as typing 'I'm in' we pick a day of
>>the week that works in our schedule, and then on each
>>self designated day, post a quick update on our
>>progress, our triumphs and frustrations, and post say
>>the last 500 words we wrote for the week.
>
>Most excellent idea!
>
>You introduction is interesting, making the reader
>consider denial for its good and bad aspects. Though,
>in her case, the denial will kill her soon, if she
>didn't take matters into her own hands, literally. But
>isn't that what a lot of abused women think? "If I
>don't help him/stay with him/take care of him, who
>will?"

Interesting is always good! *G* Denial is one of those themes I'm trying to incorporate throughout this story. And since this is about a woman who eventually ends up confronting her fears, eventually she'll stop living in the Land of Denial. Or so I hope! *G* But for now this take is okay, but I was going for the denial to be one of he said he was sorry, he loves me and it won't happen again, kinda things which of course it does. It's not so much the looking after him if she leaves, it's the fear of what he'll do to her and the children if she does. Rational emotions don't have no place in her decisions at this point.
>
>And in the man's case, he is mourning for someone
>lost, right? The woman he loves, if I recall
>correctly. It's a little unclear if he's disciplining
>himself to gain understanding or if he's bent on
>suicide too. Or maybe he wasn't in the beginning, but
>it seems his only way to see her again? Grief makes
>people do strange things sometimes.

Good memory! Yup! He lost the woman he loves and is just waiting for his time to end so they can be together again. And he wasn't really trying to commit suicide, his actions were more those of a desperate man. And prolly if I had posted to the end that would have been more clear. Hmmmm. I might just do that since I could justify another posting of homework. *G*
>
>A short crit, I'm sorry, and not much of one to boot,
>but my headache is coming back. Or maybe I need to
>eat...

Well, I hope your headache is gone and didn't last too long! And I an thankful for any comments, and honestly didn't expect a crit of any sort, since this is a homework and not critted per se anyway. Now back to the ol' drawing board. *G*

Hugs

Esther

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[> [> Stupid internet ate my first response -- Larn, 15:42:57 06/23/09 Tue

...and it was a good one. It even had metaphors. Damn.

Anyway, I'm a little lost on where exactly the man is located. Are these two bits meant to follow each other or is there plot between them? I kind of like the mystery of where he is, how she got there, how they know each other, but I'm left with an unclear sense of what's going on. We don't need explicit details, we just need our rudder pointed the right way so we can row there on our own. (Or at least I think that's the metaphor I was looking for.)

Oh, and the raptor sculpture, I'm guessing it's a bird, but I thought dinosaur and didn't make the connection till you said something about wings.

You work very well in dream-like stories. I'm looking forward to more!

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[> [> [> I hate when that happens! >>> -- Esther, 13:49:46 06/27/09 Sat

>...and it was a good one. It even had metaphors.
>Damn.

LOL
>
>Anyway, I'm a little lost on where exactly the man is
>located. Are these two bits meant to follow each
>other or is there plot between them? I kind of like
>the mystery of where he is, how she got there, how
>they know each other, but I'm left with an unclear
>sense of what's going on. We don't need explicit
>details, we just need our rudder pointed the right way
>so we can row there on our own. (Or at least I think
>that's the metaphor I was looking for.)

Ah yes, the concept that I need to leave bigger plot crumbs along the way so I don't let the reader get lost. This seems to escape me. So I guess your metaphor is bang on. *G* I have a terrible problem with this, and I'm hoping to find a way to fix it and still be subtle. At any rate, yup, his scene follows directly after hers and his location, the time he's in, how she got there and how they know each other are a mystery at this point. And so I think you're pointed in the right direction, I just need to hand you bigger oars to row with so you don't cascade off the falls.
>
>Oh, and the raptor sculpture, I'm guessing it's a
>bird, but I thought dinosaur and didn't make the
>connection till you said something about wings.

Well, that'll teach me for not calling that dang bird of prey what it is, but you know something funny? I edited it out cause I was thinking it would give something away. So you see how deeply inbedded this problem of mine is? *G*
>
>You work very well in dream-like stories. I'm looking
>forward to more!

Thanks Larn! I'm just tickled that it came across as dream-like! I can work within the boundaries that dream-like inspires! Awesome!

Thanks for taking the time to read and comment! Much appreciated!

Now when can I read some more of yours?

Hugs

Esther

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[> [> Re: Okay...Larn threw down the gauntlet, so...>>> -- Page, 18:01:36 06/26/09 Fri

Wow, Esther, that first part was so powerful! Thankfully, I've never been abused, but you wrote this so clearly that I understood the way this woman was feeling. Her state of mind came through loud and clear, and I could feel her shame, her guilt and her anger. The comparison between the broken raptor and the woman was brilliant. "Her wings broken, she can no longer fly." I felt that was describing both the raptor and the narrator. And when she made her decision at the end of this section -- wow. When it came time to kill someone, she didn't choose to kill him. He'd made her feel so worthless and had ingrained those feelings of inadequacy so much, she chose to kill herself.

The man didn't come across as strongly to me, but I think it's because of my confusion over the woman. The woman who came to him was the same as the battered woman, right? And I remember from reading another excerpt you posted a while back, the two of them being together. I remember her talking about her children. But the woman he was trying to summon -- it was a different woman? At least, that's what I got, but I'm not sure. The bandages on his wrists threw me, too. I couldn't figure out if it was part of his vision, or if he was remembering an earlier incident, an encounter with this white woman from before.

But all in all, a very gripping piece! Your writing has the power to pull me into a story, even if I don't quite understand what's going on. It just makes me want to read more, so that I can grasp it.

Hugs,
Page

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[> [> [> Heya Page! >>> -- Esther, 15:55:18 06/27/09 Sat

>Wow, Esther, that first part was so powerful!
>Thankfully, I've never been abused, but you wrote this
>so clearly that I understood the way this woman was
>feeling. Her state of mind came through loud and
>clear, and I could feel her shame, her guilt and her
>anger. The comparison between the broken raptor and
>the woman was brilliant. "Her wings broken, she can
>no longer fly." I felt that was describing both the
>raptor and the narrator. And when she made her
>decision at the end of this section -- wow. When it
>came time to kill someone, she didn't choose to kill
>him. He'd made her feel so worthless and had
>ingrained those feelings of inadequacy so much, she
>chose to kill herself.

Thanks Page. I've been working on this opening for years. And I mean years. I remember discussing it with another LOL lit writer at the Surrey conference in 2002.

The shame and worthlessness she feels, that make her choose what she does, is such an important concept, that if the reader doesn’t grasp it here, right from the start her decisions, and her choices are questionable and then I’ll have frustrated readers. It needs to be believable otherwise she’ll come across as a selfish woman who is only thinking of herself. She honestly believes her children are better off without her, and certainly safer. So...whew! Something worked! *G*
>
>The man didn't come across as strongly to me, but I
>think it's because of my confusion over the woman.
>The woman who came to him was the same as the battered
>woman, right? And I remember from reading another
>excerpt you posted a while back, the two of them being
>together. I remember her talking about her children.
>But the woman he was trying to summon -- it was
>a different woman? At least, that's what I got, but
>I'm not sure. The bandages on his wrists threw me,
>too. I couldn't figure out if it was part of his
>vision, or if he was remembering an earlier incident,
>an encounter with this white woman from before.

Okay, let’s break this up.

Yup, the woman who came to him was the battered woman. I attempted to tie them together with the slit wrists, but again, I wasn’t subtle enough. *G*

Yup the two end up together and the scene I posted awhile back dealt with her decision to leave her children.

Now to the confusing part. The woman he was trying to summon, was it a different woman? Yes and no. Helpful huh?

The bandages on his wrists? Well…

Her intention,

Blood wells up where it slices into my thumb, trickling down and across my wrist in a trail of coincidence.

His counter,

Ruby-red liquid, his life force, welled up from the slits on his arms, following a twisted path of fate over his wrists and spattering on the ground.

When she slit hers, he slit his. Again, I was too subtle. I can tell you that what is happening is no vision, she’s there with him, and that, I hope, is part of the hook that will keep the pages turning. And as I mentioned to Debi, if I had posted the whole scene, it might have been more clear.
>
>But all in all, a very gripping piece! Your writing
>has the power to pull me into a story, even if I don't
>quite understand what's going on. It just makes me
>want to read more, so that I can grasp it.

Thanks Page! As I’ve said before, I have a tendency to ramble around the issue, and hint at stuff that perhaps I should just say outright. Case in point, why can’t I call a hawk a hawk? *G*
>
>Hugs,
>Page

Hugs back!

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[> Valerie and Daniel -- Debi, 18:32:47 06/20/09 Sat

In response to Larn's challenge, this is the story I plan to concentrate on. This scene was written some time back, but I enjoy it. Their realationship is based on friendship and what better way to express that frienship than helping someone out when they need it?

Old Dogs, working title, copyright 2009, Debi Matlack, all rights reserved. Posted for critique purposes only, does not constitute publication.

*scene setup* Set after the gardening scene but before the one where he picks her up after her car dies and they have a meal together and she ends up with the flu.

Daniel has accidentally hit a cat with his car and brought it to the clinic on a Saturday evening when Valerie is there to take care of the patients. His hands were pretty torn up by the cat; they have a trip to the ER and meet her brother Vic, a doctor there. Valerie takes him home and intends to stay the night to help him out.
*************
The car rolled to a stop in front of Daniel’s house. The big log house sat on a slope above the lake’s edge and was further elevated on piers. Wide steps led up to the front porch and door; a smaller side porch led to the kitchen door and a deck on the back of the house. Valerie disconnected Daniel’s seat belt then got out and went around to the passenger door. He didn’t stir when the door opened. She was worn out and just for a moment considered leaving him there. It was tempting to leave him undisturbed. Her conscience disapproved of her impulsive idea. Bad idea. The mosquitoes would drain him dry by sunup. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she shook him awake. He opened his eyes and blinked, groggy and disoriented. Valerie bent down and got a hand under his elbow.

“Come on.” They managed to get out of the car and up the steps without major incident but at the front door they were faced with a new dilemma.

“Daniel, where are your keys?”

He stood, legs planted wide, with a light sway. She backed him up to lean against the wall, afraid he’d lose his balance. “Pocket,” he muttered.

Valerie sighed. “Ordinarily, I might enjoy the prospect of a rousing game of Hide the House Keys, but right now I’m tired.” Valerie braced him against the wall with one hand in the middle of his chest. “Okay, one cheap grope, coming right up.”

Daniel chuckled and patted his right front pocket with his bandaged hand. He tried to get the key out himself, but flexing his fingers made him wince in pain. “This one.”

“Thanks for narrowing it down. I’ll get them.” Valerie slid a hand into his jeans pocket, trying in vain not to notice the lean muscle lying beneath the fabric. As she hooked her finger into the keychain, Daniel twisted and smiled.

“Tickles.”

“Be still, for crying out loud. Thank goodness there’s no nearby neighbors. They’d probably tell us to get a room.”

She tried again and managed to extract the keys without further incident. Sorting through the bunch, she tried three before hitting the right one. She pushed the door open, groped for a light switch and went back for him.

The house was gorgeous, exposed beams and floor to ceiling glass dominating the view toward the lake. The bottom floor was open, with kitchen, living room and entryway all flowing around a large stone fireplace. Unglazed terra cotta tiles lay underfoot, with a large oriental rug anchoring the living area. Some doors lay to the right side, presumably bedrooms or baths. A set of spiral stairs led up to a loft that looked onto the open space below. The house had an odd look of impersonality, that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. While tastefully decorated with art prints and natural items, it held nothing that Valerie could see that spoke of individual character. It looked like a layout from a magazine.

“Where do you sleep, Daniel?” He was starting to get heavy and she wanted to settle him in before she collapsed herself. His reply didn’t help.

“The loft.”

“Of course.” She had a look at the spiral stairs. They were a bit narrow but she was game. “Okay, let’s go.” She got him started, following behind him on the narrow steps with the noble intention of breaking his fall if he slipped. It did offer her the benefit of an excellent view of his rear, putting her almost at eye level. He stopped once, teetered, recovered and resumed his upward climb.

Once they were safely on flat flooring again, she steered him toward the bed. He sat down with an awkward lurch and laid back, eyes closing, flinching once when he bumped his hand on the headboard. Valerie divested him of his shoes and socks, then stood there in indecision.

“Aren’t you going to finish?” His voice was thick and slow, but she could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth from under the shelter of his bandaged hands.

She unbuttoned his jeans and paused before she undid the zip. “Just so long as you understand I take no enjoyment from doing so.”

“You don’t?” Daniel sounded disappointed.

“I’m doing my best.” She’d undressed Ben this way many times in the past, but her ex-husband had usually been dead drunk and had spent most of the evening embarrassing her. Then the undressing was done to cause maximum disturbance and discomfort for the one having their clothing removed. This was different. Her imagination began toying with her, teasing her with possibilities. Ahh, the possibilities. Squashing her rebellious thoughts before they distracted her any further, she took the jeans by the leg at his ankles and began to pull, then stopped. “You are wearing drawers, aren’t you?”

“Wearing what?”

“Drawers, underwear, underpants. You aren’t commando right now, are you?”

“Commando?” There was a pause while he thought. “Ah, regimental.” He chuckled. “No, damn the bad luck.”

“Okay, then.” Valerie got his jeans off and pulled his shirt up, reaching around as he half rolled to get it off over his back. The sight of him shirtless and lying in bed clad only in boxers undid her careful maintenance of virtuous thoughts. His chest was strong and lean, with a moderate sprinkling of hair, tapering from strong shoulders to narrow at his hips. Naughty feelings and raging hormones clamored for action and she bit her lips to suppress the throaty chuckle that threatened to escape. He rolled onto his back again and the piece of string gauze with its golden passenger lay against his chest, vibrating slightly with each heartbeat. So much for naughty thoughts. Now her mind turned to a wistful jealousy. She couldn’t imagine what it could be like to love someone so much. Valerie flipped the blanket over him and smoothed it over his chest, then found a couple of pillows. Daniel sighed, sinking back into the bed, watching her from between slitted eyelids as she put a pillow under each hand, elevating them above the level of his heart. She turned to go downstairs.

“Wait.”

Valerie turned back, pausing in mid-step.

“I just-- thanks.”

She nodded. “What are friends for?”

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[> [> Why aren't my friends hotter? -- Larn, 15:56:24 06/23/09 Tue

Sigh. Most of my guy friends are either taken or gay. And none so hot as Daniel.

Girl's got some restraint, have to hand it to her to not cop a feel. I'm guessing he's tired because of drugs? Those don't play, man. They can knock out a horse and him a running.

I'm glad we're going to see all of Valerie and Daniel's story. Lord knows I can't resist a well-matched couple!

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[> [> [> None of my friends are this hot either... -- Debi, 18:38:46 06/23/09 Tue

Hence my vicarious life through my fictional characters.

>Sigh. Most of my guy friends are either taken or gay.
> And none so hot as Daniel.
>
>Girl's got some restraint, have to hand it to her to
>not cop a feel. I'm guessing he's tired because of
>drugs? Those don't play, man. They can knock out a
>horse and him a running.

Yes, in the previous scene, on the way home from the emergency room, Valerie gives him a couple of pain pills and ibuprophen. I've had s few significant animal bites in my time. The cat bites and scratches Daniel sustained to both of his hands would have anyone begging for general anesthesia. That or a bullet to the brain. Cat bites hurt BAD.
>
>I'm glad we're going to see all of Valerie and
>Daniel's story. Lord knows I can't resist a
>well-matched couple!

I'm trying, getting a few words in every day. Though sometimes at lunch, when I tend to hide so I can have quiet to write, is wasted by me playing Bejeweled on Facebook. My brain needed the break today though... work, ugh.

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[> [> Re: Okay, Larn, it's not just you -- the internet ate my first reply, too!! Trying again, Debi! >>>> -- Page, 21:43:14 06/26/09 Fri

Let's see if I can remember what I typed before....

I burn with envy when I read anything from Old Dogs, because the relationship between Daniel and Valerie is so REAL, and easy, and natural. I don't know how hard it is for you to write it, but it appears like it's just effortless! You have the perfect mix of humor along with the more serious thoughts and reactions of the characters, and I wish I could do that! Reading about Daniel and Valerie is like having a conversation with your best friend. With chocolate.

I really, really liked the bit about Daniel wearing his wedding band around his neck while his hands are bandaged. Not in his pocket, not put away in his sock drawer waiting for his hands to heal. No, the man has to WEAR it. Having read other excerpts, I know the reason why Daniel wears the ring, but I love how you worked it in here without overstating it. Just mentioning it. I also liked how Valerie felt about it. Not thinking about Daniel's wife, but about the love behind the ring. Very nice, especially after her remembering hauling a drunken Ben home.

One problem that really stuck out to me was the first paragraph. It's just not up to par with what I've come to expect from you, and what I know you can do. It reads very stilted and awkward, like "See Dick. See Jane. See Dick and Jane run." Or like "See the car. See the house. See the house on the lake." It's especially jarring compared to the rest of the piece, which is written in that effortless-seeming flow. The first paragraph just doesn't flow to me.

Otherwise, bravo! I think these two characters are brilliant, and I love their story!

Hugs,
Page

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[> [> [> Thank you, Page -- Debi, 09:34:51 06/27/09 Sat

>Let's see if I can remember what I typed before....
>
>I burn with envy when I read anything from Old Dogs,
>because the relationship between Daniel and Valerie is
>so REAL, and easy, and natural. I don't know how hard
>it is for you to write it, but it appears like it's
>just effortless! You have the perfect mix of humor
>along with the more serious thoughts and reactions of
>the characters, and I wish I could do that!
>Reading about Daniel and Valerie is like having a
>conversation with your best friend. With chocolate.

Thank you so much Page. I love your writing and you telling me you're envious makes my day! {Hugs}
>
>I really, really liked the bit about Daniel wearing
>his wedding band around his neck while his hands are
>bandaged. Not in his pocket, not put away in his sock
>drawer waiting for his hands to heal. No, the man has
>to WEAR it. Having read other excerpts, I know the
>reason why Daniel wears the ring, but I love how you
>worked it in here without overstating it. Just
>mentioning it. I also liked how Valerie felt about
>it. Not thinking about Daniel's wife, but about the
>love behind the ring. Very nice, especially after her
>remembering hauling a drunken Ben home.

Valerie is sensible enough to not blame the person the ring represents. Having worn just such a ring and knowing that hers didn't mean much at all has disillusioned her toward the institution of marriage, even though she has the example of her sister and BIL as a positive representation. Valerie is attracted to Daniel at this point, but still not ready for more. Their relationship kinda sneaks up on her.
>
>One problem that really stuck out to me was the first
>paragraph. It's just not up to par with what I've
>come to expect from you, and what I know you can do.
>It reads very stilted and awkward, like "See Dick.
>See Jane. See Dick and Jane run." Or like "See the
>car. See the house. See the house on the lake."
>It's especially jarring compared to the rest of the
>piece, which is written in that effortless-seeming
>flow. The first paragraph just doesn't flow to me.
>
I will review and rewrite. Thanks for pointing it out to me.

>Otherwise, bravo! I think these two characters are
>brilliant, and I love their story!

Thank you!!!
>
>Hugs,
>Page

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[> [> Alright! Gotta love a good grope scene when the guy is at a woman's mercy...*G* >>> -- Esther, 13:06:19 06/27/09 Sat

Another most excellent scene Debi!

I really do enjoy the easy banter between these two, it flows so well, is so natural and easy to visualize. I'm along for the ride as their friendship develops and it's a good feeling to anticipate that it'll become more. Awesome!

Now, a couple things. *G*

The first sentence here,

>The car rolled to a stop in front of Daniel’s house.

I can't remember where I heard it or read it or when I finally understood it, but this sentence starts with the. Not normally a big deal, but when you're starting a scene (and yes I realize this isn't necessarily the start of the scene, but it could technically apply to any paragraph) a sentence starting with the word the is introducing a noun to which we haven't been introduced to yet. In this case a car. And by starting out with the car, it leads me to believe the paragraph that follows is about the car, especially in this case cause it seems to roll to a stop all by itself. And then you switch back and forth between the house and Valerie getting out of the car. The description of the house seems out of place where it is, and if you want to include such descriptions, I’d suggest trying to incorporate them in, say for instance when they walk up the steps and cross the deck. Or so is MHO. *G*

And with Daniel, just what did they give him at the hospital? I'm having a hard time grasping that his injuries warrant a drug that has such a debilitating response for him. But then again, I'm living with a man that has a very high threshold for pain, and so could just as easily be just my problem. It just seems exaggerated to me. I can appreciate he’d need help if his hands were bandaged, I just can’t see him needing assistance to the extent he has here.

But I did get a chuckle out of the grope on the front porch, and the way he was unbalanced, and of course, his having his bedroom in the loft. *G* Oh and I’m right there with Daniel! Damn the bad luck! ;-)

Awesome excerpt Debi! Keep ‘em coming!

Hugs

Esther

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[> [> [> Thanks for the ideas, Esther -- Debi, 13:28:58 06/27/09 Sat

>>The car rolled to a stop in front of Daniel’s house.
>
>I can't remember where I heard it or read it or when I
>finally understood it, but this sentence starts with
>the. Not normally a big deal, but when you're
>starting a scene (and yes I realize this isn't
>necessarily the start of the scene, but it could
>technically apply to any paragraph) a sentence
>starting with the word the is introducing a noun to
>which we haven't been introduced to yet. In this case
>a car. And by starting out with the car, it leads me
>to believe the paragraph that follows is about the
>car, especially in this case cause it seems to roll to
>a stop all by itself. And then you switch back and
>forth between the house and Valerie getting out of the
>car. The description of the house seems out of place
>where it is, and if you want to include such
>descriptions, I’d suggest trying to incorporate them
>in, say for instance when they walk up the steps and
>cross the deck. Or so is MHO. *G*

Good points, all. I'll work them in as I review and tweak this scene.
>
>And with Daniel, just what did they give him at the
>hospital? I'm having a hard time grasping that his
>injuries warrant a drug that has such a debilitating
>response for him. But then again, I'm living with a
>man that has a very high threshold for pain, and so
>could just as easily be just my problem. It just
>seems exaggerated to me. I can appreciate he’d need
>help if his hands were bandaged, I just can’t see him
>needing assistance to the extent he has here.

Cat bites are very painful (this I know from more than one incident with angry kitties), coupled with scratches and both his hands were pretty much shredded. I had the idea of his getting a prescription of demerol tabs for the first few days, for that very reason. In the previous scene, they left the ER and stopped at a nearby pharmacy to fill the scrips and Valerie had him take a pill before they drove home 30 minutes. It's had time to kick in. (again, presonal experience from taking my DH to the hospital on multiple occasions for kideny stones.) Ibuprofen works after the initial pain starts to fade.
>
>But I did get a chuckle out of the grope on the front
>porch, and the way he was unbalanced, and of course,
>his having his bedroom in the loft. *G* Oh and I’m
>right there with Daniel! Damn the bad luck! ;-)

LOL, thanks!
>
>Awesome excerpt Debi! Keep ‘em coming!
>
>Hugs

Hugs back!
>
>Esther

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[> [> [> [> Re: A testimonial about injuries inflicted by a cat >>>>> -- Page, 20:28:45 06/27/09 Sat

[Insert names of major narcotics, all flagged by Voy as spam], all good things to have if you've had a cat attach itself to you in any way.

My beloved Siamese, Kato, (who lived to the ripe old age of 18, btw!) got outside one day and was attacked by a neighbor's cat. He wasn't hurt, but was extremely agitated. He dashed into the house when we opened the door to see what that horrible noise was, and I followed him in, intent on comforting my poor baby. The minute I touched that poor baby, he latched onto my left hand with teeth and claws, and DID NOT LET GO. I prayed for death, I kid you not. My DD threw a bath towel over him and attempted to pry him loose. It only made him bite down harder and I screamed. He finally let go when DD doused us both with an ice-cold pitcher of unsweet tea. (Hey, it was cold and she improvised. *G*) I would gladly go through child-birth again, twice, before I'd go through the pain of cat bites. Before I could get to the doctor the next morning, my hand swelled up like a rubber glove full of boiling water. I was on antibiotics and painkillers for two weeks, my hand completely unusable. Those cat injuries are major!

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[> [> [> [> [> Re: A testimonial about injuries inflicted by a cat >>>>> -- Debi, 23:19:51 06/27/09 Sat

I had a cat I was bathing wait until I was toweling him off to decide to have a panic attack. He bit like a terrier, many times and fast, all into my right index finger. One razor sharp tooth went near/into the joint. Within ten minutes of being bitten, I had a loading dose of cefalexin in me, the wound scrubbed out and soaked in Betadine, and still my finger swelled to the size of a keilbasa and hurt bad enough that I would wake up at night with the throb. I've had a cat bite through my thumbnail and one that nailed the side of my thumb and made two wounds that met, one from the top, one from the bottom. A little do-it-yourself surgery and another self-dosing of antibiotics and all I have to show for it is a pink scar on the edge of my thumb. All of which I wished mightily for something stronger than ibuprofen, but since I was self-medicating, Advil was all I had. In my line of work it's only a matter of time before it appens again. I'm a bite magnet. It's just my lot in life.

At least I'm better off than Daniel. He had to get treated for potential rabies exposure. ;-)

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[> [> [> [> [> [> Well, not a testimonial about cat inflicted injuries...but>>> -- Esther, 12:33:43 06/28/09 Sun

Here's my take. I like a man, and I'm nasty enough to want/expect such a man of the hunk persuation to be able to handle a little pain. Especially in a book. Real life, okay, I get that cat scratches hurt, and I'm not saying that it isn't something that would have the cause and effect that you've shown. Been there, to an extent below that depicted here, but the other experiences I bring to mind when I read have a hard time saying okay, it's bad.

Now of course, this is based on my being the observer, not the actual participant, but that is what I'm doing when I read. Observing. So...

I've witnessed my DH tear his index finger on a piece of metal so that the bone was showing, dip it in paint thinners to stop the bleeding, tape it up in black electicians tape and go back to work. Okay not the smartest thing, but he got the job done, and there was no scar.

Once he suffered burns serious enough to leave scars on his hands, and he took maybe four tylenol. And that was after they took him into physio, did the boil bath as I call it and got the brush out and scrubbed off the dead skin. He had a prescription, but couldn't get the top off and wouldn't ask and when I opened it he said he'd gone this long without it so he didn't need it.

Work related accident, had his hand stuffed into a window and severed the tendon across the top. He sat in emercency for hours, finally was told yup you need surgery. Waited some more, had another emergency come in the hospital and was sent home to wait for the phone call. Only took four days. His hand swelled up to the size of one of those plastic gloves they use when blown full of air. He didn't take one single tylenol.

And then the last one a couple summers ago, when I woke up at 5am to a sweaty sweet sickly smell (yay for alliterations!) and realized he was in pain, took him to emergency. They hooked him up to all those lovely machines, let him wait for a few hours and sent him home. Couple days later, same thing. Again at around 5am. Took him to the hospital. The last Harry Potter book had just come out, and the four of us all had a different book and were reading in our little cubby. Around 11 am the nurse comes in, tells us his blood work is done and once the dr comes he can go home. Apparently, he didn't look like he was in pain, so he wasn't a priority. Couple hours later, dr comes in, and says it'll only be a couple more minutes and he can go home. Then she looks at the chart, says whoa, that's not good and asks him what they gave him for pain and how long ago. He didn't ask for anything, so they didn't give him anything. He was admitted immediately and was scheduled for surgery. And took nothing when he got home for pain.

And my gosh he does sound accident prone, but that is what I've seen over the last 18 years. Before my time, he broke his back and still has that to deal with everyday, and he has a scar on his leg from his ankle to just below his knee where he broke it.

Sorry, but in my mind, Daniel got scratched up by a cat. One that just got hit by a car, so was hurt and probly freaking, (although, when I read that the cat was hit, I imagined s/he was hurt bad, as in not moving, barely alive, which could seriously effect my perception) but still, I don't get it. So your job is to get me to believe that his injuries are that serious. And it prolly wouldn't hurt to have the side effect of whatever they gave him discussed cause I know nothing and if I read that something will make him sleepy and totally out of it, I'm all for it, and then hopefully I'll get it. Don't tell me they hurt, you have to show me, and yup, I realize it's in a previous scene I haven't read yet, so that's hypothetically impossible and you've prolly addressed these things already. *G* Now, being a totally blank slate for what actually happens and what they need to do for cat shredded hands and potential bites, I have no clue. Remember I know nothing, just giving my impression.

And maybe, just maybe, this is a really big hint that I need to read that scene! ;-)

Hugs

Esther

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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> Damn, your DH is hard-core. -- Debi, 21:59:34 06/28/09 Sun

I'm stoic as hell with pain, but your DH has sustained injuries that would probably freak me out, just from seeing my bone exposed. Damn...

>Sorry, but in my mind, Daniel got scratched up by a
>cat.

Don't forget bitten, many times. Imagine someone grabbing your hand over and over with an old fashioned staple remover that had been sharpened to fine points. And having those points hit the bones and the joint spaces, scissoring out bits of flesh. Claws are not unlike razors, just duller, so they drag and shred as well as cut.

And badly hurt cats, even ones that are dying from their injuries can and will fight to the last breath, especially a feral cat. Granted, this info was in the previous scene. Plus this cat had a kitten to defend. Also info from previous scenes. ;-)


And it prolly wouldn't hurt to have the side
>effect of whatever they gave him discussed cause I
>know nothing and if I read that something will make
>him sleepy and totally out of it, I'm all for it, and
>then hopefully I'll get it.

Good point. I looked them up when I was writing, but I'll add a couple of lines of dialogue in the ER scene.

Don't tell me they hurt,
>you have to show me, and yup, I realize it's in a
>previous scene I haven't read yet, so that's
>hypothetically impossible and you've prolly addressed
>these things already. *G* Now, being a totally blank
>slate for what actually happens and what they need to
>do for cat shredded hands and potential bites, I have
>no clue. Remember I know nothing, just giving my
>impression.

No problem. I've done some tweaking on the previous scenes. I'll post it/them soon. Hopefully it'll all make better sense.
>
>And maybe, just maybe, this is a really big hint that
>I need to read that scene! ;-)

Message received. Look for them on a lit forum near you!
>
>Hugs
>
>Esther

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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> If the message was received, why isn't it here yet???? I'm waiting! *G* -- Esther, 14:45:42 06/30/09 Tue


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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> *snerk* -- Debi, 14:53:30 06/30/09 Tue

I'm working, woman!!;-) I'll have a three day weekend, I'll get to it then.

Be patient...

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[> Re: I've not written a thing in MONTHS. Until now. >>>> -- Page, 16:13:58 06/27/09 Sat

But with that gauntlet lying there mocking me, I had to write something. *G*

I've not been happy with my story for a while. I liked certain parts of it, but as a whole it just didn't feel right. Something was missing, something was off, and I couldn't figure out what it was. So I walked away from it. Every time I tried to come back to it, I couldn't write a word. Nothing. I couldn't, no matter how I tried, and I got very discouraged.

Just when I was at the end of my rope, Jay Carey began talking to me again. He told me what was wrong, and though I thought he was full of it, I listened to him. And after I listened, I re-read what I had written. Jay was right. I mean, he should know, after all. It's his story. Right about this time, Debi threw down the gauntlet, and I started trying to write again. The first few efforts were rubbish, but I finally fell into that hole in the monitor, and ended up in London in 1968 again. Here's what I saw:

Excerpt from working title Carey On
©2009 by Juli Morgan
Posted for purposes of critique only, and does not constitue publication

Sheets of rain cascaded from the tattered green awning as Katie Scott stepped out of the shop on a narrow street in London, her arrival on the sidewalk announced by the merry sound of bells. Amused, she glanced back at the large string of brass jingle bells, visible through the shop’s glass door. Such a joyous racket should announce a person of great importance, or well-known celebrity; it seemed a bit overdone for an American girl who’d just purchased her first pair of authentic British “wellies.” Pulling the hood of her vinyl jacket up over her head, Katie checked for oncoming traffic before splashing across the street, her new boots throwing up sheets of water with each step she took. She grinned, delighted as a child at splashing through the rain. True, she hadn’t enjoyed it much before she’d bought the wellies. The suede leather fringed moccasin boots she’d been wearing were now residing in a soggy wad in one of the many deep pockets of the duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Spying a large puddle on the sidewalk, Katie gave it a good stomp in tribute to her favorite footwear that were, in all probability, now ruined.

Laughing under her breath, she continued splashing along the sidewalk, ignoring the amused stares of the people she passed. She was feeling punch-drunk, the result of a massive case of jet-lag, and decided to enjoy it before her natural reticence returned. Besides, she was overjoyed to finally be in London.

Stories about swinging London, the Mod scene, and the influx of British music into America had intrigued Katie for years, and her meeting with Jimi Hendrix had increased her desire to visit that fascinating city. She’d been introduced to the flamboyant guitarist at the Monterey International Pop Festival, and had ended up taking him home with her. During Jimi’s time in San Fransisco, he’d held Katie spellbound with his descriptions of his adopted neighborhood of Ladbroke Grove, telling her it was “just like Haight-Ashbury, only better.” After his departure, Katie began making plans to jump the pond and find out first-hand if all his stories were true. The death of her father just after Christmas, however, curtailed her plans.

After six months of seeing to her father’s affairs in her hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, Katie had returned to San Fransisco, disappointed in the changes that had taken place in her absence. The Summer of Love had ended, leaving behind an invasion of young people looking for the utopia they’d heard was in Haight-Ashbury. With them had come the hucksters, the crooks, and the curious, turning the bohemian neighborhood Katie loved into a teeming circus, full of junkies lying in the gutter, a rash of overdoses on bad drugs, and corners full of lost people looking for a handout. Viewing all this through the windows of her crumbling Victorian on Page Street, Katie once again felt the pull of London.

It had taken her almost a year to tidy up her obligations in the States, but with the final settlement of her father’s estate, and her belongings in safe hands with her Aunt Peggy, Katie had gotten her passport, packed what she could in her duffel bag, grabbed her guitar and jumped on a plane headed for merry old England.

Last edited by author: Sat June 27, 2009 16:17:16   Edited 1 time.

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[> [> A nice reintroduction to our Katie -- Debi, 16:26:16 06/27/09 Sat

Well, I think it was Larn who chunked that gauntlet in the first place, but I'll happily take the blame for bullying you into writing again.

I like the framing of her intro with the purchase of the wellies. (Billy Connelly lists them above kilts as Scottish national dress.) It establishes where she is and what she's doing in London as well as where she's come from.

And I can sympathize with the ruination of a nice pair of moccasins. I wore a pair to EPCOT, lo these many moons ago and it poured. The Canada section has flagstone paving underfoot. Wet moccasin and flagstone should never meet. Neither should my ass and the steps I stood on. I made it all the way to the bottom without ever taking a step. I went barefoot a good portion of the rest of the day.

I like it muchly and want more! (There's another gauntlet for you!)

Debi

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[> [> [> Re: Now, how'd I do that? >>> -- Page, 21:01:30 06/30/09 Tue

I could've sworn I typed Larn, and it came out Debi! I think I was just overly excited at actually writing something again. *G*

I'm glad you liked it, and I've finished the first chapter. And this time, it's really finished.

Hugs,
Page

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[> [> Proverbial gauntlets are owned by the whole group, I think. -- Larn, 23:33:58 06/27/09 Sat

I do love this scene with Katie. She has so much anguish in her life later, it's nice to see her being free and easy again.

There really isn't anything worse than wet footwear, aside maybe from wet, ill-fitting underwear. And speaking of amusement parks, there is a reason why I never go on water rides. Actually, it's an equation:

shoes+clothing+recycled groddy park water=one smelly, sodden mess with sore feet and permanent wedgie

Puddle and boots, however are fun times.

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[> [> [> Re: Permanent wedgie? Ouch! -- Page, 21:04:26 06/30/09 Tue

I used to be one of the people who would wait two hours for the water rides. Now, I'm too worried about my hair. *G* I'm happy to report, however, no wedgies occured in the riding of the rides.

Btw, your raccoon left his friends here. Shall I send them to you by U.P.S?

Hugs,
Page

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[> [> [> [> They found me. -- Larn, 03:22:13 07/01/09 Wed

>I'm happy to report, however, no
>wedgies occured in the riding of the rides.

None of my friends ever got wedgies, either. It was just me the theme park gods hated. I'm glad someone liked them, but meh.

>Btw, your raccoon left his friends here. Shall I send
>them to you by U.P.S?

Shipment received! They seemed to have chewed their way out before I came home, though. Fear not, they have found a comfortable home.

Rough Neighborhood

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[> [> Then it's about time isn't it >> -- Esther, 12:57:53 06/28/09 Sun

And this is perfect for such a rebirth of sorts.

This is the Katie I've come to love and admire. There's the sense of being right there with her as she spashes through the puddles and the back history you have here is just the right amount to let us know why she came to London without that dreaded info dump of information that should be threaded thoughout the story.

I get the sense of her as one out seeking herself and adventure to satisfy the urge she has to see the world and experience whatever it has to offer. And all I can say is good for her!

Well done! And so good to see your writing again! I can't speak for anyone else, but I do know there have been periods in time where the last thing I could do was sit in front of the computer and write. But I've come to realize that those voices in my head are there when I need them and I've come to trust the path they lead me on. Granted sometimes I'm a little behind, but they always come back and guide me to where I need to go.

So until next time

Hugs

Esther

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[> [> [> It sure was! >>> -- Page, 21:09:38 06/30/09 Tue

I'm mucho relieved that the backstory in this bit wasn't too much. I admit I was worried about it, but I'd pared it down as far as I dared. After all, it isn't relevant to the story, other than the catalyst that gets Katie to London. And the story begins after she arrives. So, thank you for letting me know it worked!

The relief I've gotten from writing again leaves me almost speechless. I didn't know how much I'd missed it until I was able to do it again. My hero once said he was unable to pick up a guitar and make music for years, and they were the most miserable years of his life. I know exactly how he felt now.

More of the Adventures of an American Non-Werewolf in London to come. (And I think I have the beginning of my query letter: "This book is not about teenage vampires or werewolves." *G*)

Hugs back at 'cha!
Page

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[> I suppose if I toss it down, I should pick it up, too, eh? -- Larn, 17:45:41 06/27/09 Sat

This is from a story I've been writing on and off again for a year or so. I know long ago I'e posted stuff from it, but I can't remember which bits. If anything seems familiar, fear not, I've most likely already posted something similar before.

Anyway, I know this bit here is new.

The story is one about a young woman who decides to work on a dude ranch for the summer. She's not quite sure why she came, except to get away from the mess at home. The raccoon bit from earlier is part of it.

This is a short pair of scenes dealing with her welcome to her living quarters. There is a good bit of plot between the two, namely her first day, the introduction to her boss's annoying assistant pen boss, and a rather stressful phone call from her overbearing mother, but those bits aren't finished yet.

I thought Margie had been kidding when she said my room was in hell. She wasn't.

Two long and sagging trailers faced each other, doors opening to the inside onto a broad wooden porch. The left side was painted a brilliant blue with white puffy clouds and what I think were supposed to be angels and cherubs floating around. The right side was a mural of hell, complete with flames, pitchforks, and little devils that looked suspiciously like the inhabitants of the opposite side, but dressed in red.

I was in Hell. Check. Now to find number fifteen.

My suitcase made a horrible racket across the wooden boards, so I stopped and picked it up the rest of the way. Luckily, the number scheme turned out to be as sensible as the decor, so number fifteen was actually only about the fourth door down. Easing the suitcase down, I opened the door and flipped on the light to see my new room. It was brown. Very brown.

Brown walls. Brown furniture. Brown curtains and bedding. Brown shag carpet. Even the ceiling was brown.

"Oh gross."

The door next to mine (marked number forty-three) opened, revealing a gaggle of mid-twenties women in the middle of a gab fest. The smell of pot wafted out to me from behind the short, curly headed woman who stood in the doorway.

Someone called out "Who gets the turd room this year?" They all laughed.

The woman in the doorway smiled at me and took a puff on her hand-rolled joint.

"Well?" she said, her hand on her hip. "Who are you?"

"I'm Emma."

"Emma what?"

"Emma Lane."

"Sounds like a cul-de-sac."

More laughter.

"Hasher or carts?" she asked.

"Sorry what?"

One eyebrow raised.

"Are you kitchen staff or a cabin girl?"

"Oh neither. I'm a wrangler."

The group went silent. The woman in the doorway frowned.

"You're in the wrong place. Wranglers sleep in the Gulch."

"Margie told me number fifteen in the trailers."

The woman's eyes narrowed.

"We'll see about that."

She slammed the door shut. I could hear angry voices from inside, muffled but indignant. Luckily, when I got inside and shut my door, I discovered the muffling to be nonexistent, and I was treated to a heated discussion of just what the hell Margie could be thinking, putting a fucking wrangler in the trailers. There were various opinions as to where I could go (though I was already in hell, where else could they wish me?) and a few theories on my character were brought up, none of them complimentary to me.

I thought about confronting them, but the ache behind my eyes demanded sleep. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was asleep. I dreamed of little cherubs fighting tiny devils. Trouble was, once the cherubic robes were stained red with blood, both sides looked the same. Then the dream changed, and I was fighting zombies with my old Sunday School teacher. Then the dream changed again, but I didn't remember anything else until the morning.

_________________


It was under very different circumstance I met the rest of the groundskeeping staff. I'll be the first to admit I was not as cordial to them as I could have been, but I'd like to think that no one is very pleasant at that hour, least of all under those circumstances.

Known to their mothers as Tom, Tommy, Thomas, and Todd, they were referred to collectively as the Frat Boys. Their one goal in life was to get drunk and fuck whatever would let them. All boys of impressive height and width, they regarded their daily duties as mere inconveniences to be dealt with as quickly as possible so they could get drunk as soon as possible, enabling them to be surprisingly effective. Even hungover, the Frat Boys could chop and stack an entire trailer of firewood in about three hours. If you could put up with their antics, they were well worth their extensive bar tab.

It was their antics, however, I first became acquainted with my second night at the ranch. Pointed out in passing while out in the north field working, I hadn't the chance to meet any of them in person, nor any burning desire to change that.

The night started off rather boring. After dinner and yet another lecture from Mandy about proper corral protocol, I was feeling tired and declined Milo's offer of a beer around the campfire. If I was going to be on horse by 6 AM, I was going to sleep, goldarnit. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and dug through my bag for clean underwear, vowing to unpack my bag into the dresser tomorrow evening. Alarm set, curtains drawn, I snuggled under my blankets and drifted off to sleep.

About four hours later, my door burst open and all hell broke loose.

I snapped wide awake just in time to see four massive objects come hurtling towards me like linebackers. Screeching, I flung myself back against the wall, narrowly avoiding being crushed under a dog pile of incredibly drunk men.

"Room Inspections!" one of the figures said, and the others turned it into a chant, doing a strange wallowing-hopping maneuver on my mattress. I managed to wiggle along the wall and off my bed, only to stand in awe of the heaving mass now spilling itself onto my floor. The chanting continued, growing louder and faster, until they were simply screaming at the top of their lungs.

"Show us your tits!" suggested one guy.

"Boobs! Show us your fun bags!" said another.

They began chanting again, a suggestion of what I could do with my shirt. The initial shock of their appearance was wearing off. I was beginning to get pissed.

I opened my mouth to yell at them.

"Hey!" shouted a voice from over my shoulder. I closed my mouth and whirled around. The woman from next door was once more standing in the doorway, looking in this time with a smile. It was directed at me, and it wasn't a very nice one.

"I see you've met the Frat Boys."

"Tits! Storie! We need breasts!" The chanting started up again, even more derogatory than the last time. The woman, Storie, held up her hand.

"Cut it out, boys. She's a wrangler."

It was like the air had been let out of the room. The chanting stopped and the boys stood up, wavering slightly on their feet. In a slow and stumbling procession, they made their way out of my room, one of them mumbling a quiet apology as he went. Storie waited till the last one left, then turned to me and inclined her head slightly.

"What the fuck was that?" I asked.

"Room Inspection." She shrugged and walked out. I heard her send off the boys back to Middle Ranch and then her door shut back into her room.

It took me more than a few moments to get my room back in order. When I went to shut my door, I noticed that the door jam was shattered. So I had indeed locked my door.

"Bastards."

I picked up my suitcase and threw it against the door to keep it shut. Out of habit, I checked to make sure my clock was set. Two forty-seven, it read. I had to be on my horse and ready for my first roundup in less than three hours.

"Fucking bastards."

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[> [> This has the makings of a fun story -- Debi, 20:40:57 06/27/09 Sat

Emma's a tough girl; extracting rotten dead raccoons and surviving living in Hell and a room inspection. I'm already looking forward to reading more about her.
The only thing that stopped me was 'door jam'. SOunds like something for your toast, with extra fiber. It's 'jamb.' Little things you learn when your dad is in construction and you watch a lot of HGTV. ;-)

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[> [> [> See? This is why we invented editors! -- Larn, 23:03:10 06/27/09 Sat


>The only thing that stopped me was 'door jam'. SOunds
>like something for your toast, with extra fiber.

I do like my toast a little on the splintery side.

Emma's been fun. I've had my friend do some beta reading for me and she thinks she's as awkward as can be. Course, I don't think I've posted some of her less glorious moments yet. Poor girl has more than a few. I'm glad you're interested so far!

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[> [> No doubt! I'm so glad to see more of this story! >>> -- Esther, 13:31:20 06/28/09 Sun

Although I hate to mention it, I do believe it's been more than a year or so since you started writing this. I remember quite a few scenes that you posted. One in particular has a hot boss, a snow storm and a lousy radio connection, and oh, the one with the guest, the boss and the kiss? *swoon* I'll just keep the rest to myself. *G*

The thing I like about Emma is her wry wit and humor. I was in hell. Check. Gotta love it! *G* And in this particular section, the Frat Boys, well, I just gotta love them too, and was happy to see that once they realized she was a wrangler they tromped off and the apologized. Awesome! There seems to be a pecking order. *G*

Can't wait to read more! Post soon!

Hugs

Esther

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[> [> [> Indeed, your memory is good! -- Larn, 03:09:19 07/01/09 Wed

>Although I hate to mention it, I do believe it's been
>more than a year or so since you started writing this.
> I remember quite a few scenes that you posted. One
>in particular has a hot boss, a snow storm and a lousy
>radio connection, and oh, the one with the guest, the
>boss and the kiss?

You're very right, that's all a part of this story. Working those bits in are going to be a challenge, I think, cause now that I'm sorta starting from the beginning, it's going all over the place!


>And in
>this particular section, the Frat Boys, well, I just
>gotta love them too

The Frat Boys are real people. I survived three room inspections myself. On the fourth, I grabbed my side table lamp (an ancient golden monstrosity) and screamed that the next person who came into my room without permission was going to have it shoved so far up their ass, they would be shitting glass for a week.

That seemed to work pretty well.

>Can't wait to read more! Post soon!

I shall post tomorrow, how's that?

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[> [> You have my attention >>>> -- Page, 21:25:12 06/30/09 Tue

I love what I've read of this so far, and I want to read more. The thing is, I know nothing about horses, ranches, mesas or cacti, and I wouldn't have thought a story that incorporated these things as a part of everyday life would interest me. But this does, and then some!

My favorite line from this excerpt: "I was already in hell, where else could they wish me?" I also liked "the turd room."

I'm really looking forward to your next excerpt!

Hugs,
Page

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[> [> [> I'm glad you like! -- Larn, 03:14:12 07/01/09 Wed

>The thing is, I know nothing about horses,
>ranches, mesas or cacti, and I wouldn't have thought a
>story that incorporated these things as a part of
>everyday life would interest me. But this does, and
>then some!

It's funny you should mention it. I was just thinking the other day I hadn't written anything about an actual horse in a long time. I did promise myself, though, when it comes time for Emma to fall off her horse (even the best join the Ground Club in the end) she is most definitely NOT going to land on a cactus.

>My favorite line from this excerpt: "I was already in
>hell, where else could they wish me?" I also liked
>"the turd room."

Turd Room. Also a real thing, though it didn't have that name. My friend's door room was sadly close to it, barring the brown ceiling.

>I'm really looking forward to your next excerpt!

Well, the iceman cometh tomorrow!

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