I Won't be Home for Christmas (1,000 Prompts Contest Entry)

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Gillian first knew about the freak snowstorm when her boys jumped into the bed with her squealing excitedly. "There's so much snow, Mama! Come see! Come see!" 

Reluctantly, she allowed the children to pull her from under the comforter. She hadn't slept well. She never did when she was traveling. It didn't seem to matter how nice the hotel was, or how many of her home comforts she had carried with her. She just couldn't drop off to dreamland and stay there all night unless she was at home in her own bed.

She shook her sleepiness quickly once the boys had tugged her to the window, though. She could see what her children had been so excited about.  There was so much snow that she couldn't even see most of the cars in the parking lot. There were heaps of snow in orderly rows, like someone had made fifty or so large, roughly car-shaped snowballs and left them in a line, waiting for a fantastic snowball fight to begin.

Part of Gillian was as excited as the kids. There was something wonderful about so much snow. But that part was hard to hear over the part of her that realized what impact this was going to have on their travel plans. They weren't going to be able to make the rest of their journey by Christmas. No way.  And going back home wasn't going to be an option either. Her car didn't even have four-wheel-drive. They were in for the duration. 

There was no need to tell the boys about her worries just yet, though. "Who wants popcorn for breakfast?" she asked. She settled the boys with a Christmas movie and the ice bucket full of microwave popcorn and ducked into the bathroom to read the weather reports on her phone. 

It wasn't good news.  Work crews were rescuing stranded drivers, but it would take days to clear out the roads for safe transit.  The Department of Transportation warned holiday travelers to stay put.  Gillian considered her options. They were few. 

Peeking out the bathroom door, she saw the boys cuddled up on the bed she had slept in, still wearing their long-john style pajamas, and stuffing their faces with popcorn. Their uncombed hair stuck out all around their heads.  They were practically an advertisement for Christmas morning, maybe especially Jack, who had a huge gap where he had just lost both his top front teeth. 

And what kind of Christmas morning was she going to be able to provide, here in the hotel? One of the reasons they had been traveling was because she couldn't afford to do anything much this year. Her mother had sent them travel money and had Christmas stockings and gifts waiting for the boys at her house. What did she even have in the car? A few candybars? Certainly no gifts.  What would they even do for food? Popcorn wasn't going to keep them happy for two or three days. 

She decided it would be better to go downstairs and talk to the front desk people and see what they could suggest.  She carefully instructed ten year old Steven to watch out for six year old Jack and locked the boys in the room, tucking the key card into the front pocket of her jeans. She took the car keys with her, too, in case she could find a way to retrieve more of their things from the car . . .

To be continued :-)

This story came from a prompt: 

303. A giant snowstorm the week before X-Mas has stranded your family at a hotel in the middle of the country. With all the stores closed and all your relatives far, far away, how would the holiday change? Would you still be able to have some fun in such strange circumstances? Why or why not?

The prompt is part of this contest at Build Creative Writing Ideas.  Whether or not I win, I had fun writing this, and avoiding the rewrite on my novel for a little while :-)

Connect 4 Writers: Flash Fiction Challenge, Round 4

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So, I'm writing stories with people I've never met this month, and boy is it fun!  So far, I've written about a wistful girl thinking of the boy she might have loved, a man having a very bad day involving a woman named Elise and a lot of blood, and a guy with a Mosquito Gun. After such tight focus for a month on my NaNoWriMo project all of November,  it's a relief to sort of splash around and play in the writing pool again.

All this comes from a Flash Fiction Challenge from +Chuck Wendig. We're in week 4 now, so that means the piece I'm picking up this week was begun by one writer, and continued by two others. With luck, one more writer will pick it up after me and finish it.

So, here's "The Forest Road", parts 1-4.

* * *

Part One by Snellopy

“Blades out lads it’ll be wet work with this lot, no doubt about that.” Some faces showed smiles, others grimaced but nowhere was fear to be seen. Eagerly they watched the carriage as it moved unsuspectingly into their ambush.

An arrow thunked into the throat of the coachman and the band flung themselves at the road with an animalistic scream. The horses, rearing in fright had their throats slashed – although they were valuable beasts, it would be too long before they could sell them and make a profit. Flintlocks poked through the windows and a few ineffective shots did little more than fill the carriage with smoke before they were torn from their owner’s hands. The door was wrenched from the hinges and the attackers leaned in, keen to ascertain the nature of their spoils.

“God’s teeth!” swore the leader, and he reeled back in shock, for one of the passengers was not human. Large yellow eyes nictitating wildly in the sudden clamour stared back at them from the being trussed up on the floor of the carriage. Green, scaly skin covered its hide, and the other passengers were torn between watching their charge and dealing with the bandits that now milled in confusion on the road.

* * * 

Part Two by David Kearney

A blood-curdling screech filled the air.

The leader, Marin, rolled clear of the carriage an instant before a jet of flame engulfed two of his dumbfounded companions and set the carriage on fire. “They’re transporting a dragon!”
Two soldiers burst from the burning carriage, Flintlocks in hand, and opened fire at their scattering foes. Another bandit fell before the pair discarded their spent pistols and reached for the rapiers at their side.

Marin sprang into action, running the first soldier through before he could unsheathe his sword. “Stand your ground lads,” he said. “Surround the wagon.” The second soldier lunged at the bandit leader, who deftly parried the attack then plunged his blade through the soldier’s heart.

As the remaining bandits took up positions around their prize, the air shimmered and became deathly cold. When the flames vanished, the men shifted nervously, looking at Marin with wide eyes. He knew what securing a dragon would mean for his small band. He also knew that the spoils of battle weren’t worth having unless they could be enjoyed. But what he didn’t know was whether his rag tag company could survive a battle with the magician inside the smouldering carriage.

* * *

Part Three by Doreen Queen 

A petite red-head dressed in a green pelisse delicately stepped out of the carriage. Once she stood, she brushed down her jade satin skirts, settled her hands on her hips, and surveyed the band with bright yellow eyes. She grinned up at Marin. "Thanks much, mates. I was growing tired of the accommodations." 

Marin swallowed heavily. "Milday, you are now our prisoner. Come forth and we'll treat you with all respect. Otherwise, we'll cut you down where you stand."

"Really, heavy-handed threats? I expected more from a group of brigands such as yourselves. How on earth will you hold me? I could transform and wipe you out with a single breath." She picked her way forward around the bodies of the two dead guards. "However, I should be grateful. You freed me from the King's men. How best can I reward you?" She tapped her chin with a forefinger. "How best, indeed?"

His men looked at him and back at the magician, for a magician she had to be. No one had ever heard of a female magician, let alone one who could transform. Marin knew he needed to take control of the situation before he lost his men.

* * *

Part Four: By me :)

Quickly he sheathed his sword, and stepped towards the magician, one hand gliding into his pocket. She cocked her head at him curiously, in a gesture that was eerily like a bird of prey. Trying to look confident, he wrapped his hand around the small stone he had stolen from the old woman in the woods, praying that it was all it promised to be. The stone seemed to warm in the center of his palm, and he grinned lecherously at the woman. 

Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her. As he did, a pulse of energy shot from the stone up his arm and through his mouth into hers. She stiffened, pushing against him for a moment, then went soft. When he let her go, she stood there, looking dazed and fragile. Her eyes had turned brown. The stone had done its work. It wouldn't hold her forever, but it would give him the time he needed to come up with another plan. 

He turned back to the stunned circle of his men, all staring slack-jawed at the dragon-woman-magician who had seemingly been tamed by their captain's kiss. He tossed back his head and laughed.

"Yes, that will do nicely for my reward," said Marin. 

To be continued? Let's hope so!

Flash Fiction Challenge, Part 3

So as the holidays descend upon us in full force, I'm taking time to play some non-reindeer games. Writing fun with +Chuck Wendig!

So, here we go, with week 3 of Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge.  Each week for 5 weeks, a group of Chuck Wendig readers are adding on to stories begun by other followers.

For week one, I put out this starter, which I had left untitled. It was picked up by +Mildred Achoch and she continued it here, titling it "Alina and the Boy." I'm hoping someone continues it for week three.

Meanwhile, I continued a story by Wanderer that she had titled Easy Street.

That bring us to now.  I've chosen a whole new story to play with this week: The Mos-Gun by Levi Stribling, Paul Feeney, and me.

  The first 200 or so words are by Levi Stribling.  

* * * 

Mosquitoes suck. Fact. I’m not just talking about their physical abilities, but more of how, well, how sucky they are. I cannot stand the little flying dicks. But I can’t be the only one who feels this way. In fact, I’m going to make sure that I’m not the only one who feels this way. Because as much as I hate mosquitoes, I hate large groups of people even more. That’s why the mosquito gun is the perfect invention, and I promise, the one I have in the basement is the only one around.

The concept is pretty simple. I’m using something I hate to piss off another something I hate. In this way I can have two things that I hate hating each other at the same time, thereby bringing me joy.

The process itself has taken me long enough – a few years at least; I don’t know, really. I lost count. But I’ve basically just collected a shit-ton of mosquitoes, frozen them and threw them all into this huge vat. Then I load them all up into these tubes, full, I mean chock full – almost like a European mosquito soccer match. They’re all pinned in there, trying to fly around. All they want is to get out. They’re pissed – just how I want them.

* * * 

(the second 200 or so words by Paul Feeney +paulfny)

So, I'm out on the street now, and I'm ready to start using my gun.

My first target wobbles into view. It's that fat obnoxious prick that manages the local supermarket. I've had more than a few run-ins with him. Payback time, now. I level my Mos-Gun and let rip. One fat mosquito squeezes out of the barrel and goes racing towards him. He bats it away at first, but it turns out that thing is pissed!

It zips up and down, darts in and out and pretty soon, blood is seeping from hundreds of little bites and the fat prick is screaming. I feel an excited tightness in my chest and squeeze off more rounds. They surround him in a cloud and soon, his body slumps to the ground.

Fuck me, it works! I wander down the street, indiscriminately loosing more and more mosquitoes at my enemies. People run screaming, banging into walls, cars, falling over in the street...it's wonderful.

Then, on the horizon, a figure appears, the sun at his back. He pauses on the horizon, his fingers twitching over something at his side. My stomach drops as I realise it's a huge can of RAID.

* * * 

(Now part 3, by me)

It had to be Stuart. That fucking weasel is always trying to undermine my plans and schemes. Ever since the time with that girl at the corner pub. She hadn't gone home with me either, but somehow he was convinced that it was my fault she hadn't bought his "come and see my laboratory" schtick. I admit that I had taken some pleasure in watching her dump her beer into his lap, but I hadn't done anything to orchestrate that particular fiasco.

Seeing him standing there with the giant can of RAID that could ruin my carefully laid plans for mayhem and revenge, I boiled with rage. How could he even have known about my plans? I had told no one, posted no blogs, tweeted no hints. But somehow, he knew what I was making? And that today was the day I'd be trying it out?

The shithead had to be spying on me. My hand still on the trigger of my magnificent new creation, I stared down the street at Stuart. If he thought he could stop me this easily, though, he had another think coming, a stinging, itchy, biting think. Gripping the Mos-Gun with both hands, I began to run towards him. At first he stood his ground, trying to look confident, but the closer I got, the more uncertain he looked . . .

To be continued? Let's hope!

Post NaNo Blues: PPD for writers

Monday was rough. Exceptionally rough. I know, I know. It was Monday. What did I expect? This Monday was so rough that it's still rough on Tuesday, though. I'm beginning to suspect it might be a weeklong Monday.

So, at first I thought it was the post-holiday thing. After all, I really enjoying Thanksgivukkah. It took two of my favorite time-with-the-family holidays and melded them in an unprecedented way.  On Thursday, we had the big turkey dinner, followed in the evening by candles, gifts, and dreidel. What's not to love? Coming back after a holiday like that can make a girl a little bitter.

But I don't think that was it. Or at least not all of it.

Then I thought it was because we bought my husband a new car and I had a form of sticker shock, like PTSD of the checkbook. But looking at the pretty new car in our driveway doesn't make me anything but happy. It's so pretty! I'm relieved that the hubby is no longer managing the failing brakes in the old car on his commute.

So, it's probably not the car either.

I'm a teacher, so there's the my-students-are-nuts-on-holiday-candy-and-anticipation factor.  Some people probably got to ease back into their work life a little more gently than I did.  I'm sure some people got to sip coffee while they caught up on the backlog of email, then quietly returned some calls. Sounds dull. I ride the tidal wave of tween and teen manic-depression that we call middle school. Even on Monday, when I wasn't sure I wanted to be there, it was a good ride. When you learn to get atop that energy and surf it, it's a pretty amazing ride.

So, no I don't blame my students. 

But I definitely have some kind of PPD (post party depression). I think I figured out what it is.

NaNoWriMo ended. It was the equivalent of some tremendous athletic event, like a marathon. I trained for it by building a daily writing habit for months, inching it up fifty words at a time. I prepared for it with outline notes and research reading and lots of contemplation. I talked about it with my writing friends.

Then race day (or month in this case) came and I ran (wrote) my heart out. It was exhilarating! It was exciting! It was amazing!

And, it's over.

Just like that.

I'm glad in a way, because I know I couldn't have kept up that pace and my other life commitments for even a day longer. I feel good about the writing I did, and am excited about finishing it next year. But I've got this hungover feeling, sort of half burnt out and half still letting go the restless party energy. I'm having trouble getting focused on the next writing task. It probably doesn't help that the next task is rewriting/editing.  It's vital work, and will be the important stuff that makes my work sale-able, but it doesn't have the glamor of new words on blank screen. 

So, yeah. I think that's it. I've got post NaNoWriMo blues. But, hey---I should be getting my winner's tee-shirt soon. I can wear it to critique group :-)

NaNoWriMo 2013: I won!

As of yesterday evening, I am a winner in 2013 NaNoWriMo. For those not in the know NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month, or as other people know it: November.  The idea is that you write 50,000 words in 30 days. It amounts to 1,667 words per day if you break out in even pieces. You "win" if you succeed in reaching the target word count.

For some writers, that's a piece of cake. But not for me. I don't get to write full time. I also teach and mom.  Using the Magic Spreadsheet, I've built a strong daily writing habit over the past year or so, but not a 1,667 word a day habit. My current daily goal (outside NaNoWriMo) is a mere 550 words a day. And those can be hard fought on any given day.

Still, I had an idea for a new novel that had been pulling at me for a few weeks. And I'm crazy. And some of my friends were trying it, so I thought I'd try it, too.

For writers like me, NaNoWriMo is marathon running from whatever chair you sit in to write. Athletic. Inspiring. And, for most of us, not sustainable in regular life. It's something you do once, to show that you can. Or maybe yearly to show you still can. It's not business as usual.

I didn't start out really believing I could do it, but I thought it was worth the effort even if it merely goaded me into writing more than I normally would have in one month's time. But Magic Spreadsheet proved that gamification is a very effective way to get Samantha Dunaway Bryant to do something. I guess I have my father's love for measurable signs of efficiency combined with my mother's love for small treats and prizes. The further I got, the more important it became for me to finish. And finish I did! Yesterday. A whole day early, even!

I found I was ridiculously motivated by the statistics and charts. Even when I was tired and frustrated, I'd push through to keep my bars alone the line. I'd pep talk myself. "You can do it, Dunaway" (I still call myself Dunaway when I'm pep talking myself, though I've been Bryant for more than seven years now). "It's only three hundred more words."

It was entirely different than the way I usually write. It forced me to keep on going even when I felt I didn't know where I was going. It forced me to just highlight areas that I'd have to research for later, or make notes of questions I was going to have to answer.

My novel critique group friends can testify that generally speaking, I keep what I write. Some of my writing friends write pages and pages and pages that don't actually make it into the final project. Not so for me. Usually, by the time something is committed to paper (or Scrivener, in this case), I'm committed, too. I might alter it, expand it, or rewrite it, but it's rare that I just cut something entirely.

I'm curious if that will hold true when I go back to finish (50,000 words did not get me to the end of the story, and I'm still not at all sure how this particular story will end) and edit this one. I'm going to put it away for now. I need to do the rewrite on Going Through the Change, now that it's been through critique group, so that's my December project.  Plus, I've found great benefit in letting something sit for a little while and coming back to it with fresh eyes.

That's something that was lost in this pellmell headlong tumble down novel mountain we call NaNoWriMo: time to let it sit, let it breathe like fine wine. It remains to be seen if what I created is worth drinking.

So, was it worth it? Unequivocally yes. 

50,000 words in one month is an accomplishment I feel proud of. Not letting myself sit and think or research turned the story back on itself, making me let the characters lead and show me what they would do.

Is it my new M.O.? Unequivocally no. 

Especially in the last few thousand words that I wrote, I really felt I was flying blind. If I was respecting the process and not just feeding into the game, I would have stopped and read some more about women's forays into the workforce in the 1930s, instead of floundering around trying to write scenes for my character based on the very sketchy knowledge I have of the time period.

Freda was whispering in my ear that I had a lot to learn about the time period. I didn't even have her wearing the right shoes!

There's a difference between necessary research (lines of work open to women in 1930 in Indianapolis) and letting myself get distracted by interesting research that still matters but only in details that can be added afterwards (what kind of shoes she would wear). NaNoWriMo has helped me learn the boundaries between those, and keep myself focused on the task at hand with iron concentration. That will serve me well in my future projects and help make me a more efficient writer.

Efficiency is going to matter. Unlike my mad scientist in Going Through the Change, I'm not getting any younger. And I still have a lot of stories to tell!

Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge, Part 2

Chuck Wendig is one of my favorite writing-bloggers.  For the next few weeks, he's got some of us playing a game of Telephone.  A writer puts out a story starter of 200 words (Here's mine from last week); another writer picks up where s/he left off, adding the next 200 words. I picked a piece from Wanderer. Here are her words:

Easy Street
        Marcel was certain that the pounding beast in his chest was audible to the entire city as he leaned, panting, against the wall of the alley. Just out of sight, back in the blistering sunlight, the city rumbled on; he could faintly hear the ding of a trolley and the clackety-clack as it thudded over the iron tracks and the intermittent sounds of a saxophonist hawking his street-corner jazz to the tourists. Marcel gulped in a mouthful of the heavy, still air, and slunk further into the shade. It was slightly cooler, but no less humid. New Orleans was seething in the heat, oozing the smell of baked concrete, creole cooking, and the faint tang of the murky Mississippi from every pore.
        Marcel wiped the sweat off his face with the back of one shaking hand, noticing the way the moisture slicked his dark skin—like the flickering mirage off asphalt. He leaned over and vomited, the acidic contents of his nearly empty stomach splattering the alleyway. He coughed at the acrid taste of his own fluids and scooted down the wall, slouching down until he sat on the pavement. He gripped his head in his hands.
         It’s all over.

_______________________________________________________

And now my contribution:

It began as such things do, innocently enough.  Marcel woke in an amorous mood and his thoughts had turned to Elise. Elise had flitted through his thoughts often since he met her a few weeks earlier. Each encounter was more fuel to fire growing between them. But for some reason he hesitated to act on his attraction. Hesitation was unusual for Marcel, especially in the bedroom.

Now Marcel wished he had listened to the still, quiet voice that told him that all was not as it seemed. But, this morning, he had thought only of the way Elise's hair had brushed across her bare shoulders, pulling his eyes and his mind across her flesh. Not giving himself time to think, he called her.

He could see now that Elise was trying to tell him not to come over, to warn him away, but, at the time, he thought she was just playing hard to get, that she wanted him to work for it. He had been so stupid. Now the thought of Elise's flesh was enough to make Marcel sick again. There had been so much blood.  He let his head fall back against the alley wall, his mouth full of the bitter taste of vomit and fear.

Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge

 So, Chuck Wendig is having an interesting Flash Fiction Challenge over at terribleminds.com. The idea is to write 200 words, then next week take someone else's 200 words and run with them, then someone else's, etc., etc. until we've all gotten through the holidays and ended up with 1000 word stories. 

I'm intrigued. So, here's mine. It's 268 words. I suck at sticking to specifications apparently. I'm interested to see where it goes.

______________________________________________

It was some time before she could think of him without bitterness. Longer than it should have been, probably.  After all, their time together had been short.  But Alina knew that the impact a person had on your life was not necessarily measured in time. Her father, after all, had nearly twenty years to impress himself on her soul, and, in the end, he didn’t matter. She barely blinked when he died.

But, the boy.  He was different. She had spent only a few hours with him at the retreat. She hadn’t even gotten his name. He had introduced himself as the son of one of the trainers. He hadn’t given his name or asked for hers. That hadn’t bothered her at the time. It had felt like a beginning. She was sure they would have plenty of time to learn the details of each other’s lives.

He hadn’t acted like he knew who she was. That was lovely. Was it possible that he really didn’t know who she was?  He had just talked to her like she was a girl. He had asked to share her table, offered to fetch her a hot cocoa, which she refused.  He had complimented her drawing, talked about the walking paths near the lodge that he planned to walk the next day. It was the kind of conversation she had seen many times, but had never been a part of before.

She looked for him, of course, the next day.  And the day after that. Part of her watched for him the rest of the retreat week. But, he never reappeared.