Tag: Mai Madness

This is one of my favorite of Mr. Novakovich’s exercises, and one that captures the essence of what I like about his writing style. I’m going to quote a paragraph from the text here, so that you can see what I mean. This is from his book, Fiction Writer’s Workshop, and I highly recommend this book to anyone who wants to learn to write or improve their skills.

“Imagine some event that could have happened to you but did not – something that you wanted or feared. First, make up the basic outline of the event, and then incorporate true details. Put your teapot and cats into the story; they won\’t sue you. Your knowledge of these details will help you convince your reader of the truthfulness of the story\’s main event. Don\’t spend much time on introducing this event or on drawing conclusions. Just give us the scene with your desire (or fear) acted out. Keep yourself as the main protagonist.”

“Airplane”

The Asian lady next to me was named Louise, and she was nice. Her nose was really small, close to her face, but she had these cool glasses that were all silver frames and round and stuff. They were really cool. The man in the aisle seat was older, like my dad, and he was fat. His name was Bill. His belly stuck out over his pants and his belt strained to hold it in. He wore a yellow shirt over a white undershirt and his brown pants pockets had a white lining you could see when they gaped.

The stewardesses were Mary and Cindy. They let me hand out peanuts and help collect empty drink cups. I collected the little liquor bottles because I like having little bottles in my collection. I washed them out and put them on my shelves like a display. They look pretty with flowers in them. The dried flowers are the best because they don’t fall over and spill water everywhere.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats. The Captain has turned on the seat belt sign.”

The voice droned on. I sighed, bored, and put my belt back on. I didn’t like it, because it made me feel stuck in the seat, but if the Captain said, I guess you can’t really argue, right? I stared out the window at Colorado, the Rockies were on my right. They didn’t look like much from this height, wreathed in wispy clouds like smoke.

Mary came up to our row and stopped to talk to the man. I was a minor, she explained, traveling alone. My parents would meet the plane in San Francisco. He agreed to be my guardian for the flight. I didn’t really like that idea, because he was, well, fat. The Asian lady was a lot better choice, but they didn’t ask me. I was too intimidated to speak up.

The plane started bumping a little in turbulence, but that was pretty normal for this flight. I took it all the time, visiting my grandparents in Ohio. My mom and them didn’t get along, so I went by myself. It was fun to go through the airport alone and know where I was going. The airlines had never given me a guardian before, though.

I took out my book and started reading, since I couldn’t walk around anymore. I was bored but the book was good. I got it from the library at school, one of Phyllis Whitney’s, the Mystery on the Isle of Skye. I loved the smell of her books at the library, the paper had its own distinct odor. I really enjoyed it, it made reading special.

As we got closer to San Francisco and had to pack our tray tables up and put our seats back, the people around me got tense. The Asian lady had some beads in her hand, like a bracelet, except she kept moving them around in a circle and her lips were moving like she prayed the rosary. It was strange, I’d never seen a rosary that small before.

Bill didn’t say much to me, just told me to make sure that my seatbelt was on and stuff. I’d already done that. I wasn’t a novice, after all.

The stewardesses came around and had everyone get into the crash position. You could either lean your arms across the seat in front of you, or lean over and circle your legs. They made me do that one, because I wasn’t tall enough to use the seat in front of me. I didn’t think that was very fair, but I didn’t argue. Cindy was very tense when she came by and I didn’t want to make her mad at me.

The Bay was below us, but I had to bend over so I couldn’t see the landing like usual. That was a bummer, because I really like watching the takeoff and landing. I heard someone start to cry in one of the seats behind us and the landing gear clanked as it lowered. I could hear the motors change as they lined up to land, and the wings made noises as the ailerons extended.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to thank you for flying wit us today. Your Captain and I are committed to making this a safe landing. This will be the last cabin transmission before we are at the airport. God bless us all.”

That was a strange thing to say. He never said that on other flights. I peeked at Louise and saw slow tears sliding down her face silently.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

She looked at me, face calm except for the tears. “When we took off, some of the tread from the tires was burned away. They’re not sure if we can land safely,” she whispered. “There’s a chance the tire may rupture and cause a fire in the front of the plane.”

I stared at her for a little while but she didn’t take it back. I put my face back on my knees, my mouth up tight against my legs and prayed.

The pressure changed as we descended and my ears popped. I wanted to look out the window, but was afraid to sit up. The whine of the engines seemed to get louder and we dropped further. I saw a shape flit by the window, a building or something, but it was gone too fast to register. Then we bounced as we landed.

A crash shook the front of the airplane and we jerked forward sharply. The back of the plane yawed, making my stomach sick with reaction. The front of the plane jumped and fell sharply and several people screamed. We skidded for quite a ways and then finally stopped.

“All right, everyone. As we discussed. Rows behind me, please proceed to the back of the plane. The rest of you, please form two lines, over the wing exist.” Cindy clapped her hands sharply and someone gasped. “Quickly people, move!”

I was in row 27B, so I followed Bill toward the back of the plane past the galley. The door opened and the roar of the engines deafened us. My hair was plastered to my head in the wind and I stared down the exit. There was no stair. Instead it was a bright yellow slide, like a raft or something at camp. “Okay, honey, I want you to sit down and put your arms across your chest, okay?” Cindy shouted over the racket. “Quickly now.” I did as she asked and flew down the slide. A huge paramedic was at the bottom and he caught me, swung me up and off the slide, and deposited me in the arms of another huge paramedic. “This is the one,” he announced.

The one holding me nodded and turned without speaking. He hitched me onto his hip and walked toward a red SUV that said “Fire Marshall” on the side. “I’m Chief Wilson, Miss Noon,” he told me gently. “We’re going to meet up with your parents. They’re very worried about you.”

I started to answer him but the ground shook. A huge boom shook us and the Chief swore. He whirled and I could see the front of the plane engulfed in flame. He turned, arms tightening around me, and ran for the car.

Once we were inside the vehicle, and I had my seatbelt on, he grabbed a radio from under the air conditioning controls. “This is Chief Wilkins with the minor aboard. Clear entrance three.”

I stared back at the airplane, the people now as small as little black ants running from the burning shape. “Did the Captain get out?” I asked the window, afraid of the answer.

“Yes, he did,” Chief said gently. “The crew is clear of the plane now. Everyone got off safely.”

I watched until I couldn’t see the plane anymore and then turned back to stare at the backside of the terminal. We got to the door and the Chief pulled to a stop. The door flew open and my mother and dad flew out, my mom this weird shade of gray.

“Baby!” she screamed.

I couldn’t get the seatbelt off before she got there, but she snapped it free without even looking and pulled me out of the car. I couldn’t really breathe when she hugged me that tight, but I didn’t care. I was home safe.

The purpose of this exercise is to write a strong emotion that we\’ve experienced. The idea is that in doing so we will tap into intensity, and therefore verbosity – a good path to Story.

It was interesting: I found I did not want to write about intense negative emotion. When I was worried it might be attributed to me by the other people who know what the exercise is, I was afraid they’d think I have a temper or feel negative emotions a lot. It was startling to learn that about myself.

“Witness Protection”

Jamal Kincaid sat down at a table in the back of the bar, one of the shadowed ones that wasn’t immediately visible from the front. He could see the entrance, but they couldn’t see him. The shadows fell just right so that he was hidden by them, even though his table had a candle like all the others. He blew it out when he sat down, plunging the table into darkness.

It was eleven at night and the bar was already busy. Patrons lined the tall wooden counter, beers and harder drinks in hand. No one had martinis or any of those foo foo drinks, this wasn’t one of those yuppie bars. Cullen’s was in the heart of the industrial section and it showed. The odor of old beer and Jack Daniels hung heavy in the room and the bathrooms, he knew from experience, had a heavy stench of disinfectant and urine. The men’s room just needed a sign, like in Roadhouse, “Don’t eat the big blue mint.”

Jamal had been running for days. He’d made it to Commerce, California, just by dumb luck. Why they named a town like that, he didn’t know, but it was smack in the middle of South Central and it showed. Latinos and white trash were the only ones in this place. And him, just an old black man that everybody ignored.

He took another sip of his Coke. He couldn’t afford to get fuzzy, not now. Not after all the work he’d put into getting here, surviving this long. He just had to meet with Alejandro and that was it.

A brief stir by the door caught his attention and he looked up. Four men came in, the two in front clearly bodyguards. They wore identical black jeans and white t-shirts, and the one in front had a jean jacket on top. It didn’t cover the hilts sticking out of the sleeves, but it would if he needed it to. No cops here, so they showed. The second one moved like a panther. A huge tattoo covered his chest and stomach, a dark shadow behind the t-shirt. He had no weapons that Jamal could see, but that didn’t mean he was unarmed. The man’s eyes flicked to Jamal’s and Jamal jumped, startled. They stared at each other for a moment or two and then the man looked away. He stepped out of the doorway and Jamal got a good look at the man behind him.

Alejandro was big for a Mexican, more like a Spaniard than an Indian. His broad shoulders bulked large even under the black suit he wore to hide the fact he was street scum, no different than Jamal. Well, he had bodyguards, so maybe that counted. Jamal swallowed, his throat dry.

Alejandro’s black suit covered a wine-red shirt, smooth with no buttons. It outlined the muscles in his chest and made him look powerful. A diamond flashed fire from his left earlobe and his hair shined a little in the light with reddish highlights. Not all Spanish, then, in his ancestry, or the highlights would’ve been blue-black.

Alejandro signaled with two fingers at the bartender, who nodded. Then he moved forward and was up to Jamal’s table all too soon.

“Well, I see you made it, Kincaid,” Alejandro said. “I have to say, I’m surprised.”

Jamal nodded and stared up at him, not willing to stand and show even that much intimidation. Besides, his knees probably wouldn’t hold him.

“Have a seat,” he invited. His voice was steady.

The two bodyguards sat at the next table. Jamal looked around for the third one and was startled to see it was a woman. Black boots with a three-inch heel flowed up her legs under a white pantsuit. Her midnight blue blouse had a sheen to it like satin and her breasts were twin mounds underneath. Jamal looked away, flushing. She came over with a drink for Alejandro; whiskey, by the smell of it. She set it down and took a seat at the table, ignoring Jamal.

“Well, I’m here. Now what?” Alejandro took a sip of his whiskey.

“I want protection,” Jamal murmured.

Alejandro studied him lazily, like he was looking at a dog he didn’t particularly like. “Why should I help you? You’re not even from LA.”

Jamal nodded. “I know about you, Alejandro. I want to come in.”

Alejandro’s attention sharpened a little, Jamal could see it. Alejandro blinked, breaking eye contact for a moment, then glanced at the woman.

“Clear,” she murmured, hardly any sound to her voice.

Alejandro looked back at Jamal. “Why now?”

Jamal shrugged. “The heat’s getting too heavy in Chicago,” he said. “And I’m not liking where the organization is heading.”

“You don’t like Louis Harcourt, you mean,” Alejandro corrected.

Jamal flushed but held his gaze. “You know I can’t answer that.”

Alejandro leaned forward suddenly, and Jamal froze. “You’ll answer anything I tell you to, Kincaid, you want me to do this for you. It’s not just your life on the line, we do this.”

Jamal swallowed and nodded, throat dry. His palms were sweating but he didn’t want to wipe them on his pants for fear they would see it and understand just how rattled he was.

“I understand,” he said. “I know what’s at stake.”

Alejandro didn’t answer right away, just stared at him. Jamal resisted the urge to look away, feeling like that would show too much weakness.

“What intel can you give us?” the woman asked, startling him.

He transferred his gaze to her, not wanting to speak. He looked back at Alejandro.

“You can answer,” Alejandro told him shortly.

Jamal cocked an eyebrow but looked over at her. “If you know enough about me to know why I’m here, then you know who I have been working with the last four years.”

She snorted. “Working with doesn’t mean you have shit, Kincaid. What can you give us?”

“What can you promise me in return?” he countered.

She shrugged. “Standard protection.”

He looked back at Alejandro. “I have your word then?”

Alejandro shrugged. “You convince me that you’ve got intel worth having, I’ll hide you. The department will hide you.”

Jamal nodded. “Fine.” It looked like he’d get his witness protection after all, and Louis Harcourt would get what was coming to him. Finally.

Now, instead of creating story from the bible, we look at history. We take an event and a relatively unimportant person, and make them play a pivotal role. It gets us thinking about the stories that happen in everyday life, only that “everyday life” happened at a remove of time and space. (Honestly, it reminded me a little of fan fiction, where “canon” is the history itself.)

“The Visit of Pervii Pyotr”*

Mrs. Mary Johnstone, chatelaine and chief servant to Mr. John Evelyn, was not happy. Someone had failed to close the linen closet door tightly and one of the cats had gotten in and gave birth all over the guest sheets. They were the new set, too, with embroidery on the edge in little Lilly Finch’s delicate hand. Lilly would be devastated. Mary didn’t know how to tell her, poor lamb.

“Mrs. Johnstone! Mrs. Johnstone!”

“Tommy Nevil. How many times must I remind you to not run in the house!” Mary snapped, whirling on the boy.

Tommy was running so fast that he nearly tripped over her skirts as they twirled in the hallway. “But Mrs. Johnstone!” he panted. “Please! It’s the Butler. He’s in a right fury, he is, and the hedges are all gone!”

“The hedges…” She glared down at the boy. “Are you telling your stories again, Tommy Nevil?”

“Honest, I ain’t, Mrs. Johnstone! Please! The Butler’s goin’ ter get his horse whip, he is, and there’ll be Hell to pay!”

“Tommy!” she gasped. “You take that back this instant!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnstone, I don’t mean te swear. But please, you have to come!” He tugged on her topskirt, his face shining with sincerity.

“Oh, all right,” she surrendered. She slipped the hall keys back on the ring at her belt and let it fall with a faint clink. “Let’s go see his Lordship.”

Tommy flashed her a guilty grin at her nickname for the Butler and took off down the hallway.

“No running!” she shouted after him.

He skidded to a stop, glancing over his shoulder, and then took off at a fast walk. He disappeared around the corner and she could hear the sound of his running feet out of sight down the next hallway. Then a door slammed to the outside and she could hear his voice in the distance, hollering for the Butler.

Mary blinked as she emerged into the chill morning. The sun shone down on the gardens of Mr. Evelyn and she smiled, heart touched anew every time she saw the view. Then she faltered and stopped, the smile evaporating.

Every one of the hedges in view from the house was…gone.

“Dear Lord,” she gasped, starting forward again. “What in the world…?” She hurried around the side of the manor house to the path that led to the main gardens. The devastation was worse there, two wheelbarrows on their side. One’s wheel lay several feet away, the obvious victim of a collision. An empty whiskey pot lay on its side, broken neck sparkling with the last drops of the alcohol, and she got a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“I’ll kill ‘em!” The Butler was below her, near the barn, a long horse whip clenched in a ruddy fist. “Every last one of ‘em!” he bellowed, stomping up the path toward her. “Out of me way, woman!”

“Simon Kelligan! What do you think you’re doing!” she shouted in her best imitation of Father O’Malley.

Kelligan faltered, but then his face darkened. “It’s nothing for you te worry yerself over, Mary. Out of me way!” He started up the path, obviously expecting her to move, but she held her ground.

When it was clear she wasn’t to move, he slowed and then stopped, staring up at her with a mix of fury and uncertainty on his face. “Mary…”

“You can’t,” she whispered urgently. “The Master will be here this afternoon! What if he hears you?”

“What if he sees that?” Kelligan roared, gesturing with the whip at the nearest demolished hedge. “I’ll give ‘im their heads in recompense!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she snapped. “Embarrass the Master like that. What would your wife say?”

Simon deflated. His arms fell to his sides, the whip dragging on the ground forlornly. “Mary…”

She stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Simon, truly I am,” she told him softly. “But think! The boys will be up soon and if they see you carrying on… Please don’t yell again,” she begged.

He blew his breath out angrily but, thankfully, didn’t shout. “They’ve destroyed Master’s hedges, Mary. Look!”

“I know. I know, Simon. We’ll figure it out, we will. But that Russian is here by order of the King, Simon! The King!”

Simon stared up at the house, furious, but finally thinking. “I swear, Mary. On my wife’s very grave! If he touches another thing, human or inanimate, on this estate…”

“Shh, Simon,” Mary urged. “We’ve already sent the girls away. They’re not interested in boys, thankfully. Just wait it out. When the Master sees, he’ll take care of the problem. But don’t you go gettin’ involved.”

Simon glared at her, but much of the heat had settled in his eyes. He turned and saw Tommy. “Tommy Nevil!” he barked. “I told you to fetch John Murphy, didn’ I?”

Tommy jumped and scrambled back from the Butler, out of range of a drubbing. “Aye, sir, ye did. But he’d’ve boxed my ears for me if I did’na hear tha end o’ this.”

“You little imp…” Simon moved forward but Tommy was faster. The boy scampered away, down the hill toward the house of the Horse Master.

“Oh, Mary,” Simon murmured, tears in his voice. “What are we to do?”

Mary put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “They won’t be here forever, Simon. This, too, shall pass.”

Simon sighed heavily and patted her hand. He turned and made his way back down toward the stable, his steps heavy. He paused on the way to collect two more whiskey bottles discarded by the drunken Russians. Mary turned back to the house to prepare Tsar Peter’s breakfast.

“Please, Lord. Let them leave soon,” she prayed, collecting a broken flagon and two silver spoons lying in the grass on her way back to the house.

*Author’s Note: The term “Pervii Pyotr” is transliterated from Russian, and literally means ‘first Peter.’ It refers to Peter the Great.

I loved this one. The assignment is to look at a bible story and make variations, finish incomplete stories, etc. It comes from Midrashim, which is “the Hebrew tradition of interpreting biblical stories through filling in the gaps.” (Novakovich, Ch. 1) I’ve never even thought of trying something like this, but it was really fun to play with it once I got going. Try it!

“The Wroth of God”

“Is he gone?” The whisper came from behind him, his mule’s bells nearly camouflaging it.

He turned. “Is someone there?”

No one answered for a moment. His mule paced a little, the bell clanging against his chest, and Phenthan stilled him with a gentle hand. “Shh, Boljer.” Nothing stirred on the road behind him. Trees waved in a light breeze and a tall stone pillar, perhaps from some forgotten temple, stood in a lonely vigil over the valley containing the huge city in the valley ahead of him.

He was just about to turn back to the road when he heard a rustle.

“Is he gone?” It was a woman’s voice.

Phenthan looked around in a wide circle but saw no one except the guards at the gates of Soddom, still a heavy walk in the distance.

“I see no one but me,” Phenthan answered. “Where are you?”

A cascade of gravel tumbled toward him from the hill to his left. He turned in time to see a woman shake herself free of a fine white gravel, the rocks and silt flowing from her hair and clothing almost like water. The pillar had disappeared and in its place was this woman.

“Are you a ghost?” he gasped, stepping backward fearfully. Boljer shook his head, bumping Phenthan’s back, his bell clanging softly in protest.

“No!” she cried. She sounded teary.

Phenthan looked over his shoulder at the city gates, but even if he shouted as loud as he could, the guards wouldn’t hear him. He sighed bitterly. This is what he got for traveling alone. He turned back to the woman and watched as she batted at her waist-length hair, a white dust puffing off her skin and clothing.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“My husband left me!” she answered, and then did start to cry. The tears made ugly tracks in the white dust covering her face and she hid behind her hands. “He left me!” she wailed.

Phenthan stepped forward, almost without meaning to. “Don’t cry. I’m sure we can find him.”

Her eyes, large and a dark brown that appeared black in contrast to the dust, appeared over her dirty fingers. “You won’t!” she cried. “He’s with two angels of God. They’re going to destroy Soddom!”

Phenthan felt a chill. “What?”

She looked over his shoulder at the gate and its guards. “We spent the night there, but they wanted to visit with the angels. He offered my daughters…” She kept speaking, but Phenthan couldn’t make out any words among the sobs and wailing.

“So you left Lot, is that it?” he asked, confused.

“No!” she shouted, coming out from behind her hands to glare at him, a faint dust rising behind her. “He took us out of Soddom this morning. The angels said that the men of Soddom were wicked for treating us that way, and for other sins. They will destroy the city!” She looked past Phenthan at the gate. “We have to warn them!”

“Look,” he tried, then stopped. “I’m Phenthan. What is your name?”

She blinked at him, eyes red from the dust. “Ashara.” She had a pretty voice when she wasn’t crying, and her figure under the dust and dirt was comely.

“Ashara.” He felt his face heat. It was a pretty name. He scrubbed his chin, trying to focus. “The guards are worldly men. They won’t believe us if we just barge in there. Let’s sit for a moment. I have water,” he added.

She transferred her attention to him at that. Then she looked down at herself and grimaced. She batted futily at her skirt and a puff of white dust billowed away from it. She looked up at him in disgust. “Water would be welcome,” she agreed.

Phenthan moved up the hill toward her, pulling Boljer along behind. They settled by a short tree, its shade a pleasant respite. He sat down gratefully and pulled his waterskin free of its mooring on the side of Boljer’s tack. She took it gratefully and used a corner of her skirt as a wash rag to clean herself.

A loud boom made them both turn. Boljer woke, startled, his bell clanging mournfully. The ground started to rumble and shake and Phenthan whirled to see Ashara clinging to the tree, eyes wide and terrified.

“What is it?” he cried.

“The Wroth of God! Look!” She pointed a shaking hand at the valley.

Phenthan turned and nearly fell. Flames shot from the city in a wave of destruction. He watched as the gates toppled forward, almost in slow motion, and fell with a huge puff of dust. The sound didn’t reach them immediately, and the fearful crash that did eventually sound seemed tinny in comparison to the scale of the flames. He sank to his knees, stunned.

“I told you,” she whispered behind him. “I told you…”

Phenthan looked back at the woman. He got to his feet, his mind made up. “Come, Ashara. It is a long way to Zo’ar.”

She stared up at him, tears still oozing down her cheeks. “What?”

“This man of yours, this Lot. He could destroy a city and leave you behind? He is no man, Ashara, he is no man to me. Come with me. I will show you my homeland. Let me take you away from this place, this destruction.” He did not add, ‘Let me make you my wife.’ Time would allow him to speak those words, he knew for certain, as sure as the city dying behind him. His gods were not so capricious as this, and he knew a gift from Them when he saw one.

Ashara sniffled but got to her feet resolutely enough. Instead of waiting for him to direct her, she picked up the waterskin and reattached it to Boljer’s tack. She met his gaze with a hint of her own strength. “I will come with you to Zo’ar, Phenthan.”

Phenthan turned and led the way back up the mountain path, Boljer’s bells a cheerful sound behind him.

I have been featuring prompts from Josip Novakovich’s excellent book, Fiction Writer’s Workshop. I highly recommend it, if you are interested in the craft of writing. He demystifies the process of writing, from where to get story ideas all the way through completion of longer projects.

This next prompt is still from chapter one, sources of story ideas. I include these here in the beginning of Mai Madness, partly to show the incredible breadth of ideas available to us within our own lives. Of course, we can stretch and write about “stuff” outside of ourselves – which, as a science-fiction and fantasy author, I do a lot. But the old adage, “write what you know,” applies in many ways – not least of which, to actually write from what actually happened, expand and elaborate.

It’s kinda fun, too.

Mr. Novakovich credits writer-teacher Jim Magnuson for this next one. “Write ‘My mother never…’ at the top of a page, then complete the sentence and keep going. As you write, begin to fictionalize. Construct scenes. Take out sentimentality … and forget it\’s your mother. Take yourself out, too.”

I found this exercise volatile, like handling nitro glycerin. I like the result, in that I surprised myself and was able to come up with a story in response to the prompt; but it was not easy.

“Buttercup”

My mother never understood what it was to be a mother. I think she thought it was like revision in school. You go to the husband-store, get one, then go to the offspring-store, get one (or two, or three), and voila. Insta-family.

She did the best she could with me. She carried me around by a papoose when I was little, because that was “good.” She didn’t breast-feed me, because in the early seventies that was not good, thanks to the Nestle Corporation’s propaganda. My mother was deeply suspicious of the women of La Leche League, so their message went right by her. When I asked her, once, what she thought of feminism, she got angry.

“I don’t want to whine about my lot, honey,” she told me. “It’s more important to me to just do the work. All those women are just complainers. They’re not really workers.”

That didn’t really sound right to me, but at the time I didn’t know how to argue. Now, we have a sign in my company’s lunch room: “In Illinois, a woman makes 71 cents for every $1 a man makes. EQUAL EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITY IS THE LAW.” Guess she was wrong; sounds to me like feminism still has a ways to go.

We got in the truck one day to go in town. A beige Toyota Landcruiser, one of the early models first in this country she would proudly say, it boasted dark brown stripes on the sides and four-wheel drive. Surprisingly comfortable to drive, it wasn’t nearly as tippy as some of the other SUV’s on the road then – mostly Jeep Cherokees and Ford Explorers.

“Oh my God!” she burst out, then started laughing.

“What?” I squawked, coming out of my book with an almost physical sensation of moving. “What’s wrong?” I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and anyway, she was laughing so we couldn’t have hit something.

“Look!”

I followed where she was pointing, but couldn’t see anything on the windshield. After a moment, I realized that was a problem – where was the windshield wiper? I stared for a moment more and saw it, sticking straight out from the front of the car like it was pointing the way to town. “What the…” I didn’t finish the sentence. Swearing wasn’t approved of in the ‘perfect child vocabulary.’

“Buttercup did it!” my mom crowed, eyes merry. She glanced at me. “When she was in the paddock last night!”

“No,” I scoffed, looking back at the wiper. Sure enough, it was mangled all to pieces, unrecognizable. Even the metal frame was warped and bent in several places with what could only be teeth marks.

“I had the rig parked in there all night to get her used to the horse trailer,” she pointed out. “She must’ve decided it would be funny.”

“Yeah, but Mom, that’s on the side next to the fence! How could she even reach?”

“Well, she did,” my mom responded happily, pleased as punch that our horse ate her windshield wiper.

What was worse, the next day at school my friend Sandy ran up to me. “Did you hear the radio this morning?” she burst out breathlessly, interrupting my book.

“What?”

“The radio!” Sandy repeated irritably, pulling my book out of my hands. “Your mom’s ad!”

My heart sank. “What are you talking about?” I tried to put on a brave face.

“Did Buttercup really eat your wiper?” Sandy asked me, laughing.

What was worse, Sandy made sure that everyone in fourth period, fifth, and P.E. all knew about it.

When I got home, my mom was in the kitchen, putting together dinner. As I walked by, she called out. “Honey? Can you do something for me?”

You guessed it. Not only did I have to hear about it all day, I got to replace the wiper that evening.

Buttercup just looked smug.

This is, according to Mr. Novakovich, a fairly easy prompt for his students to write. I didn’t find it so, actually. The prompt is to write about a fight. I did not, in hindsight, pick another person’s fight – I actually do like to write conflict. But trying to write it about something that was related to my own experience was really difficult. I learned about myself in the process, which of course now means that I suggest this to other writers – grin. (I always suggest stuff that I’ve learned a lot from, so there you go.) (Yes, I know prepositions aren’t supposed to end sentences. Tough.)

ANYWAY. Here’s mah storeeeee!

A note on these: they’re not, strictly speaking, “stories.” They’re sketches. I found that doing them was like doing actual sketches as a limbering-up exercise, just like if I were a painter. They really do seem to help. Once I knew I didn’t have to come up with a plot, or a beginning-middle-end structure, it was actually fun to just write what I saw in my mind. That helped me get somewhere and, oddly, led into story. I could use these to continue from. I point that out for those of you that have thought of trying similar prompts but didn’t have an idea for a full-blown story in mind. Just be willing to sketch something and see where it takes you.

Long Highway

The interior of the car pulsed with the rotations of the wheels on the highway, bouncing every-so-often as they went over a pothole. Chicago had two seasons, they say: “Snow Repair” and “Road Removal.” Highway 57 was better than some but still pitted. Difficult winters meant bad roads, there wasn’t really any way to avoid it.

Jenny peeked at Roger as he drove. He still clenched his jaw, giving him a chiseled air. Still handsome, but less approachable.

“I don’t want to fight, Jen,” he startled her by saying. He glanced at her, eyes red.

“I don’t either,” she retorted before she thought, then looked out the window. “It just happens.”

Angry tears leaked down her cheeks in spite of her efforts to keep them from coming.

“Come on, Jen,” he coaxed. “It’s not like it’s a lot.”

“It is too a lot!” she snapped, head whirling around. “It’s not enough that we have to deal with their schedule all the time. You have to stand up to her, Rodge. You can’t just roll over every time she wants something. It’s not fair to us, and it’s not fair to him!”

Roger’s neck flushed and his hands tightened on the wheel. He stubbornly said nothing, his usual pattern.

“Say something, dammit! You always clam up when we try to talk about this!”

“What do you want me to say, Jen?” he shot back.

“That you’ll stand up to her! Tell her that we want Marty for the whole summer, for Christsakes! You wait too long, like you did last year, and it won’t be her fault for not having the time since she will have had to make other plans! We have to tell her now! You can’t keep being chicken about it!” She went farther than she intended, but stared at his profile anyway, seething.

“I’m not being chicken!” he shouted. “You two just keep putting me in the middle!”

Her stomach evaporated and she turned away to stare out the window, crying silently. She wanted to throw up. Bile burned the back of her throat and even her neck muscles cramped. He said nothing, just navigated around a dual-trailer semi lumbering along in the slow lane. He moved in front of it and coasted along at the speed limit, the truck falling farther and farther behind.

“I am not putting you in the middle, Rodge,” she finally told him. “It pisses me off that you would say that. Just because you’re too fucking pansy to stand up to her, and I hold the line on the boundaries, doesn’t mean I’m the one putting you in the middle. She wants what she wants, and you don’t stand up for yourself. How the fuck is that me putting you in the middle?”

He didn’t say anything to that, just drove. She could see his profile out of the corner of her eye, the set jaw and the furious eyes. She turned away, moving in her seat so he couldn’t see her face. If he was going to be like that, he didn’t deserve to see her tears.

The highway stretched on, silent.

Dreams. The stuff of dreams. Dreamlike state. All of these conjure up images, but for each of us, those images are different. Your dreams and my dreams are very different creatures. All, though, are rich sources of material.

The first thing Giselle noticed was the sound. It was everywhere. Loud, like at a concert, but nowhere near as pleasant. The stench of diesel fuel filled the sidewalk, making breathing difficult. She found herself staring, fuzzy-headed and mesmerized, at the engine grate of the bus nearest her. The paint lay thick, gooping over the openings, making the neat lines uneven. The yellow-orange wasn’t quite a natural color, more like a vivid mold than anything healthy.

She looked up at the sky, away from the bus, and found the color of the clouds matched the bus. They lay thick and low, almost close enough to touch. They loomed overhead, stationary, big and billowy like rain or thunder clouds but angry and jaundiced. She shivered. No one nearby spoke, so she sat down on the gritty sidewalk and took out a sandwich. The bologna was boring but familiar and she ate in silence, staring up.

The road made no noise. No cars drove back and forth, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. With the sky the way it was, the blacktop seemed more vivid than usual, the yellow and white lines bright and clear. She craned her neck to see around the side of the school, up the hill toward the cemetery, but no cars came from that direction. Nothing from downtown, either. Not that there was much “town” to be “down,” but it wasn’t ever this silent.

She finished her sandwich and stuffed the empty plastic bag back in her backpack. No teachers stood nearby and, when she looked, the driver’s seat of the bus nearest her was empty. No adults anywhere. She stood and brushed off her pants, removing gravel with her palms and then brushing her hands together. She slipped around the side of the building and took off across the lawn toward the hill, not looking back. No one commented, no shouts interrupted her. She glanced back once when she reached the fence, but no one saw her.

She followed the road as it wound up the hill toward the cemetery. The old Indian graveyard stood off to the side, back from the road, while the White cemetery ranged back and forth along the fence by the street. Marble monuments vied for attention among rows of flowers and manicured, small trees. The Indian grounds, by contrast, were silent. Oaks and several cottonwoods waved their branches among the Indian grounds, the graves silent and unmarked. Giselle wandered in past the small gate that proclaimed “Indian Burial Ground, No Trespassing.”

She found a spot next to a huge cottonwood, its trunk so thick she could barely fit her small arms even halfway around it. She sat down with her back to it, the tree between her and the street with its school and too-silent lack of cars. She pulled out an apple and took slow bites out of it, savoring the sweet flavor.

A sudden flash startled her. She looked over her shoulder and had to squint. The entire sky that she could see glowed argent, hurting her eyes. Her apple dropped to the mulch as she scrambled to her feet and ran toward the gate. She tripped and bounced off of something and rubbed her eyes. Nothing was there.

She took a step forward and ran into what felt like an invisible wall. She hit so hard, and was off balance, that she rebounded and landed on her butt in the leaves and bracken. She got to her feet and tried to step forward again, but she couldn’t pass the gate. When she looked up again, a wave of debris flowed toward her, borne on a wind she couldn’t feel. She gaped a moment or two and then turned to run. She fell over a bush and landed next to her backpack.

When she looked back, in terror of being buried by the wave, she watched it break in two and flow around the gate, missing the entire burial ground. She watched as it went overhead, missing the tops of the oaks and cottonwoods. She could clearly see bits of trees, garbage, even a tire. It all whirled past with no sound, no scent, nothing but the visual. She got to her feet and walked to the gate, stopping short before she reached it. The wave flowed past, unchanged.

She turned back to her pack, bemused, and rummaged. Her can of Diet Pepsi was warm now but she opened it and drank gratefully, thirsty for more than just beverage. She stared up the hill at the steady march of mounds and wondered how far back into the trees the burial ground went. She stood, heaving her pack onto her back, and set off into the trees. As the afternoon wore on, the flow of orange and yellow overhead slowed, but Giselle wasn’t interested anymore. She had a forest to explore.

Memory is a tricky thing. We ‘remember’ events, but our mind can change those recollections so that they have no bearing on fact. Eye-witness testimony, for example, is notoriously unreliable. Three people can witness the same event and have three different stories about what happened. Strange, isn’t it? Yet we can use this tendency for Story.

From Exercise 2, Chapter 1: “Two to three pages. Write down your first three memories. Can you make a story out of any of them? Try. Even if you aren’t sure what you remember exactly, keep going. Imagine that you remember more than you do. Expand and rewrite in the third person and forget it’s you. This could be precious material for you. Renowned psychiatrist Alfred Adler thought that first memories reveal the psychological leitmotif of your life. Objective: To begin to write stories that deeply matter to you.” (Novakovich, Fiction Writer’s Workshop)

Bill arrived home late. He could hear Anne in the kitchen, cooking again. That was all she seemed to do these days. Ironic, really – when they’d moved to San Francisco, they’d tried out all the new restaurants. Seafood, Chinese, French… it didn’t matter. They tried everything to see what was good. He’d gained weight and so had she. But instead of letting that go, or walking more, she got obsessive. Refused to go out with him anymore and stayed home to cook.

It was a good thing she could cook, or things could be a lot less pleasant.

Still, he missed the restaurants. Scoma’s, in particular, was his favorite. A little touristy, down on the wharf just north of Pier 39, it nonetheless boasted some of the best fish in the city, and their Lobster Newberg was to die for. He wondered if he could sneak a visit… He did have a client meeting coming up. Maybe he could convince Johnson to go there with the client for lunch. Lunch wasn’t dinner, by any stretch, but it was at least in the restaurant.

“Hi, honey! I’m home!” he called, hating the trite expression the minute it was out of his mouth.

“You sound like Mr. Cleaver,” Anne complained, coming to the door of the kitchen. “Here, try this,” she ordered, thrusting a spoon full of something white with floaty bits. They jiggled and swooned as the spoon came toward him and he stepped back, purely out of reflex. “Oh, Bill.”

“Well, I don’t want to get it on my suit!” he protested. He came forward again and sipped at the stuff. “This is good!”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised, then,” she snapped and disappeared back in the kitchen.

“What is it?” he called, setting his attaché case on his desk chair.

“Bouillabaisse, can’t you tell?” She sounded irritable.

He sighed. It was going to be one of those nights. “Yes, dear. It’s very good.” He wondered if Scoma’s made it? Then he flushed, embarrassed at the disloyalty.

“Can you take Sam out?” She sounded absentminded and slightly muffled. A moment later he heard the oven door close and realized she must have been speaking into it.

“When did he go out last?” he countered, eyeing the couch longingly.

“A few hours,” she said vaguely, starting the water in the sink.

“Oh, Anne,” he sighed, visions of a nap evaporating. She didn’t hear him over the water. He walked through the office, past the kitchen and up to the gate in the hallway. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam jumped up and down, his back feet stationary while his whole front vibrated. His tail thumped the wall rhythmically and he moved his mouth as though talking even though no sound came out. Bill grinned, the sight of the dog’s antics cheering him. He pulled the leash off the hook next to the dog gate and Sam went wild, spinning in circles. His claws scrabbled against the carpet and his tail wagged hard enough to fall off.

“Sit, Sam,” Bill commanded.

Sam sat, but whimpered in agitation. His fur vibrated as his muscles clenched and unclenched and, as Bill bent over to slip the harness under his chest, he jumped up to catch Bill with his tongue.

“Uch!” Bill responded, wiping his face with one hand while he clipped the harness with the other. “Sit, Sam!”

The dog, never having moved from the sit, wagged his tail harder. Bill surrendered and scratched him behind the ears. “Come on, old son. Let’s get your walk in.”

“Grab the mail too, honey, please?” Anne called from the kitchen.

“What did you do all day?” Bill grumbled, fumbling in his case for the keys.

“What?” she called over the water.

“Nothing, dear!” he shouted back. He winked at Bill and opened the door. The dog, ecstatic, bounded outside.

Another one from Mr. Novakovich. I like this one, because it\’s like painting a picture with words. More like a sketchpad, really; but it helps me to focus my attention on details around me and to realize there are stories always going on, if I pay attention.

From Exercise 2, Chapter 1: “Three paragraphs. When you go out to a restaurant or a bar, jot down your observations in a notebook. In one paragraph, describe a loner’s looks and behavior. In another, a couple’s looks and interaction. In the third paragraph, describe how a waiter or a bartender communicates with the customers. (You could do a similar exercise, jotting down your observations of people in a grocery store or at a street corner). Objective: To gear up your observations of the world around you toward writing.” (Novakovich, Fiction Writer’s Workshop)

He sat alone. Dressed in black slacks and a grey long-sleeved t-shirt, he seemed out of place in the late-night bustle of the diner. Most of the patrons were drunk or had been so at one point that evening. They ate to stave off the munchies and drank coffee in the vain hope of appearing sober. It didn’t work, but the coffeepot was refilled four times in an hour. He just sat there, by himself in a booth that could seat two people side by side, and drank a soda. His food, a cheeseburger and fries, congealed slowly as he ignored it. He watched the people around him – a man and woman, just out of a theater and still dressed to the nines; a group of young adults from the university trying to appear less inebriated than the others; two women having some kind of intense argument at a table in the corner – he studied all of them like it was an assignment, or he was a foreigner, some kind of alien alert for cultural clues. He sat back and cross his legs, one foot bobbing slightly, the Nike logo flashing in the harsh overhead lighting.

There were only two of them, but they gave off enough energy that it could have been several people occupying the booth. The waitress avoided them and, after a while, so did the bus boy as he made his rounds with the coffee and decaf. They bent close to each other, eyes snapping. The one on the left tossed her mane of brown hair over one shoulder impatiently, as though its presence annoyed her. Her eyes, a hazel dark enough to be brown unless the light caught them right, were a little red in the corners and shined a bit with unshed tears. Her lipstick, once pink and bright, had faded and made her lips seem naked in contrast to the green and blue eye shadow and plum color on her cheeks. A necklace with a clear stone hung between her breasts, offsetting her pink dress. She wore no stockings, just pink heels that closed with delicate straps. Her companion wore faded jeans with a white halter top and had short, spiky blonde hair. Her nails were a dark brown and cut short, which just offset the powerful hands. Muscular and fit, she dwarfed several of the men in the dining room – not by size, because she wasn’t all that tall, but in athleticism. Her face, devoid of makeup, glowed with a flush of anger. She gestured as she talked, her hands moving back and forth around her coffee mug.

The waitress moved around the dining room efficiently, collecting a plate here, refilling a water glass there. Her nametag said “Joan,” but she looked like a Marjorie or Louise. She checked her hair and lipstick in the reflection of the silver fridge behind a long counter and slipped a small silver cylinder out of her apron. Her lip color went on smooth, a glossy violet that set off her brown eyes. She fluffed her hair and went back to her rounds. She never stayed longer than necessary to collect orders and check on beverages, there but not there. No one had any time to complain, but no one got to know her, either. The man sitting by himself in the booth made for two watched her, never looking directly at her, but head always turned so he could sneak peeks. She never spoke to him, just refilled his soda a couple times. She avoided a table of two women arguing, interrupting just long enough to get their order and then set it on the table – two grilled cheese sandwiches, fries, and a side of ranch. She didn’t look twice when the blond one dunked the corner of her sandwich in the dressing and took a bite, just refilled their waters and went about her rounds.

Mai Madness!

For those of you who have followed my blog, you know I participated in the March FADness competition last year (Flash-A-Day). The challenge was to writea a story a day, from between 500 and 1,000 words. I had a thought to do something similar this month, and Tilia Linden and I discussed it and she offered to help provide some prompts. I\’m not keeping to the word limit, necessarily, as some stories will be shorter.

So, over the next month, read along as I play with Story and have some fun! If you decide to write your own stories based on the prompts, please provide a link so I can come see!

Enjoy!

Here’s the first one: This is actually based off some work I did with a book by Josip Novakovich, called the Fiction Writer’s Workshop. Excellent book, check it out. This is from Exercise 1, Chapter 1:

“One page. According to Henry James, a writer wrote a novel from a glimpse of a seminary students’ dinner party. Write a scene of a story from a glimpse you have had a group of people – in café, zoo, train or anywhere. Sketch the characters in their setting and let them interact. Do you find that you know too little? Can you make up enough – or import from other experiences – to fill the empty canvas? Objective: To find out if you can make much out of little.” (Novakovich)

Untitled, From the CTA (Chicago Transit Authority, commonly refers to the trains but can also mean the bus service. In this context, it’s the elevated trains)

Bobby ran and blocked the doors from closing. “Come on, guys, hurry up!”

“Please do not block the doors,” the conductor intoned over the loudspeaker.

Bobby blushed and waved at Tammy, Lilly, and Faruk. “Come on!”

Faruk almost tripped coming across the platform and Lilly let out a loud peal of laughter. They all clustered inside the door together, and the rubber edges whooshed shut. The train started with a jerk and Tammy fell against Bobby.

“Sorry!” she gasped, nearly breathless.

Lilly laughed loudly again and flounced across the aisle to the other door. She bounced off the partition and threw her backpack down. “I’m tired,” she announced to the train in general.

Bobby privately felt embarrassed but he didn’t say anything. A businessman standing nearby caught his eye and looked away in disgust. Bobby felt heat flame into his cheeks but he went over to stand by Lilly.

Faruk followed, but Tammy stayed by the first set of doors, staring out at the buildings zooming by. “Wow,” she murmured, mesmerized.

“Tammy!” Faruk hissed, gesturing sharply.

After a moment, Tammy turned and moved over by Faruk. “What?”

“Quit being so obvious!” he snapped.

Lilly laughed at that, startling Bobby. She sank down onto her backpack and Faruk flopped down next to her. Bobby looked up and found a woman dressed in a grey suit staring balefully at them. When she felt Bobby’s eyes on her, she glared at him and the looked back at her book, disapproval on her face.

“Guys, maybe you should stand up,” he muttered.

“Don’t be silly,” Tammy countered airily. “I’m comfortable. Whee!” she squealed as the train went around a curve, throwing the passengers around a little. She fell to one side but caught herself and laughed.

Faruk pulled her upright with a hand on her shoulder and they leaned together, whispering. Tammy stared out the window.

Bobby edged over to the door next to Tammy. “Are you okay?” he murmured.

It took her a moment to look back at him. “Maybe I had more than I should have,” she told him thoughtfully.

“Shh!” he retorted, glancing around to see if anyone was listening.