Short Story 4: Social Networking

All the pictures of Claire’s children were blurry and grainy from being taken in an artificial light. Sandi had forgotten how many times she had clicked through them, her face inching so close she left patterns of breath on the screen. She tried to pick out facial characteristics she might recognize. Even a smile would have encouraged her. But there were no smiles, only glassy-eyed children in pajamas. Did Claire’s children own anything except pajamas?

Sandi drew her favorite robe with its threadbare satin more tightly about her.

“All right,” she said out loud to the empty house. “It’s time. I’ve waited long enough.” She brought her flat palm down on the desk, so the laptop rattled.

It wasn’t easy to find Claire. Not that Sandi was well-versed in tracking people. She’d tried a Google search, but it turned up nothing. Probably because Claire’s last name wasn’t what she said it was. Maybe even the location she had listed on her page wasn’t true. 

Sandi wasn’t sure if Claire would know the truth if it wrapped around her neck and strangled her. 

But she had to try.

She pulled up a different screen, slowly, methodically. The laptop had been a gift from her lawyer son. She was still working out how to use it. 

Dear Claire, she typed. 

Even with these new-fangled social networking systems, she believed in writing a letter properly. She would have preferred a real letter, written on some of her floral note paper with her own fountain pen, but she didn’t have an address. 

Send me your address, or a phone number. I wonder about you every day. I see you’re living somewhere else with a new family, a new life. 

She typed Please let me in, then erased it.

She finished cordially—

Love always,

Mother

And sat back with a puff of pent-up breath to await a reply. 
 

Thank you to Sandi for the three inspirational words she left for me on facebook: puff, artificial and satin. If you're wondering why I'm writing short stories, click here.

Short Story 3: The Albatross

“Run!” Danny cried. “Faster!” Laughing, they burst hand-in-hand through the greenhouse double door flanked in the tall Umbilicus rupestris. Jacqueline chose to call flowers by their scientific names. She found the Latin more euphonic.

Inside was luscious and warm. Danny’s arm swept out. “Here it is, what do you think?” 

He removed her hat and coat, and handed them to the waiting butler.

“How did he get here before us?” Jacqueline was still catching her breath.

“Oh, this place connects to the house through the back. Sometimes I’d rather not go outside. Other times, I’d rather.”

Jacqueline wondered what other girls he’d brought the long way. He didn’t know her at all. The only reason he was with her now was because he thought she looked like someone famous. Jacqueline accepted this fact. 

She was quite prepared to have a nice time. Danny was friends with Natasha and Jacqueline adored Natasha. She was determined to flirt and eat caviar and go home fatter than she had come.

There was a chaise lounge and a billowy chair in a clearing amongst palm trees. Danny took her hand, telling the butler to bring out truffles and champagne and the gramophone. 

He set her on the lounge and lowered himself to the brick floor to remove her shoes. She was glad she’d worn new stockings. Most of hers had holes in the toes because she always wore her shoes half a size too small. 

“Nice legs.” He straightened as he said it.

She tucked them under her skirt, out of sight. She wasn’t here to do anything foolish. Just a little wine, a little dancing, then home again to real life. The life she lived with her mama on the third floor of a brick building with no running water.

How did a girl like her end up in a place like this, with a man like Danny?

It was all Natasha, who never quite told a lie, but bragged about her friends. “You should meet my friend, Jackie. She’s the spitting image of Betty Grable.” It was nothing but pity, really, but Jacqueline didn’t mind.

“I’ll teach you to eat a kumquat,” Danny said, crossing to a large tree in an enormous Chinese pot. He plucked the fruit and held it between thumb and finger. “First you massage it, like so. Releases the essential oils….”

Jacqueline knew all about kumquats. She’d eaten them by the boatload on her trip to the Philippines when she was sixteen, before her father died. But Danny didn’t know that.

“Then you pop it in your mouth, all at once.” Danny chewed slowly. “Want to try?” He produced another from his palm.

“No kidding,” Jacqueline said. “The whole thing?” 

Danny watched her chew. Jacqueline covered her mouth with her hand.

“What’s the bird’s story?” Because it was something to say, so he’d take his eyes off her.

“Oh that?” Danny said. “An albatross.”

She already knew it was an albatross. She’d been on enough ships in her lifetime, made friends with enough captains who’d pointed out the great birds wheeling through the skies. Set on a pedestal amidst a patch of Vanda coerulea, or blue orchids, this stuffed version looked as if he were about to dip into the puddle of flowers.

“I brought that one down myself,” he said. “They’re good luck, you know … Truffle?”

The butler had reappeared, phantom-like.

“From Switzerland.” Danny held out chocolates in a gold, gilt box. “Take one.”


Thank you to Jacqueline who gave me three words (through facebook): albatross, kumquat and umbilicus. Wondering why I'm writing short stories? Click here.

Short Story 2: balloonMan

I actually talked to Professor Malk after class, told her I didn’t want to be paired up with Marvin. I didn't say it in so many words, but I don't like the look of his bald, black head or his bugged out eyes. Plus, he’s really old. Like, probably in his sixties.

Professor Malk says he’s a mature student and I should have an open mind. I don’t know why mature people get so excited about a degree. College is about so much more than classes.

I flip open my text book. Let’s get this over with.

“Your name is Elizabeth?” Even the way he says my name is weird—with an “o” in the middle instead of an “a.” 

“Beth.”

This library cube smells of whiskey. Or maybe it’s me. But all I drank last night was beer. I think.

“My gran’s name was Elizabeth,” he says. 

“I’m just Beth.”

He shifts forward, steepling his fingers. “Poetry today. Cummings does not like to use capitals. Except for the word ‘Just.’ Why only the word ‘Just’?”

“Let’s stick to these questions.” I tip my paper forward. “Number one. ‘Does [in Just] remind you of your childhood? Share with your partner.’”

He purses his lips. “We did not have balloonman when I was a boy.”

“No kidding.” They probably were still inventing the wheel when Marvin was a boy.

“But on Saturdays when I was a child….” He rubs his papery palms together. “…My mum used to say, ‘Marvin, run to Malita’s’—we always bought from Malita. Never any collywaddles after Malita’s—‘and get enough for everyone.’”

I wait. “Enough of what?”

“The pudding and souse.” His smile is wide, a flourish of white teeth.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s Bajan fare.” 

 “Cajun?”

“No. Bajan, from Barbados. This is where I come from.”

“Oh.”

“So I dance all the way to Malita’s house with the pudding tin, just like these children.” He points to the textbook. “This feeling of excitement. I can relate to it.”

“But in the poem the girls were the ones who danced and the boys ran.”

“I danced.” He scrapes his grizzly chin. “There is no spring in Barbados. I came to America to understand spring. Understand how lovely it can be, to see the earth revive after winter. There is … nothing like it.”

My notebook page stares blankly. Am I supposed to write this down?

“But really, I think this poem is nothing but taradiddle.”

“Taradiddle?”

“Pretentious nonsense.”

“Oh.”

“Because she ends the way she does—with balloonMan, using a capital at last, as if to say she knows … she knows….”

“Knows what?”

“That we’re left out of this.” He cups his hands around something invisible. “This world of hers. A world without balloonMan.”

“But you had pudding….”

“Yes.” His smile captivates me. “I had pudding … and souse. What did you have, Elizabeth?”

Thank you to Beth for her inspirational words: tarradiddle, collywaddles and Bajan. If you're wondering why I'm writing short stories, read this post. And if you'd like to read the e.e. cummings poem discussed in this story, it's here.

Short Story 1: Gilda's Wedding

It was the day of Gilda’s marriage. Mother dressed me in my Communion dress and set me in a corner so Martha could tie the ribbon in my hair. She didn’t care that Martha pulled hair. Too wrapped up in getting all the flowers ready, wagon loads of flowers scattered over the dining room table.

Uncle Tabby came in, sniffed the air and said, “Smells like a funeral .” Then he grinned, gold tooth flashing. Though I was in the corner wriggling, he flipped me a nickel. 

He looked handsome, hair slicked back fine, pin-striped suit and bowler hat, a stiff white hanky folded in his pocket. I always thought Uncle Tabby was handsome, even if Mother said he associated with the lower sort—bootleggers and ladies in feather boas. 

I squirmed under Martha’s pinching fingers. “Almost done, Carrie-Anne!” she cried. “There!” 

Free at last! I clattered across the dining room floorboards into the hallway (my Sunday boots made the best kind of noise) and sped downstairs to the shop to spend my nickel. 

Nobody was there but me. Everyone was wedding mad, even Florence and Binny and Mr. Tulane. But the emptiness didn’t take away the good smellingness—maple syrup, cherry medicine, cinnamon and peppermint sticks. Behind the shiny counter were tins of biscuits, tobacco tins, and a glass jar of hydrophosphates Martha used for polishing our silver. Mr. Tulane kept scarier things, too, hidden in back—a whole lizard suspended in formaldehyde and a big cat, stuffed, he shot himself in Tunisia. When John-boy was alive, we’d sneak back to peek, though if Mr. Tulane’d caught us he would’ve whipped us, and then let Mother take a turn after, too.

I popped the lid off the peppermint jar and slid my hand in, found the thickest two sticks and folded them in my hanky. One for me, one for John-boy, though he was dead. Only when they were concealed in the pocket of my dress did I slide the nickel across the counter. It scraped, reminding me it was going, like it didn’t want to leave.

With the scrape of that nickel, Mr. Tulane seemed to say, “You’ve been a good girl, and today’s Gilda’s wedding. Go on and take the peppermints. Don’t worry about the nickel.” But I wondered if it still counted, him not being there to tell me in person. 

The peppermint sticks were already in my pocket. Even if he arrived right that moment, he wouldn’t see them. And nobody counted the peppermints in the jar. It wasn’t real stealing taking what nobody would miss.

I reached across the counter and snatched back the nickel.

On the stairs I ran into Binny, bounced off her like hitting a pillow.

“Well, where’re you going so fast, Miss Carrie-Anne?” 

“Up to my sister’s wedding.” 

“Well, aren’t we all, but—”

I didn’t let her finish. I raced up the stairs. If it’d been Mother on the stairs, she would’ve yelled, “Horsefeathers!” and pulled me by the ear. But Binny’s nerve was about as soft as her belly and she let me go with a shake of her head.

Mother was in a greater flurry upstairs. “Mr. Connor is late with the motor!” 

Uncle Tabby sat in a gilt dining chair, one leg folded over another, picking his nails. “You could use my motor, honey. You know it. Now stop acting like a half-baked xanthochroid and take me up on the offer.”

Mother’s heels dug into the carpet. “You know how I feel about your motor.” 

Tabby shrugged. “Just saying, it’s there for the taking.” 

My hand was in my pocket, my finger tracing one smooth stick of peppermint. Occasionally it’d brush Tabby’s nickel and remind me how rich I was. “I’ll ride in your motor, Uncle Tabby.”

Tabby pulled me onto his lap. He smelt of chewing tobacco and liver oil. “That’s my big girl.”

Mother bristled. “Tabby, you’re lucky to be invited to this wedding at all. Now you behave yourself.”

“What am I doing?” Tabby cried. “Enjoying my niece is what I’m doing. Of course she can ride in her favorite uncle’s motor car. It’s mine fair and square.”

Mother muttered something but didn’t argue. Tabby’d won this time. Now I’d get to ride in Tabby’s Continental. 

“You’ll sit up with me, like a queen, all right, Carrie-Anne?”

I nodded and Mother blew out her breath. 

A horn blared from the street. 

“Mr. Connor!” Mother darted to the window. “Oh, thank God.” She crossed herself. “All right, Carrie-Anne, help with the flowers. Martha!”

We’d almost finished loading and I’d only spilled one vase of water onto the carpet, when Binny came hovering at Mother’s elbow. Tabby’s motor and Gilda’s wedding went out of me in one big whoosh. The peppermints in my pocket stuck out at odd angles and the nickel gleamed through the thin material of my dress like one of them lighthouses down by the pier.

“Mrs. Jaspers, I know this is not the most convenient time, but could I…?” Binny’s voice trailed and I hated her for it.

“What is it, Binny?” Mother was always gentle with Binny, because Binny wanted to be married but couldn’t, and Mother felt sorry.

“In private?” Binny scooted towards our house steps.

The nickel burned my fingertips. Maybe if I took the peppermint sticks out real slow, I could drop them in the gutter without Mother seeing. Maybe a motor’d run over them and crush them to smithereens and nobody would know what an evil girl I was. 

“Ready for that ride?” Uncle Tabby scooped me in his arms like a baby.

“Just a moment.” Mother raised a finger. She and Binny were speaking in voices too low for me to hear. “Carrie-Anne, Binny would like a word with you. It’ll only take a moment.”

I would’ve liked Uncle Tabby to bear me away in his strong arms. I would’ve kissed his handsome cheek if he had. But he set me down on the pavement and said, “Oh, a secret meeting. Titillating,” and winked at Binny. 

She took my hand, cheeks flaming, and marched me down the stairs. My knees wobbled when I saw the peppermint jar with the lid off.

I reached into my pocket to give up the peppermint sticks and the nickel,  my tongue sizzling with the apology I’d have to say and all the Hail Marys later. 

Binny rummaged in the jar and pulled out two peppermint sticks. She held them out.

“It’s your sister’s special day, isn’t it, Carrie? I know how much it must hurt not to have John-boy here. I thought a peppermint might help. One for you, one for him.  But you know, you can eat his for him since he’s up there eating angelic ones.” 

I took the peppermint sticks. 

I took them and shoved them in my full pocket, though I’d never eat peppermint again, not ever, as long as I lived.  

Thank you to Carrie-Anne for the three inspirational words for this story: hydrophosphates, xanthochroid and horsefeathers. If you're wondering why I'm writing short stories, click here.

Bringing Back: A Story A Week

Today I finished up a draft of my new book and sent it off to a critique partner. SO EXCITED. Writing this book was like being dragged behind a semi on a gravel road. Editing it, on the other hand, was a leisurely swim in a warm pool on a sunny day. But none of that matters now because I'm FINISHED and it's out of my hands for a couple weeks.

Now that it's gone, I faced this evening with mixed emotions. My kids are in bed, my husband is working feverishly toward a deadline, and I ... have nothing to work on.

**PANIC ATTACK**

Just kidding. But I do want to use this time productively. So I have a plan.

Eons ago, I had this little segment on my blog called A Story A Week. It was a challenge to myself to write a short story every week for an entire year. And you all helped me by giving me inspiration.

You left three interesting words in my comment section and every week I used all three words from one comment in a story.

It was fun and challenging.  Not to mention, it helped my writing improve.

So, for the next few weeks until I hear back from my CP, I want to be busy flexing my writing muscles with short stories. Can you help me? Leave three interesting words in the comment section and I will write a story using them. I'll write more than one story a week this time, but I'm not going to promise any specific number. I'll write stories in the order the comments are received.

Oh, and I almost forgot! If I use your three interesting words, I'll name one of the characters in the story after you. Sound good?

Don't be shy! Leave me three interesting words in the comments so I can get to work. Thanks in advance for the help!

Winner! ... and a Tension #WritingTip

First and foremost, Janet and I want to congratulate

Susanne Drazic

on winning our ice cream contest giveaway!

*WILD APPLAUSE!*

Congratulations, Susanne! You can email me (a2sonnichsen (at) gmail (dot) com) or Janet to claim your prize. You can choose two 10-page critiques -- one from each of us!-- or a gift card to buy books. 

I thought today it might be fun to share some writing wisdom I learned at the recent SCBWI Western Washington conference last month.

I went to a session on pacing ... and we talked about tension.

I went to a session on plotting ... and we talked about tension.

I went to a session on characterizations ... and we talked about tension.

*Personal share alert* With my last book (which is now shelved) I got a Revise and Resubmit from an amazing editor who said I needed to work on PACING.  

So, I worked on pacing. I cut out more than a thousand words that I thought might be unnecessary. I made sure I was jumping into the middle of scenes instead of meandering my way into them. I mistakenly thought that's all pacing was--making sure your story flowed smoothly.

Don't get me wrong, these measures did improve my novel, but, when I heard back from the editor after resubmitting, her response was the same. There was still a pacing problem, dang it!

So, how thrilled was I to arrive at this conference and find such an emphasis on pacing in so many of the sessions I attended? (Answer: incredibly thrilled!) And I learned something that may be old news to all of you, but was new news to me: Pacing is set by the amount of tension on each page.

Now I'd heard about tension and I'd heard about pacing, but I'd never put the two together.

The more you increase tension, the faster readers will turn pages. 

Lower tension = a slower read

Lit agent Abigail Samoun talked about identifying the master tempo of your story on a scale of 1-10.

1= Tortoise slow

10= Hare fast

Few stories will survive at a master tempo of 10. Probably even fewer stories will survive with a master tempo of 1. Most of us write somewhere in the middle. While the tempo goes up and down, depending on the scene, we have to be aware of our master tempo. We also have to be aware of the doldrums in our books, the places where the tension drops below our master tempo for too long. These are the boring bits, where readers are likely to put our books down and never pick them up again. 

Author Robin LaFevers suggested assigning each scene a tempo number and then plotting those numbers on a graph to identify the slow points in your novels. 

Remember, low-tension numbers aren't always bad. Sometimes our readers need a breather, especially in a fast-paced book, to get their bearings and connect to the characters more deeply. What we want to avoid are those spots (saggy middles, anyone?) where we write scene after scene of our characters experiencing little or no tension.

A few tension killers:

• Description
• Backstory (Challenge: try taking all backstory out of the first 50 pages of your manuscript)
• Character sits and thinks

A lovely environment for tension:

A DIFFICULT DECISION: when a character is of two minds. Tension festers well in a complicated problem ... and that's GOOD!

Now repeat after me: I will add more tension to my novel. I will add more tension to my novel.

Any other thoughts? Was any of this new or striking or am I just repeating the same old, same old?

The Decision (And a Mother's Day Bonus!)

We tried.

You tried.

But the consensus? It was just too close to call.

We can't tell who ate more ice cream!

Besides, it's like Theresa Milstein said in her comment on Janet's post, "How can anyone lose in a game of ice cream?"

I also agree with Andrea that NEXT TIME (because of course there will be a next time!) we will have to have a couple of those mail scales on hand so we can weigh the ice cream and decide that way. OR, as Julie suggested, we could just eat the entire pint and see who finishes first. (*groan*) Yes, next time we'll be smarter.

Either way, our lack of a decision is still GREAT news because now everyone who voted for either person will be entered in the drawing! Hurray! *throws pints of Ben & Jerry's*

We'll announce the winner Monday, so be sure to come back to find out if it was you!

As a compensating bonus today, even though it's post-Mother's-Day, I want to throw a funny video at you that my friend, Hersha, helped produce (her sister is the star & she has a cameo appearance). You probably already know (because it says so in my bio off in the side bar) that I grew up in Hong Kong. This one's set in Hong Kong, and even though there are several snippets of this video that make me want to rip my eyes out with homesickness (I know that's weird, but it's one of the downsides to being a Third Culture Kid), the mothering aspect applies to moms anywhere in the world. Even if you're not a mom, you'll enjoy it!

Happy belated Mother's Day! (And don't forget to check back on Monday to see if you won our celebratory giveaway! Yeep!)

Help Needed! Ice Cream Eating Contest in Jeopardy!

We did it.

We came.

We saw.

We got on Skype at the same time (even though my mic was broken so I had to talk to Janet on the phone).

We even had the same kind of ice cream.

And our nine-year-old boys STUFFED OUR FACES.

Here's my video evidence of the grand competition:

But we have a little problem. Janet and I are in grave disagreement about who WON. Janet says I ate the most ice cream. I say she ate the most ice cream. We need your help.

Who ate the most? Watch Janet's video here and leave a comment with your decision on one of our blogs. We'll add up the votes to see who YOU think ate more, Janet or me. Then we'll draw the name of the ULTIMATE WINNER of our blog competition and announce it next Monday (find out what the awesome prizes are here).

Please give it up again for our FANTASTIC FRIENDS who are signing left and right with literary agents and editors at big houses. We're so, so, so proud of and happy for you ... which is why we were willing to embarrass ourselves in this way.

SO. Who's the ice cream-eating champ?

Celebration Time ... with Janet and Ice Cream!

Celebration time, come on! *dances*

Why am I celebrating you may ask?  There are so many reasons!

One of our very own members of the Hacky Sack Club, Melissa Sarno, just SIGNED WITH AN AGENT!!, so head on over to her blog and read about it!

(Note: New members to the Hacky Sack Club are always welcome and we DO seem to have some good mojo going. Just saying.)

Also, my fabulous CP, Krista Van Dolzer [of Mother. Write. (Repeat.)] announced the BOOK DEAL she just signed!!

AND ... I'm a little late celebrating this news, but it's still as exciting as ever ... another one of my fabulicious CPs, Kristin Rae, has a TWO-BOOK DEAL of her very own!!

These ladies are amazing and are some of my dearest online writing buddies, so another dear writing buddy, Janet Awesome Johnson, and I couldn't go without hosting a HUGE celebration in true Hacky Sack (read: embarrassing) style.

And since all good celebrations need ice-cream, we are having an Ice-Cream Eating Celebration Contest!

Here's how it works:

Janet and I are going to battle it out to see who can eat the most ice-cream in 20 seconds. Too easy, you say? Our 9-year olds are going to be the ones stuffing the ice-cream in. Still too easy? Another child will hold our hands behind our backs to keep us from cheating.

And you'll get to see the whole thing on video!! How cool is that?!

BUT, it gets better. There will be PRIZES!!

All you have to do is guess who is going to win. Me? (if you're smart) Or Janet? (no. freakin'. way.)

Everyone who guesses right (on either blog) will be entered into a drawing for your choice of

a)       10-page critiques from BOTH Janet and me,

OR

b)      Surprise Package D (gosh I love me a surprise package). Could be a book. Or two. Or a gift card. Or, who knows? Maybe even A BRAND NEW HACKY SACK! *the crowd goes wild*

Just post your guess in a comment before the deadline on Sunday, May 12, midnight EDT, and come back next Monday, May 13^th, for the ice-cream eating event! Winners will be posted shortly thereafter.

So go on, take a guess!

I hope THIS photographic evidence helps you decide. Because I am an ice-cream eating MACHINE and Janet doesn't stand a chance.