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The shattered world in their eyes
I’ve had a lovely, relaxing day with family and friends.
Jumping right in, this is for the same story of the last several days:
They’re all the same, the parents who come here. Terrified, desperate. Going in there’s hope, however great or small. Coming out, the lucky ones are relieved, whatever price they’ve had to pay steep, frightening, but better than the alternative. The rest, though, you can see the shattered world in their eyes.
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Blood and stitches
Safely at my brother’s. It was a slightly longer than usual drive, with a minor accident causing the longest slowdown.
Another (very short) snippet from this story that’s still formulating in my head:
People used to take out loans for houses and cars, now they take them out for blood and stitches.
I’m tired so that’s it for tonight.
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Meaningless paraphernalia
I’m visiting Fresno this weekend. Between laundry, dishes, packing, and cleaning, I haven’t had time to settle on the point of view I want to tell my story from. It’s either going to be the mom’s, or the person who approaches the mom. I’m leaning toward the person who approaches the mom.
There’s also been no editing of a chapter in my novel tonight. Adulting takes altogether too much time. I like fantasizing about having enough money to pay someone to adult for me. All I have to do is write a bestseller. A solid business plan if ever I heard one.
This is a snippet of a possible scene from this story:
I frown at the mix of meaningless paraphernalia and pragmatic prose. How does it work? By all rights it shouldn’t. It doesn’t form a whole. It doesn’t form anything. It must be a trick. A front to cover what he’s really doing. But then where are the real ingredients, the real incantation?
“So you’re still a beginner, then.”
Before I can turn my bristling pride into words, he waves a dismissive hand and continues. “I was too, at your age. So caught up in the rules and metrics. Some are always beginners. The rest… Well, it takes a while for people to believe their own words may be powerful.”
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Around the corner or his mom wouldn’t let him
I just got back from seeing the Doctor Who season premiere in the theater. It was my second time seeing the episode, and the others seemed to enjoy it. There was clapping at the end.
As such, I don’t have as much time as normal tonight. It’s time for bed so I can go to sleep and get up early to exercise.
Yesterday’s short story idea has stuck with me. I’m considering telling it from a different point of view. Here’s a new First Sentence based on that idea
It’s an accident. It always is. The boy is walking home after school. A short walk, just down the street and around the corner or his mom wouldn’t let him, would insist on picking him up. Driving is its own peril, though, with such strict taxes imposed for misuse. A distance like that might not be enough for a permit. Maybe she would walk him home, if only there were time with her job.
It’s seeing a dog down the road that starts it. The boy loves dogs; he rushes to pet it. The golden retriever runs, and in trying to catch up the boy scrapes his side against the bark of a tree. Barely a scrape, really. But it’s enough to draw blood.
I open my eyes and blink the vision away. The flame of my single candle comes into focus. I have time to prepare. It will happen this afternoon and three days will pass before his mom finds
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My world falls silent
This morning I thought of an idea for a First Sentence. By the time I got home from work it had turned into an idea for an entire story that I’m really tempted to write. I’m also really hesitant to start it. The Way of Attrition started out as a short story called the Chosen. Over five years later, I just finished editing Chapter 4 (again).
I’m also tempted to (after outlining it) write a little bit of this story every day and post it as I do. This would be completely new for me. My stories can change a lot in the writing and I’ve never shared them with anyone until well after having a complete draft. What do you think?
Here’s the First Sentence:
Everything stops when I see the blood on Joshua’s sweater. It’s inside, where the cloth would touch his right side. My world falls silent. The TV is on, a pot of soup is simmering on the stove, and the heater is running, but all I see is blood and all I hear is the whine of my terror.
My hands are shaking. “Joshua,” I try to yell his name but it’s half strangled.
Joshua hears me anyway, comes to stand in his bedroom door. “Mom?”
I hold up the blue sweater so he can see the blood. It’s not a lot; it doesn’t have to be. “Show me.”
