Heather Hayden's Blog, page 16

Ensign’s Log, Entry 26: Camp NaNoWriMo Results!

If you’ve been wondering why this blog has been kind of quiet for the past month, the answer is relatively simple.

July is host to Camp NaNoWriMo, an offshoot of November’s well-known and well-loved National Novel Writing Month. Although it’s been going on for a few years now, I haven’t successfully participated before, mostly because the past few years I had a full-time job. This year, though, I not only had time on my hands, but also internet access and–most importantly–a wonderful group of writers who formed a cabin with me and a few other friends.

How did it go? I’ll let the following graphic speak for itself:

That’s right I won! Not only that, but our cabin did a spectacular job in terms of cumulative word count. There were late-night word sprints, letters written home to Mom, and end-of-the-line celebrations involving many virtual s’mores.

My word count wasn’t a huge one–unlike NaNoWriMo, you can set your word count goal (minimum of 1k), so I aimed low: 6,000 words, to work on something involved in a secret project I may or may not have mentioned before.

I crushed my project word goal in the first couple of weeks, then went on to more than double that total by the end of the month, working on a separate project (ironically, a novel I once started for an April Camp NaNoWriMo but have yet to complete.)

Did I enjoy the Camp? Yes, definitely!

Will I do it again next year? Quite possibly, if my writer’s group hosts a cabin again. Without their support, I doubt I would have gotten as far as I did.

Would I recommend it to other writers? Yes! The wonderful thing about the Camp NaNos is that they’re flexible in terms of word count. They also occur twice a year–in April and in July–offering different times for people to participate. If Novembers tend to be crazy for you, but you’ve always been intrigued by the NaNoWriMo challenge, I recommend checking out Camp NaNo. Create your own cabin or choose to be sorted into a random one. You can also go at it alone, but I think having cabin mates really helps to keep you motivated and on top of your daily word count goal.

Saturday Shorts: The Pirate and the Barrel

Arrrrr, mateys! It’s time for an amusing tale about a drunk pirate and a magic barrel. I hope you enjoy it!

The Pirate and the Barrel

“Where did I go wrong?” the pirate moaned in misery, looking at the barrel sitting in front of him. To his drunk, slightly fuzzy vision, the barrel looked like a priest, and the pirate was bemoaning his life as he attempted to relieve his aching head by drinking mug after mug of liquid from the keg he sat on. Ale? Rum? Beer? At this point, he didn’t really care what it was.

“I had a ship, I had a crew, I had a girl back home. And all it took was one storm to wash it all away.” He slumped and poured himself another drink. “Now I’ve got debtors up my ass, dead crew down below along with my ship, and a girl who’s probably given up on me and found someone else to take money from.” He sighed. “Life sucks.”

“Yes it does,” the barrel replied.

“I’m hallu- hallu- er, seeing things,” the pirate gasped. “That barrel did not just talk.”

“Actually, I did. A wizard once put a spell on me, back when I was a tree, but I got tired of talking to people, so they thought I died and chopped me down for my wood. It was very painful. But now I’m a barrel, and life’s not so bad. I make a lot of people happy with the drinks I brew. Like that ale you’re drinking now. That’s my own mix.”

“Wow,” the pirate said. “It’s pretty strong, I don’t usually see things when I get really drunk, I just fall down and go out like a light until the morning.”

“Well, my brews tend to help with that problem, but you aren’t imagining me, I’m sitting right here. I’d rock a bit if I could, but that would disturb the brew and I don’t want to do that, it’s at a very important step.”

The pirate nodded. “So, barrel, if you’re real, why are you talking to me?”

“Because you’ll probably forget this conversation by morning anyway, but maybe you’ll remember it feel a little better. Sure, I was mad when they chopped me down and turned me into a barrel dumped me in this dark dungeon away from the sunlight, but I didn’t let that get me down. You know what I did?”

The pirate shook his head.

“I started brewing my own special batches, and then sold them to the owner of this bar in exchange for better living conditions.”

“Doesn’t look like your circumstances have changed much for the better.”

“They have now. You’re going to pick me up and carry me out of here, and we’ll make a better life for both of us. You settle down, make a living with a bar, find the girl of your dreams, and I get a room with a window overlooking a tree. Is it a deal?”

“Sure, why not.” The pirate hiccuped and tossed his mug into the corner. “Come along, little guy.” He scooped up the barrel and walked out, tossing coins at the barkeep on his way for payment. The barkeep apparently couldn’t tell which barrel it was, and the barrel didn’t talk again until they were long away from that bar, and only once they were sequestered in the pirate’s current room in a dingy inn.

“This is going to take a lot of planning,” the barrel said, “but I think we’re both up for it. Are you ready to change your destiny?”

The pirate snored in response, and the barrel sighed, settling down to wait until the pirate woke back up.

Ensign’s Log, Entry 25: More news on the Blog World Tour front!

Earlier this month, my first interview with a fellow fantasy writer went live. Next month will showcase not one, but two interviews! One will be with a fantasy writer, the other will be with a science fiction writer. The latter will be the start of a twelve-month series of interviews with science fiction writers. I will also be interviewed by science fiction writers and will share links to those interviews, just as I will share links to the interviews of me by fantasy writers.

Why didn’t I start the interviews in the same month? Well, it took time to organize the BWT-Fantasy edition, and further time to organize the BWT-Science Fiction edition. Hence the BTW-F starting in July, and BTW-F starting in August.

As an added bonus, I will be using a secret method to determine which day each month to post the science fiction interviews as well. The first commenter who guesses this method correctly will receive a digitally signed ebook copy of Augment (or a voucher for a free digitally signed ebook copy of any novel I publish this year.) And, yes, if you guess both methods, you get two vouchers–but you should really let others have a shot as well. It’s just sporting, isn’t it? (As you can probably tell, I’ve been spending way too much time watching Miranda.)

I hope you enjoy the interviews as much as I am enjoying conducting/participating in them. This is going to be an exciting year!

Saturday Shorts: The Ship

This is a sort of nostalgic piece, one told from a more distant viewer with touches of the characters’ emotions as well. I guess it’s kind of about the inevitability of life, and how things go on, even if it isn’t how you imagine it will be.

The Ship

Bright and sunny, a beautiful morning for her last voyage. Rather than dismantling the queen of the fleet, she was going to be sacrificed to the ocean, given a watery grave, which she deserved for her many years of service.

Men ran about, preparing her sails for the final voyage, then gathered at the rowboat and looked solemnly over the ship. It was a quiet moment, only the gentle chug of water coming in through the hull below breaking the silence, along with the waves knocking gently on the ship’s sides.

The men got into the rowboat and left her behind, moving slowly so as to watch her last few moments, drifting along until she sank peacefully, keeling over and dipping her bow into the water until she dived for the sea floor, her final journey.

Her retired captain, who had come to the shipyard just for this occasion, sniffed and wiped tears from his eyes. No one judged him, several others were lacking in the dry eye department as well. They saluted the choppy water where the ship had gone down, then turned their eyes to the shore and headed back. Yes, she would rest on the floor of the ocean forever, and there be a testament to the many, many voyages she had traveled without once sinking.

The mermaids flitted back and forth around the majestic ship as it sunk. Such a beauty, this one, but without a crew screaming about, they knew it was another skeleton for the graveyard. Nothing to loot from there, but it did make for a nice, if brief, show. They guided it down to a good place, where the ship rested gently on the sea bed. It settled with a careful creaking sound.

The mermaids brought coral and sea urchins, starfish, and other things to begin the population. Soon the ship would have a gorgeous, sessile and mobile crew covering her planks, and she served her final days as the nurturing ground for another coral reef.

Above, the captain returned home, touching the statue of the ship outside his house as he passed it. “Rest easy, my lady,” he said, before going in and hanging up his cap for the last time. He settled down in his armchair and watched the sun move slowly across the sea, imagining that he could see the ship sailing off into the distance, with him at the helm, steering her on into infinity.

The ship settled into her new home with the grace that had kept her going through the stormy seas for so long. Her sails slowly rotted and fell, and her mast hung a little crooked, but still she sat, keel straight, bow pointed toward the horizon, as though just waiting to be set loose on the ocean’s surface again.

Eventually the water nudged her onto her side, but she did not protest, accepting it as her fate, and embracing it, as she embraced her new crew, a flurry of small creatures and the larger ones that hunted the smaller ones. And so life continued, both above and below the beautiful, endless ocean.

Saturday Shorts: The Dragon’s Volcano

Today’s short story is another I wrote a while ago to some long-lost prompt (I think; either that, or it just stumbled out of my subconscious. I’m not sure at this point.) Although it’s long enough that it falls outside of my flash fiction limit of 500 words, it’s over by less than a hundred words. So I’m not entirely sure if I should call it flash fiction, or just a short story.

At any rate, it has a dash of magic and danger, although perhaps not what you expect…

The Dragon’s Volcano

The volcano’s been extinct for years, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t cautious when climbing around the mouth. Deep within its belly slumbers a dragon, and every now and then the dragon will snore causing the ground to shake and gems and gold from his vast store of wealth to tumble up into the sky and fall down somewhere near the mouth of the volcano.

Taking a bit of dragon gold isn’t really stealing, because it was stolen from someone else already. But you have to be careful. It is the ultimate test of bravery, because one wrong move, and you will be plunging down into the volcano and wake the dragon, who will then roast you with his fire. I shudder at the thought, and keep firm grips with my hands as I move my feet up a bit.

Ahead I can see a bit of shimmering gold on the ground, not the biggest nugget I’ve ever seen, but large enough to fill the palm of my hand. The ground shakes with another snore, and the gold dances across the stone, headed for the rim of the mouth again.

I spring forward and snatch at the gold, feeling it brush my fingertips just before it tumbles back into the volcano. With bated breath, I wait for the dragon to stir, but a little bit of gold wasn’t enough to wake it and I move along the mouth again, keeping crouched low, ready to fall to the ground and cling for my life if it starts moving again.

Other children are climbing the rocks around me. We’re all looking for the same thing, a bit of gold, a sparkling gem. The latter is harder to find, because they tend to gather up dust and dirt and look like the rest of the stone around here. But once in a while someone will cheer, and raise such an object up with joy. Then they will dash down to their parents’ house and bestow their mother and father with the gift. In return, they get a special meal, and don’t have to go climbing again for a week.

I usually go climbing every day, whether or not I find something. There is something wonderful, something chilling, about being so close to a slumbering beast whose smallest treasures are so great to the humans cautiously living near its nest.

Most people laugh at me and say I’m being ridiculous for wanting to meet the dragon but I take a lot more risks than they do, venture more closely to the volcano’s mouth. Just once I would like to see that dragon, in all his glory, flying through the sky with shimmering scales. But I know that our village will be destroyed should that ever happen, and so I simply dream, and try not to wake the slumbering beast as I gather bits of treasure from the mouth of its home.

Sometimes, I think I can hear words down below, the dragon mumbling in its sleep in a language that no one human can remember. Sometimes, I imagine I can understand what he is saying.

Author Interview: Shannon Donelson

Today marks the beginning of the Blog World Tour! I’m super excited to spend the next twelve months introducing twelve amazing writers to you!

As an extra bonus for this tour, I’m using a secret method to determine which day each month to post the interview. The first commenter who guesses this method correctly will receive a digitally signed ebook copy of Augment (or a voucher for a free digitally signed ebook copy of any novel I publish this year.)

Today’s interviewee is Shannon Donelson! She writes fantasy (urban and epic!) as well as horror and crime-mystery.

Thank you for being here today, Shannon! My first question for you is: What inspires you to get out of bed each day?

A better question would be “What forces you out of bed each day at 7am with sticky fingers and cries for breakfast?” And of course, children. I have three lovely girls who inspire me each and every day. Getting out of bed to take care of them, going to work to provide for them – are all things that get me out of my bed each day. They are also what helps inspire my writing career. I want to be able to provide the best I can for them, and doing something I love in order to do that is priceless.

One of my daughters is a writer herself, and she is going to start participating in my blog doing Young Adult book reviews. I’m super excited to collaborate with her on the posts. She is my mini-me and growing into a beautiful teenager. If putting my butt in the chair and focusing on my writing can inspire my daughters to do something they love, that’s inspiration enough for me.

That’s the best inspiration, I think. So, what do you write with that inspiration?

I currently have a blog that is fairly new. I write book reviews that omit the fluff and provide an honest opinion. As a writer, sometimes you read things slightly different than your average reader and are able to pick apart things that some people might not have thought of. I enjoy omitting the fluff that some reviews always seem to have, and being honest – even if that means I point out more flaws than praise.

I am currently rewriting my first novel… Well, the first one I have ever finished, anyway. I’ve made several attempts in the past and gave up. This past November I finished and won NaNoWriMo for the first time. I finished the novel from beginning to end. Now I am dong the hardest part – tearing my baby to shreds and rewriting it. It’s been a slow process and I hope to someday have it published – whether I self publish or not. I have plans on turning it into a trilogy, and 2016 NaNo will become book 2.

In between working on my novel, I write a lot of flash fiction. While I haven’t published any of my flash pieces yet, I have participated in many contests, winning a few awards here and there for local writing contests in my area.

Congratulations on your first NaNo win! I love NaNo–it was my introduction into novel-writing and I’m still doing it every year. I’ll see you around there this November! It’s awesome that you write both novels and flash fiction. While writing or editing, do you aim for a set amount of words/pages per day?

The only time that I have set a specific word count was my participation in the few NaNoWriMos I have participated in. I always aimed for 2,000 words a day to be ahead in case something in real life forces me to take a day off.

However, I think it is extremely important to write every day. Whether it takes an hour to get in 200 words, or you fly through 1,000 in the same amount of time – it still needs to be done. If you want to succeed, you have to push yourself. If that means forcing words on a page that you will probably omit later – do it. Although, even on those hard days, there have been times that I looked back and thought, “Hey, that’s actually not half bad!”

I’m the same way when it comes to writing, in that I don’t have a specific word count each day, and I agree that it’s important to write every day. I might not manage every single day, but pushing towards that goal definitely helps! Now for a question just for fun: No spoilers, but – what’s your protagonist’s favorite drink?

In my novel, Immortal Strife, my protagonist favors coffee. It may have been due to the amount of coffee I had to drink while writing 70,000 words in 30 days! But, I also love coffee, flavors of coffee, and coffee shops, so it was an easy thing to write in to my story that had a little part of me as the influence.

My characters have been influenced in similar ways as well. Though more often with tea and waffles… *shuffles questions* The next one’s a bit more serious in nature. What would you say are the main advantages and disadvantages of self-publishing versus traditional publishing?

Since I haven’t published anything yet, I don’t have experience with either way. I have some some of my own research, and with my novel I plan on giving myself a year of submitting, submitting, submitting before I go down a self-publishing route. The reason for this is due to several reasons, most of them with marketing. I have heard from many people who have self-published, that marketing and advertising their books is a long process that takes a lot of time every day. To someone with four kids and a full-time job, I’m not sure if I will be able to market my book the way it should be. If I can get my trilogy published, I may be privileged enough to make writing my full-time job, and the time to dedicate to advertising – and writing.

That makes sense. Marketing is a lot to juggle with writing, work, and family. *glances at clock* We have time for one more question! Another one for fun: What hobbies do you have other than writing?

I am an avid gamer – I play MMORPGs or Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Games. One of the most famous is World of Warcraft – and I was hooked on that one for about seven years. Currently, I play a game called Blade and Soul, which is an anime based combat driven game. One of the reasons I love these games, aside from kicking ass and taking names, is the people you meet. There is always someone new to meet, team up with and accomplish a goal. The goal just be killing this huge dragon that keeps spitting fire at us while running through a dungeon trying not to die – but you need 5 other teammates to help. Sometimes it’s hard and takes hours of practice before you can move on. It’s great!

*high fives* Nice! I’m an avid gamer as well, though my MMORPG days are behind me for now. I do miss running raids with my guild. They were a great group. *clock chimes* I guess it’s time to wrap things up. Thank you so much for being here today, Shannon!

Shannon Donelson lives in a small city outside of Buffalo, NY, where they see snow 99% of the year with blistering humidity the other 1%.  She lives with her husband, three daughters, two cats, two goldfish, one dog and a partridge in a pear tree.

Shannon writes a lot of flash fiction, short stories and recently finished a novel from beginning to end. She loves reading and writing urban fantasy, epic fantasy, horror, and crime/mystery.

Her blog consists of book reviews, writing advice,  and some of her own short stories. She is excited to get the blog ball rolling with a new website and content. Add her on Twitter and say hello!

Magic Monday: Heart of the Winterland by Kristen Kooistra

Today I’m reviewing Heart of the Winterland by Kristen Kooistra, a fantasy novel full of powerful female characters, enchanting scenery, and–most importantly–friendship, and love.

I should note before I go further that I do know Kristen, but this review was by no means solicited–I had Heart of the Winterland on preorder long before its release date because of how intriguing the plot synopsis was, and was downloading and reading it practically at midnight. It was well-worth the wait.

Heart of the Winterland tells the story of Cali, a 200 year old woman who is still quite naive, and her companion Voice, a floating ball of light and magic. It also is a story of Kota, a mute warrior who has fought hard for her current status as captain of Duke Bludgaard’s men. And interwoven throughout the story of the present is a story of the past, one told by Voice, detailing how Cali came to be alone, the only living human, in Tabor, a land that was once green and vibrant but now is a permanent winterland.

I was hooked from the first chapter and devoured the story as quickly as I could turn the virtual pages (traveling necessitated the Kindle version, although sometime I’m definitely getting a hard copy for my ever-overfull bookshelves.)

From the beginning, Cali comes across as naive, though through no fault of her own–until her 200th birthday she was caught in a state of apathy. Only when it breaks does she realize how strange her home is, and that is why she sets out on a journey to find answers. Her enigmatic companion, Voice, travels with her.

Cali and Voice soon find themselves caught up in another’s tale–Angel is pretty, but mysterious, and on the run. She is being pursued by Captain Kota, who is not about to stop hunting the young woman. Throughout the ensuing game of cat-and-mouse, Cali shows real strength and a lot of character, as well as compassion and kindness. Despite her naivete, she does her best to correct mistakes, and is determined to become the ruler her country needs her to be.

I came to like all of the characters, Voice perhaps most of all. The story itself was a tightly woven tale that made me laugh and cry and wish I didn’t have to wait for the sequel. Not that a sequel is needed–this story comes to a satisfying end with a twist or two I didn’t quite see coming (which is unusual…I’m rarely surprised by stories.)

To conclude, I’m definitely giving Heart of the Winterland five stars, and shall wait in great anticipation for the sequel.

Intrigued? Heart of the Winterland is available on Amazon, and learn more about Kristen Kooistra through her blog and her website.

Saturday Shorts: The Story of a Cat, Pizza, and a Fork

Every now and then I dust off old stories to see how they look. Some of them are terrible and shall never see the light of day. Some might be worth polishing up, if I took the time to do so. And others, while never serious pieces, are cute enough that I’m okay with sharing them here. What follows is one such story…

 

The Story of a Cat, Pizza, and a Fork
or
Sash, Cat of a Tractor Trailer

 

Sash, the dark tabby cat, smelled the spicy, savory scent as he walked by one of the large, growling beasts man called tractor trailers. Food, pizza in fact. Good, because he was hungry.

The window was partly rolled down, and the cat jumped from sideboard to hood to mirror. From the mirror it was a quick leap through the opening.

There was a large, thin cardboard box lying on the seat, and Sash nudged it open with his nose. The pizza was only partly eaten, and the tabby pulled a piece onto the seat and began to eat it, only partly concentrating on food, despite his hunger, for he had to be ready to flee if the driver returned.

Delicious and heartening it was, and Sash ate a second piece, then sat, washing his face and paws.

A few minutes later the sound of whistling approached. Sash wrinkled his nose in distaste, for the song was ‘How Much is That Doggy in the Window’. The cat stretched, then waited by the door, ready to jump out when the driver opened the door. A door slammed and a different beast drove away, the whistled tune lost in the roar of its motor.

Sash sighed and stretched again, then curled up in a patch of sun on the passenger’s seat. It was so warm and peaceful, other than the growling of the tractor trailer’s engine. Before he knew it, the cat had fallen asleep.

He awoke about a quarter hour later, when a door closed. The cat shot upright, fur bristling. The driver had already gotten into the truck and closed the door, and now was setting the vehicle into drive. He hadn’t noticed the cat yet, thankfully, but he probably would soon.

The tabby realized that he was trapped when the man rolled up his window. Crouching, the cat slipped onto the floor, almost losing his balance when the beast jerked into motion.

“Can’t imagine it, four restaurants and not a single fork,” the driver muttered. “Blasted truck stops. And no soap in the showers, either. Eh, what was that?”

Sash had emitted a little mew of surprise when a crumpled brown bag was tossed onto the floor, almost hitting him.

The man looked over, then grinned. “Now where did you come from, little kitty?”

Sash hissed and spat, showing his teeth down to the gums. His fur was standing up all along his spine.

“Whoa, boy, I’m not going to hurt you…” The man glanced out the windshield in order to turn onto the highway. “Want some pizza… I see you already helped yourself,” he finished, ruefully, noticing the diminished pizza. “How about some coffee?” He gestured toward a cup sitting in a holder. “You’ll have to come get it, though, I’ve got my hands full.”

The radio suddenly crackled to life next to Sash, and with a yowl the cat leapt onto the seat, growling at the strange, noisy object.

“What, scared of the radio?” The driver laughed. “Foolish cat, it’s not going to hurt you.” He used one hand to take the cap off the coffee cup, set it on the seat, then risked turning his eyes from the road for a moment in order to pour coffee into the makeshift dish. “There you go, drink it if you want.” He took a gulp himself, swallowed with difficulty, then gagged. “Ech, this stuff is disgusting.” He glared at the cup and set it back in the holder. “Let it sit for days, then sell it for two bucks a cup. Cheapskates.”

Sash waited until the driver was watching the road again, then crept over to the cover and sniffed it. He lapped up some of the liquid, then shook his head violently, trying to get rid of the taste.

“Don’t like it either?” asked the driver with a laugh. “I’ll get you some water later.”

Sash curled up on the seat and fell asleep again, having decided that he wasn’t going to be let out for a while.

The truck stopped several hours later.

“I’m going to get lunch,” the driver told Sash. “You stay here, and I’ll have some jerky for you when I get back.”

The cat yawned, then washed his paws, hoping that the man would roll down the window. He cracked it, but not enough so that the tabby could get out.

“Be right back,” the driver said again, then left.

Sash watched as the man walked into the large building, then lay down in the sunlight. Soon the man returned, and set down a small bowl, then filled it with water. The tabby shot to his feet at the sound of splashing, and, after a suspicious sniff, drank the water quickly.

The driver got in and closed the door, then tore open a package of strong-smelling strips of meat, shaking a few onto the seat next to Sash.

“I’m going to have to name you something, kitty,” he said. “I can’t call you kitty all the time.” He thought for a moment, then reeled off a long list of names.

Sash wrinkled his nose at all of them, then leapt onto the dashboard and looked out the window, his tail twitching.

“Hmm. How about Dash?”

Sash’s ears pricked up.

“Dash?” tried the driver again.

This time the tabby’s ears flattened.

“Cash? Flash? Hash? Mash? Sash?”

At the last one, Sash’s ears pricked and he gave a soft meow.

“Sash it is, then.” The driver shook his head. “Awful particular for a cat.”

Sash meowed again, then leapt back to the seat and started eating another piece of pizza.

“Hey, stay out of that!” The man swatted at the cat’s nose. “Don’t eat my pizza.”

Sash hissed.

“Oh, all right, fine. Eat it. You’ve probably got fur all over the cheese by now, anyway.”

They drove on, not stopping until nightfall.

“Well, I’m sleeping here for tonight,” said the driver. “You want to come in, cat?”

Sash meowed in reply.

“Come along, then.” The driver shook his head. “I’m talking to a cat like it understands me. Maybe I really have been driving for too long.” He got out and held open the door.

Sash tore out of the truck like his tail was on fire, disappearing into the darkness.

“Hey, wait!” The driver called, then waved his hand. “Never mind. Ungrateful cat.” Muttering, he locked the truck doors and went inside.

As he opened the store door, a grey and brown streak shot through.

“No animals allowed in the store,” the cashier said.

“He’s not mine…” The driver stopped, because Sash came running back, climbed up the man’s pants and shirt, finally sitting on his shoulder with a light purr.

“Well,” relented the woman. “If he stays there, you can have him inside. Does he have a name?”

“Sash,” replied the man. “Very particular about it, too.”

“I see.” She gave him a quizzical look, then smiled. “He’s a very pretty tabby.”

“Thank you. I don’t suppose you’ve any forks in this place?”

“Of course.” The woman seemed surprised. “Doesn’t every truck stop have forks?”

“You’d be surprised. I’ll buy some.”

So he bought some, and the woman gave him a small package of dried fish for the cat, and Sash purred as he ate a piece of salmon.

The next day the driver left, but not before buying more of the fish.

As they drove, Sash napped for a bit on the seat, woke for lunch, which was anchovy and pepperoni pizza, and to stretch his legs a bit on a romp across the grass of the truck stop’s pet walking green. He then fell back asleep, not waking until the late afternoon.

Yawning, the tabby paced across the seat for a while, then played with a discarded fork, batting it with his paws back and forth across the seat’s covering. Sometimes the driver would offer him a piece of pizza crust, which the cat would sniff, then gulp down. After each crust, Sash washed his face and paws thoroughly.

And that is how Sash came to be the cat of a tractor trailer.

The End, for now

No story is ever truly finished…

Saturday Shorts: Song of the Sea

Today’s Saturday Short is a story I wrote a few years ago for my aunt’s birthday. She loves the ocean, and diving, and I previously wrote her a story about a shark and a mermaid (which might, one day, venture into the public eye as well.) This story is less fantastical, but still seeks to capture our shared love for the sea.

Song of the Sea

It’s been three months since the accident, but Rachel can still remember what her walls look like. Her parents have kept their promise not to move anything. Turning her head, she visualizes the window facing south, surrounded by blue molding and flanked on either side by two large paintings. Replicas of her favorite artist’s work. Wyland has a way of capturing the undersea world in a way that makes her remember her own diving experiences. In one, two humpbacks passing by a coral reef, the other has sea turtles floating above another reef filled with colorful fish. Rachel has never gone anywhere quite that exotic, but she had hoped to, one day. Now, there is no point.

Leaning back and closing her eyes, Rachel lets out a quiet sigh, tears stinging her eyes. That is all they are good for now, crying, and she did it a lot when they first gave her the news. Now she feels resigned, doomed to a life so much different from the one she had planned.

She has to pat down her blankets to find Bubbles. Clutching the stuffed lobster close, she buries her face in his well-worn but still soft body and curls up for a nap. Sleeping and eating, that is about all she has done for the past few months. Music plays constantly from her stereo, to the point it has become more background noise than anything else.

Sound has become her strongest sense since the accident, letting her hear every creak of the house and scratch of branches when wind shakes the tree outside her window. Even conversations on the floor below become something more than mumbles. Rachel knows her parents speak about her condition a lot, and her father has called every specialist in the entire field, but no one can help. The initial surgery failed, all the doctors can say now is ‘sorry’.

Two weeks pass in a blur of sound, and hopelessness, and tears, before Cassandra arrives. Blowing through the door like a tsunami, the five-foot-two brunette storms up the stairs and throws open Rachel’s bedroom door with force enough to rattle the pictures against the wall.

“All right,” Cassandra says, and grabs the girl by the arm, all but dragging her from the bed despite their fifty pound difference in weight and three inches in height. “Enough moping, girl, it’s time to get back in the game. Get dressed.”

Rachel lies on the floor, scowling in the general direction of her former swimming instructor. “Make me,” she snaps.

That is the wrong thing to say. Cassandra unceremoniously searches the closet for a clean set of clothes, then drops them on Rachel’s face. “You have two minutes,” she commands, and leaves, slamming the door behind her. Her raised voice can be heard going down the stairs, calling to Rachel’s parents.

Dressing is simple enough, easy to feel how the shorts and shirt go on, and Rachel has soon replaced her pajamas with what she hopes is a color-coordinated outfit. Knowing Cassandra, it might be orange and purple, but Rachel has no way of knowing. Pausing in her door, she automatically sweeps the room with a turn of her head, but can see nothing but the slowly fading image her mind throws up of her bedroom as she used to see it.

Down the stairs, clutching the newly installed banister, feeling for each step. A few quick strides to the left at the bottom, then her outstretched hand touches the wall and she turns right, following it to the opening that is the kitchen doorway, where she can hear voices.

“Out of the question,” her father is insisting, in a tone she knows all too well. “It’s far too early.”

“Maybe in a year or two,” her mother adds, in a different tone, one that implies ‘never’. “And only if we can be assured of her safety. It’s dangerous enough when you can see…”

“There are others who are blind—”

Rachel bites her lip. That word still makes her flinch, and blink her eyes as though that might dispel the darkness in them.

“—and dive in perfect safety. Rachel has the added advantage of knowing the hand signals already, so she would adjust much faster than someone just learning to dive.”

Rachel’s heart beats faster, and for the first time in a long time she feels a bit of hope. Granted, she knows diving will never be the same if she can’t see everything, but it is more than the sights that first drew her to learn, and she misses the feel of the ocean around her, the whisper of eddies and currents against her body as she swims down. She once told a reporter from the school newspaper, in an interview on diving, that under the water, everything else seems so far away, so trivial in comparison. Peaceful. It is a feeling she misses. The possibility that she might get it back…

“No,” her father says, one short, firmly pronounced word that brings her hopes crashing back to reality. Of course, her parents will never allow it. It took months to talk them into letting her take diving lessons the first time. Now, with her disability—it hurts to even think that word, but it’s the truth—their protectiveness has become even worse.

Cassandra continues the argument a little longer, but it is useless. Her parting words are, “What about what Rachel wants? What she needs?”

Her father’s response: “Her mother and I want what is best for her. She needs rest and time to get used to her new life. What she doesn’t need is you filling her head with hopeless ideas and dreams. I would prefer it if you did not visit again for a while.” Or ever, the words imply.

Rachel’s shoulders slump, and she heads upstairs without even saying good-bye.

More time passes, and finally her parents feel comfortable enough to leave her at home, with strict instructions not to handle anything sharp or attempt to use the stove. They take the spare key and lock the door on the way out, an unspoken command to stay inside.

For the first ten minutes, Rachel has every intention of doing so. Then there comes the knock on the door. It is Cassandra, and Rachel opens the door, stiffening a little when she is immediately enveloped in a hug she isn’t expecting.

“Come with me,” Cassandra says, and leads the way down the driveway to her little car, which purrs as it pulls into the street and heads left. Cassandra lives in the other direction, and Rachel perks up at once.

“Where are we going?” she asks, hardly daring to guess.

“The Y,” Cassandra replies. “Under the circumstances, I’m counting you as a newly hatched tadpole again, which means diving practice in a pool before I throw you off the boat.”

It feels like a dream as Rachel gets into her diving suit. Cassandra helps strap everything on, diving weights and oxygen tanks, checking the hoses and adjusting the mask. Then it is time to feel her way into the pool, moving to the edge until she can slip into the water with a familiar plop. Cassandra joins her a moment later and begins running her through drills. It takes hours to adjust to the new feeling, to learning how to sense direction all over again, and respond to taps on her arm the way she had once reacted to visual hand signals.

Weeks pass by, and Rachel sneaks out as often as possible with Cassandra to continue practicing. Finally, over a month later, Cassandra announces she is ready. They plan to dive on Monday, when both Rachel’s parents work late and Cassandra has the day off from her normal work of teaching kids and teens how to swim and dive. This gives them eight hours. The docks are an hour and a half away, leaving them five hours to take a boat to the closest diving spot, gear up, and dive for a few hours before returning to the dock.

Rachel says good-bye to her parents that morning, trying to hide her excitement as their cars drive off. A few minutes pass, giving her parents a chance to remember something, then Rachel grabs her cell phone and speed dials. Cassandra arrives soon after, her car’s purring engine familiar to Rachel’s ears by now. Grabbing a small bag with a few things she will need, Rachel hurries outside, locking the door behind her. By now she knows the path to the curb perfectly, taking each step with confidence until she nears the car. Holding out one hand, Rachel moves forward carefully until she finds the car’s door, trails her fingers down until they wrap around the handle. A moment later she’s inside and Cassandra is tearing down the road.

“I called ahead,” Cassandra tells her. “There will be a boat waiting for us.” Then she cranks up the music and rolls down the windows. Rachel closes her eyes and leans into the wind, pretending, just for a moment, the darkness is temporary.

But her eyes open automatically when the car rolls to a stop at last, and reality comes flooding back. Without the wind rushing in her face, she can hear the sounds of the docks, more clearly than she ever did before. Chains creaking, sails snapping, water lapping. Human chatter and laughter everywhere, almost overwhelming Rachel, who has not been around many people in a long time. She follows Cassandra closely, one hand touching the woman’s shoulder so as not to get lost.

A few words of greeting with their boat’s captain, then they are on deck and ready to set sail. Rachel is shown to a seat against the rail, and she leans over, feeling the cool mist of sea spray as the boat picks up speed. She can smell the distinctive scent of the ocean, salt and seaweed and fish. Seagulls cry overhead. Out here on the water, Rachel feels alive again.

Suiting up takes far too long for her taste, but at last she and Cassandra are in the water. Rachel treads water while her teacher gives the captain instructions. Finally, Cassandra tells her they are ready. Rachel feels almost nervous as they begin their dive.

Once they are underwater, though, her fears fade away. Sound is suddenly dulled, and Rachel follows Cassandra, one hand on her teacher’s tank. They take their time on the descent. Once they reach their target depth, Cassandra levels out and allows Rachel to move away a little, though she stays close. Rachel rolls, feeling the resistance of the water, the light pressure from their depth, the familiar twist of her flippers as she kicks gently to right herself. For a moment she feels whole again, no sound or touch or warm sunlight on her skin to remind her of the truth.

Then it comes. A soft vibration, almost imperceptible at first, but increasing until Rachel can feel it shaking her bones. Startled, she reaches out, and Cassandra grasps her hand, then taps her arm in a quick pattern. But even before she is finished, Rachel knows what the source of the disturbance is. She and Cassandra had chosen this dive spot years ago, because it was known to have occasional passersby, rare but beautiful creatures. Whales.

Closing her eyes, Rachel lets the music shake her to her core until it fades again, all too soon. She can feel tears dripping down her skin, and knows her mask must be fogging, but it doesn’t matter. Without sight, the mask is useless, anyway. More than anything, she wishes she could have seen them, floating majestically by, oblivious to the presence of the humans. Or perhaps they did notice them, even glanced their way. Rachel can almost see the large eye, surrounded by wrinkled skin, peering deep into her soul.

There is no way of knowing that in a few years, a new scientific breakthrough in the medical field will result in treatment for Rachel’s condition. Upon regaining her sight, she will travel the world’s oceans, searching for whales and doing everything she can to study and protect them.

What Rachel does know, however, is that she will never forget this moment. No matter how many times she will spot a whale breaching, or swim past a cow and her calf, or watch orcas hunt, this encounter will always be the most meaningful.

She will never forget the day she heard the whales sing.

Saturday Shorts: Stars

I guess you could call this a free verse poem… It’s from a time when I dabbled in poetry, probably one of the few ones I actually ended up liking how it turned out. And even now, I still think it’s a bit rough… But then, most of my poems are.

 

Stars Above and Below

 

Twinkling above the world, distant and cold

I would like to see what you are watching

On the ground far below, where we all dwell

Are you wishing to look up as I do?

 

From down here I can see the entire sky

Perhaps you see the same or maybe not

Is it your reflection that holds your gaze

I could watch your sparkling forever

 

But as the dawn draws shut the night’s curtain

And sends you to sleep in that vast expanse

You still look down, upon unknowing heads

Knowing you will soon draw their eyes again