Scott Tracey's Blog, page 17

Short Fic – That Night

And on the eighth day of junior year, a swarm of grief counselors descended upon Rocky Creek High School.  Not that it was going to do any good.  What we needed was answers.  An explanation.

Two hundred and thirty four seniors don't just die.

But that's exactly what happened.  No one can explain what prompted the entire senior class – made up of cliques and loners, teammates and enemies – to head down to Lawson's Quarry together two days before school started.   In the middle of the night.  Doctors keep suggesting that there was some sort of gas leak, and that the kids had been throwing a party.

But no one who remembers high school would believe that.  An entire class showing up to the same party?  No one excluded?  Exclusion was one of the things teenagers do best.  There was no evidence of kegs, cups, or anything remotely dangerous.

Tish and Grey were waiting for me under the bleachers when I  approached, tucked into my hoodie.  Ever since That Night – which was how everyone in town referred to it – the sky had been overcast and the temperature plummeted.  We were constantly on the brink of snow, but it never fell.

Tish's iron eyes gleamed a reflection of her iPhone, but she never even looked up.  Grey raised his hand to wave and then hesitated.  They were a motley pair – Tish was leather jacket attitude, and Grey was tall, birdlike, and bathed in awkward.

"Did you hear the latest, Bri?" he asked, flipping over a file we've read through two dozen times.  Grey's dad was the Sheriff – although in a police department that only employed two officers full time, that wasn't saying much – and he'd swiped a copy of the file days ago.  It was only the notes on the initial investigation – thankfully without any of the photos from the scene.  Grey was too squeamish to steal a copy of those.

I nodded.  "Faulty vaccines?  My mom tried to make it sound plausible over breakfast."  My mom was the pediatrician for Rocky Creek.  It was obvious she didn't even believe the vaccine excuse, but she wanted to.

"Still doesn't explain me," Tish said, finally looking up.  "I got the same shots Aly had."  We were all grieving, but it was especially hard for Tish.  Her sister had been a senior.  As far as we could figure it, the only reason Tish was still here was because she'd been held back in kindergarten, forever splitting up the twins.

"Tell Brian about the school," Grey said, nudging her.

Tish glared at him, raising a fist.  Grey backed away quickly, and she turned to me.  "Those FBI agents?  They're sticking around.  And they're setting up shop in the school."

Twenty-four hours after the bodies had been found, the town was swarming with Feds. Within days, most of us realized that something wasn't right.  The adults clung to any excuse they could find, desperately seeking closure.  But we wanted answers.  And it wasn't just the three of us – all over town, tempers were flaring up over That Night.

Tish had been organizing them, creating an army of out underclassmen.  We shadowed the police, secretly watching those who thought they were watching us.

"You know they still haven't buried all of them?" I added, contributing my own bit of knowledge to the group.  A new cemetery had to be created to handle the overflow of two hundred bodies.    "Justin and I went out last night to count all the graves.  Three rows haven't even been filled in yet.  They just dug the graves and left them."

"Do we know who's missing?" Tish asked.  Her eyes had gone flinty, and I could tell she was working up to something, but before either of us could follow up, we were interrupted.

"Miss Kinney.  Mr. Abrams.  Mr. Ruth."  Principal Swift called out, coming across the football field joined by a dark skinned woman in a suit.  One of the FBI agents.

"We still have ten minutes before school starts," Grey whispered under his breath.  His skin was already flushing red, and any second he'd erupt into an awkward one-sided conversation.

Tish stepped forward, sliding her phone into her back pocket.  "What?"  But her surly retort slid off the principal's back.

"You three are being sent to the group discussion led by Dr. Rao," he said, indicating the woman to his left.  "She was very interested in meeting you."

The doctor stepped forward, adjusting the dark rimmed glasses she was wearing.  It was a trick of the light, or really great contacts, but her eyes were a brilliant violet.  "I'm sure our conversation will be most illuminating."  She cocked her head to one side, and her eyes honed in on Tish's.  "Especially if want to know what really happened to your sister."

Much Ado About Mondays

This week on the Rebels, we did Show and Tell.  So I decided to have some fun with it, and show you a few things that have particularly interesting anecdotes around my house.  And then I share a couple of my favorite things to do on the Internet (aka time wasters).  And lastly, I jump off topic to talk a little bit about something that's been weighing on me for a few weeks now.

Friday Randoms

Jodi Meadows posted about over-promotion on her blog, and I think her take is way more coherent and strong than mine was.  Definitely go check it out.

The Page Flipper (aka Chelsea; aka Evil Incarnate) teamed up with Best Friend Leah Clifford and started an online petition about me.  Of course, they don't TELL me anything about it – I didn't realize anything was going on until well after the retweets were coming in.

Last week, I wrote a post about bullying, with regard to bullying over sexual orientation.  And then this week the issue has exploded as more and more cases are being brought to light.  I think it's an important thing to keep talking about.j

That's all I've got.  Have a great weekend!

Short Fic Wednesday – The Dream Thief

My job never used to be this hard.  Sneaking through the shadows, eluding attention, ripping daydreams out of heads like an art thief cutting a canvas from its frame.  All this happens in the forty-two minutes of study hall.  Too many creatures roaming The Dream at night – I'm only making ends meet through these morning sojourns.

My name is Erica, and I am a dream thief.

We used to be called the Traumdieb.  It's German.  Don't ask.  There's a lot of things we used to be.   Powerful. Untouchable.  Family.

My father was a dream thief.  He learned from his parents, and he taught us.  My brother and I.  Max.  Dad taught me how to navigate the Dream.  Max taught me how to find the shortcuts.  Who made the best bargains.  Where the choicest dreams were tucked away.  That was before he was seduced, betrayed, and sacrificed by the Muses.

Callie Bernal was about to slip into a daydream featuring not one, but three of the varsity basketball team.  For her, their presence wasn't about sex, or about romance. This in itself was unusual – most girls our age dreamt about boys who physically looked like quarterback Cameron Montgomery with the one-note personality stripped from teen movies.

For Callie, though, it was about power.  Her daydream involved a throne and a scepter (is it wrong that I judge her for copying the throne from junior prom?), a definite ab-transplant on Mark Sayers, and a lot of cowering.  In her dreams, soft-spoken Callie had a tongue as sharp as Ginsu, and never struggled for the perfect retort.  Quick wits like that would fetch a decent price – and I'm sure I could find someone to take the boys, too.

"Do you have it?"  I'm just about to step out of The Dream when Arc appears, his voice like smoke.  It's fitting, because smoking's a sin, and Arc wears sins like full sleeve tattoos.  Or Prada.  He doesn't like to play favorites, he says, so he indulges in as many sins as possible.  As often as possible.

The daydream is rolled up under my arm.  I toss it to him, watching his midnight hair go from hair-band long to banker chic in an instant.  One of the first rules my father taught me – never let an incubus touch you.  And never fall for their beauty: any of it.  Their good looks, the beautiful words dripping from honeyed tongues, all of it was hollow.

"I told you I would," I say, watching as he unrolls it and starts looking over the subject matter.  "I figure if I cut American History later, I can pick up a couple more for you."

Stealing dreams was simple work.  People wake up a little more tired than usual, and assume they either didn't dream, or don't remember what they did.  They never know that there's a black market built up around their subconscious.  That we poke and prod them like animals, and shear off all the best stuff.  That's why Muses hate us so much – we steal what they work so hard to inspire.

"No rest for the wicked," he murmurs, laughing to himself.  Arc prides himself on being a badass.  I think it irritates him that I never fall for the routine.   His eyebrows raise, but there's no other movement on his face.  Another incubus perk – no wrinkles.  "And your cut?"

I shake my head.  "Nothing I can use," I say.  Because it's true – I'm not about to take on Callie's second rate imitation of a withering tongue.  I've already got one of my own.

"Let's see what you bring this afternoon before we talk price," Arc says, drawing me back.  His appearance has shifted again, even darker hair matches the guyliner and nailpolish look.  A goth Jared Leto.  His eyes travel down my chest.  "Unless you want to sweeten the pot."

I sigh in mock disappointment.  "It's like you're not even trying anymore.  Let me help."  I straighten up and clear my throat.  "Did you wash your hipster skinny jeans in Windex?"  I cock my head to the side.  "Because I can see myself in them."

He smirks.

I hold out my hand and wait.  Arc's eyes widen with judgment.  "Are you sure, little one?"

"Isn't that what the Sandwomen call you?  Pobrecito Arc?  Poor little boy?"  I hold my thumb and index finger an inch apart.  Arc's smile widens while I shake some of the glitter out of my hair.  (Glitter?  Why did Callie need glitter?  Honestly, she just does these things to piss me off).  "Just give it," I demand.

"This is a good one," he says.  In his hand is a different dream, dark chocolate and velvet.  "Being chased by a serial killer.  Dreamer doesn't wake up until all their friends are dead."

I didn't like trafficking in nightmares – I'm a dream thief. But nightmares are cheap, and some people need to be punished.

"Maybe I'll go back to school," he says, leaning against the wall.  "What do you think?  Hot, new senior sweeping in to stir up some drama?  Or maybe you want a hot, young guardian now that Big Brother's gone, and Dad's a vegetable?"

I wince, but Arc's too shallow to realize he struck a nerve.  He talks like this all the time.  "I think you'll do what you want," I say carefully.  I move away, keeping him out of arm's reach.

"You tell those Muses I said hello," he says, dark eyes glittering.

The nightmares are why I do this.  Why I continue to do this.   Some people need to be punished.

I'm going to start with the Muses.  With the ones who killed my brother.  The nightmares are just the start.  Brainstorming, you could say.

What I plan to do to them is so much worse.

Tuesday Truth: I'm an Ostrich

I'm an ostrich.

Not a literal one, obviously.  That's a whole other set of diagnoses that we'd have to start dealing with.

No, I'm an ostrich in the sense that when I'm busy procrastinating, and people start to pressure me about things I know I should have already taken care of, I balk and shove my head in the sand.  It's like the opposite of a kick in the kiester.  (btw, kiester is your word of the day – I expect you all to use kiester at least once over the course of your day).

I don't know why this is.  But it's never IMPORTANT things that I procrastinate on.  Like if I'm on deadline, I try to send things in EARLY as opposed to LATE.  But when it comes to things like dropping off the rent check, doing those dishes that I left here three days ago, mailing a check with the post-it reminder…I procrastinate.  And then eventually something snaps in my brain, and I take care of everything outstanding all at once.

Does anyone else do this?  Or am I the only one with motivation issues, and ostrich-sympathies?

Monday Mentals

I somehow managed to survive eight treacherous days housesitting for my parents.  Although I didn't manage to get very much down on the business end of things – that's what the weekend was for: I knocked out three major projects I'd been meaning to wrap up all month.

Now that Adventures in Housesitting is over (trust me, it was exactly like Adventures in Babysitting but it involved more deer and vampires), the next big project is The Move.  Which I will now be spending the next several days working on.  Yayfuneyerollwoo.

I also realized I've got about 3 months left to finish all those nifty 2010 goals I set for myself.  One of which was finishing /2/ more books by the end of the year (I would have been much closer on this front if Big Things hadn't interfered earlier in the year).  So I think I'm going to settle for the fact that The Sequel will be done before the end of the year, and I'll get a head start on finishing Other new project, but probably won't finish until sometime later.

Oooh.  Music.  I heard this song on a commercial for something, and I've been obsessed with it ever since.  It's a cover of an older song, but I love the sound of it.  This week has been all about this song, some old school Linkin Park, and the new The Birthday Massacre album (which you should totally listen to if you miss synthesizers in music).

And this week on the Rebels, we talked about what we would do if we weren't writing.  I would want to talk about crazy people for a living, instead of writing about them.  Also, I've already written my autobiography, so if I ever have to write ANOTHER, I'm going to have to call it Scott: the Sequel.  Fun, yes?

Monday Mentals

I somehow managed to survive eight treacherous days housesitting for my parents.  Although I didn't manage to get very much down on the business end of things – that's what the weekend was for: I knocked out three major projects I'd been meaning to wrap up all month.

Now that Adventures in Housesitting is over (trust me, it was exactly like Adventures in Babysitting but it involved more deer and vampires), the next big project is The Move.  Which I will now be spending the next several days...

Gay Bullying, Suicide, and the Aftermath

Okay, so I don't normally talk about "real life stuff" in the blog here, but this week there's just been a lot of thoughts jumbled up in my head.  Things I've seen, or things I want to say.

Dan Savage started this Youtube channel called the It Gets Better Project.  If you don't know, he's an advice columnist and gay activist, and the channel was something he started after hearing about the suicide of Billy Lucas. The idea, as the project title explains, is that it really does "get better." ...

Short Fic – The Gray Lady

There is a story we tell, in the town of Dorchester.

On the nights when the moon turns it's face away from us, when the sky is dark and the sea is churning, that's when she appears.

She glows, lit by nonexistent moonlight, sitting on the beach in her tattered gray dress.  Some versions say her dress was once an innocent white, but the years have dulled and drowned her innocence like sea water.  Others say they were her widows weeds, deep, strong blacks that have faded and become washed out...

Tuesday Truth: Gender Books

I was recently reading, and disliking, a book.  Now, I'd been looking forward to reading this book for several months.  I was excited.  But there was big, huge glaring issue that I couldn't get past.

Let me explain.  First, you need to know that I'm a boy.  Second, you need to know that the premise of the book was fantastic, but the main character was…not.  The main character was also a girl.  It was one of those instances where the main character was just not believable.  I could understand ...