'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 86

Saving the Date — Scars

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Now available for pre-order.

I had a fantastic conversation with someone today that got me thinking about scars, and specifically the role of scars in Saving the Date.

When I made the choice to write Morgan as a character with violence-inflicted scars, I made the choice to also write him as someone who doesn’t have a positive relationship with them.

Why? Because my scars aren’t beautiful.

They don’t make me stronger. They’re not a map of a victory in my life, or a trophy I proudly carry. They’re twists of knitted flesh put there by violence.

I have lost count of the number of times I’ve had the following conversations:

“I really can’t see it.” This is the one on my chin, under the beard I always wear, revealed on the very rare occasions I shave. And while I’m glad it’s faint enough that some people can’t see it at a glance, believe me, I know where to look. If I’ve shaved and look into a mirror, it might as well be neon green.

“If people stare, let them stare. It’s their issue, not yours.” That’s…untrue. So, no. I’ll keep my shirt on, if it’s all the same to you.

“You should show people you’re not angry/upset/ashamed/whatever by your scars.” Why, exactly, is this my job? Also, you’re assuming I’m not angry/upset/ashamed/whatever. On any given day, I might be.

“They’re a part of you, and therefore special/awesome/wonderful/magical/some-other-positive-adjective.” I’m curious: would you say that about a tumour? I mean, that would be a part of me, right?

Now, before I come across too bitter or mean—too late?—I’m not a fool. I do understand these sentiments are coming from a good place. They’re meant lovingly. Our society as a whole is pretty darn critical of bodily “flaws” and scars are no exception. People who fight negative associations with scars are generally trying to reinforce how flawless=beauty=good not a good message. I completely agree with fighting the flawless=beauty=good message. But telling someone they’re wrong about how they feel about their own scars starts to feel off. Anthems about how you should love your scars, or how they’re amazing/awesome/beautiful? If I don’t feel that way, are they saying I’m wrong?

It can feel like it.

Scars also get put into terrible categorizations of whether or not they’re shameful, or tragic, or brave, or—my personal frustration—“inspiring” depending on how they were made.

Don’t even start with me with that inspiring nonsense.

So how do I feel about my scars? How did I write Morgan to feel about his scars?

Conflicted, for the most part. Or, on the best days, as close to a neutral détente as possible. I feel almost entirely the opposite about my scars as I do about my tattoos, and that’s as good an analogy as I can often offer someone: my tattoos are there because I chose to put them there, they are willfully induced memorials. When I see my tattoos, I see choice and remember choice.

My scars are the opposite. And my queerness is conflated with my scars.

Now, I can hide most of them. That little irony is not lost on me, as a queer guy. There are some—my knuckles/hands, the back of my neck—that I can’t cover, but people rarely comment on those: lots of people have scars on their hands. I sport a beard, so my chin is covered. And it’s not like having your jaw reconstructed leaves outward signs, other than having a way, way better smile and straighter (fake) teeth than I ever had before.

But my queerness is also the why.

I don’t love my scars. I don’t believe I ever will. What I have managed is that neutral détente, and it was hard won. They were put there by hate, and are an enduring, life-long reminder of that hate. I get why other people want me to think of them as a victory, or a badge of honour, or a trophy of survival, and I suppose in some literal sense they could be those things, but they’re just as much a reminder of what happened. And what happened was awful, not my choice, and certainly not worth it in some nebulous “made me stronger” philosophical way.

(And don’t dare take this opportunity to say “Everything happens for a reason.” I wrote a whole novella about that particular phrase.)

Other people will—and do—disagree with me. That’s fine. They’re not wrong about their scars.

I’m not wrong about mine.

Morgan is fictional, and as a queer man writing a queer character, I’m always nervous of accidentally putting forth some idea as “speaking for all” when I’m not. That nervous feeling doubled down with Morgan. Morgan is actively seeking out a one-night stand, through a matchmaking service, on the anniversary of his bashing. He’s trying to rob the calendar date of some of its power. He is seeking out being touched despite knowing it will be difficult. Some survivors do this.

Some don’t.

Both approaches are valid.

I did a lot with Morgan very consciously. He makes the first move in the story, precisely because he wants a good memory to associate with the date. He makes mistakes in the story, going a bit too fast and not communicating well at the beginning. He struggles with touch, even though he wants touch. He has a very mild shutdown, and works his way back out of it in no small part thanks to being with someone who can recognize the signs and talk to him. He relaxes partly because it’s a one-night stand service, clients are vetted, and the stakes and risks are low. He gets in over his head emotionally for the same reason. He makes assumptions about how the man he’s with feels about the scars. And throughout it all, he’s very aware that even a successful night won’t mean some sort of miraculous healing event has happened and never again will he be bothered by self-doubt or self-image.

But my goal with Morgan—the success of which I will have to leave up to the readers—was to show a happy ending coming to someone not in spite of how they feel about their scars, nor because of how they feel about their scars.

It just happens to someone with scars.

 

Monday Flash Fics — Temporal

Today’s Monday Flash Fics photo struck me as a wee bit historical (the hairstyle, the glasses, a stack of DVDs and video games and books and the watch and a man reading a physical newspaper), so I decided I’d found my Joey Brown. If you want to see him as a younger man, meeting someone very strange, he first appeared in another flash fic piece, Argot Status Green.

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Temporal

Joe closed the newspaper with a sigh. Bad news, worse news, and…

Stop it. Stop thinking like that.

He checked his watch. The day was running away from him, but he’d earned the sloth. He was home late last night after the clinic. His volunteer hours had turned out to be more like a volunteer day.

And night.

Making positive into a positive.

He rubbed his eyes. Maybe another cup of coffee.

He leaned back on the stool, considering, and one of his sandals fell off his foot.

“If I believed in omens,” he said. “I’d be waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Someone knocked on his door.

Joe frowned, then shook his head. If it had been someone from outside the building, they’d have called to be buzzed in, so it probably meant it was Delilah from across the way. At least he didn’t need to find clothes. Delilah was the butchiest dyke he’d ever met—and he’d met many—and wouldn’t so much as blink if he wandered around naked. He was wearing underwear and sandals. It would be fine.

Well, underwear and one sandal.

Another round of knocking drew him from his half-reverie.

“Sorry,” he said, and put down his paper. He crossed his kitchen to the door to the apartment and undid the locks.

When he threw open the door, he froze.

It was him.

“Joey Brown,” the man said.

Joe croaked something, swallowed, and tried again. “You.”

The smile was completely disarming.

“May I enter, Joey Brown?”

Joe took an involuntary step back. He sounded the same. He looked the same. Like, identical. Okay, maybe he had new clothes—he still had that hat, though—and he looked a whole lot less like…whatever he’d looked like, but… It was him. The beard. The eyes.

“Ahn,” Joe said.

Ahn smiled. “Hello.”

Joe closed the door. “I didn’t… I wasn’t sure…” He shook his head. What happened to complete sentences? He used to know how to do those. “You’re back.”

“Nine point six years,” Ahn said.

“Right,” Joe said. “You did say that.” It hit him he was standing in front of Ahn in his underwear and one sandal. “Uh. Let me put some clothes on.”

“Okay.” Ahn was looking around the room.

“Be right back,” Joe said. He went into the small bedroom and grabbed some sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He put the single sandal back on, too. He ran his hand through his hair a few times, eyeing his reflection.

Ahn looked exactly the same. Like, exactly. Who kept the same hairstyle for ten—sorry, nine point six—years?

When he came back out into the room, Ahn was standing by his computer, and he had his hand on top of the monitor.

“How did you get into the building?” Joe asked, then winced when Ahn looked at him with a mild widening of his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t mind. It’s just, there’s a buzzer…”

“Ah, I did that wrong.”

“You look exactly the same,” Joe blurted.

Ahn regarded him for a long moment. It looked like he was deciding something.

“Ahn?” Joe said.

“I am,” Ahn said.

“Pardon?”

“I am. Exactly the same.”

Joe frowned, and climbed back onto his stool. “You’ve lost me.”

“I did not. I sought you out. I need help.”

“You have a very strange way of speaking, you know that?”

“I do. I am learning, but I will improve.” Ahn let go of his computer. “You are well?”

“I am.” Joe frowned. “And you knew that already, didn’t you? How did you know that?”

Ahn eyed the books on his bookshelf. “Many of these are scienctific fiction, yes?”

Joe nodded. “Yes.”

“Temporal?”

“Temp…” It took him a second. “You mean time travel?”

“I mean time travel.” Ahn nodded. And he smiled again. “I am glad you are well.”

“Ahn, what exactly does that have to do with anything?”

“Joey Brown,” Ahn said. “I need your help. With something temporal.”

Joe’s other sandal slipped from his foot.

 

 

Saving the Date — Excerpt

Hey all! As this is the week leading up to Saving the Date‘s release, I thought I’d take today to give you a teaser of Morgan, and where he’s at before the story begins. One of the things I wanted to accomplish with Saving the Date was to show how Morgan, as a survivor of violence, was working with a therapist (and had a supportive friend network) and has been doing so for years. One of the things I find frustrating in fiction is the “magic fix” of a relationship. The reality is often quite the opposite, so I wanted to at least have it on-page that Morgan has been working for three years.

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Available to pre-order now!

“I was thinking about the whole Christmas for Misfit Toys party thing my friends do.”

“Christmas for Misfit Toys?” Theresa raised one eyebrow. “Do we need to have the don’t-refer-to-yourself negatively discussion again?”

“It’s  tongue-in-cheek, I promise. It’s the party we take turns throwing for us queerlings who haven’t got a family holiday to welcome us. Have I never called it that before? That’s what we named it. It’s evolved into a pretty big party. And it occurred to me I’m ready for that.”

“You’d like to have a party? On the fifteenth?” Theresa’s tone had softened, which gave him confidence.

“Yes,” Morgan said. “Well, no.” He shook his head. “Not a party. But…I want to go out. I want to do something else. I don’t know. Basically?” He leaned forward, knowing he wouldn’t shock Dr. Macedo. “I’m ready for a date. Preferably a sexy date.”

Theresa tapped her chin. They’d discussed all manner of personal details in the last three years. Morgan’s body image after acquiring scars noticeable enough to garner comment. The conflicted emotions around sex and attraction, given the kind of man Morgan found attractive, conflated with the image of  the man who’d beaten him.

“So, you’re organizing a date?” she said.

Morgan shook his head. “No. I guess I figured I’d hit a bar. Dance. I’m not going to drink.” He held up a hand, forestalling that particular objection before she could make it. “But I want an organic opportunity to meet someone, and maybe—if it goes well—take them home.” He shrugged. “Then, next year, when the day rolls around, maybe I could remember the date instead of the bashing. Or at least as well as. What I want out of this is a stronger memory.”

Theresa leaned back in her chair. She tapped her lips with one finger She smiled.

Morgan felt a tension he’d been trying hard not to show release from deep within his chest. His shoulders relaxed, and he found himself smiling back at her.

“I’m proud of you,” she said.

Morgan wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but those words weren’t it. His eyes filled, and he had to swallow, hard. “You are?”

“Morgan, you’ve worked your butt off. First your physical recovery, and then even harder through your emotional recovery. It’s safe to say I’ve never met anyone as willing as you to face your demons and do what you had to do. I’m pleased to see you taking this step. You’ve got a healthy awareness of your own limitations, and I happen to agree. This could be a decent way to rob the anniversary of some power.”

Morgan grinned.

“However….”

His grin evaporated.

She held out her hand. “No, hear me out. I’m not disagreeing.”

“Sorry,” he said.

Her smile returned. She leaned back and opened the top drawer of her desk. “I’m not sure a random potential hook-up is the way to go.”

“Okay.”  Was it weird to hear the sixty-year-old woman say “hook-up”? Yes. But more to the point, if a bar night wouldn’t cut it, then what? He didn’t want to use an app. Too many  built-in assumptions about where the night would lead. He wanted the opportunity to bail.

Just in case.

“As you know,” Theresa said, “I do a lot of work with sexual assault survivors, and I’m also involved with sexual advocacy work for persons with disabilities.”

Morgan nodded. It had been one of the reasons he’d been referred to her. He’d never had a surfeit of positive body image, always felt too skinny, and the less said about being a freckled ginger, the better. Toss in scars, physical therapy, and the reality of having the crap beaten out of him and being left to bleed in the snow by a guy who’d inspired the thought, “Wow, he’s hot,” prior to the attack?

Well. Sex had become a minefield.

But Dr. Macedo had walked him out of it, with only one or two explosions along the way.

From the drawer, she pulled out a small, elegant business card, tapping it once on the top of the desk before offering it to him. Morgan took the card and read it.

“Madame Evangeline?” He raised his eyebrows. “Madame? As in…?”

“It’s a matchmaking service,” Theresa said. “But if you’re asking for a memorable night, trust me when I say you’d be far better served this way. It’s better than leaving things to chance, no?”

Morgan looked at the card. “There’s no phone number.”

“It’s a referral service. Word of mouth.” She smiled again.

“So you’ve…?” Morgan wasn’t sure where to go with his question.

“Madame Eve is how I met my husband,” she said.

“Wow. Okay. Not trying to get married, though,” he said. “Like you said, I know where I’m at right now. I’m figuring out how to be good in my own skin.”

“I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit. Again.” She nodded. “But yes, it’s a date. And with Madame Eve at the helm? Definite potential for a sexy date.”

He nodded, glancing down at the card.

“Okay.” He felt a thrill in his stomach. “Yes.”

Theresa smiled. “I’ll connect you. There’s a bit of a questionnaire.”

“Is there a checkbox for ‘Please no violent bigots’?” he said.

“I promise you, that’s not something you’ll need to worry about.”

Morgan held the card, heart thudding.

Thing was? He believed her.

Saving the Date

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As of this morning, Saving the Date has gone live for pre-order, so I thought I’d take some time to chat about this upcoming novella, and maybe whet your interest.

Saving the Date was born thanks to Romancing the Capital, where I met Angela S. Stone, a fellow author. We were going to be on a panel together, and I always try to read something the other authors have written before a panel, and I found her 1Night Stand story, Unsportsmanlike Conduct. I hadn’t heard of 1Night Stand before, but it’s a many-authored series about a matching agency (the aforementioned 1Night Stand) run by the mysterious Madame Eve, who has an uncanny knack of matching people perfectly for a night (and often, longer thereafter, even if they go in expecting just one night.) They’re fun, and short, and sexy, and when Angela suggested we could co-author one, it seemed like a really neat idea, and I started pondering for a character.

We split the book into Point-of-View. She’d write Character A, I’d write Character B, and before long we both had our ideas in place: her character, Zach, would be a divorced and closeted bi fellow; I was writing Morgan, a surviving (and thriving) victim of violence who’d reached the point where he was ready for some intimacy (though maybe not much more than that). From there, the ideas grew, deciding on complications took a while, and we went forward. Spin this up two years or so, and here we are with Saving the Date.

My goals for Morgan were specific. I wanted to write a character thriving post-bashing, but also pay some attention to what it’s like to carry scars and have a conflicted level of emotion about them. I wanted to write a character who’d done emotional and physical work recovering and recognizing he was ready for something more, with the guidance of a therapist and friends. I wanted to write a character who screws up a bit on this path, but recovers and gets through thanks to communicating with someone who understands at least a part of his struggle. And, most of all, I wanted to show one character who’d been hurt, not a representative of some nebulous everyone, because there is no one reaction or path or result.

Oh, and for those who read Handmade Holidays? There’s also a cameo or two to look forward to.

Friday Flash Fics — Tiwaz

I almost managed to keep my Friday Flash Fics piece to the 500 word count limit this week. It likely won’t happen again. The fellow with the blond highlights made me think of Justin, who’ll be appearing in “A Little Village Magic” (a novelette in Of Echoes Born), which makes the fellow on the bench Gabe.

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Tiwaz

Gabe watched the water in the fountain, content in the sunlight. It was a cool day, but with the sunlight, his thick cardigan, and a particular black scarf, he was warm enough.

He pulled out a small notepad, and the fountain pen he carried pretty much everywhere, and let his mind wander. The water in the fountain splashed evenly, though now and then a breeze would sent a shiver through the spray. It almost looked like Tiwaz.

He smiled. And there it was.

It only took three strokes of his pen on the paper—Tiwaz was more or less an arrow pointing upwards—but the Futhark rune symbolized order, law, and justice. It referenced Tyr, a god.

Each stroke of the pen on the page felt heavy to Gabe. He fought against the pressure with something almost like habit now, knowing it was possible, knowing he’d be able to take a breath once he was done, and knowing the fatigue that followed would be momentary.

At the release, he inhaled, closing his eyes for a second, then looked at the Tiwaz.

To his gaze, it shimmered as though the air above the three dark lines were hot.

He carefully tore the page free along the perforations. The notepad bound together a heavier weight of paper than usual, and the perforations made it possible to pull a page free without tearing it. The little square of white with the Tiwaz came free, and Gabe looked around the park, considering.

He had the place more or less to himself, but he followed his gut and got up long enough to cross to the other side of the fountain and left the little piece of paper on an opposing bench before he returned to where he came from to sit and wait.

A little while later, the handsome blond figure of Justin approached. He passed the other bench without seeing the little note, too busy smiling at Gabe to notice a piece of litter.

“Hello, mister,” Justin said. They didn’t have the park to themselves any more. A mother with a stroller was near the fountain, the baby cooing at the splashing water, but after a quick glance around, there didn’t seem to be any reason to worry, so when Justin sat on the bench and leaned in for a kiss, Gabe let it linger.

“Hello yourself,” Gabe said. “How’d it go?”

“The Pride Committee hired us. JMC will be handling the outreach and social media and marketing.” He grinned. “Sorry if I’m a bit late.”

Gabe shook his head. “It’s a nice day. Congratulations, you guys are gonna smash it.”

“Thank you.”

Near the fountain, the woman’s phone rang. She answered it, and after a few long seconds, she said, “You know I can’t afford that. You know that’s not an option. Why are you being so unfair?”

They both watched her aim the stroller away and started crossing the park, only to stop at the bench as though something caught her attention.

“No, I’m not being unreasonable,” she said. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”

Gabe watched her pick up the small piece of paper. Even across the park, he could feel it release.

“You okay?” Justin said.

Gabe smiled. “Just fine. Wanna get lunch?”

“NiceTeas?”

“Deal.”

“You think she’ll be okay?” Justin said. He was just as much a people watcher as Gabe was.

Order. Law. Justice.

“I think so,” Gabe said, and kept his eyes open for any runes on the way back to the Village.

Attending Authors Announced!

Ta-Da!

Bold Strokes Books, UK

We do love a good bit of alliteration here at BSB… and now we’re happy to put it to good use.

Announcing the Attending Authors at the Bold Strokes Book Festival:

Join us on May 5th-6th, 2018 for what is going to be an AMAZING, ASTOUNDING weekend of literary FUN and FROLIC. Tickets are only £3 and the link for tickets will be announced in the next couple of weeks.

Come along for the panels, the signings, the readings, the conversation, and of course, the after parties.

Questions? Get in touch!

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Monday Flash Fics — Family Business

Today’s Monday Flash Fics left me stymied for a while. I’m not one to write about babies much, and I couldn’t think of a character who might interact with a baby off the top of my head, not at first. Then I remembered one fellow who never got so much as a single line, though we know he’s kind, and a nice guy, and devoted to his family business. So, I went with Kevin from Handmade Holidays.

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Family Business

“Anyway. That’s the problem,” Kevin said. He’d been talking through the situation for the last half-hour. “I need to find someone who wants to be with me, but also wants to be here on the farm.”

Bobby reached out and put his hand over Kevin’s lips.

“Is that your way of saying I should shut up?”

His nephew cooed. Alongside gurgling and crying, it was pretty much the full range of his communication abilities.

“You’re right. Uncle Kevin is getting depressing.” He kissed Bobby’s forehead, and then picked him up. He swaddled Bobby, and transferred him to the crib. Feeding had gone well. Bathing had gone well. Now he’d see if he could pull off the perfect trifecta.

He turned on the baby monitor, and glanced at the small bedroom. It had been the nursery since before he was born. The farmhouse had been his grandfather’s. Then this father’s. And now his. There was history here. This was his life.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be a particularly appealing life from the outside.

“Sleep well, little bear.”

Kevin wound the mobile, flicked off the light, and pulled the door almost all the way closed.

Downstairs, he poured a coffee, and tried not to notice it was almost the last of the blend Haruto had left at the farmhouse. One by one, all the reminders were fading. That was a good thing.

Just like the thing they’d had.

Kevin sighed. He was not going to rehash this again. For one, he was alone, so it was a pointless exercise, and for another, the reality was Haruto was gone, and it didn’t matter if Kevin came up with a brilliant argument for him to stay.

It was too late.

Haruto was back in the city, and Kevin was here on the farm.

He drank his coffee and read in the kitchen, which was where he was when his sister arrived.

“You look relaxed,” Wendy said.

“You don’t,” Kevin said. Her shoulders were set, and despite the sundress she wore, the overall look was a far cry from someone who’d had a rare baby-free night out with her husband. “Everything okay? Bad date night?”

“What? No,” Wendy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “No, not at all. We went to the hotel for dinner, and caught a movie. It was nice.”

“Okay,” Kevin said, waiting.

“The thing is…” Wendy started, then stopped.

“Just say it.” He smiled. He and Wendy hadn’t always been close, but after they’d graduated high school, they’d found they’d had more to talk about than they’d known. And Kevin coming out had changed things, too. Wendy had been amazing about it. Oneida wasn’t exactly metropolitan…

That made him think of Haruto again. He shook it off.

“We’d like to work the farm.” Wendy said in a rush, like she’d been holding it back.

Kevin smiled. “That’s great, I’d love the help, and…” His smile faded as he saw her face. “You don’t mean helping.” She’d grown up here, too. She’d finished her degree, gotten married, and her husband was just as much a farmer as she was.

Why didn’t I see this coming?

“Owen and I have been talking about it for a while.”

“But he sent you here by yourself,” Kevin said.

“He thinks you don’t like him,” she said.

“I’m not much liking him right this moment.”

“Kev.”

He took a deep breath. “Pa left the place to both of us. And I kept it going while you did school.”

“And I love you for that. But maybe now you could go to school.”

He snorted. Him, back at school? Then he thought of something else. “And Ma?” Their mother lived with him, here in the farmhouse. And probably worked too much, too. She had a knack with the lambs, though.

“She’d stay. I mean, live with us. Here. Help out with Bobby.”

“So it’s just me getting kicked out, then.”

“Kev…”

Kevin looked at her for a long moment. Her hands were clasped, and the line of her shoulders… She wanted this. Bad.

“This is all I know how to do,” he said.

“That’s not true,” she said. “This is what you started doing because Pa died, and I was in school. You were half-way to being a mechanic.”

“I love farming.”

“I know,” Wendy said. “So do I. That’s why I spent four years learning about dirt.”

He got up, and spread his arms. “Okay.”

Wendy blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Okay.” He rubbed his face. “But, if you need any help, any time…”

“Oh my God, Kev… You mean it?”

“I mean it. This is a family business. You, and Owen, and Bobby? You’re a family. You can do more with this place than I can.” He swallowed. “I’m… just me.”

Wendy hugged him. “You aren’t just anything.” Then she pulled back, and regarded him. “Ru was an idiot.”

“Don’t,” he said. “He wasn’t.”

“Hm,” she said, not really agreeing. “How was Bobby?”

“Total angel. Ma read to him, then I fed him and bathed him and he’s out cold in his crib.”

“You should be a daddy.”

“Not likely,” Kevin winked. “I don’t think I can get pregnant.”

“Very funny,” Wendy said. She squeezed his shoulder. “I met Owen at school.”

“I’m not going back to school. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“We can argue this tomorrow.”

Kevin laughed. “Okay.”

After she’d taken Bobby and left, Kevin went to his bedroom, stripped, and climbed into bed. Usually, he could sleep at will. It was a necessary skill for the hours he kept. But tonight, he stared at the ceiling.

He didn’t want to try school. He hadn’t been good at school. And Wendy would let him work on the farm. No doubt she and Owen would build the place up to something amazing. Mostly Wendy. Owen was a nice guy, but she was smart. She’d know what to do.

Was that enough?

Kevin honestly didn’t know.

He sighed.

He’d check out the local colleges in the morning.

Maybe just one course.

February Flash Fiction Draw Roundup

The stories are in! Before anything else, I want to say a huge thanks to everyone who put together a story this month—Crime Caper wasn’t something that came naturally to me, so on the level of “try something new” I got to stretch a bit, and judging by the comments of a lot of the posting authors, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

Flash Fiction Draw is basically a randomized card-draw that spits out a genre, an object, and a location, after which writers have a week to come up with up to 1,000 words that fit the criteria. It’s meant to be for fun and inspiration, rather than for serious competition. I do a draw on the first Monday of every month (the next draw will be March 5th, if you want to join in) and post results the following Monday, updating the post as I find new stories writers have written.

These were the cards drawn (and what they meant):

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Given “Crime Caper,” “A Compass,” and “A Soup Kitchen,” what sorts of things did the authors come up with?

A little bit of everything. Obviously, last month’s “Fairy Tale” had more wiggle room, but even this month there were some who went paranormal with their capers, or amusing, or a little grim, and I love the variance on display. Here they are, alphabetically by contributor:

Jeff Baker wrote “The Way Which Thou Shalt Go.”

‘Nathan Burgoine (that’s me) wrote “Gone to Hell.”

Alex deMorra wrote “Nothing But Time.”

Cait Gordon wrote “An Immoral Compass.”

Ralph Seligman-Courtois wrote “Expiration Date.”

E.H. Timms wrote “Fortune Cookies.”

Jamieson Wolf wrote “The Lucky Ladies Soup Kitchen.”

Did I miss your entry? Let me know and I’ll add you to the list! And by all means join us next month, when I do the draw again on March 5th. And if you want to see what people came up with for previous stories? The round-up for January (which was “A Fairy Tale,” “A Tattoo Machine,” and “A Prison”) is here.

Gone to Hell — A Flash Fiction Draw Challenge Story

Here’s my entry for the first Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (the post for the original February draw is here). In case you didn’t know about this challenge, there’s a video here explaining (and showing the second draw), but the quick version: I used a deck of cards (three suits) to randomly put together a genre (in this case: Crime Caper), a location (in this case: a soup kitchen) and an object (in this case: a compass) and challenged anyone who wanted to play to write something over the next week, with a maximum of 1,000 words.

This didn’t come naturally, but in the end, I had fun writing it. Also I put many of my New Orleans and New York friends in the roles because why not?

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Gone to Hell

“I need a lock man.”

“No men around.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“And I’m not?”

“Fine, Jean. Lock woman. Want to take down Whitman?”

“This your idea?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

 *

“We’ll only need you if it goes to hell.”

“Flattering. When doesn’t it go to hell?”

“Greg.”

“Is this yours, or Rob’s plan?”

“All me. Don’t you want to see Whitman go down?”

“You got yourself a driver.”

*

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Not thinking. I’m asking. You’re the best pickpocket.”

“I want nothing to do with Rob.”

“It’s my plan.”

“What?”

“You know Whitman?”

“Senator Whitman?”

“He’s the mark, Carol.”

“I’m in.”

“Great.”

“Brady? Here’s your wallet.”

 *

“She married the richest man in the city.”

“Whitman isn’t who he pretends to be.”

“How do you…? Tell me you didn’t.”

“Pillow talk is information gathering, Gillian.”

“Gross.”

“Yes. Gross.”

“Rob have anything to do with this?”

“No.”

“Good. Rob makes you dumb. So. ‘Fatale’ or something more…approachable?”

“You ever consider social work?”

 *

Hélène Whitman’s deigning to spend time in a soup kitchen was a bland story, but given her husband’s politics it became blood-in-the-water for journo sharks. Whitman was opposed to handouts, reducing support for those less fortunate. Pretty trophy wife does something political husband opposes?

Off brand, to put it mildly.

All of this didn’t matter to the regulars in Faith’s Kitchen, lining up for the well-lit, ridiculously made-up Hélène to hand them food.

She took time to speak to each person, and laughed with the volunteer beside her, who was no slouch in the looks department herself. Hélène Whitman was taller—stilettos—and her black locks tumbled artfully over her shoulders. She wore a dress better suited to cocktail parties, and between her ample—and artificial, if one believed rumors—breasts hung a gorgeous platinum locket.

Sixth in line, Brady eyed the prize.

Go time.

 *

It took longer than expected to get to the front. Watching Hélène play to the photographers—and some not-so-insignificant looks at the woman working beside her, unless he was mistaken—he adjusted for the pace she was serving.

Once he was sure he had her timing, he popped the capsule.

And then, finally, his turn arrived.

“Hello,” Hélène said, smiling at him like she actually gave a fuck and wasn’t married to a man determined to make Brady’s life—and anyone like him—as miserable as possible at every turn.

“Hello,” Brady said, and threw up all over her.

 *

“I’m sorry!” The vomiting man reached out. Hélène recoiled in horror, but—credit to the woman—recovered her poise almost instantly. Beside her, Gillian held up one hand to the reporters and conjured an obey-me voice.

“If I see even one camera flash all the cameras are going in the gravy.” Then she turned to Hélène. “Oh, sweetie. Okay. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She pointed imperiously, switching back to her obey-me voice.

“You. With us. Bring towels and water and for heaven’s sake, someone take that man outside.”

Brady was led outside by two reporters.

The rest lowered their cameras.

*

Hélène held it together, demurring that she was okay, she’d be right back, right up until the door to the small bathroom closed.

“Get it off me!”

While Gillian dealt with the zipper on Hélène’s woefully unsuitable dress, Carol stepped in and started wiping with the wet towels.

Out of her dress, standing in her bra and panties, Hélène was breathtaking, if pungent.

“We can use the sink for your hair,” Carol said.

By the time Hélène leaned backwards in her ridiculous heels, Carol had the clasp undone. Between two splashes, the deed was done.

“I’ll go get some clothes,” Gillian said, compassionate voice in play. “I’ll be right back.” She touched Hélène’s shoulder, then squeezed Carol’s hand. “Stay here. Don’t let those reporters anywhere near until we have her made up again.”

“Of course.”

 *

The manager’s office had an alarmed emergency exit. The siren stayed silent when Gillian opened it. Outside, smoking a cigarette, Jean held out her hand. Gillian dropped the locket into her open palm, and closed the door behind her.

Jean knelt down and started restoring the lock.

Behind her, a car started.

Just in case.

 *

Out front of the shelter, Brady was alone. The two men who’d walked him out—trying hard not to touch him—had dumped him there, then turned tail, so he was alone when he saw Senator Whitman approaching the shelter.

He ducked his face away, staring at the sidewalk.

“Brady?”

But it wasn’t Whitman.

It was worse than that.

Rob regarded him with a warm, engaging smile. He was dressed like a priest.

Oh, shit.

“I’d ask what you were doing here, but…” Rob eyed Faith’s Kitchen.

Behind them, noise erupted in the building. Greg’s car pulled out from the alley, driving off. Officially gone to hell, then.

He eyed Rob. The false priest’s collar made him smile.

New plan.

 *

It took time for the police to gather Whitman and his wife and take Brady’s “confession” and process evidence. By the time Hélène got to hold her missing locket, it was too late.

“That’s not my necklace!”

Brady walked out of the station, buoyed by police officers’ glares.

Rob was outside, car idling. No vestments, though.

“I can’t believe you didn’t cut me in.”

“After last time?”

That smile again. “Need a lift?”

 *

“Probably want to fence that,” Brady said. Gillian wore Hélène’s locket.

“I might give it back.” She opened the cover and held it up. Inside, a little needle pointed north. The tiny space where the safety deposit key had been stashed was empty.

“Good time in the bathroom?”

“We…bonded while she dressed.”

Brady looked at the documents—and photos—on the table.

Greg smiled. “It’s a good haul.”

“Enough to ruin Whitman?”

“Hélène’s a smart cookie. Better than any pre-nup. We bury him, and his friends.”

“So,” Greg said. “Blackmail now?”

“What’s he doing here?” Jean nodded at Rob.

Rob aimed his best smile at the group. “I have an idea.”

 

Friday Flash Fics — Body Positive

This week’s shot made me think of the gym/spa in my fictional version of the Village. Fiona from Handmade Holidays works there, as does Aiden from “Heart” (which will be one of the reprints in Of Echoes Born). Today we meet a co-worker of theirs, Rodrigo, and a new client, Morgan, who will make his appearance in Saving the Date, coming soon.

Oh, and here’s the image which is definitely inspiring. Thank you, Friday Flash Fics.

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Body Positive

“Hey, since you’re not really doing anything, could I take this machine?”

“Oh. Uh. I guess? Sorry.”

Rodrigo frowned, and glanced over to where he’d overheard the conversation. Normally, he had earbuds in and couldn’t hear anything else going on at Body Positive—it was the only way he got his workout in without distraction before a shift—but yesterday Cinza had noticed one of the earbuds hanging out of his bag, and after a successful and no doubt thrilling hunt, had delivered the chewed-up piece of plastic to the bottom of his bed, where he’d found it this morning.

He loved his cat. She’d stared at him, so very proud of her accomplishment, that he couldn’t even get angry.

He needed to buy new earbuds.

But right now, his attention was drawn by the powerlifter, a regular, who’d just rudely dismissed someone else. That was an atmosphere the gym tried to avoid, and it wasn’t that particular man’s first infraction. Body Positive was born to be a force for health and empowerment.

Rodrigo checked around, but both Fiona and Aiden were with other clients. Technically, Rodrigo didn’t start his shift for another hour, but…

The powerlifter was exactly the kind of gym member Rodrigo liked the least: huge, loud, and—given his chicken legs—obsessed with his upper body and pretty much nothing else. As the big man started to grunt loudly, the pin in the machine set to some large amount of weight, Rodrigo paid him no more attention beyond irritation, then noticed the other man had already taken a few steps away. A ginger, freckled and lean, he carried a few pieces of paper, and his face was burning red. He looked like a complete newbie, and he was wearing track pants and a light—but long-sleeved—cotton shirt.

The redhead sighed, then turned away from the machines.

Before Rodrigo knew what he was doing, he got up and walked over.

“You okay?” he said.

The guy with the papers jumped at his voice, turning. He eyed him, and Rodrigo tried not to be too offended when the look wasn’t particularly friendly. After all, the last guy who’d spoken had pretty much insulted him, right?

“I’m fine.” The flush on the guy’s face made that a lie. He looked somewhere between pissed off and embarrassed.

“That guy was an ass. I’m sorry. That’s not what this place is about. Did you need a hand with any of the machines?”

Now the newbie frowned at him.

“I work here,” Rodrigo said. “Though I’m not working yet. I was just getting in some exercise before I started. I’m Rodrigo. One of the trainers.” He offered his hand.

The guy shook Rodrigo’s hand quickly, and physically took a step back. Huh. That was…something. Not that he expected everyone to swoon at him, but Rodrigo was used to at least a little positive attention when he was shirtless. Maybe the redhead didn’t like beards?

Finally, the guy spoke. “I’m Morgan. I’m thinking maybe I should come back when it’s not so busy.”

“If you want, I can have him give you back the spot.”

“No.” Morgan held up both hands. “I don’t want…that.”

Rodrigo frowned. Morgan suddenly seemed familiar. “Is this your first time at this gym?”

“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate.

Rodrigo took a breath. “I’m sorry. If I’m bothering you—”

“No,” Morgan said. “No, it’s me. I’m…” He blew out a breath. “It’s possible this isn’t the right place for me. There’s some stuff I’m supposed to do. Exercises. I thought I could do it on my lunch break, and…” He sighed. “But I guess a lot of people come to the gym on their lunch breaks. To do, y’know, actual workouts.”

That got Rodrigo’s attention again. He glanced at the sheets Morgan carried. “May I see?”

Morgan hesitated, but eventually he handed them over.

At a glance, it was obvious the exercises had nothing to do with building muscle, but were instead about recovering range of motion and joint strength. The notes in the margins, the diagrams, and the repeated reminder beside many of the exercises not to add any weights to the machines in question were perfectly clear to Rodrigo’s eyes.

“Physiotherapy?” he said.

Morgan nodded. “My arm, shoulder, and wrist. Among other stuff.”

Rodrigo looked at him again and the familiarity clicked. He had seen Morgan before. He’d had longer hair, though. And a much more carefree smile.

Morgan flinched, obviously catching the moment Rodrigo realized who he was. He was probably used to being recognized in the Village. After all, there’d been a lot of coverage.

At least the guy who’d bashed him had gone to jail.

“Let me get Fiona for you,” Rodrigo said, careful to keep his voice even and polite. “She’s our physiotherapist.”

Morgan waited a beat. “Okay.”

“I’ll be right back.” Rodrigo paused. “Just so you know? This is the place for you. This is entirely why we’re here. Whatever we can do to make this easier, and you more comfortable? We’ll do.”

Morgan smiled. “Thanks.”

Rodrigo went to find Fiona.