Judith Post's Blog, page 53

“Fiction In A Flash Challenge” Week #11 NEW Image Prompt. @pursoot #IARTG #ASMSG #WritingCommunity.

I love short fiction. It can say so much in so few words. Here’s an example of flash fiction that packs a huge emotional impact:

From the Pen of Mae Clair

Happy Wednesday! I am back again and participating in the Flash Fiction challenge Suzanne Burke has shared on her blog. This is my third week in a row, and I’m having a blast enjoying these prompts. Below is the photo for this week and my take on it!

Mrs. Conway

Jarrod Hamilton was not a rich man but considered himself a talented one. For the last eight years he’d made a living teaching the upper crust ladies of Victorian London the finer arts of painting with oils. During that time, he’d often had to bite his tongue rather than offer advice­. On other occasions, he fawned over inferior work all the while cringing at the substandard quality his students produced. But catering to delicate egos paid the bills and helped him maintain his lifestyle, mediocre as it was.

Perhaps that was why Mrs. Conway so surprised him. Unlike the other…

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Mystery Musings

My Jazzi and Ansel novel The Body in the Gravel is on sale now for $1.99.  It was my third title in the series, and I had an especially good time writing it.  First of all, Jazzi and Ansel get married at the end of that book.  Yay!  And we finally got to meet Ansel’s parents and siblings.  His brother Radley and sister Adda are warm and wonderful and were fun to write.  His dad and oldest brother, Bain, are rude and bothersome–so they were a different kind of fun to write.  Sometimes, irritating or even terrible characters are interesting to create.  And Ansel’s mom?  She was more difficult because she’s so weak, it was hard to bring her to life.  She never stands up to her husband.

And then there’s the “body” in the title, Darby.  He’s as self-absorbed as Ansel’s father but a lot more quarrelsome, probably he drinks too much.  He drove his wife and son, Walker, away and regrets it but has too much pride to admit it.  And for whatever reason, Walker became one of my favorite characters in the series.  He walked on the page and I wrote whatever he wanted.

Anyway, I’m glad the book is getting a little extra TLC right now.  I love all my books, or I couldn’t write them, but this one’s characters were so strong in my mind, they made it easy for me.  And that doesn’t always happen.

Teaser

Muddy River is just about ready for one last rewrite.  It’s short, but I’ve tried to pack a lot into it.  Four of the ancient, powerful supernaturals in Europe are tired of the continual challenges there, so they come to the “New World” to carve a dynasty for themselves.  They see the supernaturals who live in Muddy River as their biggest challenge, so they decide to destroy them first.  Hester and her coven strengthen the magic wards that create an invisible shield around their town.  No enemy can pass them, but the old ones are cold and clever.  They’ll find ways to draw them out:

Strike ran a hand through his toffee-colored hair.  “When you called your family in Europe, did they have any names of the old supernaturals who left there?”

“Namir, Ulric, and Deloo.”

The bar went silent.  All of us had heard those names in the Old World.  Namir was known as the most ruthless vampire in Yugoslavia when my family fled England to wander Europe.  He’d expanded his territory since then.  Ulric was a wolf shifter whose pack terrorized Germany and France.  And Deloo was a witch whom everyone tried to avoid.

Raven let out a long breath.  “You said there was a demon, too?”

Cein locked gazes with him.  “Ewan.”

I was surprised by Raven’s reaction.  His eyes blazed and flames licked his knuckles.  “My successor when I left Lillith.  He loved her power, stayed with her until she got tired of him.  I heard that he didn’t take that well.  He burned down an entire town, he was so angry.”

“So he’s as old as you are?” Strike asked.

Raven nodded.

Strike’s wife, Amaris, spoke up for the first time.  “What happens when two fire demons battle?”

“Anyone smart stays out of the way.”

“Can you beat him?” I asked.

“I don’t know.  Can you beat Deloo?”

A good question.  “She wouldn’t come alone.  She’d have brought her coven with her.  They’ve practiced black magic for so long, the stench is going to gag us.”

“Can you beat her?” he repeated.

I glanced at the witches in my coven.  “I’m not sure.”

Cein drained his glass.  “Then it’s a good thing none of us has to battle alone.  We’re all in this together.”

Every person in the bar raised their glass in a toast.  “We live or die as one,” Derek said.

It could go either way, but Derek was right.  None of us wanted to survive if our enemies won.

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(I only created this image for my blog.  I have a different cover for the book).

 

Battles

I have one more scene to write to finish the draft for my short Muddy River story.  It has to be big and impressive…so I put it off until tomorrow.  It’s not something to write at the END of the writing day.  I’m going to struggle to pull it off.  But all battles, even the small ones, have to be important to create some kind of tension.

Not all battles involve weapons.  Inner battles can prove as difficult as sword and sorcery.  Maybe a character needs to overcome doubt to find the courage to go after his or her dream.  Maybe he has a habit to break, a health issue to overcome, or something to prove to himself.  Mae Clair posted a flash fiction today with a story that said a lot with only a few words.  The twin in the story learned that he didn’t have to impress anyone other than himself. https://maeclair.net/2020/07/29/fiction-in-a-flash-challenge-10-pursoot-iartg-asmsg-writingcommunity/

Most stories have internal and external battles for the protagonist to wrestle with.  Characters have lots of hurdles to cross before they reach the end of a book.  I recently finished reading Krista Davis’s THE DIVA COOKS A GOOSE.  It’s a cozy mystery, and I really enjoyed it.  No serial killer stalked innocent victims and no gritty crime scenes made me cringe.  But I gladly turned pages because nearly every character struggled with something.  One of the suspects was stuck in a dead end job and wanted to own a bakery.  Another was in love with his friend’s fiancé.  The diva was trying to entertain her family over the holidays and solve a murder.  The joy of mysteries is that, most often, someone wants something enough to kill for it.  Learning the suspects’ motives is as much fun as finding the clue that solves the case.

I hope all of your battles are small and you emerge a conqueror.   Happy Writing!

 

Lux 2

I finished the draft for my second Lux mystery, and my critique partners are bloodying it at this very moment to help me make it better.  My husband won’t read Jazzi and Ansel.  Cozies aren’t his thing, but he does read Lux and Muddy River.  He sailed through HEIRLOOMS TO DIE FOR without one word as I waited for him to give me deep insight into the book’s plot and pacing.  When he finished, he handed me the pages and said, “I liked it.”  LOL.  That’s not always the case, and it’s better than if he didn’t like it, but I’m thinking my CPs will find a lot more to comment on.  Anyway, in the meantime, I thought I’d share a snippet with you: 

My parents had had a huge painting in their living room of a field of poppies that Cook loved, so I’d given it to her.  It hung over her couch now.  She’d loved the side tables with marble tops, so I’d given her those, too.  They looked great in her room.

When Price finished settling his mother, he turned to us and extended a hand.  “Hi, I’m Cook’s nephew, Price.”  Six feet and whipcord lean, he had dark hair the color of espresso.  It was sprinkled with gray.  I knew Margie was in her mid-seventies, so I guessed he’d be in his early fifties.  His eyes were so dark, they looked black.  He had sharp features and chiseled cheekbones.  But he had trouble meeting my eyes.

I tried to hide my surprise.  I mean, the guy was in hotel/motel management.  Not exactly a job for a shrinking violet.  I’d have pegged him as a people person.

“Are you going to live with Cook?” I asked.  He’d have plenty of room in the loft.

He shook his head.  “I’m too used to living alone after my divorce.  I’m renting an apartment closer to town and my work.”

He acted so nervous, I was beginning to wonder if there was something about us he didn’t like.  Keon raised his eyebrows and glanced at me.  He was wondering about Price, too.

“How was your trip?”  Price brightened when he turned to Cook and his mom.

“The drive was great,” Cook told him.  “But the most horrible thing happened.  Some of Lux’s things were missing from her storage units.  I don’t know how that could have happened.”

Color drained from his face.  “How many things?”

“Maybe half a dozen.”  I’d left the list in the car.  “Two big pieces of furniture, some paintings, and smaller items.”

His shoulders sagged.  “That many.  Were you insured?”

“Of course, but it’s not about the money.  My parents’ things were all originals.  They can’t be replaced.”

He groaned.  “We don’t have the money to compensate for that.”

“Is that what’s worrying you?  It’s not Cook’s fault my things disappeared.  Someone got past the units’ security.”  And whoever it was had to know what they were doing, because I’d chosen that storage company because it was so high-tech.

His shoulders sagged with relief.  He shook his head.  “Sorry, I just didn’t want my mom and aunt to be poor for the rest of their lives.”

I waved that away.  “Cook means more to me than any antique buffet.”

He brightened even more, but something was wrong.  It was almost as if he’d expected to have this conversation before Cook told him about the break-in of my Chicago storage units.  Something to think about later, but for the moment, I wanted Cook to feel welcome.

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Mystery Musings

My poor husband ends up watching more mysteries on TV than any man should have to endure, but the truth is, no matter how much he grumbles (and he can grumble about almost anything), he enjoys them.  We have Acorn TV (with lots of mysteries) and BritBox (with even more).

We recently stumbled on The Bletchley Circle (San Francisco) on BritBox.  https://www.imdb.com/title/tt7978912/  .  I’m not sure how many of you can find it and watch it, but it’s WONDERFUL.  I’m no movie expert like my friend M.L. Rigdon, but the scene sets and cinematography are moody and evocative.  The actresses and actors are topnotch, and the mystery is mesmerizing.

I had no idea what the Bletchley Circle was, but the minute my husband heard the title, he was intrigued.  He reads a lot about World War II and knew right away that Bletchley Park in England was the center for code breakers during the war.  The premise of the show is that a lot of women worked at breaking codes during the war, then they were dispersed and unneeded when the men came home from fighting.  But these were smart women, and in the TV drama, one of their friends was killed during the war, and there’s another murder years later, in San Francisco, that uses the exact MO as that murder.  So four women decide to put their code busting brains together to study the patterns of the new murders to bring justice for their friend.

The first murder takes two episodes to solve, and it’s a great introduction to the series.  If you can find it, I highly recommend it.  It’s one of the smartest mysteries I’ve seen for a while.

Babet & Prosper short story 2

This story tells how Babet’s mother settled in River city, met Hennie, and became a witch:

Rowan’s Story

My parents journeyed to River City in 1730, drawn by the lure of cheap, rich farmland and the absence of brutal winters.  My dad, his hair as sleek and black as a crow’s wing, his eyes as blue as a lagoon, and his feet itchy every five or six years, followed the path his French cousin had taken down the Mississippi.  The city, back then, was a wild brew of settlers, a few French fur traders, and riffraff, so we meant to keep mostly to ourselves.  Because Dad’s cousin warned us about the voodoo priest who sacrificed random newcomers at the boat landing, we steered to shore early.  Bernard met us there.

 

I stared at the tufts of grasses flourishing between patches of dirt, the trees, unknown to me, draped with Spanish moss.  Even the air smelled different.  The soles of my feet tingled when I stepped on the soil.  My heart beat faster.  The wildness of the land pulsed in my veins.

 

Dad’s cousin watched me as I studied our strange surroundings.  “Took me a while, but I got used to it here.  You will, too.”  Then he motioned for us to follow him, turned on his heel, and we began our long trek.  With each step I took, River City became more a part of me.  I’d never felt so strange, so alienated from myself.  By the time we reached his wooden shanty, deep in bayou country, odd impulses rose and fell inside me.

 

The heat hugged us in its damp closeness.  I felt like I could wring myself out.  My scalp prickled with sweat.  My dress clung to me.  A two-room shack, built of vertical boards with a tin roof, sat close to a swamp that lapped at its front yard.

 

Mom, with the same light brown hair and sky-blue eyes, willowy figure, and sprinkle of freckles that she’d bequeathed to me, turned in a slow circle to survey the stew of swamp, the abundance of green, and Bernard’s small garden and shed.  Then she threw out her arms and declared, “We’ll be happy here.  I can feel it.”

 

Really?  All I saw was murky water and unkempt wilderness.  If I had a vote, we’d be heading back north.

 

Bernard’s gaze rested on me.  “This place will suit you.  People are freer here, accept more.  No one lives on the land beside mine.”  He turned to Mom.  “I’ll take Boyce into town to lay claim to it, if that’s all right by you.”

 

At Mom’s nod, the men left.  She gave us a smile and wandered into the shack to take stock of supplies.  When Dad and Bernard returned, she’d have a meal waiting for them.

 

In a huff, I sank to the ground.  At sixteen, I found little to like about our new home.  Its raw strangeness overwhelmed me.  My senses sorted through too much stimuli.  Nothing about River City felt familiar.  My two little brothers sagged on each side of me.

 

Thomas, nine, huffed out a breath.  “Of all the places Dad’s taken us, this is the worst.”

 

George, twelve, nodded agreement.  “Mom had to give us both American names, then Dad brings us to a swamp settled by every nationality respectable cities rejected.”

 

I had to smile.  The boys were right.

 

“What do you think, Rowan?” George asked, nudging my arm.

 

“I hate it here.”  The earth tugged at me, demanding my attention.  The air hovered by my ear.  Something splashed in the water, and it was too big to be a fish.  We’d seen a few alligators, sunning themselves on the river banks, on our trip here.  The swamp must be teeming with them.  I rubbed my arms.  All this water, and we couldn’t step into it, let alone swim.  When I glared at it, waves rippled and reached for me.  I looked away.

 

Thomas sighed.  “We might as well make the best of it.  We’ll be here for at least five years.”

 

George agreed.  “Knowing Dad, this is the place he’ll fall in love with and want to stay.”

 

I frowned, and Thomas said, “It’s not our fault.  You know we’re right.”

 

“I know.”  Not that I liked it.  “Let’s go.”

 

We pushed ourselves to our feet and went to see what Mom was up to.  As usual, she was humming while she worked.  She was cutting a leg of venison into chunks to toss in a soup pot, hanging over the fire.  I found a knife and chopped whatever vegetables I could find, and the boys went to the creek we’d crossed to fetch water.  With the soup started, we set about tidying up our cousin’s shack.  By the time the men returned after sunset, things were in some sort of order.

 

#####

 

Bernard helped Dad build a quick, temporary shelter on our property and taught my brothers where and how to hunt.  Game was abundant.  Lots of rabbit and deer.   A string and hook dangled in the water always caught fish.  And crawdads hid under rocks in the creek—lots of crawdads.  He showed Mom and me which plants were edible and which helped with healing.

 

“But you already know that, don’t you?”  He looked at me, and I frowned.

 

He patted my head.  “The plants will talk to you in time.  No worries.”

 

Talk to me?  Bernard had his quirks.

 

He ate with us every night before he returned home.  “It’s nice to have neighbors,” he said, “even nicer to have family near.”

 

In less than a month, we had a shack of our own.  Dad had built a small shed and bought chickens and a cow from the German farmers north of us.  We’d share milk and cheese with Bernard.  The boys were digging a patch of land for a garden when the neighbor behind us came to visit.

 

The minute he stepped onto our clearing, a shiver sped down my spine.  I was busy raking dirt when I felt his gaze on me.  When I looked up, his hungry eyes scorched every inch of me.  His dark hair hung past his shoulders.  He looked skinny, but there was sinewy strength in his movements.  Mom motioned for us to come welcome him, and he licked his lips at my approach.

 

His smile reminded me of a gator’s.  “Howdy, Miss.  I live just over yonder, came to say my hellos to you and yours.”  His gaze went to my bodice, plastered to my skin.

 

I forced a smile, but my lips felt stiff.  The air closed in around us, and Mom nodded for us to return to our work.  I gladly left him.  If he was typical of the men in these parts, I’d rather remain a spinster.  Dad came to join Mom, and the three adults talked a while.  Relief flooded me when they didn’t invite him to supper, and he left.

 

#####

 

The heat and humidity built every day as summer oppressed River City.

 

“Don’t forget your hat,” Mom called each time I left the house.

 

I sighed in vexation.  “My complexion doesn’t have a chance anyway.  What’s the point?”

 

Mom smiled.  “Your fair skin will burn to beet red down here.  Take care of yourself.”

 

I kicked at the dirt on my way to the small shed to collect eggs and milk the cow.  What difference did it make if I turned as bronze as some of the Indians I’d seen?  Once a month, we went to a social with Bernard, and not one man who asked me to dance held any appeal.  Another two years down here and it wouldn’t matter.  The sun would dry me out, and I’d look like beef jerky.

 

Chores done, I picked up my steps.  Dad had finally agreed to let me go farther from the house in search of native herbs and plants.  Bernard had been right.  Certain plants spoke to me.  Some worked well in soups, and others brought strange words that I’d never heard before to my lips.  I pulled on my wide-brimmed, straw hat, grabbed my basket, and set off for an adventure.

 

The earth sang to me as I tread on it.  Breezes cooled my cheeks.  Herbs stretched to catch my attention.  I chanted a melody in a rhythmic language, not my own.

 

I’d filled the basket two-thirds full when I heard footsteps approaching.  Was Bernard coming to visit?  When I glanced up, though, my breath caught in my throat.  Our neighbor was running flat-out toward me.  Fear gripped my insides.  The look on his face made me jump to my feet and race for the house.

 

He tackled me before I reached the trees.  His weight pinned me down, and his hands ripped at my buttons.

 

“Stop!  Leave me alone!”  When I struggled beneath him, he laughed.  His hands never quit groping.  “My father will kill you.”

 

He shook his head.  “No, missy, your dad will tell me to make an honest woman of you, and then you’ll be mine.”

 

Horror slithered through every pore of my body.   His hand cupped my breast and squeezed.  Damn him!  I would not spend my life with this bastard.  Determination filled me, and then power seeped from the earth.  I could feel it enter my skin, slide through my veins, and pool in my palms.  It scared and excited me.  I pressed my palms against his chest, and he flew off me.

 

He rose onto his elbows and shook his head to focus.  Eyes narrowed, he glared at me.  “You ain’t been here long enough to know voodoo.  I ain’t afraid of your magic.”  And he came at me again.

 

I scrambled to my feet and raised my palms toward him.  “Not another step, I’m warning you.”  Where my feet pressed against the earth, the power rushed into me again.  Sparks prickled across my fingertips.  I raised an eyebrow at him.  “Just turn around and leave.”

 

“Like hell, I will!”  He ran at me.

 

Two, white balls of heat blasted from my palms.  They hit him at close range and knocked him backward.  This time, his head hit the dirt hard enough, he didn’t get up.  His chest rose and fell.  Better than he deserved.  I left him there, unconscious, grabbed my basket, and raced home.

 

My dad saw me coming.  He stopped me at the shed.  His gaze slid to my ripped off buttons, and his expression went dark.  “What happened?”

 

I told him everything.  I couldn’t stop talking.  Was I a monster now?  What had River City done to me?

 

When I finished, Dad smiled.  Not what I’d expected.  “You got your witch genes from my mama.  Men mostly don’t inherit them, but pass them along.  Our neighbor’s lucky he’s still alive.  I’d say you made your grandma proud.”

 

I stared.  “A witch?”  He knew?  And never told me?  “Does Mom know?”

 

 

“‘Course she does.  Lord, sweety, that’s half the reason we came here.  Bernard sent word the minute he got here.  Magic’s part of this place.  No one blinks an eye at it.”

 

I felt dizzy.  I couldn’t believe it.  My parents had known, all along.  When were they going to tell me?  My world turned upside down.

 

“Why do you think we moved so often?” Dad asked.  “Folks up north burn witches.  Things happened around you.  If people started to talk, we picked up and left.”

 

My parents had done all in their power to protect me.  All these years, and I’d never guessed.

 

“We were beginning to think maybe your magic wouldn’t amount to much.  Most girls get their gifts when they reach womanhood.  From the looks of you, it was that time.”

 

I threw myself at him to hug him.  No girl ever had parents as wonderful as mine.

 

He chuckled.  “Let’s hope this means you can sweet talk the dirt into good crops from now on.”

 

And truth be told, I could.  Our farm grew prosperous.  So did Bernard’s.  We spent several years, enjoying our share of bounty.

 

#####

 

Our fourth spring in River City brought torrential rains.  The river flooded, and with it, the fever spread.  I chanted healing spells and made pot after pot of broths, but the fever still took Mom and Dad and both of my brothers.  I buried them behind the barn.  River City lost so many people, the cemeteries couldn’t hold anymore.  Our neighbor died, and no one mourned him.  When the sun finally dried the earth, Bernard packed his bags to leave.

 

“You don’t need me anymore, and I don’t want to risk another rainy season here.  Your magic will keep you safe, but I’m older, not as strong as I used to be.  You’ve made me rich, girl.  I can settle anywhere and live in luxury.”  He kissed my cheek.  “This is the right place for you.  Make it yours.”

 

I watched him mount his horse to ride toward Natchez.   Who knew where he’d eventually call home?  My heart sank as he turned at the bend that followed the bayou and disappeared.  Now, I had no one.  The farm was mine, but it brought me little pleasure.  I went through the motions, tried to keep busy, but solitude weighed heavy on my soul.

 

Weeks later, I was sitting on my front stoop, head down, feeling sorry for myself, when grass rushed toward me, filling the empty spaces in the clearing.  A woman walked toward the house.  Plump, with a creamy complexion and a sense of calm, she radiated warmth.  With each step, a carpet of green swept out in a rush.  When I looked at her, I felt an immediate bond.  I can’t explain it, but I knew.  We’d be friends for life.

 

“My husband worked the river.  We came down from Indiana,” she said.  “He caught the fever and died before we reached River City.  I rowed to shore and buried him.  I’m Hennie, and I need a place to stay.  Magrat said you might take me in for a while.”

 

“Magrat?”  I shook my head.  “I’ve never heard of her.”

 

“She said as much, but she knows you.”

 

“You came here alone?”  I thought of our journey.  Not safe for a woman.  “You’re lucky you didn’t reach the dock.  The voodoo priest would have killed you.”

 

“The water swept me to shore.  It wouldn’t let him harm me.”

 

I paid closer attention.  There were lots of magicks in these parts.  “You’re a witch?”

 

“I’m good with potions.  Magrat thought we’d work well together. She’s starting a coven and invited us to join.”

 

I didn’t know what to make of that, but company would be nice.  I nodded.  “Welcome.  Make yourself at home.”

 

She tilted her head to study me.  “River City hired Magrat to protect it.  I’d like to join her coven.  I’d like to learn more about what I have.  I don’t really understand it.”

 

“Neither do I.”  I thought for a minute.  What could it hurt to study my magic?  “We’ll join together.”

 

And that started it all—the witches of River City and Hennie’s and my friendship.  The city’s changed a lot since then.  It’s modern now.  Tourists flock to it from around the world.

 

Magrat died, fighting the demon Jaleel, and I became our coven’s high priestess.  Hennie and I are still friends.  Magic still permeates the city’s earth, air, and water.  Many supernaturals of all varieties dwell here.  That ain’t a bad thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Small things

We’ve all heard it before and know that it’s true.  Small things make a difference.  I know that if I write one chapter every weekday, I’ll have a book sooner than later.  But not everyone can do that.  I read a blog by Stuart Danker (whom I met on my blog), and he wrote a novel by writing 250 words a day.  https://stuartdanker.com/  I’ve met writers who are weekend warriors who only write on Saturdays and Sundays and end up with novels.  We all have to find our own path to writing.  And no one thing is right for everyone.  BUT, small things add up to bigger things.  Of that, I’m sure.  And it doesn’t just make a difference in writing.

My youngest sister is trying to clean out my sister Patty’s house to put it up for sale.  I mentioned my sister’s death a while ago.  Patty loved THINGS.  Cleaning out Patty’s house is a . . . chore.  Her house made me border on claustrophobic.  Every inch of wall space was filled.  Knickknacks were everywhere.  Pictures hung everywhere. It was almost overwhelming.

But on Saturday, I put on my crappy work clothes and met Mary there to start sifting through the big stuff.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m only small time help.  Mary’s doing all of the day to day, ugly stuff.  I’m just there for heavy labor.  BUT, Mary hates to cook.  Since we were meeting at one, I said I’d bring lunch.  Mary loves spaghetti, so I made a huge pot of that.  Enough for leftovers.  And, it made Mary so happy, it made me feel bad.  I take her and my cousin Jenny leftovers every other night, so that Mary doesn’t have to cook right now, but it made me realize what a small thing made so much difference to her.  That, and having a body show up so that she didn’t feel so alone.

It made me think about what makes the biggest impact in everyday life.  Sure, I have big goals that I’d like to reach.  But those goals come one step at a time.  Sometimes, one increment at a time.  And there are plenty of failures to make me feel that I’m not making any headway at all.  But what sustains me?  The small everyday joys of life.  My HH.  Friends.  Family.  Pets.  Anything that offers hope and sustenance.  When my rankings go up on Amazon.  When I get a good review.  Small things make a big difference.

In the very beginning of my writing endeavors, I was happy when I got a “good” rejection from an editor, when someone took the time to write a personal note on why they turned down my manuscript.  (And I will forever love Richard Chizmar from Cemetery Dance because of his nice rejections).  Ruth Cavin ALWAYS wrote a personal note when she rejected one of my novels.  And as weird as it sounds, those rejections made me feel like I was making progress.

So much of writing is impersonal.  (And that might be a good thing.  I don’t think I could stand facing down a choreographer or director to have him tell me I didn’t make the cut).  But one rejection after another beats the heck out of your writer ego, so any glimmer of hope helps.  Every ‘yes’ makes a difference.  Every “you almost made it” helps you carry on.  Well, it’s just the same with everything in life.  I watched Face the Nation this morning and listened to the many people talk about John Lewis, “the conscience of Congress.”  He had lots of setbacks, lots of “someday.”  But he carried on.  Because he had HOPE.  He believed in himself.  And he believed in America.   Hope’s what got me through.  I hope you have lots and lots of it.

Happy Writing.

Aristotle Gave Us More than Philosophy

Saw this by Staci Troilo on Story Empire. Every once in a while, I like to focus on writing craft, and this is a topnotch article (with more to come) on it.

Story Empire

Ciao, SEers. Have you ever heard the term polymath? I had to dig deep into my college days to remember the definition. (We won’t discuss how long ago that was.)

A polymath is a person with knowledge in a wide range of topics. Polymaths go far beyond the Jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none level of understanding and experience. These are experts in multiple fields. We often think of the Renaissance when we think of polymaths, Leonardo DaVinci being among the most famous. But there have been several throughout history. And Aristotle was one of them.

We tend to think of him as a philosopher. But among his many fields of expertise were arts, sciences, economics, politics, and metaphysics.

As this is a writing site, we’re going to talk about Aristotle’s contributions to literature. Not his work itself, but his defining of the terms comedy and tragedy.

Aristotelian Comedy
In an Aristotelian comedy, the…

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A Babet & Prosper short story

The Pied Piper

by

Judith Post

 

Babet was casting a spell when someone pounded on her front door.  Whoever it was would have to wait.  Vittorio, her friend the vampire, needed a protection amulet.  With his usual sense of dark humor, he’d brought her a fang attached to a leather thong.  She hoped he meant to wear it around his neck, but with Vittorio, she never knew.

The door opened, and her mother stopped on the threshold.  No witch would interrupt a casting.  When the spell was finished, Babet motioned her mom inside.  The house’s wards knew her as a friend and let her pass.  Morgana, Babet’s familiar, slithered to greet her.  The boa loved company.

Her mother raised an eyebrow at the long, curved tooth.  “Really?  Someone chose that as an amulet?”

“Vittorio.”  Her mother knew him.  He’d helped them fight the necromancer who’d come to River City to recruit dead witches.

“Did he yank it from a true dead friend?” her mom asked.

“No, I think it’s from a Were of some kind.  It looks authentic, though, doesn’t it?  I hope it helps him.  He’s managed to anger another one of his own.  It’s a good thing he has witch friends or he wouldn’t last long here.”  That, and he was old enough to be formidable.  Not that Vittorio looked old.  Anything but.  With his long, lanky body and dark, untamed looks, women came to his parlor to get tattoos they didn’t even want.

The niceties dealt with, her mother got straight to the point.  “Two of my students didn’t make it to witch’s school this morning.  Their parents sent them, but they never arrived.  They always walk together, and…” at Babet’s smirk, “they’re not the type to skip.”

Babet’s smirk faded.  She watched her mother lace and unlace her fingers.  It took a lot to bother Mom, the leader of River City’s coven.  “No one’s seen them?”  She glanced outside her front windows.  The sun hovered at the tree line in the west.  The day had gotten away from her.  Prosper was working late tonight on a case with Hatchet, so she didn’t have to watch the time.

Her mother looked out the window, too, as though the girls might walk down the sidewalk in front of Babet’s yellow bungalow.  “They never returned to their homes.  They’re good girls.  Something’s happened to them.”

Babet licked her lips.  The last time children disappeared in River City, the bogeyman was stealing them, but he only took children who misbehaved, and he’d promised never to return.   Most supernaturals lived together in peace here.  Succubi, vampires, voodoo, Weres, and witches treated one another with respect.  The supernatural enforcement agency—where Prosper and Hatchet worked—made sure of that.  But there was always the danger of someone or something new invading their city.

“Have you felt any new magicks?” Babet asked.  She knew that by now, most of the coven would be out scouring every nook and cranny for the girls.  Her mother must have thought they’d find them, or she’d have come for her sooner.

“That’s why I’m here,” her mother said.  “We’ve felt ripples of magic, but we can’t find their source.”

Babet nodded.  “Let me drop this off at Vittorio’s place—the sooner he gets it, the better—then I’ll join you at the shop.  I’ll bring Morgana with me.”

The snake bobbed her head.  She had a great sense of smell.  No bloodhound could beat her at tracking, especially when magic was involved.

Her mother nodded.  “Hurry.   The girls have to be frightened, if….”

Babet interrupted her.  “How old are they?”  Witches from kindergarten through high school age attended her mother’s classes.

“Twelve.  Right on the brink of….”

“Maturity.”  A witch’s powers swelled when she came into her womanhood.  Babet pressed her lips together in a tight line.  “Have you talked to Evangeline?”

Evangeline had both witch and voodoo powers.  She trained with their coven, and her mother was the high priestess of the voodoo community near the bayou.

“They’ve already sent their spirits out to search, too.”

Babet wasn’t sure what else they could do, but she’d offer any assistance she could.

Half an hour later, she parked at the curb in front of her mom’s school.  Vittorio had promised to join her once the sun went down.  Loreena, one of the witches in her mother’s coven, waited at the door for her.  Her lovely, mocha face was scrunched in panic.  Her lithe body tensed with nervous energy.  “Vesta’s missing now, too.   Her mother’s been with us, tracking any scents of magic we can.  Her husband called her home half an hour ago.  Vesta was in her room, upstairs, doing homework.  He didn’t hear her leave the house.  She didn’t say goodbye or tell him where she was going—not like her.”

A chill shivered down Babet’s arms.  “Are any other children missing?”

“Not that I know of.”  Loreena was sliding into Babet’s car to ride to Vesta’s house when Babet’s mother pulled in behind them and screeched her car to a stop.  She and Hennie ran to Babet and Loreena.  “Ezra’s gone now.  His dad was watching him play soccer.  Ezra went to the bathroom and never came out.  When his dad went to check on him, no one was there.”

Babet blinked.  “Did anyone else leave the restrooms?”

“A man in a long, black coat and black pants.  He was carrying something shiny.  It flashed in the last of the sunlight, so Ezra’s dad remembered it.  And there were lots of black birds flying overhead.”

Babet bit her bottom lip.  No one wore a long, black coat in Three Rivers in September.  What was this man?  “We might be able to use the birds to track him.  I could take Morgana to the soccer field to try to follow his scent.”   She’d have to wait to do that until it was dark and the park was empty.  Mortals tended to wonder about boas.

Before they could divide up to search, Evangeline and Perdita pulled next to them.  “Two more children are missing.”

Babet curled her fingers into fists.  “How?”  By now, every witch parent had their children under lock down.  No one would enter their houses and no child would be allowed to leave.

“Opal and Saffron climbed out their bedroom window and shimmied down a tree to run off.”

“He’s calling them,” Babet said.  “He’s bespelled them somehow.  He’d need hair or nail clippings to do that.  He’s planned this, probably for a long time.”

“How do we find him?” her mother asked.

“Morgana can follow his scent.  We’ll start at the soccer field.”  The sun sank below the horizon.  It would be safe now.  Most parks closed once it was dark.

They formed a caravan to drive to the fields, and Babet walked with Morgana to the public restrooms near the parking lot.  Morgana’s tongue flicked in and out.  When she found the scent of magic, she started after it.  They followed a trail through the woods to a large, grassy field.  A circle of stones sat in its center.   At one time, voodoo ceremonies were performed here—dances, music, and food.  No black magic, but when River City’s surburbs bumped against the voodoo community, the community had picked up and left.  Now, it sat between the slow-moving, lazy river and the bayou—three of its borders safe from encroachment.

Morgana slithered toward the circle, stopped, and bobbed her head.

A man sprang from the shadows behind the waist-high, stone wall, balancing on top of them.

Loreena gaped at him.  “Roary!  What are you doing here?”

Babet stared at his bare feet.  Earth magic.   He held a ragged piece of mirror in both hands.  He swayed from side to side and tilted his head, listening to something none of them heard.  Then he stared hard at Loreena.  “After you cast me aside, I traveled for a while, learned new magics.  And the more I thought about it, the angrier I was at you.”

Loreena frowned.  “What are you talking about?  We met at the spring solstice.  You barely spoke to me.  You barely spoke to anyone.”

“I wanted you.”  He did a little jig on the flagstones.  “But you never noticed.  The beautiful girl with the jade green eyes had no time for me.”

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

He threw back his head and laughed.  “Who wouldn’t like you?”

Babet had to agree.  Loreena’s skin looked like smooth, deep caramel.  Her exotic features attracted second glances.  And her smile stunned.  More, she was friendly and outgoing, so people flocked to her.

Loreena smiled at him.  “So you came to visit me?  To tell me how you feel?”

Smart girl.  Babet was impressed.

“No!”  Roary screamed the answer.  He raised the mirror above his head and cried, “I came to make you as miserable as you made me.”

“But why?  If you’d have talked to me, we could have been friends.”

“I don’t want to be your friend!”  Roary’s body trembled.  He shoved the mirror in front of him for them all to see.  “All you talked about was your coven, how much you loved your fellow witches.  So I knew.  If I hurt them, I’d hurt you.”

Morgana slithered toward him, and he glared at Babet.  “Keep your snake away from me, or I break this.”

“A mirror?  Is it important?”  Babet kept her voice light, conversational.  She didn’t want to upset Roary any more than he already was.

Roary’s lips twisted in a cruel smile.  He spoke some words, and a circle of fire formed in the air behind him.  A portal.  “My magic’s sucked your children into my mirror.  I want Loreena to watch me send them through the portal to the demons that await them.”

Cold stabbed Babet’s heart, made it clench.  Fear sped through her body.   An entrapment spell.  Black magic.  She frowned at Roary’s wrists.  Scars crisscrossed each other.  No wonder he wore long sleeves and pants.  She’d bet he’d cut himself everywhere to offer enough blood to empower the mirror.

Babet’s mother spoke, her voice like dry ice.  “We’ll kill you once you harm our children.”

Roary laughed—a high-pitched, eerie noise that set Babet’s nerves jangling.  “You can try.”

He meant to open the portal, then cause a diversion and disappear.  He wasn’t as good as he thought he was.  Every witch in the coven knew that trick…and how to stop it.  They’d fought demons before.  But by then, it would be too late.  Once the children went through that portal, they’d never return.

“I’ll promise to go with you, to stay with you, if you free the children,” Loreena said.

“It’s too late!”  Roary ran in place on the flagstones.  Babet didn’t know how he kept his balance.  It must be his Earth magic grounding him.  “I know you don’t want me.  I won’t live a lie.”

Tears coursed down Loreena’s cheeks.  “Please, don’t do this.”

He raised the mirror and began to say his words.  If they rushed him, and the mirror fell and broke, the children would be trapped wherever he sent them.  The amulet needed to return them would be destroyed.  If they waited, he’d send them to the pits.

A flash made Babet rub her eyes.  The scenery blurred, and then Roary howled in fury.  His hands were in the air, empty.

Movement stirred beside her, and Vittorio offered her the mirror.  She blinked.  A vampire’s speed.  So fast, mortals couldn’t follow it.  Obviously, neither could witches when they weren’t concentrating to see it.

She felt a lump swell in her throat and she swallowed it down.  “Thank you.”

Vittorio shrugged.  “I owe you.  Your spell saved me this evening.”

She shook her head.  She and Vittorio kept trading favors, and so far, it benefited both of them.

Roary licked his lips.  He gulped.  He was about to perform his disappearing act when a large, clawed hand shoved through the portal, grabbed him by the back of his black coat, and dragged him through the fiery hole.  When his foot disappeared, the portal closed.

Everyone stared.  No one knew what to say.  Finally Vittorio asked, “Does someone here know how to get the kids out of the mirror?”

Hennie nodded.  Babet’s mother’s best friend knew more about spells and potions than anyone in the coven.  Her mom could have looked it up in a spell book, but now she didn’t have to.  Hennie took the mirror from Babet, held it high, and chanted a spell.  First, Saffron and Opal walked from it, then Ezra, and then the two girls.  When the mirror was empty, Hennie asked, “Is there anyone else, from some other place?”

“No.”

Then Hennie broke it.  No one rejoiced.  Everyone sighed with relief.  Shoulders hunched, feet dragging, they silently walked back to their cars at the soccer fields.  Babet gave Vittorio a ride home.  Loreena returned with Babet’s mother and Hennie.  Evangeline and Perdita rode together.

When Babet and Morgana returned to their yellow bungalow, Prosper’s car was parked in the small drive by the back patio.  He was holding a glass of wine for her when she stepped inside the kitchen.  “Hatchet got a call from a few witch parents.  I’m guessing you’ve had a long day.  Do you want to talk about?”

And suddenly, she did.  She needed to spew it out, rid herself of the aftertaste.  They sat across from each other at the table, and he shared his day, and she shared hers.  One of the perks of bonding with a werebear.  He was not only cuddly, he was a great listener, and the perfect partner.