David R. Michael's Blog, page 44
November 8, 2010
Baptism (Part 1 of 3)
by David Michael
Winter SolsticeMyra stood on the lip of the broken bridge, her bare feet on hot concrete. The sun looked down at her, unspeaking as always, while the dry air swirled dust around her, caressing her, once more trying to seduce her, trying to reach what she held inside her.
In front of her, the twisted superstructure of the bridge littered the rocky terrain of what had once been the bottom of a bay. Below her, even more dust blew over and through the smashed Mazdas and Fords and Toyotas and Peterbilts as the wind looked in vain for anything she had left behind. Among the vehicles, she could see the desiccated corpses and wind-stripped skeletons of the drivers and passengers as tiny stick-figure shapes drawn in white on black asphalt or as shadows pressed against shattered windows.
She didn't remember visiting this place, yet here was her handiwork spread before her.
Was this the end? What would happen if she took the next step?
Behind her she heard the children talking, asking about her, asking about food. Not all of them could speak. Few of them spoke the same language. Had she not brought them, they would not be here.
Is that why she had brought them? To see the end?
She didn't remember when she had started sparing the children. Her memory had become as broken and uneven as the bridge she stood on, as frayed as the suspender cables that hung from the lonely towers and moved with the wind.
She remembered drowning.
Spring Solstice
Drunk on mojitos, high on love and smelling of sex just consummated on the beach–to the scandalized protests of upper class mothers and grandmothers and the entertainment of their husbands and boyfriends and children–Myra Acevedo went swimming. Topless, because she decided not to worry about being naked now, and because she had no idea where Antonio had flung the sequined, aqua-colored top of her bikini, she adjusted her thong and walked into the water. And drowned.
She had been warned about the undertows, but she didn't remember swimming out far enough to reach them.
Since it felt like warm, strong hands grabbing her waist and pulling her under, she had thought at first that it was Antonio. That he had followed her into the water and was wanting to make love again. She tried to giggle, but it only sent saltwater up her nose and made her cough.
No longer amused, already needing to breathe and spit out the salty water in her mouth, she tried to twist free and kick for the surface.
The grip on her waist didn't let up, and continued pulling her down.
She couldn't see clearly in the water, but she couldn't see anyone near her. No one was holding her. No one was pulling her down. She might have thought she was suspended in the water, floating, except that the sparkling sunlight on the surface was receding as she looked.
Her lungs began to burn with the need to take a breath. Her ears roared with the nothing sounds of the water pushing against her eardrums.
She clawed at the water with cupped hands and kicked with her feet. She tried to grab the hands on her waist that she couldn't see, but only scratched her skin.
The water around her became darker. She could still see the sun directly overhead but it no longer offered any hope of the surface.
She had to breathe. She fought the urge. She tried to calm herself. That was what she had always heard. You had to calm yourself. You did more harm, and used up more oxygen, if you struggled.
She no longer seemed to be sinking. She felt no movement. She was suspended in a blue-green universe.
She hoped that Antonio or one of the lifeguards or someone–even one of the creepy old men who had watched so intently as she made love to Antonio–had seen her go under. With all the eyes that had been on her when she walked down the beach and into the water, someone must have noticed she had disappeared. Someone who even now must be swimming out to save her. She just needed to calm down, and everything would be OK.
The warmth encircling her waist spread to cover her body like a heavy blanket. If she didn't need to breathe, if her lungs and cheeks weren't threatening to burst–or collapse–she could have enjoyed the sensation of being enveloped by the warm water. It felt like slipping slowly into a mud bath at the spa, like heated towels being wrapped around her face. The roaring in her ears eased.
If only she could take a breath.
No one was coming. She didn't know how she knew that, but there was no doubt in her mind. She could feel–somehow–other people in the water, splashing in the tide along the shore and swimming toward the breakers and around the distant boats. None of those swimmers, though, were coming to help her. The people on the beach were talking about her and laughing–she could almost hear the echoes of their voices–thinking about her–she saw remembered flashes of herself walking, her round bottom smudged with sand, her breasts moving in rhythm with her steps. She had become the sole focus of everyone on the beach, but none of them had seen her go under.
Her calm flashed away like a school of silver fish, leaving her alone in the water. She tried to move her arms and legs, but they responded too slowly, as if the warm water had become crystal honey. She couldn't even panic, now that she wanted to. She wanted nothing more than to thrash about and grab something, anything. But there was nothing there.
At last, exhausted and unable to do anything else, she open her mouth.
The air rushed out of her mouth and nose in a fountain of bubbles that didn't seem slowed at all. She continued to flail and kick in slow motion as her last breath frothed and shot to the surface.
She expected more pain when the water claimed her. She expected to choke and cough.
Instead, as if the warmth had been waiting for her to let go, it now moved to claim her completely. She didn't choke. She felt no pain. The warm water came into her. Not just through her mouth and nose but through her fingers and toes and her belly and breasts and her back and legs.
She became the water. The water became her.
She died. She felt herself die. She didn't know what else it could have been. Death seemed the only possibility. But there was no darkness. There was no pain. And she did not leave.
The water around her became as bright as raw sunlight and then sunlight itself washed over her face as she came up out of the water. She had not even realized she was moving. Then she was standing on the water, feeling the shifting, faceted surface of the ocean on the soles of her feet.
She looked down at herself, uncertain what she would see. She saw her naked breasts, and below that saw she still wore the sequined, aqua-colored thong of her bikini. She looked at her arms and hands and her fingers and fingertips. Everything was as she expected it to be. Except everything was new. Her skin still glowed with the tropical tan she had spent so much time on the weeks before leaving with Antonio, but now she seemed to glow for real. Her muscles, toned by hours in the gym and long runs in the park, flexed and moved as they always had, but with a lushness and fullness she had never experienced.
And she was standing on the water.
She squatted and touched the water. Her finger went into the water as it always had. She pulled her hand back, and then touched the surface of the water again. This time, because she wanted it to, the water pushed back, indenting only a bit around her fingertip.
Still crouched, she looked down into the water below her and it was like looking through the glass of an aquarium. At first she thought she might see her body down there, because she had drowned and this had to be what it was like to die. But then she knew that she couldn't be down there, because she was up here. She had died, but she had not died.
She didn't know what that meant.
She heard anxious voices and shouts. She looked at the beach.
People stood on the beach, men and women and children, looking at her, pointing at her. As she looked at them, some of the people fell to their knees and crossed themselves.
Like an echo in her head, as if two parts of her expressed the same thing, she thought, They are praying. But then the echo split. –Why are they praying? –It is too late.
She stood. Too quickly. Her vision went double. Her head became too light and too heavy at once. She stumbled. One foot went ankle-deep into the water before the water–or she–remembered that she could walk on water now, and it rose to be level with the other foot still on the surface.
She straightened and faced the shore again. She saw Antonio standing with other vacationers and the waitstaff of the beachside bar. Antonio's face showed religious rapture, which she didn't expect. She stood before him on the water, naked except for a few square inches of Latex, and she could see his mouth moving. She could almost hear his prayer, even as far out as she was. She could hear the sounds of the words, but the words themselves did not reach her. As if part of her refused to hear.
–It is too late.
Myra cried out in pain and put her hands to her head, fingers pressing on her temples to keep her head from exploding. It was the first pain she had felt since–
Since she drowned.
Since she died.
Fear touched her and sent goosebumps down her back and up her stomach.
Why was she standing on the water? How–? Was this a dream?
The water opened to take her back into itself. This time she sank up to her knees.
Her eyes fixed on Antonio again. She could see him still praying–It is too late–but his eyes were closed now.
–Go to them. Part of her did not see just Antonio. She saw everyone on the beach. Everyone in the resort.
"Tony!" she shouted, forcing herself to see only him. She didn't want to see everyone. She wanted to see only Antonio.
She took her first step toward land. Then her next. The water still came up to her knees, as if she were standing on solid ground hidden beneath the wavelets. But the water was clear, and anyone could see she stood on nothing.
"Tony!"
Antonio opened his eyes and looked at her. She opened her arms as she continued walking toward him. She felt the resistance of the water decrease with each step. Arms still spread, she looked down and saw the water was down to her ankles. Now, though, it wasn't her feet coming up to the surface of the water. The water was receding to the level of her soles, as if the tide were going out.
More of the people on the shore, including Antonio, fell to their knees.
–It is too late.
She paused where the blue-green water touched the white sands of the shore, suddenly afraid of stepping onto the beach. The water made the decision for her, pulling away from the land and leaving her with her bare feet on the sand.
Her legs felt rubbery, insubstantial versus the hard earth, but she did not fall.
More people had gathered on the sandy shore, waiting for her, arranged like an amphitheater with her at the center. Those closest to her were all kneeling, genuflecting, crossing themselves again and again while saying prayers that were at once familiar and alien in both Spanish and English.
"It's …" Myra stopped her voice. She didn't want to say what she felt she must say. She clenched her jaw. She took a step toward Antonio.
She felt the sand shift–and change–under her foot. She felt the moisture of the sand sucked away. She looked back where she had first touched the sand and saw two dry footprints. She took another step, leaving another foot-shaped patch of dry sand that seemed to glow out of the damp, and felt the same shift and change. And the same sensation of water being taken away, out of the sand.
She felt the offshore breeze touch her then, and where it brushed against her the moisture it carried was stripped away.
She looked at the people gathered around. She forced herself to focus on Antonio. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to tell him to run away, far away.
"It's. Too. Late," she said, fighting against every word, and now trying not to resist coming any closer to Antonio.
Antonio opened his eyes and looked up at her when she finally stood over him. Her hands twitched as she fought to keep them at her sides.
"Myra," he said, his voice a thick whisper. Behind him, around them, the people whispered her name too, like a ripple through a pond. Myra. Myra. Myra.
She wanted to cry, but there were no tears in her eyes. She opened her mouth to tell him she had died and he should run. That he should not touch her. That he should not let her touch him.
But what she said was, "It is too late." When he reached for her with his right hand, both of her hands closed on his like a sprung trap.
TO BE CONTINUED
Part 2 of "Baptism" will be Posted on
Monday, 15 November 2010.
Read the rest of the story on your ereader right now!
"Baptism" Edition
Price
Kindle edition (Amazon)
$0.99
Ebook (Smashwords)
$0.99
November 7, 2010
Nano Day 7
Today's Words: 1925
Month to Date: 14024
I'm almost finished with Part 1 of my Nano novel. Hopefully I'll get Part 1 wrapped up tomorrow and start on Part 2.
I'm going to call the first week of November/Nanowrimo a Success! I met my goal of writing 2K words/day every day this week. And I think some of what I wrote is pretty good. Obviously first draft material, but not dreadful. I think I should be able to keep up this pace through next week, as well.
I do worry that what I'm thinking is funny might come across as more mean. I don't have any choice, though, except to keep writing. I won't know if it's funny (or mean) until I finish it up and show it to people.
I've never before written anything with the intention of it being funny, so this is all new to me. Lots of room for self doubt. So far, though, I've been able to beat back the self doubt and keep writing.
On word and up word!
-David
November 6, 2010
Nano Day 6
Today's Words: 2047
Month to Date: 12099
Lookit. Writing on a Saturday. Been a while since I did that.
I'm coming up on the last big scene of Part 1 of my Nano novel. I expected to use fewer words to reach this point, but I'm OK with the count so far.
As I write I'm trying to "up the weird factor" since weird is supposed to be a big part of the book. I'm also trying to keep the prose light even as I deal with some moderately heavy issues. I'm also trying to avoid "walking the story" between scenes. Gotta skip the boring parts, you know.
I haven't posted an excerpt of my Nano novel yet. Not sure if I will.
-David
November 5, 2010
Nano Day 5
Today's Words: 1997
Month to Date: 10052
Not much to say today. Just gotta keep on fucking that chicken…
-David
November 4, 2010
THE SUMMONING FIRE Listed on Joe Konrath's Blog
With a Little Help
This isn't a competition.
It never was, really. Very few readers only read one author. The vast majority like several authors, and the more a person likes to read, the more authors they wind up discovering, and following.
In some cases, price may be a bit prohibitive. If your book budget is $40 a month, you might have to choose between two new hardcovers, or five paperbacks. But, by and large, readers don't pick one book over another book. If they want to read them both, they eventually will.
Which brings us to authors helping authors.
If we're not in competition with one another, then it makes perfect sense to help each other out. After all, we're all in the same boat.
I do this a lot. Anyone who has ever done a booksigning with me knows that I spend a lot of time pimping my peers' books–often moreso than I pimp my own.
That said, here are some writers I'd like to share with you.
Read the whole post here…
-David
Nano Day 4
Today's Words: 2022
Month to Date: 8055
I think I wrote some words today that are at least moderately funny. Not that my opinion really counts in this regard.
On the other hand, today I found myself worrying that I wasn't exercising proper "editorial control" over what I'm writing. Out of the blue I get the thought that I might be relaxing too far into the Nano mindset and letting myself just babble on, good words, bad words, whatever words come to mind.
I like to write as close to a "complete" first draft as possible. No way to be "completely complete" when I finish the first draft (at least, not yet). I'm always going to find something I need to revise, and if I don't my first readers will. But I like to think what I'm writing is good, not just words I'm slopping down onto the page or screen.
So, yes, only 4 days into November and Self Doubt shows up. Possibly a new speed record.
Part of the problem is that I'm still *planning* the novel while simultaneously *writing* it. Characters are still being defined in look-and-feel. Settings are still in flux. There's just a lot of everything still up in the air.
No writing is wasted writing. Each word helps me see the story and the world of the story that much more clearly. Even if only by elimination.
-David
November 3, 2010
THE SUMMONING FIRE Reviewed at Reading Review
Conan Tigard at Reading Review rates The Summoning Fire 7½ out of 10.David Michael has created a world that I would never want to live in. The plot moves along with as many chapters that take place in the past as do in the present. There are also a few chapters thrown in that … center upon people that live in Hell on Earth and the tragic end to the lives, usually at the hands, which it doesn't really have, so let's say tendrils, of the summoned creature. Man, would this ever be a depressing place to live. Death surround the inhabitants at ever corner…
Read the whole review here…
-David
Nano Day 3
Today's Words: 2001
Month to Date: 6033
I didn't expect this first part of the book to soak up 6K words. I hope I'm not writing throwaway words here. So far, though, I'm kinda liking what I'm doing. Having fun with it. Still exploring the interaction of the characters and developing their voices.
-David
My How-to-Write Library
I count 51 books on the two shelves, and I know there's at least one more downstairs (The War of Art by Steven Pressfield). And maybe a few others about the house.
My "library" consists of a lot of how-to books (for novels, short stories and screenplays), plus some handy writers references books (like Deadly Doses), and some biographies and autobiographies. Some of these books are out of print. Some have been re-released with new covers.
I started buying how-to-write books in college (when I could afford to buy them instead of just checking them out of the library). That would be about 1989 or so. In the early 2K's I started buying fewer and reading more from the library again. Like that goofy, useless, industry-spawning How to Write a Breakout Novel. Not that some of the books I have on my shelves aren't also goofy and useless (like The Key). I just got lucky and didn't actually spend money on Breakout.
-David
