BLANK SPOT
Busily editing the second book in the WOA series. So much behind the scenes work goes on, but I'm not fussing - never think that - because I adore traveling between universes. Even the somewhat creepy, dark world of Private Carole Blank, USMC. She's the warrior you'll be getting acquainted with in BLANK - a shieldmaiden's voice, Book Two in the Warriors of the Ages series, by S. R. Karfelt*.
Right now scenes are being reworked and deleted for the sake of flow. Oh, the pain, the pain of chopping up my baby. So what I'm going to do is toss some deleted scenes out into the metaverse. I think I have enough to fill a black hole. Feel free to let me know what you think, or just drive on by.
Photo Credit: S. R. Karfelt-Keating
Foster Care meant children who didn’t belong. At least that is what the Thatcher children told Carole as soon as Marsha deposited her in their front room. Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher had seven foster children, and three realchildren they informed her. Becky, Patty, and Scott Thatcher were real, and had bedrooms upstairs by their parent’s room. The foster children slept on cots downstairs, boys in one room, girls in another. They had two dogs that snapped at you if you tried to touch them. Scott Thatcher pulled their tails and raced up stairs covered in worn carpet. The dogs nipped savagely at his heels, but he escaped into the safety of the bathroom. Slinking back down the stairs in bad tempered defeat, both dogs lunged for little Becky. Carole wrapped a thin arm around her and hauled the pink frilled girl onto the safety of the banister, free from chomping teeth.“Ow!” Becky complained. “That hurt you idiot!” Carole let go of her and Becky climbed down the far side of the perch, keeping the banister bars safely between her and the dogs. She sniffed, smoothing her fluffy dress. “They wouldn’t bite me anyway. They’re my family’s dogs.” Both dogs shoved their snouts between the railings, snapping at her. Becky leaned precariously away, struggling to keep her balance. Carole slid down beside her, again wrapping an arm around the girl. She leapt the few feet to the floor below and released the startled girl. The dogs raced down the steps after them. Becky pushed off Carole and ran away. Carole waited for the dogs, jumped nimbly over them, and bolted. Both dogs chased Carole into the kitchen where she slammed the door in their snarling faces.Standing at the sink, Mrs. Thatcher ignored the growling and scratching coming through the door. Drying her hands on her big red apron, she ordered two big girls to set the table properly, water pitcher in front of Mr. Thatchers’ place. “And what’s your name again?” There was something sharp about her brown eyes as she took in Carole’s disheveled appearance. Carole lifted a thin leg and tugged one sock properly back into place. “Carole Blank, Ma’am.” Marsha, the social worker, had told Carole that everyone was Ma’am or Sir, unless they told her otherwise.“I am not cooking you homemade bread and beans, or whatever that woman said you had to eat. I don’t cater to picky eaters. You’ll eat what is on your plate or you’ll get punished just like the rest of them. People aren’t allergic to food, that nigger doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”The voices shouted in Carole’s head. If you eat dirty food you die. She pressed her lips together. Mrs. Thatcher had promised Marsha she would give her the food like her file said. Mrs. Thatcher had taken the list from Marsha and smiled. Mrs. Thatcher was a liar, and she said ugly words. What was a nigger? Because Marsha wasn’t one, but maybe Mrs. Thatcher was.
***
Copyright 2013 S. R. Karfelt
All rights reserved.
Right now scenes are being reworked and deleted for the sake of flow. Oh, the pain, the pain of chopping up my baby. So what I'm going to do is toss some deleted scenes out into the metaverse. I think I have enough to fill a black hole. Feel free to let me know what you think, or just drive on by.
Photo Credit: S. R. Karfelt-KeatingFoster Care meant children who didn’t belong. At least that is what the Thatcher children told Carole as soon as Marsha deposited her in their front room. Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher had seven foster children, and three realchildren they informed her. Becky, Patty, and Scott Thatcher were real, and had bedrooms upstairs by their parent’s room. The foster children slept on cots downstairs, boys in one room, girls in another. They had two dogs that snapped at you if you tried to touch them. Scott Thatcher pulled their tails and raced up stairs covered in worn carpet. The dogs nipped savagely at his heels, but he escaped into the safety of the bathroom. Slinking back down the stairs in bad tempered defeat, both dogs lunged for little Becky. Carole wrapped a thin arm around her and hauled the pink frilled girl onto the safety of the banister, free from chomping teeth.“Ow!” Becky complained. “That hurt you idiot!” Carole let go of her and Becky climbed down the far side of the perch, keeping the banister bars safely between her and the dogs. She sniffed, smoothing her fluffy dress. “They wouldn’t bite me anyway. They’re my family’s dogs.” Both dogs shoved their snouts between the railings, snapping at her. Becky leaned precariously away, struggling to keep her balance. Carole slid down beside her, again wrapping an arm around the girl. She leapt the few feet to the floor below and released the startled girl. The dogs raced down the steps after them. Becky pushed off Carole and ran away. Carole waited for the dogs, jumped nimbly over them, and bolted. Both dogs chased Carole into the kitchen where she slammed the door in their snarling faces.Standing at the sink, Mrs. Thatcher ignored the growling and scratching coming through the door. Drying her hands on her big red apron, she ordered two big girls to set the table properly, water pitcher in front of Mr. Thatchers’ place. “And what’s your name again?” There was something sharp about her brown eyes as she took in Carole’s disheveled appearance. Carole lifted a thin leg and tugged one sock properly back into place. “Carole Blank, Ma’am.” Marsha, the social worker, had told Carole that everyone was Ma’am or Sir, unless they told her otherwise.“I am not cooking you homemade bread and beans, or whatever that woman said you had to eat. I don’t cater to picky eaters. You’ll eat what is on your plate or you’ll get punished just like the rest of them. People aren’t allergic to food, that nigger doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”The voices shouted in Carole’s head. If you eat dirty food you die. She pressed her lips together. Mrs. Thatcher had promised Marsha she would give her the food like her file said. Mrs. Thatcher had taken the list from Marsha and smiled. Mrs. Thatcher was a liar, and she said ugly words. What was a nigger? Because Marsha wasn’t one, but maybe Mrs. Thatcher was.
***
Copyright 2013 S. R. Karfelt
All rights reserved.
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