Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
Brainstormin' Help
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Get to Know Your Character(Popcorn Served)
Thanks, Alex! I have a feeling Ambrose will show up in the little Orchard Bay community sooner or later. I didn't realize you had posted. I'm terrible at keeping up with the threads. I have a feeling I've asked you this, but is Mossers a character from one of your stories, or did you invent him for the Popcorn Served thread?
I had a funny feeling Charlie wasn't gone for good! Poor Erica will have grieved herself half-crazy before she sees him again. You did some writing last night!
This is great, Alex! I'm still laughing. "That's mine you bloody woman!"
Your writing is almost contagious, Alex! "Oh, fer bloody Blackbeard's sake . . ." I think you'll do very well someday.Tomorrow I'm going to read your short story and write another Orchard Bay installment.
Thank you, Alex! That's very nice of you to say. I didn't think anyone ever read them. Even my sister won't read them.
Alex, you're wonderful! I'm abashed. I had hoped to have at least an Orchard Bay episode finished by now. My muse has gotten ridiculously unmanageable, and it's time for me to do something about her--though just what, I'll have to figure out tomorrow.Thank you for the encouragement. I hope you have a great time with your family!
(Spades is awakened by the faraway sound of a woman’s cries for help. Before he’s entirely awake, he finds himself on his feet beside the cot, pulling on khakis, shirt, and Topsiders. Tavy’s blue eyes open. She’s been sleeping on the sofa, her head in Penelope’s lap. Watching Spades for a moment, she becomes aware of the distant cries. With the lithe, quiet movements of a cat, she sits up, her expression clouding.)Tavy: (In a low voice.) It’s Orchil.
(Penelope stirs but doesn’t awaken. Spades taps Squirrel, who with a squeak starts from sleep and does a backflip onto the hearth. Tavy goes to the chair where her jeans and shirt are draped, puts them on, and slips on moccasins. Buttoning his shirt, Spades goes to the couch and wakens Penelope, who looks around sleepily.)
Penelope: What’s going on?
Spades: (Shakes his head.) I don’t know. Orchil’s trying to get our attention.
(Squirrel rubs his eyes and pulls his Parker pen out from under the cushion he sleeps on. Tavy climbs the ladder for a view through the cupola.)
Penelope: (Looking at Spades bleary-eyed.) Baby, my boots are soaking wet.
(Outside, on a clothesline near the cottage, Penelope’s motoring coat hangs to dry. Like her boots, it’s soaked from Penelope’s dash into the surf a few hours before, when she was being chased by the vampire girls.)
Spades: It might be a good idea to have someone to stay here and guard the house.
Tavy: (From the cupola.) I can’t see what’s going on. Whatever it is, it’s down the beach, where the trees block the view.
(They hear the wild screams of a woman. Spades heads for the door, Squirrel at his heels. After watching for a moment, Tavy descends the rungs quickly.)
Tavy: That’s Mrs. Muir. She lives in the little village down the cove.
(Opening the door, Spades goes down the wooden steps, past Penelope’s drying boots. There is the muffled roar of the surf. Almost at once he feels strange, as though he had taken a drug. Squirrel follows, then Tavy. No one is in sight among the dunes, but they proceed warily. Almost masked by the splashing of the breakers is a chilling, eerie sound.
Tavy: (Seizing Spades’ arm.) Wait!
(Tavy turns and dashes back to the cottage, returning moments later.)
Tavy: Here. (She hands Spades two small globs of soft wax.) Put these in your ears. Stuff them in tight.
Spades: Why?
Tavy: It’s the vampires. (She looks around.) I wonder where Ursula is.
Spades: (Realizing what the unearthly, hypnotic sound is.) What about you?
Tavy: I’m not affected by them.
(Tavy gives some wax to Squirrel, who picks off little chunks and plugs his ears. Spades pushes wax into his ears until he can no longer hear the surf or the weird singing. As the trio emerge onto the beach, Squirrel climbs a dune and stations himself in the tall grass on top. They see, a ways down the beach, a heavy-set woman in an old-fashioned dress. She’s running, waving her arms frantically. In the onshore breeze, Tavy can hear her terrified voice.)
Mrs. Muir: Christabel! Christabel!
(Tavy runs toward her. Though Spades is a good runner, he has a hard time keeping up with Tavy, who is fleet. Out in the waves is a beautiful mermaid with long, reddish-brown hair.)
Orchil: (Motioning.) Don’t let them get the little girl!
(As they approach, Spades notices that Mrs. Muir, her chest heaving from the exertion of running, has become disoriented and is walking erratically. Where the beach slopes gently upward toward the woods, a child with blonde hair is wandering toward the trees, as though she were being enticed.)
Tavy: Oh, dear God!
(Tavy sprints toward the child, followed by Spades. Among the trees are the three vampire girls, Colonel Monmouth’s daughters, who had nearly made a meal of Spades, Tavy, Penelope, and Squirrel a few hours before. Singing their siren song, they’re swaying, waving to the little girl, making eerie twittering noises.)
Squirrel: (In his perch atop the dune, he extends his pen into a miniature telescope and adjusts it, mumbling anxiously to himself.) I don’t have a good feeling about this.
(In the cottage, Penelope sits down on the sofa. Using her telepathic powers, she tries to get a sense of what’s going on but soon is asleep from exhaustion from their trip to the apple orchard.)
Tavy: Christabel!
(With all the concentration she can muster, Tavy puts an irresistable desire in the child’s mind to go into the waves. The little girl hesitates, takes another step, then turns and runs toward the shore.
Christabel: (Laughing.) I want to play in the water!
(From the woods a vampire, death pale, with black hair, darts out to prevent the child’s escape. Tavy intercepts the vampire, who makes a chilling, high-pitched sound, and they tumble on the sand and rock. Spades runs to help Tavy.)
Orchil: (Amid the breaking waves, as near to shore as she can get.) Spades, watch out!
(Spades is unable to hear her, however. The two remaining vampires leap from the woods and are on him almost instantly. He slugs one in the face and tries to wrench himself free of the other, who is quickly all over him, her nails digging into him, her fetid breath in his face as her fangs seek his neck, but she releases him suddenly when a fireball appears in his hand. At point-blank range, he splatters her with it. The other backs away as bloodcurdling screams come from the girl who is burning, her clothes and hair in flames, her skin crinkling like parchment.
Christabel: (Her feet splashing in the water, her blonde hair whipping in the sea breeze.) I want to play with the mermaids!
(Where Tavy had been, the vampire with long, black hair now has ragged claw scratches on her face is getting to her feet, confused, terror in her gaze as she watches the burning girl. Another ball of fire appears in Spades’ hand as the other vampire, backing away, turns to flee. In moments she is in flames, tearing at her clothes, her hair, collapsing onto the sand in a writhing, smoking heap.)
Orchil: (Putting her arms out for Christabel.) Come to me, honey.
(Christabel wades in up to her waist and is patting the surface with palms of her hands, when a breaking wave knocks her down. Orchil swims to her and takes the spluttering child in her arms.)
Christabel: (Bashfully.) Hi, Orchil!
Squirrel: Where there’s smoke, there’s a roasting vampire. (Collapsing his little telescope, he hastens down from the dune.)
Mrs. Muir: (Looking about her wildly, her senses returning.) Belle? (Seeing the little girl in Orchil’s arms, she surveys the scene, then hurriedly goes out into the waves, toward Orchil.) Belle?
(A few yards from the raven-haired vampire is a black cat with amber eyes, hissing, its back arched, its hair standing on end. As if out of nowhere, Tavy appears, furious and quivering. The vampire whimpers, her fangs flashing, her hands before her, her fingers ready to be used as claws. She looks about her wildly, trapped between the water and Spades, who has summoned another fireball.)
Tavy: (Fingering an ugly gash in her neck.) Burn her!
(Spades hesitates. There is something very beautiful about the vampire girl, something hypnotic about her eyes, with their long lashes. He wants to know about her, not destroy her. He hears Tavy’s voice in his mind, a voice calm and deliberate, almost like a memory from lifetimes ago: “Burn her, Spades.” He hurls the fireball. Flames envelope the stricken girl, who, screaming, attempts to run but soon collapses on the beach, fire crackling through her hair. Out of the corner of his eye, Spades sees Squirrel, who is approaching as fast as if a dog were on his tail. He skids to a stop on the sand and rock and, panting, whips out his Parker pen. Amid the waves, Orchil, Mrs. Muir, and Christabel watch the goings on. Mrs. Muir, tears running down her face, holds the little girl.)
Christabel: (Pointing in glee.) Look, Maw-maw. It’s a squirrel!
(Spades takes the wax out of his ears. Suddenly the surf seems loud. He glances at the figure that’s still twisting in agony on the beach, her clothes burned away, her skin blackened, shrivelled, peeling up like scorched paper.)
Orchil: That’s the end of General Monmouth’s daughters.
Mrs. Muir: (Heaving a shuddering sigh.) The end of a plague.
(Tavy approaches Spades and he takes her in his arms. She’s shaking.)
Spades: We need to get back to the cabin and put something on that wound.
(Spades pushes Tavy’s hair back and looks with dismay at the place where a fang gouged her skin. The skin around the cut has turned an inflamed red. Blood has run down her neck and stained the collar and left shoulder of her shirt. She pulls herself close to him.)
Christabel: Maw-maw, who are those people?
Mrs. Muir: They live in Professor Waring’s cottage, dear.
Christabel: (Her eyes wide.) Who are those people who are lying on the ground, who have been burned?
Mrs. Muir: (Clearing her throat.) They’re--were--the daughters of an Englishman who lived in a manor house that’s up in the hills.
Christabel: (Gazing up at her, fear in her eyes.) The place they call the Moat?
(Looking warily about him, Squirrel quickly takes the plugs of wax out of his ears. He scampers about the beach, flicking his tail, taking a good look at what’s left of the charred bodies.)
Squirrel: (Scanning the shadowy woods.) I missed all the action.
(As Spades and Tavy begin walking back to the cottage, Mrs. Muir walks up to meet them, holding Christabel by the hand.)
Mrs. Muir: (Her voice quavering, her face streaked with tears.) I don’t know how--
Spades: (Shaking his head.) There’s no need.
Tavy: Mrs. Muir, this is Spades.
(Mrs. Muir’s face clouds with concern as she sees Tavy’s neck.)
Spades: I’m very glad to meet you, ma’am.
Mrs. Muir: Thank you for saving my little granddaughter. (Her hand moves fondly over Christabel’s tangled hair.) I don’t know who you are, but I’m thankful you’re here. (Looking at Tavy with alarm.) Child, you’re hurt!
Tavy: I’ll be all right, Mrs. Muir. (She smiles weakly.) We’ve got medicine and bandages at the cottage.
Mrs. Muir: (Her eyes wandering nervously to the smoking remains.) I’ll get some men out here to bury what’s left of those horrible creatures in the woods.
Christabel: (Backs suddenly up against Mrs. Muir, pointing.) Look! It’s the squirrel.
Squirrel: (Standing upright, he bows gallantly.) At your service, young lady.
Christabel: (With a gasp.) Maw-maw, it talks!
(As they continue down the shore, they wave to Orchil, who waves back, smiling, though she watches Tavy with concern. Then the mermaid swims through the breakers, kicking up spray with her tail, and disappears into the bay. Spades hastens to get Tavy back to the cottage, where Penelope is awakened by the sound of footsteps on boards and the clink of the door latch. She opens her eyes to see Tavy, her face pale, her shirt blood-soaked. Tavy is holding on to Spades, who helps her to her cot.
Tavy: The medicine chest is in the trunk.
Penelope: (Getting to her feet.) What happened?
Spades: She got bit.
It'll be interesting to see how the pirates manage (temporarily) to rescue Al from Frank Putnam. Poor Todd! Why must we always fall for those who can torture us most exquisitely?
I like it when Al tells Frank, "I only wrote you because I needed a bad guy," and when Red calls Nightmare her little cabbage.
My God, Alex! Are you really reading Hesse's Siddhartha? What a mind you must have. I shouldn't say this, though I've been tempted more than once: I miss your old, cute photo with the sunglasses.
Alex, it's the old you! I wish I could quit grinning long enough to write a decent reply. If you write a story for this week, maybe you'll inspire me. My well has dried up. I've gotten a good response to the western story I wrote, but I can't seem to come up with anything else like it.
Sorry I dropped the thread, Alex! My battery runs out about 9 p.m. I hope your day got better. Have you ever read 'Salem's Lot or Ghost Story?
I can't imagine you being short of brilliant story ideas! From some of the things you post, I wonder how you write fast enough to keep up with what you're seeing in your mind.
I went home for the summers all through college and for several years in graduate school--until I was in my mid-twenties. Home was like a paradise to me. I dreaded school weeks in advance.Great photo! I love what you did with the color in it. I'm not good at reading backwards, but it looks as though you're holding The Once and Future King (or, as we used to call it, The Once and Forgotten King).
I just read the story you posted. I have a feeling your novels are going to keep a lot of people awake at night. You're really good.Having a place of your own will make a huge difference, however modest it may be. I lived in a dorm during the semesters. At Centenary, I had a third-floor room with a great view. I wound up there in the second semester of my freshman year and managed to get assigned the same room until I graduated. It was a small room with cinderblock walls, but it was mine and I came to think of it as a home away from home.
I read 'Salem's Lot when I was fifteen and home sick from school. It's the only thing by him I haven't found utterly unpalatable--cheesy is the right word for it. I think Anne Rice's writing is terrible, too. I've got a copy of Interview with the Vampire in French, though. It has a lot of atmosphere in French!
Hey, sister and M! :) I must say I really do enjoy reading about your characters! So funny! You two are awesome writers! But, I can see that it's a lot of fun. I wish I had characters of my own. :( Sadly, I only write poetry.
I can't believe I ever wrote a poem about Lady Gaga... How could I stoop so low? Lol. It WAS quite a lot of fun, actually...
And, by the way, Al, Siddhartha did have a lot of good stuff in it. I liked the book. Not loved. Liked.
Well, I am always exceedingly happy, almost giddy, when you have when of those laughing spells. Also a bit frightened.
I cratered and missed all the fun! Serves me right for getting up at 4:30 a.m. I've been doing it for years, but not for any good reason other than that I like the world when it's quiet. I'm ridiculously introverted. When I'm online, though, I turn into my outgoing alter ego (till my batteries run down).Hanzle, when I write, I just wait for a movie to come on the screen in my mind, and I write what I see. Sometimes I just sit there in the dark while my muse giggles.
:D I guess we all have our creative quarks.
I laughed at the part where Richard says, "I'm not promising it's the milkman." I got a little confused at the part where Brent stands up twice and pulls the gun from his belt when Gershwin and Buxton arrive at the cabin.The surreal scene at your house sort of reminds me of the kind of stories I write, with its seemingly ordinary setting but unexplained things like the sudden absense of running water and the vaguely-referenced side-effects warning on the label of the antihistamine bottle.
That's funny about the milkman. I'd probably relate offhandedly to Mom, in a moment when I could take her off guard, that I had scrutinized the milkman that morning, and that when he had asked me why I was giving him the once over, I had told him I wanted to see how much I looked like him.
I'll bet his jaw dropped when you said that! What a bright, interesting family.
I think the idea of a landlocked slave ship as a place to hide is cool!When Alex knocks over a glass of water in the restaurant and the Passing Man says, “Those were my good shoes,” I laughed through most of the rest of it. I was at once suspicious of Lab Coat, but he seems harmless here.
I like the pirates! The character that reminds me the most of me is Mossers: "I’m not following the instructions. I was always bad at riddles."
Why does Charlie have to be such a pig?! LOL. The sharks should've eaten him! Mmwahaha!
I dunno... Charlie's mind:SKIRT! SKIRT! SKIRT! :D
Are there still women who wear skirts? Women dress so scantily around here that blue jeans almost qualify as formal wear.
What are you writing your paper on? (Okay, I know, on lined paper.) I mean, what are you writing it about?
Alex! Your bum... skirts... boys. What would mother say?! ;D
I promise to catch up on the thread, Alex. I've gotten way behind.
(Tavy lies down on her cot. From the wall by the settee, Spades drags out a heavy, brass-bound trunk that looks like a pirate’s chest and raises the lid.)Tavy: There should be some antibiotic salve in a vial in the tray.
Penelope: (Removing Tavy’s moccasins and pulling a blanket up.) Honey, you’re shivering. (She puts her hand on Tavy’s forehead.)
Spades: Found it.
(Spades hands the vial to Penelope, who carefully puts ointment on the wound. Spades hands her a bandage.)
Tavy: Her name was Celia, the girl who bit me. I seem to have gotten some of her memory. (She squeezes her eyes shut as Penelope applies the bandage and tape.)
Penelope: I don’t like the looks of this.
Tavy: It could have been worse and almost was.
Spades: Do you want some water?
(Tavy nods, her eyes meeting his. Then she looks beyond him to the wall. The Cold Room door appears.)
Spades: You read my mind.
Tavy: (Smiling faintly.) I did.
(Spades gets up and goes to the narrow door beside the cupboard. He opens it and steps into frigid darkness. Once inside, he can see. The couple of old-style light bulbs cast a yellowish pallor on the shelves and coolers. Spades goes to a small, wooden chest on top of which a bucket has been left upside down. He opens the lid and digs the bucket into a cache of ice cubes. Then he closes the chest and rejoins the others. Squirrel is on the sill of the window above the little desk, looking out. One of the shutters has been folded back.)
Squirrel: (Turning.) Is that a bucket of ice?
Spades: (Setting the galvanized bucket on the cutting board and taking three glasses and from the cupboard.) It’s cocktail hour.
(Spades puts ice in a glass, holds it under the pump, then takes it to Tavy, who accepts it gratefully.)
Tavy: Thank you.
(Tavy’s hand shakes badly. Spades helps her hold the glass while she drinks.)
Penelope: (Sitting by the cot, concerned.) What can I do?
Spades: (Glances wistfully at the checkered cloth on the big cutting board and the potatoes on the table.) I’ll bet those steaks are thawed out by now.
I started the last installment two or three weeks ago but couldn't seem to get back to it. I guess you can tell I was hungry for steak and a baked potato last night.
I love McDonald's! Sometimes nothing in the world will do but a Quarter Pounder With Cheese and a large order of fries.
I can remember when McDonald's cheeseburgers were 35 cents. They weren't very big and there wasn't much on them, so it took several to make a meal. They were perfect to eat while driving! I'd buy three or four of them and head down the road, gobbling burgers to my heart's content.
Penelope: (To Tavy.) How do you feel?Tavy: Cold.
(Spades gets a spare blanket and spreads it over Tavy, who pulls it up to her chin.)
Tavy: I’m worried about Ursula.
Spades: We didn’t see her, did we?
(Penelope goes to the butcher-block table and uncovers the steaks. She takes the knife sharpener from its hook and waves it over the pot-bellied stove, then opens the little door. The coals have magically begun glowing.)
Tavy: (To Spades.) Sometimes she wanders off, though, and is gone for days. I think she gets tired of fish. (She smiles wanly.) She goes over to the village and scavenges and comes back stinking of garbage bins.
(From the wall behind the stove, Penelope takes two small, cast-iron racks. She puts the steaks on one, wraps the potatoes in foil and puts them on the other.)
Spades: Who were the vampires that attacked us?
Tavy: Two of them were the daughters of Gregory Forst, who, for complicated reasons, was called Colonel Monmouth. The other was Baron Zollern’s daughter Lucinda, who had been staying at the Moat during an epidemic.
Spades: When was that?
Tavy: They got sick and died in 1892 or 1893.
Spades: They died?
Tavy: (Nods weakly.) Etta died first, then Lucy, then Monmouth, then me.
Spades: Then how did they become vampires?
Tavy: I don’t know.
Spades: Do you know when?
Tavy: No. There’s no sense of time when you’re one of them, but clothes don’t last forever. They ransacked the wardrobes at the schloss.
(Penelope fills the other glasses with ice and takes a bottle of scotch from the cabinet.)
Spades: (Disquieted, looking toward the window.) I think I’ll sleep more soundly when I’ve reassured myself that those bodies on the beach are nothing but charred bones.
Tavy: They can’t come back. (She looks at him from under eyelids that have grown heavy.)
(Penelope pours a couple of fingers of scotch into the each glass and fills the jigger, which she has put an ice cube in. Then she holds the glasses under the pump.)
Tavy: (Touching Spades’ hand.) Fire purifies. (Her eyes close and her breathing becomes slow and regular.)
Penelope: Drinks anyone?
(Squirrel collapses the miniature telescope he has been looking through and scampers down and to the table. Penelope sets out the olives and some cheese and couple of hors d’oeuvre forks. Spades gets up and goes to the table.)
Penelope: How is she?
Spades: (Gives her a grateful look as he picks up a glass.) She’s asleep.
(The stove gets hot and drives the slight chill in the air away. Penelope opens the little door and slides racks loaded with steaks and potatoes onto the rails in the stove. Her eyes, clouded with worry, wander across the room to Tavy, who seems to have fallen into a deep sleep.)
Apparently, since ancient times fire has been thought of as purifying. That's why the Church burned heretics and witches rather than simply killing them. The idea was to purify their souls.I spend a lot of time reading, but not in the sustained way you do. I read bits and pieces of things, and very slowly.
I majored in English because I was fascinated by the language itself. I got interested in Old English when I was in the fourth grade, and later studied it on my own. I've gotten interested in French the way I've always been interested in English. It's the peculiarities of it, as in Il y en a un "There's one of them." I don't learn well sequentially, in a step-by-step fashion. When I've finally repeated enough random phrases in my head over and over, it'll start coming together.
It takes me days to get through a novel, and hours for me to read even a long short story (like "Heart of Darkness" or "Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde"). I couldn't begin to keep up when I was in school. I learned to read summaries (from Cliff's Notes or Monarch Notes or Masterplots). I would read a few paragraphs of the actual story to get a feel for the writing in it. Sometimes years later I'd read a novel that had been assigned, and discover what I had missed (Chopin's The Awakening, for instance).
If a story isn't very good but the writing is, I'll read it for the writing alone, but if the writing isn't very good, I doesn't matter to me how good the story is. A couple of days ago, I read Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man Is Hard to Find." It's a chilling story.
My wife reads constantly. When she was growing up, she always had her nose in a book. Now and then I'll read a page or two of something she's been reading. Recently she read all the Sookie Stackhouse novels. They're really trashy and the writing is thin as dishwater.
I never finished Lord of the Flies. I must have read a summary instead. A nice thing about summaries is that they often tell you what you're supposed to think about the story. A story rarely makes the impression on me that it was intended to, so I have to find out somewhere what impression it was supposed to make. Golding was a serious thinker and wrote the story to make a point. A thinker I'm not.I remember reading the Harry Potter novels, but for me it wasn't a pleasurable experience. Jane has read them several times, and I read them just to keep up with what was going on. I think Rowling has a fine imagination, but her writing makes me want to get out a red pen and start marking the pages for grammatical errors.
Squirrel: (In a low voice, glancing back at Tavy.) Is anybody besides me afraid that while we’re all snoozing, she’ll wake up and land on one of us with a pair of fangs?Spades: (Taking a long breath.) It would be me or Nel. Probably me, since I’m closest bedwise and can’t transform into a will-o’-the-wisp.
Penelope: She hasn’t taken off her cross. The silver chain is still around her neck.
(Spades unscrews the top from the olive jar. He picks up one of the silver forks and spears a large, green olive.)
Squirrel: (Holding his jigger in both paws and taking a sip. He closes his eyes in a moment of contentment.) Just what the doctor ordered.
Spades: I can’t remember being this tired before, even when I was in the dungeon story.
Penelope: You’re getting old, baby. (She flashes a beautiful smile.)
Spades: (Laughs affectionately.) I’ll bet the camera just loved you.
Penelope: Uhm hmm. (Wearily.) So did lecherous directors. (She takes a sip of her drink.)
(Spades closes his eyes.)
Squirrel: (Picks up a fork and gets an olive.) What has your tuner been picking up, Penelope, or is it out of place for me to ask?
Penelope: (Shaking her head.) I think Tavy has feelings for Spades.
(Spades opens his eyes. Squirrel chokes on a piece of olive and starts coughing.)
Spades: Don’t choke on an olive, General. Do you want some water?
(Squirred nods.)
Penelope: (Gives Squirrel a sympathetic look and hands him a napkin.) Tavy reminds you of someone from the story you were in, someone you wanted a life with but couldn’t have it.
Spades: You mean Colleen. You’re right. (He’s silent for a moment.) I’m still having a hard time with that.
(Going to the pump, Spades put some water into a saucer and takes it to Squirrel, who laps it gratefully.)
Spades: Tavy’s a kid. I’m twenty-four years old--or I was when I climbed down into Durbin’s dungeon. Besides . . . (He watches Squirrel sympathetically.) . . . I’ve kind of gotten used to a silent-film star who lost her head on a railroad track.
Penelope: (Her blue eyes looking into his.) It isn’t you that I’m worried about, honey.
Spades: What, then?
Penelope: (Hesitates.) You’ve never heard of Octavia Trevelyan, have you?
(Squirrel, who has stopped coughing, starts coughing all over again. Spades takes the saucer and refills it with water.)
Spades: Who is she?
Penelope: At one time, she was the most powerful, admired, feared witch in Europe.
(Penelope looks at Squirrel, who glances nervously back at her.)
Penelope: I’m not going to tell Spades anything, and there isn’t any need for you to, either.
(Squirrel looks at her in alarm.)
Spades: You’ve read his mind?
Penelope: Of course. (She smiles, arches an eyebrow.) I like to sleep at night. Squirrel has his secrets, but he’s all right. I trust him.
Squirrel: (Nervously, looking up from the saucer.) It isn’t what you know that I’m worried about.
(Spades sets his drink down slowly.)
Squirrel: (Considering his words.) You can’t imagine what it’s like to work for Nightmare. (He coughs.) The only happiness I have known since I joined his ranks is the time I’ve spent with you. (He looks up gratefully at Penelope and Spades.)
Spades: (Unsure how to ask.) Do you still work for him?
Squirrel: You never stop working for a person who is evil. (He shakes his head.) An evil person knows knows only unwavering loyalty from his servants, and he expects from them unwavering hatred for his enemies.
Spades: (Looking over the table at Penelope.) Who was Octavia Trevelyan?
(Penelope meets Spades’ gaze, then glances at Squirrel.)
Squirrel: Dame Trevelyan was a white witch.
(Dragging his head up from the bowl, Squirrel throws a longing glance at the olive jar. Spades takes an hors d’oeuvre fork and gets an olive for him.)
Squirrel: Thank you. (He nibbles on it.) She had residences in London and Geneva and townhouses in Dresden and Paris. She was fabulously rich and unimaginably powerful.
Spades: (Shrugs.) Rich people are powerful if only because they’re rich.
Squirrel: Yes, but she had natural magic.
(Spades looks blank.)
Squirrel: Most magic happens by means of spells. Hardly anyone has the ability to work magic merely by willing it.
(Penelope gives Spades a significant glance.)
Spades: What happened to her?
(Squirrel doesn’t answer, but munches on his olive contemplatively.)
Penelope: Tavy is her granddaughter.
(Spades sits back in his chair, feeling even more exhausted than before. He looks at Penelope, who takes her hand.)
Spades: I love you, Nel.
(Penelope gives Spades a happy look. Then she gets up and goes to the cast-iron stove, where she slides out the rack that has steaks on it and turns them over. The smell of sizzling steaks fills the cottage. Squirrel sips his tiny drink meditatively. In her cot, Tavy appears to be sleeping soundly.)Squirrel: If Tavy has her grandmother’s reputed powers, she not only can read our minds but she can make any of us do whatever she wills.
Spades: She has seemed reluctant to use her powers.
Squirrel: Maybe she has reason to be afraid of them.
(Penelope sits down again at the giant cutting board that’s used as a table.)
Penelope: (Rubbing her fingers across the wood’s scarred surface.) This thing looks like it came out of a manor house or a castle. (She glances at Spades.) Speaking of which, when are we going to explore that old place in the hills?
Spades: It might be a good idea to have Tavy along, since she’s been there and knows her way around. She said she used to go up there with her dad.
(There’s a knock at the door. They look at each other in surprise. Spades gets up, takes a peek through the shutters, then opens the door. Mrs. Muir stands on the step, a basket in her hands.)
Spades: Hi, Mrs. Muir.
Mrs. Muir: (Holds out the basket.) I don’t know how to thank you for saving Christabel.
Spades: (Not knowing what he should do, takes the basket.) Will you come in?
Mrs. Muir: Just for a moment.
(Mrs. Muir enters the cottage. She looks around with evident curiosity. Penelope, who has stood up, approaches. Squirrel has unobtrusively leapt down to a chair.)
Penelope: Hello.
(Penelope holds out her hand, which Mrs. Muir takes.)
Mrs. Muir: I’m Tess Muir.
Penelope: I’m Penelope Parsons, Mrs. Muir. It’s very nice to meet you.
Mrs. Muir: (Quietly.) How is Tavy? (She looks over at Tavy, who remains asleep, her neck bandaged.)
Penelope: (Regards her honestly.) It was an ugly wound.
(Mrs. Muir goes to Tavy’s bed, worry and concern written on her face, and observes her for a long moment. Then Spades, Penelope, and Mrs. Muir go outside, where they can talk without disturbing Tavy. Squirrel dashes out before the door closes, his paws kicking up sand when he lands.)
Mrs. Muir: There’s the talking squirrel.
Squirrel: (Regaining his composure.) George Patton, ma’am. Happy to make your acquaintance.
Mrs. Muir: My, my. There was a famous American general with that name.
Squirrel: You have no idea how many times I’ve been told that. (Glances around.) I smell smoke.
Penelope: (Alarmed.) Oh! (She hurries back inside.)
Spades: She’s got steaks in the oven.
Squirrel: It isn’t steaks I smell. There’s wood burning.
Mrs. Muir: Mr. Vickers and some other men are building a fire on the beach to burn the bones.
Spades: Mrs. Muir, has there been trouble here with these vampires before?
Mrs. Muir: (Nods.) These were the first of them, and the most dangerous.
Spades: In what way were they more dangerous than the others?
Mrs. Muir: (Shivers.) There's a sound they make that lures people. The other other ones don't do that. The Colonel's girls were fast and ravenous, with a keen sense of what was around them. Ordinary vampires are sluggish and plodding, more like dumb animals looking for something to eat.
Spades: Have there always been vampires here?
Mrs. Muir: (Shakes her head.) I guess there may have been but I don’t remember hearing about any vampires when I was growing up. Professor Waring said Monmouth's daughters had been raised from the grave by a sorceress.
Spades: Did you know Tavy’s father?
Mrs. Muir: (Smiles reminiscently, nods.) Professor Waring was a kind man. He was very patient, used to ask people questions about the village and about life on the Bay.
Spades: I've gathered he was a scholar.
Mrs. Muir: When he wasn’t fishing or exploring, he was always reading books or sitting at that desk, writing.
Spades: Does anyone know why he was taken away?
Mrs. Muir: (Sadly.) No.
Squirrel: Mrs. Muir, do we have reason to be afraid for Tavy?
Mrs. Muir: (Nervously.) She’s been bitten.
Spades: But only briefly, in the fight. There was none of that ritual exchange of blood that you read about in novels or see in the movies.
Mrs. Muir: (With a reproving look.) This isn’t the movies, Mr. Spades.
Squirrel: Is it certain she’ll become a vampire?
Mrs. Muir: (With a heavy sigh.) No, but they usually do. (She hesitates.) They don’t at first. But you can tell.
Spades: How?
Mrs. Muir: They can remember things.
Squirrel: Remember things?
Mrs. Muir: Things the vampire would have remembered.
Spades: (A cold feeling creeps through him.) How long does it take?
Mrs. Muir: Sometimes days or weeks. They run away to the woods.
Squirrel: You mean there are more of them?
Mrs. Muir: There used to be. (Her eyes fill with tears.) Poor Tavy! (She turns as though to leave, but then turns back and takes Spades’ hands.) She's sleeping very deeply, just as they always do. I’m afraid we’re in great danger, especially since . . .
Spades: Since what, Mrs. Muir?
Mrs. Muir: It’s said that Tavy has powers. Her mother was Marlaina Trevelyan, the daughter of a sorceress. Many’s the time Tavy has come to the village and healed someone who was sick.
Spades: Is there a chance she can heal herself?
Mrs. Muir: I don’t know those things. (She glances down at Squirrel, who is flicking his tail in agitation.) Good-bye, George the Squirrel.
Squirrel: (Looking up, his thoughts far away.) Good-bye, Mrs. Muir.
Spades: Thank you for the basket.
(Her face darkened by her thoughts, Mrs. Muir walks away among dunes, toward the beach. The smell of smoke in the air has become more noticeable, and Spades and Squirrel can see smoke rising beyond the trees that screen from view the beach where they had fought the vampires.)
I can't be happy until I write that POEM!
Bravo! I loved this. You must be reading (or rereading) Hamlet.
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(Making their way along a narrow ridge, two children, Hunter and Ashley, are lost in a dreary, Louisiana swamp. It’s getting dark.)
Hunter: (Pointing.) Look at that green, flitting light over there.
Ashley: It seems to be hovering in the air over those rotting logs. (She gasps.) Oh, look at those eyes in the water!
(The eyes grow closer. An alligator appears beneath the surface of the dark water.)
Hunter: (In a maniacal voice, grabbing his sister.) It’s going to eat us!
(A woman’s voice sounds weirdly in the heavy air.)
Woman’s Voice: It’s only Ambrose. He won’t hurt you. (The voice mumbles.) At least, he’d better not, if he knows what’s good for him.
(The alligator’s eyes glance with annoyance in the direction of the voice.)
Hunter: What’s that voice?
Ashley: I think it’s coming from that greenish light.
(The alligator surfaces.)
Ambrose: Are you children lost?
Hunter: Holy crap, it’s a talking alligator!
Ashley: (Gasping even more audibly.) Hunter--(She glances with embarrassment at the alligator.) I’m sorry, Mr. Alligator, he didn’t mean to say something like that.
Hunter: Oh, my. Do you suppose the alligator will hurt us?
Ambrose: Certainly not, young man. But tell me, what brings you to my home in the swamp?
Ashley: (Heaving a sigh.) We’re lost and terribly afraid. Could you help us find our way home?
(Hunter rolls his eyes.)
Ashley: (Regarding Hunter furiously.) Look, you little brat, do you want money to go see movies this summer or not? We’re getting paid for this.
(The wavering green light flits here and there, then hovers in front of them.)
Hunter: (Holding his nose.) Whew. What a stench!
Green Light: My name is Penelope. I’m a will-o-the-wisp.
Hunter: Why do you smell like a public restroom?
(Ashley elbows him.)
Penelope: I’m made of methane, from rotting logs and leaves, the gas that bubbles up from the swamp.
Ashley: (Wistfully.) How wonderful it would be if we had a light to help us find our way home.
Hunter: We live in that new subdivision that’s on the golf course.
Ashley: (Scowling.) We were exploring and got lost. I’m Ashley and this is my brother Hunter.
Ambrose: (Looking up at Penelope.) This story must have been written in the eighties.
(The kindly alligator and the wise will-o-the-wisp show the children safely to a white-pillared home with a swimming pool and outdoor-cooking cabana. The children wave good-bye to their new-found swamp friends.)
Ambrose: (As they return to the depths of the swamp.) That boy’s ass needs a beating worse than I need a fat duck for dinner. (He whips his tail in annoyance, kicking up water.) How do I wind up in stupid stories like this?
Penelope: These are the children's stories publishers want. Mindlessness is a requirement.
Ambrose: Maybe next time I’ll land a part in something interesting, that you can sink your teeth into. Maybe a detective story. Me, in the role of a hard-boiled cop. (He looks up at the glowing vapor that accompanies him.) What about you, Nel?
Penelope: (Thoughtfully.) Oh, I don’t know. (Sighs.) I always had bad taste in men. I don’t think it would matter what story I was in.
Ambrose: How do you like ’em? The cold, hard type or the playful kind who are like little boys that never grow up?
Penelope: (Smiling.) The little-boy type . . .
(Penelope’s eyes open. She’s lying on the sofa in the cottage among the dunes. Squirrel’s asleep on his cushion before the fireplace. Spades is on his cot, mumbling something in his sleep. Tavy’s cot is empty. Looking up, Penelope sees that Tavy has climbed to the cupola, her bare feet on the rungs of the post, among the trusses. The inside shutters of the front window have been closed, but evening light that comes through the glazed cupola fills the room. Thinking back on the dream she has awakened from, Penelope wonders what had brought about her deliverance from the swamp and what’s become of Ambrose. Moments later, Tavy descends the post. Seeing that Penelope is awake, she goes to the couch. Penelope sits up and makes a place for her.)
Penelope: See anything?
Tavy: (Shaking her head.) All’s quiet. A couple of bears are having fish for dinner.
(Tavy leans her head against Penelope, who puts her arm around her. Soon Tavy is asleep. A faint ticking comes from the wall to the left of the door. The hands of the ship’s clock show 5:15. Penelope’s gaze comes to rest on Spades, and after a while she falls back to sleep.)