Sometimes.

From Only the Best Wishes for Me:


“Reilly.” Brennan’s voice was impatient and firm, as if he’d been trying to get Reilly’s attention for a while.

He blinked, his eyes fluttering to the corkboard Maria had hung on the wall next to the phone and hooks where the keys went. “What is it?”

The board had been decorated by scraps of paper in all shapes, sizes and colors. Maria’s bubbly handwriting covered most of them with reminders of press conferences, photo shoots, charity events and meetings for Dead or Kennidee’s private preschool. There were some scraps of paper with Reilly’s loopy, busy handwriting on them, too. Kennidee had even drawn some of her own pictures with her titles for them written in Maria’s hand. There was one that looked like four potatoes with an arrangement of sticks poking out of each one that Maria had labeled with names: the smallest potato had Chandler written under it in purple--Kennidee’s favorite color--crayon, followed by Kennidee, Mommy and Daddy. And another was of two blobs with black circles for eyes and empty circles for spots named Flapjack and Disco. The final drawing hadn't been tacked to the cardboard--instead, it laid on the cluttered granite countertop. It was of a kidney-shaped thing made out of straight edges labeled California with a simple drawing of a boxy house in the southern region and a drawing of a stick person. However, the label of the person had been written in her own disjointed, uncoordinated handwriting: Dad.

Holding the phone to his ear with one hand, he lifted the paper with his other to take a closer look. Had Maria told their three- almost four-year-old about his circumstance? Or had she sugarcoated it? “Daddy's gonna live somewhere else for a while.” He could see that scenario: his wife sitting down with his little girl, criss-cross on the floor in the living room and explaining in baby terms why he hadn’t been home for hours, days . . . weeks.

So she’d drawn the picture and given it to Maria, who’d set it down on top of-- A flutter of pink caught his attention and he looked past the picture to find a hot pink sticky note fluttering to the floor.

He ignored Brennan's explanation on the other line as he bent to pick up the note and turn it over. His stomach fluttered when he saw the note started with his name in Maria's handwriting.

Reilly -- It read.

I guess we all need some time to ourselves sometimes. I’m sorry. - Maria

That was all there was. There was no I love you or an address or phone number he could reach her out. Technically, there wasn’t really an explanation.

He reread the note once, twice, as many times as it took until he kind of came to the terms with the fact that he just wasn’t going to know what exactly was going on in her head until she decided to call him up and tell him.

Catching Up Part 2.

From Tiffany Blews:

The first thing she did once the last guests had left was turn to Summer, take a big, long drink of sparkling cider and mumble, “Please don’t say you told me so.”

And then she had dropped the glass bottle on her hardwood, where it shattered and spilled all over the floor, the wall and her shoes as Summer jumped out of her seat and ran to hug Josey. She held Josey as she cried and never once said “I told you so.” Nat and Rhonda had silently gone to work scrubbing the sticky drink off the floor and walls while Summer helped Josey out of her party dress and into her pajamas, into bed, all while she cried.

In the morning, she woke up to see a card on her bedside table with her name written on it in Summer’s handwriting. She cried over the poem about sisters her best friend had copied down for her inside the off-white card:

What you mean to me,

Is more than I can express.

You see, I had no sister when I was little

To call when I was in distress.

When we first met,

We had no clue,

What was getting ready to happen,

Was not completely out of the blue.

God had a plan,

Throughout all the years,

He was making us for each other,

To share life's smiles and tears.

She had underlined and redrawn the words share and tears for emphasis, and Josey sat in her bed and cried over the card for fifteen minutes before crawling out of her bed and into the spotless living room to find a miniature Christmas tree standing on her coffee table, decorated by tinsel, tiny ornaments and infinitesimal blinking white lights that stood proudly over four tiny wrapped boxes that all had tags that read To Josey.

She knew that all of her aunts and her best friend were busy that Christmas morning, but she still cried over the fact that they had stayed up late and gone out of their way to make sure she didn’t feel alone. She sent each a message of thanks after opening the tiny packages, and then regretfully spent a few hours waiting for him to call.

Somebody did call after a few hours, but it wasn’t Chas at all. To her surprise, Eric had called to wish her a merry Christmas, and she could hear the voice of his girlfriend through the line. Shortly after, she had excused herself from the call and hung up to face her apartment alone, which suddenly seemed much bigger, emptier and quieter.

When nightfall came, the rain that had begun the night before still pounded relentlessly down on the dark city of angels and demons, and she couldn’t do anything but cry. She cried over her father that had disappeared before she ever had a chance to know him, she cried over her mother that died before she could really learn to appreciate her, she cried over Richie that had taken her whole heart and ripped it to pieces before she knew what love was, she cried over Nora for giving up on life just before Josey needed her most, and she cried over Chas for turning into the one person she thought he never wanted to be again. She wasn’t sure if anybody had ever spent their entire Christmas crying, but then again, she wondered if the city of Los Angeles had ever cried along with someone.

Catching Up Part 1.

Playing catch-up for the day's I've missed.

Recommendation Thursday:



Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli - one of my favorites as a younger teenager. I just love it.

Funny Pic Friday:

Jude.

Another piece from The Dreamer's Son.

A: I’M NOT CRAZY.
Q: NOT YET.
A:
Q:
A: DOES SHE CARE ABOUT ME?
Q: ELLE?
A: YES.
Q: DO YOU THINK SHE WOULD HAVE FLOWN ACROSS THE COUNTRY ON A HUNCH IF SHE DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU?
A: SO YES. SHE DOES.
Q: IF THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK.
A (WITH A LAUGH): YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID THAT.
Q: WHY DO PEOPLE GO TO INSANE ASYLUMS?
A: BECAUSE THEY’RE NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE IN THE REAL WORLD.
Q: NO. WHY DID YOU SAY THEY GO TO INSANE ASYLUMS?
A:
Q:
A: STOP TRICKING ME.

Tiffany Blews.

She stopped at the end of the hallway, glanced out the window at the neighbor’s house, a few acres away, and turned back to return to her room. However, something caught her eye in the window was she passed the dining room.

She squeezed past the giant table and stood in the window as she watched the spectacle going on outside. Aaron was riding a dark gray horse she assumed was David bareback around a pasture enclosed by a white fence and Jen sat behind with her arms around him. Both wore cowboy hats--hers was pink--both were talking and both were grinning. The sweetness of it all had Josey smiling to herself, and when someone cleared their throat behind her, she jumped and threw the thin, white curtains shut.

A short woman in a black sweatsuit she recognized as the maid stood in the wide doorway with a rag and some cleaning supplies in her hands, staring nervously at Josey.

“Oh,” Josey mumbled and smiled. “Hi.”

“Beautiful couple.” The maid had a thick Indian accent.

“Oh!” Josey glanced over her shoulder, slightly gestured to Aaron and Jen. “Yeah, they’re sweet.”

“No,” she said stubbornly. “Not them. You.”

Josey hesitated, jammed her hands into her pockets.

“Chas never bring girl home,” the maid admitted, though Josey already knew. “You special, yes?”

Josey laughed nervously. “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

The maid simply nodded and sprayed the dark tabletop, bent her head and went to work.

Josey returned to her room and as she got ready for the day, she wondered why the maid’s words had stuck to her so well. She already knew that Chas had never taken any of his girlfriends to meet his parents, so why did she keep replaying the words in her head? Chas never bring girl home. It wasn’t until much later in the day did she realize that the reason it had stuck was because of what the maid had said next.

You special.

Em.

The following is an excerpt from one of my untitled works about a man who wakes up in a foreign country with no recollection as to how he got there, why he is there or even what his name is. Upon returning home, he learns that he used to work as a secret agent for the government.

In this part, he is in a debriefing with the chief of the secret agency he is a part of while she explains the next mission to him and some other agents.

He was in the room seven minutes later, throwing a small, rubber bouncy ball he’d found in his jacket pocket onto the floor, where it bounced off and hit the wall before flying right back into his waiting palm. The familiar room, the room he had been in most frequently since his return to America, was empty, had been since he’d arrived five minutes before. Therefore, Emma and whoever else would be joining them were two minutes late. He shook his wrist; checked his watch: it was 12:42. He wondered if he’d been a compulsively late person or early person. He wondered about everything, and then the door opened and Emma burst in, flanked by Luke and Hammond, who didn’t look like they had changed in the slightest. Andrew thought they were even wearing the same ties as they had before.

“We got it,” Emma announced, holding up a folder identical to the one she had picked up the week before on Rovolo. Only this one had NIKLAS STEINWAY printed across the front in black permanent marker.

Luke clapped his hands together and rubbed them as he sat down, and then reached for the file. “Where to, Chief?”

Emma glanced at Luke as if she were challenging him as the three newcomers took their seats around the metal table. Luke put his hands up as if to plead innocent, and Emma started the debrief. She explained how Steinway had been located by security cameras in an Egyptian flea market, and his coordinates had been defined as a mansion in Cairo. Insiders had obtained some information on his plans to breach the United States’ security, but the exact time he planned on doing it still wasn’t for sure. It didn’t really matter, though, as Emma pointed out. Because their mission was to get in and out with the codes and without causing too much damage. Luke had practically bounced out of his seat with anticipation by the time Emma was almost done with her explanation.

“And our team?” she added as she set another file on the table. “Luke and--” she paused and glanced at Andrew-- “Agent Pliler, I’m sure you remember Agent Watson from the Siberian case.”

Luke leaned forward, setting Steinway’s file on the table and nodded. “The feisty redhead. Almost took my leg off.” He chuckled and Hammond tentatively joined in. “I remember.”

Emma rolled her eyes and opened the file. Hammond’s chuckling stopped abruptly. “Then I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that she’ll be joining us.”

Luke simply rubbed his hands together. “Lovely. When’s takeoff?”

Emma rose from her chair. “Ten minutes. Hope you’re ready.”

Andrew started as the three stood and Hammond bustled out of the room. None of them seemed to be surprised; Luke simply looked over Steinway’s file. So he stood. “Excuse me?”

Both looked up, Emma with dazzling green eyes and Luke with hazel. When Andrew simply nodded as if to say “Well?” Luke chuckled and shoved his hands into his pockets before rounding the table and brushing past him on his way out. Emma sighed and set the file on the table once the door shut behind Agent Pliler. She pinched the bridge of her nose again, just like she always seemed to do when she was stressed out.

Andrew leaned against the table. “Look, Emma, I--”

“What did you just call me?” she snapped, her hand snapping away from her face.

“Em--I’m sorry, Chief,” he stuttered with realization. “I’m just . . . getting used to . . . all of this.” He gestured to the high-tech room.

She offered a weak smile. “I know, Drew.”

He returned her smile easily. “What’d you just call me?”

She tilted her head to the side. “You know what you used to call me?”

He folded his arms across his chest. Shook his head.

Her gaze flickered from his face to the table in front of him, weary and nostalgic. She swallowed hard. “Em.”

He watched her face as she stared at the table, lost in a world he’d used to belong in too. With her. Maybe they’d been like he and Hammond had, the best of friends. Maybe he’d once seen her as his little sister. Or his older sister. His head suddenly hurt.

Her eyes met his again and she gave him another small smile before snatching both files off the table and starting towards the door. “Seven minutes.”

But the way she said it made it seem as if she’d just said “I miss you.”

Boyd and George.

The following is an excerpt from The Dreamer's Son, a book about two different men from two different generations done in documents, letters, tickets and interviews. This is a conversation between the main character, George Ross and his movie star inspiration, Boyd Ryder.

Mr. George Hammond Ross
P.O. Box 1015
Hollywood, California

From the desk of Mr. Boyd Ryder

Dear George, 15 December 1931
Remember our little agreement that I would find you a job if you picked up the tab the other night at the Alexandria? Well don’t you fret about that tab--Gregory has taken care of it. You, however have got to look pretty spiffy when you show up at Universal Studios on Saturday the 26th. You’ve got an audition. You can thank me once you’ve got the part.
Let’s share a laugh and a drink again soon.
Your friend,
Boyd Ryder

P.S. No more of that “Mr. Ryder” nonsense.
P.P.S. Are you going to give me your real address any time soon or will I have to keep mailing the Post Office like a twit?
P.P.P.S. Merry Christmas.

Mr. Boyd Ryder
9255 Sunset Blvd.,
West Hollywood, California

Dear Mr. Ryder, 20 December, 1931

You honestly expect me to be awake and alert the morning after Christmas Day? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but once I start drinking, there’s no stopping me. You said there would be alcohol at this holiday party of yours, did you not? So ha-ha. Hilarious play.

Warmly,

George

P.S. Did you mistake me for the kind of man with his own home? This is my address.

P.S.2. Christmas hasn’t been any sort of “Merry” since ‘28.

P.S.3. What am I supposed to call you then? Just Boyd? Ryder? I don’t know a lot of movie starts who would let anyone call them by just their first or last name. But in this case, because my future is in your hands, I think it’s better if you do.

Mr. George Hammond Ross

P.O . Box 1015

Hollywood, California

From the desk of Mr. Boyd Ryder

Dear George, 23 December 1931
You BETTER not find yourself too hungover to audition come Saturday morn! This audition could make or break your name in the business, Kid. Stay away from the whiskey and gine or I’ll have Gregory kick you out in two seconds flat. Who do you think you are--Charlie Chaplin? (Ha-ha) You can’t get away with that stuff, Kid. Not yet, anyway. But you’ll get there--God knows you’re already ambitious enough. You just need the money.
What do you mean--you’re homeless?! I can fix that for you too, you know. Or do you already have your doubts about me? You ARE a peculiar one, George. Or should I call you Ross? I know plenty of men who are called by their last name. But in your case, I think it’s better if you don’t. (See what I did there?)
However, to answer your question--Boyd is just fine. I supposed you could, theoretically call me Ryder, but I would sound like a ball player instead of an actor. Is that what you were going for?
Consider yourself lucky I got your life put back in order.
Your friend,
Boyd

P.S. I didn’t mention it before, but I suppose I should have--actors have rough schedules, didn’t you know? If you can’t handle it, get out. But if you want to continue, well then nails for breakfast, tacks for snacks.
P.P.S. You do your “P.S”s wrong. Observe--no juvenile numbers.
P.P.P.S. Merry Christmas!

Boyd Ryder
9255 Sunset Blvd.,
West Hollywood, California

Boyd, 26 December, 1931

You should have gotten Gregory to kick me out last night like you said you would. Now I’ve gone and made a fool of myself in front of the scouts! So much for putting my life back in order, Ryder!
Where were you, anyway? I saw you for maybe a moment when I first arrived, but then those twins arrived and you were gone. Therefore, I blame you for my early failures in the motion picture industry and especially for my ungraceful return to the streets of New York City, scraping coins off the sidewalk and tobacco off the rails to make my way through the day. More like daggers for breakfast and machine pistols for snacks. (See what I did there?)
I hope you’ve got one more trick up your sleeve or I suppose my journey here is over before it’s begun.

George

P.S. If we’re going to get technical with names, what do you saw we drop the “Hammond” from mine? I’d rather not be associated with my father, thank you very much.

P.P.S. Happy?

Funny Friday.

Another new tradition I've decided to start on my blog - posting a funny picture or two every Friday! This doesn't mean I won't also be posting writing too, however. Of course I'll always do that.

Recommendation Thursday.

Hello-
The power went out yesterday around 1:15 PM, and it stayed out until 2:30 this afternoon, so I didn't really have time to recommend any books! I've just started this trend, and hopefully I'll be able to remember to recommend a book every Thursday!

This week, I highly recommend the book The Last Days of Summer by Steve Kluger We're reading this book together as a family. Done in an epistolary style, the story that takes place in the early '40s about a kid and his baseball hero, Charlie Banks, is laugh-out-loud funny and very fun to read.

My kind of pirates.

The following is an excerpt from an unnamed story I actually started a few years ago, forgot about and when I found it again, couldn't help but laugh out loud. Rereading it made me want to start up again, so here's a piece of the story from way back when, newly refined:

“That's not realistic,” Danny informs me almost accusingly the next day back in Central Park.

“What? Normals can't throw like that?” I question, shielding the sun from my eyes and squinting at the distant place the baseball I’ve just thrown landed.

“Definitely not,” he laughs, following the ball at a normal, human rate.

Vera giggles behind me as Danny tosses the ball back underhand. It arches perfectly and falls right into Vera's waiting hands.

“Well,” I scoff, crossing my arms. “What about that? Normals don't have aim like that.”

“Sure they do,” a voice rings through the park. A pretty voice. A pirate voice. “They're called men.”

Danny smiles in recognition, and I turn to see a man, slightly shorter than Danny, with messy black hair and blonde tips and wide, blue eyes.

“James, I thought you'd never make it,” Danny remarks when he finally joins the three of us back near the bench Vera has situated herself on.

The man, no younger than Danny, shrugs. “You told me I didn't want to miss this. Here I am, not missing this.”

“Way to invite everyone to watch me fail,” I tease as Vera drops the baseball in my hands.

“You'll pick it up faster than either of these goons did,” James chuckles knowingly.
He too has a beautiful, sing-song laugh, but it’s still nothing like Danny's. Nothing around here is quite like Danny.

“Toss it softly. And do it underhand,” Danny commands, backing away from me.

I nod, pull my arm back, only slightly, and then pull forward to let the ball go. It shoots to Danny's chest, where his hands snatch up and catch it.

He shakes his head in disappointment, laughing anyway. “James, could you—”
James is at my side in a second, not because of his superhuman speed, but because of how close he’d already stood to me.

“Let me help you,” he insists with one arm around my waist.

He extends the other the length of mine and grips my hand. I can feel Vera tense up behind me as James helps me delicately take the baseball from Danny. I try to shoot her a mental apology, but I realize too late that she can’t hear me, and Danny hides his amusement at my mistake well.

James spends the next five minutes teaching me how to throw a ball underhand without sending it flying into space and another five doing the same with overhand.
Once all three are satisfied that I’ve mastered the skill, we move on to keeping at a human pace and pretending to be tired after running.

Simple catch in the park morphs into a long day of training, and we only get to spend the first part of it out in the open, fresh air of Central Park. The rest, we spend in the gym in the basement level of the Hospital.

The gym is mostly underground with a tall ceiling and small windows at the top of the walls that, from outside, are virtually on the ground. The floor is cold concrete, but mostly covered in thin, spongy blue mats that has all kinds of equipment on it: treadmills, elliptical machines, exercise bikes, dumbbells, punching bags, bench presses, weight sleds, multi-colored exercise balls and more.

It’s there that I learn how strong I really am and how to control it, how to confuse a dragon, slay a vampire, de-wolf a werewolf—whatever that means—and defend myself against wizards and witches. I also learn how to use self-control to keep myself from impulsively shouting out the answer to questions any normal human being would ask and not be expected to know the answer to.

Vera teaches me how to appear as if I were asleep, James teaches me how to eat and drink without really doing it and Danny teaches me how to use my eyes to put humans into the trance that all pirates used to get what they wanted.

The last part takes the longest, but it’s the most important of all, and after two hours, I finally catch the hang of it.

By seven that night, we’re out of the Hospital and driving somewhere in James' blue Ferrari California through the crowded streets of New York City.

“That was incredible,” Danny babbles on as he sits in the back seat next to me. “I have never seen any pirate, in all of my hundred and fifty years, pick anything up that fast. Air—most of your training only took one day.”

I laugh my pretty laugh and smile a smile I knew could take a Normal's breath away. “Thank you very much, sir.”

He shakes his head and turns to the window with a smile. He does that a lot: smiling. And he should keep doing it. It’s a good look on him. “I can't believe it.”

The Ferrari shoots past a road sign letting drivers know they’re getting closer to JFK International Airport. My eyebrows pull together.

“Where are we going?” I question, leaning forward and holding on to the shoulders of the driver's seat.

“It's a surprise,” James whispers.

I sit back. “Why can't you just tell me? Once I get in there, I'm just gonna find out, anyway.”

“Not if we knock you out,” Danny chuckles.

I turn to stare at him. “You can't do that.” I lean forward once again.
“Vera, he can't do that, can he?”

Vera laughs and shakes her head. “Of course he can't.”

I smile and lean back once more. It’s not far, considering the California is a pretty small car. “I knew it. Nice try, Danny.”

— an unnamed work in progress.

Phew.

I've spent the last two days working on making this blog look good, while also being really easy to get around... hopefully I've accomplished that goal? Anyway, I hope anybody who finds this blog will have an enjoyable experience and won't feel as if their time has been wasted!

Enjoy!

Rewritten.

If you'd like to know why exactly I'm rewriting the first few chapters of The Next Second Chance, please take a look at the Works in progress. page up on that silver bar.

Monday, November 5, 1984

Cooled herbal tea sat on top of the ugly, out-of-tune upright piano against the wall, as forgotten as the TV from which Monday afternoon cartoons blared. A warm light glowed over the piano in the gray of the small, leaky apartment, illuminating the words, melodies, notes and chords on the wrinkly, thin paper Candace had pressed between the front of the piano and her palm to write easier. Her dark hair had been thrown into a sloppy bun as a result of the distraction her guitar, before set on the piano bench, served from the tea she had prepared an hour before, and she still wore the black sweats and gray truck stop t-shirt she had fallen asleep in early the morning before.

But she didn’t mind the forgotten tea. She didn’t even like tea. She made it because it kept her hands busy. She drank it because it was the most hardcore drink she was allowed to consume anymore.

With a glance at the glass bowl on top of the piano next to a green candle and a framed photo of her and her twin brother at age three that held the six chips she had collected from AA meetings, she sighed and set down her pen. She rubbed her chilly hands together and pressed them between her knees with her head back. She knew by heart that the bowl contained a white chip for her first day sober, an orange one for thirty days, a red for ninety, a yellow for six months, a green for nine and a blue for one year of sobriety.

The chips had been optional. At the end of her first AA meeting in 1982 at a San Francisco rehab center, she had felt that she needed to take one. She had already checked herself into the center at the young age of eighteen, pleading with her body to please get better so she wouldn’t be able to join her loved ones in the next life before her time; she knew if she didn’t keep a chip, she wouldn’t have a sense of accomplishment and, in turn, wouldn’t stop drinking once she left the center, no matter how badly she wanted to.

So she had taken the first white chip, tucked it into the pocket of the khakis the center had given her and returned the next week. And the next week. The meetings at the center continued for six weeks--she got her thirty days chip the day before she was released--and then she moved into an apartment not far from the center to continue attending the meetings for another month before she moved to Seattle with two outfits, one pair of weathered black combat boots, a blonde Taylor acoustic she had refused to sell even after she sold everything else she owned and three chips colored white, orange and red, where she continued to attend meetings for ten more months.

“. . . five o’clock news is on next,” a woman announced on the TV, startling her out of the few, less-than-pleasant memories she still held onto. “Stay tuned.”

- The Next Second Chance, Chapter 1

Writing contests, writing contests, writing contests.

So the Northwest Writers' Association is having a literary contest for "writers to showcase their unpublished work." The contest categories include Mainstream, Historical, Romance, Mystery/Thriller, SciFi/Fantasy/Horror (uh?), Young Adult/Middle Grade, Nonfiction/Memoir/How-To, Screenwriting, Poetry, Short Story, Children's Picture/Chapter Book Adult Short Topics like essays and whatnot. The limit for the entry is 14 pages and that's when it's double-spaced, formatted perfectly and includes the synopsis (PS, who wants to write that for me?! Haha, joking... kind of). The deadline is February 17. If you want to join, I'll attach the link. Of course, I'm going to enter, and you're supposed to enter the first chapter (or prologue) of your novel, but since I was a wee child when I wrote the first chapter of the third book in my series, I'm taking an excerpt from another chapter way later and transforming it into the best "Chapter One" I've ever written. For those who are interested, I'm debating whether or not I should post what I'm going to enter from The Kids Are Alright. Let me know what you think!

link to the contest: http://www.pnwa.org/displaycommon.cfm?an=6