I took another stab at writing the beginning on Leonie's story arc for my novel Keres. This is at least the FOURTH attempt and I think I might be getting closer to a keeper. This may not be the one that ends up in the book, but it's better than the first three tries.
The prologue is available here: http://www.simple-assault.com/Stories/KERES.doc
The chapter I started writing, which eventually will not be chapter one of the novel, but Leonie's first chapter, I will post here:
(Go easy on me, it's the first draft.)
Ten Years Later
Chapter One
Joel Stipes had a problem with authority, which was this: He hated it. Senior faculty, mostly men, in tweed suits sitting behind a table, glaring at him over their stupid bi-focal lenses, he hated that. Each one of them had a framed piece of paper in their offices that gave them the right to squander his dreams with a simple “No, Joel, we don’t find it appropriate for you to take your vocal jazz class to the Southwest this summer.” Screw ‘em. If Utah meant pulling the vocal jazz band tighter together, he’d be damned before a room of fuddy-duddies could stop him. No more than one week after school let out, he was on that plane with five of his students, and no one was the wiser.
“Where the hell is Amber?” he asked.
The stewardess motioned to his seat. “Sir, will you please sit down? The plane is about to take off.”
“Wasn’t talking to you.” He pointed at Leonie, his star alto. “Leo, Amber, where?”
Leonie gave a dramatic shrug from across the aisle. “Don’t think she’s coming, Duke.”
Keys leaned over Leonie, stretching her seat belt to its limit. “Oh yeah, Amber called me and said she can’t come.”
“What? When was this?” Joel Stipes, affectionately known as Duke by his students, nudged the stewardess aside to get a full view of Keys.
“I dunno. When we were standing in the gate.”
Duke grabbed at his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Keys sat back in her seat and proceeded to suck from her soda straw. “Forgot,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.
He put out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
The stewardess tried gently to put his hand down. “Sir, we’re about to take off. The use of any electronic devices is prohibited at this time. I urge you to take your seat and buckle…”
Duke pointed a finger in her face, feeling his authority redeemed. “No, you listen. I’ve got a plane of high schoolers that I’m responsible for. I got one kid who’s not on the plane and I need to talk to her to find out what’s going on. Keys, give me the goddamn phone!”
Leonie scooted down in the seat, trying really hard to keep from smiling. She loved it when Duke made a mess of things, at least when it didn’t harm her directly. Those phony flight attendants had no idea who they were dealing with.
Keys obediently handed over her pink cell phone.
“How do you work this thing?” Duke mumbled to himself, repeatedly punching little plastic buttons. “Make it work!”
Keys sighed and unbuckled her belt. She leaned over Leonie, who looked at the stewardess. She had her hand on her hip and was glaring at Leonie, not sure how to deal with this. Leonie mouthed “Sorry.”
A moment later, Duke was yelling at a teenage girl twenty miles away. “Grounded my ass! We need that soprano part or we’re nothing. Get your mom on the phone, Amber.”
That’s when the stewardess snatched the phone away. “I’ll give this back at the end of the flight,” she said and stalked away.
“Hey!” Duke shouted back. He opened his mouth to say more, but another stewardess came up behind him and helped him back into his seat. She didn’t leave until she knew for certain he was safely buckled.
Once she’d gone, Keys, having returned to her seat, leaned over Leonie again and whispered, “Way to go. That’s my phone.”
“Well, you should have told me Amber called when we were still in the airport. You know, the punishment goes with the person that actually did the screwing up.”
She put her hand up to keep him from lecturing further. “Yeah, yeah.”
“You know what this means, right? You’re promoted to lead soprano.”
“I don’t sing.”
“You do now.” He turned and looked down the aisle. “Hey, can I get something to drink?”
Keys sat back in her seat and put her headphones on. “Psycho,” she muttered.
Leonie dug around in her backpack and pulled out her paperback. Ignoring Duke’s pleading with the airline employees, she engulfed herself back into her book. It wasn’t long before she found herself reading the same paragraph three times without comprehension. Her mind kept drifting back to the field trip at hand.
Firstly, she’d been amazed that it had actually come into affect what with Duke’s unorganization and the low budget of her school district. She couldn’t believe the board of directors had actually given him the okay to take the jazz band to Utah, but then again, the whole thing with permission slips and fundraising had been a little sketchy. With putting the program under the alias of Wintercabin Bookclub and fundraising only off school property, she had to wonder how many corners he’d cut to get them this far.
Secondly, she was no musical prodigy like Keys. Keys had been playing piano since she was like three years old. She wasn’t even really part of the jazz band, but Duke insisted on bringing her along as the teacher’s assistant because he needed an instrument to get them in tune, and he sure didn’t know how to play anything. Even the three boys sitting on the plane somewhere behind her either had a good decade of vocal training or natural talent. She felt she’d been an accident. She’d been placed in choir class because her art class had been canceled. There, Duke had discovered her skill and recruited her in the after school club, Vocal Jazz Band I. This caused some resentment among the other musicians, especially Amber. She wouldn’t admit it to Duke, but she was glad the prissy soprano had gotten grounded.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
A Whole Lot of Olds
Not a whole lot of news today.
I've been working a lot on school and study abroad stuff.
Speaking of which, haven't picked out a topic for sure for an international movie. I thought about a girl who draws all these different stories, but now I'm not so sure. My ideas seem really cool for the first couple days but dwindle. I guess when I find one that lasts, I'll know it's the right choice.
Quotes calendar? I'm into August. Whoo!
My school did a production of Marisol, which was very good. Then I felt compelled to write something, but all I got was this:
One white feather wafted to the ground and landed in a puddle of blue ink. Slowly, the fibers of the feather began to suck in the ink as tree roots would bits of the water table. Blue commenced its invasion of white downiness. Each soft branch sagged under the weight of the navy tar. The shape deformed so much, the object no longer could be identified as a feather. Blue concluded its incursion and overtook white until the object lay completely flat and submerged in thick, boiling liquid. A demon’s blood runs blue.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Smile
Yeah, so The NOMS got chosen along with 15 other people to have their sort films shown in LA in front of a live audience. Holy crap.
http://www.extremefilmmaker.com/filmlist2006.htm
http://www.extremefilmmaker.com/filmlist2006.htm
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Burbank with a Baedeker
I've also been working through this idea of a collection of short stories about this eccentric man named Burbank. He's probably late twenties, early thrities. I sort of got the idea from Josh Joplin's Dear Mr. Henry letters. I'm not going to copy any of the events or anything, but having a very obsessive main character could be fun, but so far, my attempts at writing the scenes have failed. They haven't been funny at all.
I am considering making it a collection of short comic strips instead/as well. I think it would be cute. I just don't know what the stories are like yet.
In other news...
Keres -- I've made a little progress on this lately. It was a nice day, so I went outside and just started writing some of it. The first go was in first person, even though I know that it will end up in third person. I started over, changed the scene, and switched to third person. Neither chapter will end up in the final, I'm sure, but I'm working through characters and ending up with a few golden lines here and there. Still trying to fight the urge to be witty. It's a horror book. I can't let it be funny.
Calendar -- I've finished January through April now.
Free-write:
Like shadows of giant birds, the inhabitants of the house flickered in and out of their dinner table seats with the unsteady light of the candle at the center of the room. The candle, in actuality, was not lit by flame, but despair—a sort of black tar that wisped through the room on the breeze, causing creatures to fade in and out of reality. The breeze, in actuality, was not the gentle gale of the morning, but the motion of sadness, lapping up remnants of souls with uneven waves.
Such was the never ending state of the gloom.
Outside, someone had stapled a sign, which read “Welcometohell” in tacky orange marker, to a shrubbery. The shrubbery had no leaves, but grew little buds of melancholy, which could be mistaken for decaying bird feet, talons and all. The building itself was nothing pleasant to look at unless it was pleasing to stare at a hut made of fecal matter whilst getting your eyes probed through with an ice pick.
A chimpanzee-like thing guarded the entrance. If one could get close enough, they would see that it was not an ape of any kind, but a demonic gargoyle covered in mossy flesh that grew hair perhaps as a result of poor hygiene. If one could get close enough to tell that the moss-covered gargoyle was no ape, they would see why no one had ever returned with a description. In the creature’s left hand, it clutched a truncheon with a large spike rammed through one end. The creature had yet to utilize its stick – tree limb – for the rippling muscle beneath that moss-covered surface always provided enough force to crack stony knuckles against squishy faces.
Dark forest surrounded the hut. The canopy covered the sky so densely, night remained the local constant. Misty apparitions lurked between trees, never daring to venture near the guarded abode of the abandoned. If the inhabitants of Welcometohell ever had a family, they’d been long since forgotten, for hope no longer remained, as the candle had snuffed it out.
Eirie. Five feet tall. Would they have called him a hero then?
Eirie with six toes on each foot. Would they have feared him if they knew what was to come?
Eirie, taste buds in all his ears. Would the ape still have torn him apart?
Death is not so limiting in the gloom. In fact, it is practically a requirement. The average inhabitant of the hut had squandered four point three lives by the time Eirie showed his fleshy self up on the doorstep.
Eirie’s nose hurt. It was so small, he couldn’t quite scratch at it with his clunky fingers. He tucked whatever excess chin he had up into his neck to preserve the strong-jawed hero appearance. Death’s Cake, he’d been told, sat on the dining table inside the hut, and he was to have a piece. Eirie was not a boy of sugary indulgences and didn’t know why he must eat any of Death’s Cake, but he was a firm believer in prophecy. If the parchment lying at the bottom of the creek whispered his fate, as it had, then he’d be damned before he’d let opportunity slip him by.
Eirie ripped a twig from a tree with a loud snap, the wick gone. He pressed it against the side of his smooth nostril and scraped it up and down until the pain subsided. He gave the stick a flick away and continued his march through the forest. He let out a gentle belch, causing the smell of boiled dandelion to hang in the air. Eirie couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten, but judging by the ever fading scent of his own breath, he was due one soon. Cake should quench is craving.
Oh, that pain in his stomach, though. Was it the hunger or something else? The constipation, probably. Every full breath in, his belt buckle threatened to give way, and that jab below his navel stirred his guts into a frenzy, catalyzing a tingle through the rest of his body. He was almost there, he knew. Once he’d fulfilled the prophecy, he could go home and change into looser pants.
I am considering making it a collection of short comic strips instead/as well. I think it would be cute. I just don't know what the stories are like yet.
In other news...
Keres -- I've made a little progress on this lately. It was a nice day, so I went outside and just started writing some of it. The first go was in first person, even though I know that it will end up in third person. I started over, changed the scene, and switched to third person. Neither chapter will end up in the final, I'm sure, but I'm working through characters and ending up with a few golden lines here and there. Still trying to fight the urge to be witty. It's a horror book. I can't let it be funny.
Calendar -- I've finished January through April now.
Free-write:
Like shadows of giant birds, the inhabitants of the house flickered in and out of their dinner table seats with the unsteady light of the candle at the center of the room. The candle, in actuality, was not lit by flame, but despair—a sort of black tar that wisped through the room on the breeze, causing creatures to fade in and out of reality. The breeze, in actuality, was not the gentle gale of the morning, but the motion of sadness, lapping up remnants of souls with uneven waves.
Such was the never ending state of the gloom.
Outside, someone had stapled a sign, which read “Welcometohell” in tacky orange marker, to a shrubbery. The shrubbery had no leaves, but grew little buds of melancholy, which could be mistaken for decaying bird feet, talons and all. The building itself was nothing pleasant to look at unless it was pleasing to stare at a hut made of fecal matter whilst getting your eyes probed through with an ice pick.
A chimpanzee-like thing guarded the entrance. If one could get close enough, they would see that it was not an ape of any kind, but a demonic gargoyle covered in mossy flesh that grew hair perhaps as a result of poor hygiene. If one could get close enough to tell that the moss-covered gargoyle was no ape, they would see why no one had ever returned with a description. In the creature’s left hand, it clutched a truncheon with a large spike rammed through one end. The creature had yet to utilize its stick – tree limb – for the rippling muscle beneath that moss-covered surface always provided enough force to crack stony knuckles against squishy faces.
Dark forest surrounded the hut. The canopy covered the sky so densely, night remained the local constant. Misty apparitions lurked between trees, never daring to venture near the guarded abode of the abandoned. If the inhabitants of Welcometohell ever had a family, they’d been long since forgotten, for hope no longer remained, as the candle had snuffed it out.
Eirie. Five feet tall. Would they have called him a hero then?
Eirie with six toes on each foot. Would they have feared him if they knew what was to come?
Eirie, taste buds in all his ears. Would the ape still have torn him apart?
Death is not so limiting in the gloom. In fact, it is practically a requirement. The average inhabitant of the hut had squandered four point three lives by the time Eirie showed his fleshy self up on the doorstep.
Eirie’s nose hurt. It was so small, he couldn’t quite scratch at it with his clunky fingers. He tucked whatever excess chin he had up into his neck to preserve the strong-jawed hero appearance. Death’s Cake, he’d been told, sat on the dining table inside the hut, and he was to have a piece. Eirie was not a boy of sugary indulgences and didn’t know why he must eat any of Death’s Cake, but he was a firm believer in prophecy. If the parchment lying at the bottom of the creek whispered his fate, as it had, then he’d be damned before he’d let opportunity slip him by.
Eirie ripped a twig from a tree with a loud snap, the wick gone. He pressed it against the side of his smooth nostril and scraped it up and down until the pain subsided. He gave the stick a flick away and continued his march through the forest. He let out a gentle belch, causing the smell of boiled dandelion to hang in the air. Eirie couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten, but judging by the ever fading scent of his own breath, he was due one soon. Cake should quench is craving.
Oh, that pain in his stomach, though. Was it the hunger or something else? The constipation, probably. Every full breath in, his belt buckle threatened to give way, and that jab below his navel stirred his guts into a frenzy, catalyzing a tingle through the rest of his body. He was almost there, he knew. Once he’d fulfilled the prophecy, he could go home and change into looser pants.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)